Out-of-Doors

IN this the brightest week of the

brightest month of all the year, I sit

down to write that which I hope may

be pleasant to read when red - armed Autumn

smites his anvil, and through all the woods the

sparks are flying, and it needs not a prophetic

eye to see the mountains from base to tip-top

filled with horses and chariots of fire. Indeed,

June and October, if they could see each other,

would soon be married. Not much difference

between their ages; the one fair, and the other

ruddy; both beautiful to look upon, and typical;

the one holding a bunch of flowers, and the

other a basket of fruit. The south winds would

harp at the nuptials, and against the uplifted

chalices would dash the blood of strawberry and grape. To that marriage altar January would bring its cups of crystal, and April its strung beads of shower, and July its golden crown of wheat.

Another dream of our life is fulfilled. For the last eight years we have wanted a place where for a few weeks, apart from the hard work of our profession, we could sit with our coat off, laugh to the full extent of our lungs without shocking fastidious ears, and raise Cochin-China hens of the pure breed.

While yet the March snows were on the ground we started out to purchase a place in the country. Had unaccountable experiences with land - agents, drove horses terrible for tardiness or speed, gazed on hills and flats, examined houses with roof pitched or horizontal, heard fabulous stories of Pennsylvania grass, and New Jersey berries, until one day, the wind a hurricane, and the roads slush, and the horse a-drip with rain from blinder to trace, we drove up in front of a cottage, the first glance at which assured us we had come to the fulfilment of our wishes.

In selecting a place, the first requisite is seclusion. There is a profound satisfaction in not being looked at. After dwelling for a considerable time in a large place, you are apt to know a multitude. If on some Monday morning, starting down street, you feel decidedly frisky, you must nevertheless walk with as grave a step as though ascending a pulpit. If you acted out one-half the blitheness you feel, a score of gentlemen and ladies would question your sanity. A country village affords no retreat. There everybody knows everybody’s business. You cannot raise half a dozen goslings without having them stoned for picking off your neighbor’s gooseberries. Gossip wants no better heaven than a small villaee. Miss Glib stands at her gate three times a day talking with old Mrs. Chatterbox, and on rainy days at the blacksmith shop the whole business of the town swims in a tank of tobacco -juice of the worst plug. Everybody knows whether this morning out of the butcher’s cart you bought mutton or calf’s liver, and the mason’s wife, at the risk of breaking her neck, rushes down stairs to exclaim,” Just think of it! Mrs.

Stuckup has bought a sirloin steak, and she is no OUT-OF-DOORS.

no better than other people!” Your brass kettle is always borrowed. A bandbox was seen going from the millinery-shop to the house of a villager on Saturday afternoon, and on Sunday morning a score of people are early at church, head half- turned toward the door, ready to watch the coming in of the new purchase, handkerchief up to mouth, ready to burst out at what they pronounce a perfect fright of a bonnet. They always ask what you gave for a thing, and say you were cheated; had something of a better quality they could have let you have for half the money. We have at different times lived in a small village, and many of our best friends dwell there, but we give as our opinion that there are other places more favorable for a man’s getting to heaven. Yes, our place must be secluded. Not roused at night by fire - engines, nor wakened in the morning by the rattle of milkman’s wagon. Our milk-can shall come softly up in the shape of our clear -eyed, sleek - skinned, beautiful Devon. No chalk - settlings at the bottom of the milk, or unaccountable things floating on the top — honest milk, innocent of

OUT-OF-DOORS. Ill

pump, foaming till it seems piled up above the rivets of the pail - handle. The air at noon untormented of jar and crash and jostle: only hen’s cackle, and sheep’s bleat, and cow’s bellow, and the rattle of clevises as the plough wheels at the end of the furrow. No calling in of people just because they suppose it is expected, but the coming in of neighbors and friends because they really want to see you, their appetite so whetted with the breath of ploughed ground that they are satisfied if you have nothing but ham for dinner. Such seclusion we have at Woodside.

It is never real morning except in the country. In the city in the early part of the day there is a mixed color that climbs down over the roofs opposite, and through the smoke of the chimney, that makes people think it is time to get up and comb their hair. But we have real morning in the country. Morning! descending “from God out of heaven like a bride adorned for her husband.” A few momen’ts ago I looked out, and the army of night-shadows were striking their tents. A red light on the horizon that does not make me think as it did Alexander Smith of “the barren beach of hell,” but more like unto the fire kindled on the shore by Him whom the disciples saw at daybreak stirring the blaze on the beach of Genesareth. Just now the dew woke up in the hammock of the tree - branches, and the light kissed it. Yonder, leaning against the sky, two great uprights of flame, crossed by many rundles of fire! Some Jacob must have been dreaming. Through those burnished gates a flaming chariot rolls. Some Elijah must be ascending. Morning! I wish I had a rousing bell to wake the whole world up to see it. Every leaf a psalm. Every flower a censer. Every bird a chorister. Every sight beauty. Every sound music. Trees transfioured. The skies in conflaoration. The air as if sweeping down from hanging-gardens of heaven. The foam of celestial seas plashed on the white tops of the spiraea. The honeysuckle on one side my porch challenges the sweet-brier on the other. The odors of heliotrope overflow the urns and flood the garden. Syringias with bridal blossoms in their hair, and roses bleeding with a very carnage of color.

