Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
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THE HUNTER'S HOME. |
 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
THE HUNTER'S HOME.
A lonely and sequestered spot
It was, where stood the hunter's cot;
No neighbor's chimney smoked the sky,
No highway brought the passer-by;
No sound of art there reached the ear,
No plough-boy, even, whistled near;
Naught but the wild “commingled hum,—
Voice of the desert, never dumb.”
It was, where stood the hunter's cot;
No neighbor's chimney smoked the sky,
No highway brought the passer-by;
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No plough-boy, even, whistled near;
Naught but the wild “commingled hum,—
Voice of the desert, never dumb.”
Yet it was pleasant there to be
And its outlook of beauty see:—
The bordering blue of mountains far,
The valley wide where waters are;
The rolling slopes, in autumn dun,
Warmed by the Indian summer sun;
The forest on the upland wide
In all its grand primeval pride;
The cold spring bubbling near at hand,
Its basin white with filtering sand;
And near by, from a dark ravine,
A stream went winding o'er the scene.
And its outlook of beauty see:—
The bordering blue of mountains far,
The valley wide where waters are;
The rolling slopes, in autumn dun,
Warmed by the Indian summer sun;
The forest on the upland wide
In all its grand primeval pride;
The cold spring bubbling near at hand,
Its basin white with filtering sand;
And near by, from a dark ravine,
A stream went winding o'er the scene.
Beneath the lee of sheltering wood
On easy slope the cottage stood;
A low-eaved, weather-beaten one,
With door that faced the southing sun;
While either side, two maples spread
A branchy archway overhead.
On easy slope the cottage stood;
A low-eaved, weather-beaten one,
With door that faced the southing sun;
While either side, two maples spread
A branchy archway overhead.
Here, all secluded and alone,
Dwelt the old hunter and his crone;
A couple past their prime in years,
But hale as middle life appears;—
Simple as children in the lore
That blazes from the college door;
And yet, they wisely understood
All craft pertaining to the wood;—
All Nature's signs in earth or sky,
Could make their points and reason why,
Till one skilled in scholastic lore,
Who sought to teach them to explore,
Could, when his steps might homeward turn,
Confess he yet had much to learn.
Dwelt the old hunter and his crone;
A couple past their prime in years,
But hale as middle life appears;—
Simple as children in the lore
That blazes from the college door;
And yet, they wisely understood
All craft pertaining to the wood;—
All Nature's signs in earth or sky,
Could make their points and reason why,
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Who sought to teach them to explore,
Could, when his steps might homeward turn,
Confess he yet had much to learn.
From them the tyro learned to set
The fatal trap and lucky net;
From them the farmer learned to tell
The coming season, fair or fell;
To them the ailing came for aid
In herbal compounds that they made,
And wondrous was that aid, be sure,—
Or was it faith that wrought the cure?
The fatal trap and lucky net;
From them the farmer learned to tell
The coming season, fair or fell;
To them the ailing came for aid
In herbal compounds that they made,
And wondrous was that aid, be sure,—
Or was it faith that wrought the cure?
Here happy lived the honest pair,
Unvexed by worldly ways and care;
Their wants but few, and well supplied;
Their comforts rude, but undenied.
Unvexed by worldly ways and care;
Their wants but few, and well supplied;
Their comforts rude, but undenied.
When night in autumn settled wild
And the dead leaves in drifts were piled;
Or when hoarse roaring came the blast
Of Winter, driving madly past,—
How pleasant 'twas, secure and warm,
To bide the peltings of the storm
Beside the hunter's chimney wide
That yawned half o'er the cottage side,
And watch the blazing logs that threw
Their lambent flames half up the flue;
And hear the kind old hunter tell
Of the exploits he loved so well;
While the surroundings pictured all:—
The well-kept gun upon the wall;
The horn with quaint devices etched;
The otter's skin so smoothly stretched;
The bunch of pelts,—old biddy's foes,—
All deftly hanging by the nose;
The shapely snow-shoes, laced with care;
The branching antlers fastened there;
With other trophies of the chase,
All pointed out with date and place.
