The Puddleford Papers: or, Humors of the West. Riley Henry Hiram

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СКАЧАТЬ in the first place, goes tearing and groaning through the roots and grubs that lie twisted under it, just as Bigelow tore and groaned through the stupidity and wickedness of his hearers. Then comes the green grass, and wheat, and flowers, as years draw on; producing, at last, "some sixty, and some a hundred-fold."

      There is something impressive in the Sabbath in the wilderness. A quiet breathes over the landscape that is almost overwhelming. In a city, the church-steeples talk to one another their lofty music; but there are no bells in the wilderness to mark the hours of worship. The only bell which is heard is rung by Memory, as the hour of prayer draws nigh; some village-bell, far away, that vibrated over the hills of our nativity, the tones of which we have carried away in our soul, and which are awakened by the solemnity of the day.

      There is a philosophy in all this, if we will but see it; there is more; there is a lesson, possibly a reproof. If we are disposed to smile at the rusticity of a Puddleford church, may we not with equal reason become serious over the overgrown refinement of many another? May not something be learned in the very contrast which is thus afforded? Do not the extravagant hyperbole, coarse allusions, irreverent anecdote, and strong but unpolished shafts of sarcasm, that such as Bigelow so unsparingly scatter over the sanctuary, give a rich background and strong relief to the finished rhetoric of many a pulpit essay, that has been written to play with the fancy and tranquillize the nerves of a refined and fashionable audience? Are not the extremes equally ridiculous? the one not having reached, the other having passed the zenith.

      CHAPTER V

      Indian Summer. – Venison Styles again. – Jim Buzzard. – Fishing Excursion. – Muskrat City. – Indian Burying-ground. – The Pickerel and the Rest of the Fishes. – The Prairie. – Wild Geese. – The Old Mound. – Venison's Regrets at the degenerating Times. – His Luck, and Mine. – Reminiscences of the Beavers. – Camping out. – Safe Return.

      Indian summer had not yet taken her bow from the woods or her breath from the sky. Old Autumn still lay asleep; Time stood by, with his hour-glass erect, slowly counting the palpitations of his heart.

      Venison Styles appointed a day for a fishing excursion, and was desirous of my company; so, on one of those bright mornings, we might have been seen loading our gear into the boat, preparatory to a night's lodging in the woods. We were accompanied by "Jim Buzzard," a genuine Puddlefordian, whom we took along to do up the little pieces of drudgery that always attend such an expedition.

      Puddleford was a wonderful place for fish-eaters, and the only real harvest the villagers had was the fish-harvest. One half of Puddleford lived on fish, and everybody fished. But our "Jim Buzzard" was a character in fish, and I could never excuse myself if I should pass him over unnoticed.

      Where "Jim" was born – who was his father or mother – and whether he actually ever had any, are questions that no mortal man was ever yet able to answer. He appeared one spring morning in Puddleford with the swallows. The first thing seen of him, he was sitting, about sunrise, on an old dry goods' box, at the corner of a street, whistling a variety of lively airs. The crown was dangling from the top of his hat, he was shirtless and unshaved, and his shoes gaped horribly at the public.

      "Jim" was a genuine loafer, and loafers, you know, reader, pervade every place, and are always the same. There is a certain class of animals that are said to follow civilization, as sharks follow in the wake of a ship, and generally for the same reason, to pick up what they can find. Rats and loafers belong to this class, and there is no human ingenuity shrewd enough to keep them off: their appearance seems to be a simple fulfilment of a law of nature.

      Jim Buzzard was a fisher, too, and nothing but a fisher. He would sit on an old log by the bank of the river, and hold a pole from morning until night. If the fish would bite, very well; if they would not, very well. Ill-luck never roused his wrath, because there was no wrath in him to arouse. He was a true philosopher, and was entirely too lazy to get into a passion. Jim knew that the fish would bite to-morrow, or next day, if they didn't to-day. He was happy, completely so; that is, as completely happy as the world will admit. He didn't envy anybody – not he. All his wants were supplied, and what did he care about the possessions of his neighbors? He never realized any future, here or hereafter. Jim never lay awake nights, thinking about where he would be, or what he should have, next week. He didn't know as there was any next week. He knew the sun rose and set, which was all the time he ever measured at once. Well, as I said, Jim made one of our company.

      Our boat was finally loaded, our crew shipped, and we shot forth into the stream. The water lay as smooth as glass, and the reflected colors of the blazing trees that hung over it gave it the appearance of a carpet. The headlands put out here and there, intersected by long gores of marsh, that ran away a mile or more in the distance.

      Upon one of these marshes a city had been reared by the muskrats, which presented an interesting appearance. Hundreds of huts had been erected by this busy population, intended by them as their winter quarters, composed of grass and sticks and mud, and hoisted up beyond the reach of the spring floods. Each one was a little palace, and the whole sat upon the water like a miniature Venice. Here huts were entered by diving down, the front door being always concealed to prevent intrusion. Up and down the canals of this city the inhabitants gossiped and gambolled by moonlight, like those of every other gay place. They had their routs, and cotillons, and suppers, in all human probability, and for aught I know drank themselves stupid. Perhaps they kept up an opera. I say perhaps – we know so little of the inner life of these strange creatures, that we may draw upon the imagination in regard to their amusements as much as we please. If any transcendental muskrat should ever write the history of this colony, I will forward it to the newspapers by the first mail.

      Venison said, "we were going to have a wet time on't, cause the rats had built so high, and the whole mash would be covered bime-by, by the rains." He said, "muskrats know'd more nor men about times ahead, and fixed up things 'cordingly."

      Our boat glided along until we came in sight of a huge bluff that had pushed itself half across the stream. A melancholy fragment of one of the tribes of Indians, who once held the sovereignty of the soil, and who had escaped a removal, or had wandered back from their banishment, were clustered upon it. They had erected a long pole, and gathered themselves, hand in hand, in a circle about it; within this circle, their medicines and apparel worn in worship, lay for consecration. The plaintive chant was heard melting along the waters, as they wheeled round and round in their solemn service. I have never looked upon a more touching exhibition. Most of these Indians were very old; they had outlived their tribe, their country, their glory – everything but their ceremonies and themselves. What a beautiful tribute was this to the past! a handful of worshippers lingering round the broken altar of their temple, and hallowing its very ruins.

      Near by, and on the southern slope of the bluff, lay the remains of an extensive Indian burying-ground. No white man could tell its age. Large oaks, centuries old, that had grown since the dead were first deposited there, stood up over the graves. No monuments of stone designated the thousands of sleepers – the living themselves were the monuments of the dead. Weapons of war and peace were scattered beneath the turf, mixed with crumbling human bones.

      What were this little band of red men, thought I, but so many autumn leaves? A few years more, and the solitary boat, as it turns this headland, will find no warrior kneeling on its height. The Great Spirit will brood alone over the solitude.

      By and by, we turned into a bay, sheltered by an overhanging cliff, where we cast our anchor, and made ready for work. The water was transparent, and the shining pebbles glittered in the sandy depths below. Shoals of fish had gathered in this nook, beyond the strife of waters. The sun-fish, his back all bristling with rage, ploughed around with as much ferocity as a privateer; the checkered perch lazily rolled from side to side, as his breath came and went; the little silver dace darted and flashed through each other their streams of light; and away off, all alone, the pickerel, that terror СКАЧАТЬ