Oh, the glories of day-dawn in the country! My pen trembles, and my eyes moisten. Unlike the flaming sword that drove out the first pair from Eden, these fiery splendors seem like swords unsheathed by angel hands to drive us in.

We always thought we would like to have a place near a woods. A few trees will not satisfy us. They feel lonely, and sigh, and complain about the house; but give me an untamed woods that with innumerable voices talk all night in their sleep, and when God passes in the chariot of the wind wave their plumes and shout, as multitudes in a king’s procession.

Our first night at Woodslde was gusty, and with the hum of multitudinous spring-leaves in our ears we dreamed all night of waves roaring and battalions tramping. Shrubs and bushes do not know much, and have but little to say, but old trees are grand company. Like Jotham’s, they talk in parables from the top of Gerizim; have whole histories in their trunk; tell you of what happened when your father was a boy; hold engravings on their leaves of divine etching, and every bursting bud is a “Thanatopsis.” There are some trees that were never meant to be civilized. With great sweat and strain I dug up from the woods a small tree and set it in the door-yard; but it has been in a huff ever since. I saw at the time that it did not like it. It never will feel at home among the dressed-up evergreens. It is difficult successfully to set hemlocks, and kalmias, and switch -hazel, into the rhyme of a garden. They do better in the wild blankverse of the forest.

We always thought that we would like a place which, though secluded, would be easy of access to the city. We always want our morning newspaper by breakfast. This little world is so active that we cannot afford to let twenty-four hours pass without hearing what new somersault it has taken. If we missed a single number we would not know that the day before the Czar of Russia had been shot at. Some day we must have a certain book. We need an express to bring it. Oh, it is pleasant to sit a little back and hear the busy world go humming past without touching us, yet confident that if need be our saddle could in ten minutes rush us into it.

Thank God for a good, long, free breath in the country! For the firsts time in ten years we feel rested. Last evening we sped along the skirt of the wood. Our horse prefers to go fast, and we like to please him; and what with the odor of red clover-tops, and the breath of the woods, and the company with us in the carriage, and the moonlight — it was nothing less than enchantment.

There is something in this country air to put one in blandest mood. Yesterday we allowed a snake to cross our path without any disposition on our part to kill it. We are at peace with all the world. We would not hurt a spider. We could take our bitterest foe and orive him a camp-stool on the piazza. We would not blame him for not liking us if he liked our strawberries. We would walk with him arm in arm through watermelon-patch and peachorchard. He should be persuaded that if we could not write good sermons and vivacious lectures, we can nevertheless raise great pumpkins, and long oranoe-carrots, and Drumhead no OUT-OF-DOORS.

cabbacre. We would take him In our carrlaore, going at consistent ministerial gait, as though on the way to Old School Presbytery, never racing with any one, if there were danger of our being beaten. We hereby proclaim peace forever with any man who likes our hens. We fear we would have been tempted to sign Jeff Davis’s bail-bond if he had praised our early scarlet radishes.

Amidst such scenes till autumn. Congregations would be advantaged by it if for a few weeks of every year they would allow their pastors a little farm -life. Three weeks at fashionable watering - place will not do the work. Theie is not enough salts and sulphur in all the springs to overcome the tight shoes, and the uncomfortable gloves, and the late hours, and the high living, and the dresses economical at the neck. Rather turn us out to physical work. A sharp hoe will hack to pieces all your dyspepsia. A pruning-knife will cut off the excrescences of your disposition. The dash of the shower that wets you to the skin will cool your spirit for ecclesiastical strife. Daily swinging of the axe will tone up your nerves. Trampling down the hay as It Is tossed Into the mow will tread Into forgetfulness your little perplexities. In the wake of the plough you may pick up strength with which to battle public Iniquity. Neighbors looking over the fence may think we are only weeding cantaloupes, or splitting rails, or husking corn, when we are rebuilding our strength, enkindling our spirits, quickening our brain, purifying our theology, and blessing our souls.

Here I stop. The aroma of the garden almost bewilders my senses. Flowers seem to me the dividing-line between the physical and the spiritual. The stamen of the honeysuckle is the alabaster pillar at which the terrestrial and the celestial part and meet. Out of the cup of the water-lily earth and heaven drink. May the blessing of larkspur and sweet-william fall upon all the dwellers in country and town! Let there be some one to set a tuft of mignonette by every sick man’s pillow, and plant a fuschia In every working-man’s yard, and place a geranium In every sewing-girl’s window, and twine a cypress about every poor man’s grave. And, above all, may there come upon us the ii8

OUT-OF-DOORS.

blessing of Him whose footsteps the mosses mark, and whose breath is the redolence of flowers! Between these leaves I press thee — O “Lily of the Valley!”