His dog, too, on the hearthstone wide,
His brave companion, and his pride,
To whom he spoke in word and tone
Just as he talked to any one;—
And, what is strange, perhaps, to tell,
Dog seemed to comprehend as well.
And the dead leaves in drifts were piled;
Or when hoarse roaring came the blast
Of Winter, driving madly past,—
How pleasant 'twas, secure and warm,
To bide the peltings of the storm
Beside the hunter's chimney wide
That yawned half o'er the cottage side,
And watch the blazing logs that threw
Their lambent flames half up the flue;
And hear the kind old hunter tell
Of the exploits he loved so well;
While the surroundings pictured all:—
The well-kept gun upon the wall;
The horn with quaint devices etched;
The otter's skin so smoothly stretched;
The bunch of pelts,—old biddy's foes,—
All deftly hanging by the nose;
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The branching antlers fastened there;
With other trophies of the chase,
All pointed out with date and place.
His dog, too, on the hearthstone wide,
His brave companion, and his pride,
To whom he spoke in word and tone
Just as he talked to any one;—
And, what is strange, perhaps, to tell,
Dog seemed to comprehend as well.
Or, bringing forth his violin,
He drew the bow and turned the pin,
Till, all in harmony complete,
He woke such strains of music sweet
Would bring a cripple to his feet.
He drew the bow and turned the pin,
Till, all in harmony complete,
He woke such strains of music sweet
Would bring a cripple to his feet.
The color of the dark old shell
Matched with its master's visage well;
And neither player nor the played
Looked the grand music that they made.
Matched with its master's visage well;
And neither player nor the played
Looked the grand music that they made.
O, I've at famous concerts been
And heard the mad harmonic din;
Strains full of fury and of sound
Where no significance is found;—
But hear some master-spirit raise
The good old airs of other days!—
The soulful ones that father Time
Wedded to reason and to rhyme
Long, long ago,—ere Strauss was born,
Or Wagner sighted Luna's horn;—
And all Time's blottings have withstood
For reason that withstand they should.
And heard the mad harmonic din;
Strains full of fury and of sound
Where no significance is found;—
But hear some master-spirit raise
The good old airs of other days!—
The soulful ones that father Time
Wedded to reason and to rhyme
Long, long ago,—ere Strauss was born,
Or Wagner sighted Luna's horn;—
And all Time's blottings have withstood
For reason that withstand they should.
So played the hunter, while the rain
Pattered against the darkened pane,
And the night-wind with soughing sound
Blew wild the lonely dwelling round.
Some plaintive strathspey, passing sweet,
Went gliding on its rhythmic feet;
Anon, some bold and martial spell,
Heroic, woke the trembling shell,
Or sounding hornpipe by his bow
Rocked through the scale from high to low
In notes as sweet as e'er were born
Of robin in the dawn of morn.
Pattered against the darkened pane,
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Blew wild the lonely dwelling round.
Some plaintive strathspey, passing sweet,
Went gliding on its rhythmic feet;
Anon, some bold and martial spell,
Heroic, woke the trembling shell,
Or sounding hornpipe by his bow
Rocked through the scale from high to low
In notes as sweet as e'er were born
Of robin in the dawn of morn.
O ye who pore o'er heavy books,
And leave the lessons of the brooks;
Who, prompt o'er Fiction's dreams to weep,
Ne'er heard the forest anthem deep;—
O ye, who born of pride and place,
Ne'er studied Nature's honest face,—
Deem not her lowly children fools;—
She has her teachings and her schools.
And leave the lessons of the brooks;
Who, prompt o'er Fiction's dreams to weep,
Ne'er heard the forest anthem deep;—
O ye, who born of pride and place,
Ne'er studied Nature's honest face,—
Deem not her lowly children fools;—
She has her teachings and her schools.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |