“THE first flurry of snow,” said I, making a show of shaking off a few starry flakes from my hat, “the first sky-signals of winter.” It is a good thing to have winter in the country. There is something cheery in the prospect of roaring fires: and Christmas trees, glittering with tapers — and golden eggs — and sugar-hearts — and wheels — and harps of sparry sweets; — and pipes and tabors; and mince pies; and ringing sleigh-bells; and robes of fur, and reeking horses; and ponds with glassy floors, alive with, and rattling under the mercurial heels of skaters. We love to watch the snow shaking down from the clouds; and to rise up some bright morning, when its fine woof is folded over the 196 backs of mountains, and in the laps of valleys, like a web; and to pass through the colonnaded woods, where the gaunt old trees are feathered to the uttermost twigs; and to drink from the cold spring-water, that trickles over a beard of icicles, and pours, with a summer sound, in the rusty tin-cup, that belongs to the old saw-mill in the glen. It is pleasant to think how soon the birds will be about us once more, not birds of summer, but snowbirds; and with what glee those wily freebooters — crows, will croak forth their gratulations that the winter has come, and with it the privilege of picking up an honest livelihood, in spite of Lazarus in the frozen corn-field, with his hat like a pod of cotton. All the poets love winter, why should not everybody?
“I feel as if I would like to chirp a little this evening, Mrs. SparrowG. What shall we have? Lamb? Let me read you ‘Dream Children,’ or, perhaps, Fuller would be newer — old Fuller! Here he is; the ancient and venerable D. D. Now, my dear, ‘The Good Wife.’ Mrs. Sparrowgrass 197 bridled up, and was all smiles. Then I read:
“St. Paul to the Colossians (iii. 18), first adviseth women to submit themselves to their husbands, and then counselleth men to love their wives. And sure it was fitting that women should have their lesson given them, because it was hardest to be learned, and, therefore, they need have the more time to con it.”
“H’m!” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “St. Paul! He was a wise man (ironically). Read on.”
“She keeps house if she have not her husband’s company (that you always have), or leave, for her patent, to go abroad.”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass wished to know what “patent” meant, in that sense. “My dear,” said I, “ ‘patent’ is a writ or privilege, given or granted.” Then I continued:
“For the house is the woman’s centre. It is written: ‘The sun ariseth; man goeth forth unto his work and to his labor until the evening’ (Psalm civ. 22); but it is said of the good woman: ‘She riseth while it is yet night’ (Prov. xxxi. 15). For man in the race of his work, starts from the rising of the sun, because his business is without 198 doors, and not to be done without the light of heaven; but the women hath her work within the house, and, therefore, can make the sun rise by lighting of a candle.”
“Was Dr. Fuller married?” quoth Mrs. S. “Yes, my dear, probably two hundred years ago.” “H’m!” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “She was a model wife, my dear,” said I. “Who? Mrs. Fuller?” “No, Monica.” Then I read the beautiful story from the book, and afterwards took down old, gilt Boccaccio, and repeated the still more beautiful story of Griselda — the pearl of the Decameron. This latter story pleased Mrs. Sparrowgrass very much; so it grew to be exceedingly pleasant in-doors; what with the wood fire and the candles; while the cold, the white snow, and the moonshiny river, made it harmonious out of the window; and I was just about saying, I meant to read all Dickens’ Christmas Stories over, and Thackeray’s Rose and the Ring, and Bracebridge Hall, and the Sketch Book, before the holidays; when we heard something like wheels cheeping through the snow outside, and a muffled crumping, and then a knock at the front-door.
Upon opening the door, whom should we see 199 but old Dockweed, in a very short overcoat, with duck-legs, attached to a shadow of supernatural proportions, that folded over the side steps of the porch, and ran out to, and up the trunk of a tree, with wonderful sharpness of outline. And there was his swart wagon, with ebony spokes, and a very spectre of a horse: and high up in the wagon, a ghastly barrel, with icy hoops, and chime of silver, and all under the moon — oh! Then we knew the cider had come from Binghamton!
It is a good thing to have a friend in Broome County.
Then I told old Dockwood, who had aroused all the small-fry in their beds, cribs, and cradles, with his voice, to take his horse and wagon to the back of the house; and after some heaving and tilting, we got the barrel down in the snow, and rolled it, with purple fingers, safely into the cellar. Then I put my hand in my pocket to pull out the customary amount, but old Dockwood laid his mitten upon my elbow, with a familiarity that might be excusable in a small village, but which was by no means respectful in a village so extensive as our village. “Sparrygrass,” said he, “how’s yer hos?” I replied that he seemed to be doing well. “Sparrygrass,” 200 continued he, “I got somethin’ to tell you now, that’ll please yer; I got your saddle and bridle, and what’s more, I got the fellow that stole your hos — all right — up at White Plains, in the lock-up — and nothin’ to do but just go there and appear agin him and send him to Sing-Sing.
“Don’t you know,” he continued, “some time ago I asked you how yer hos was gettin’ on, and you said ‘purty well?’ ” I replied that I remembered it. “Well, then, I knowed then where your hos was, but thinks I, if Sparrowgrass is a-goin’ to keep his head shet up about losin’ his hos, I can keep my head shet up about findin’ on him. ’Taint my business, you know. I always think that when anybody puts confidence into me, that I ought to put confidence into them, and not without.” This just distribution of relative duties inspired me with such a feeling of respect for old Dockweed and his principles, that if any person had been just then pushing him into the river I should not have interfered. “So you knew that he was in the pound,” said I. “Yes,” he replied, “and knowed about him bein’ stolen afore that. You see one night my wife says to me, says she, ‘Is that the cars a-comin’?’ I says, ‘No,’ but wasn’t sure. You 201 see my wife she heard it first, because she sleeps on the side of the bed that’s nighest to the window; well, we heard it a-comin’, and by and by it got up close to our house, and then says my wife, ‘Did you ever hear such awful whistling?’ Says I, ‘No, but I know what it is,’ says I; ‘that is Sparrygrasses hos.’ ” “Why didn’t you try to stop him, then,” said I, “if you knew it was my horse?” “Well,” replied Dockweed, “how did I know that you wasn’t a-top of him? Well, next morning it was all out, and the hos was took into custody and pounded; and so I told the boys not to say anything about it until I see you, and then you see, when I see you, you wouldn’t let on, and I wouldn’t let on.” “And pray,” said I, “how did you find the bridle and saddle, and the thief?” “Well,” continued the veteran teamster, “you see I had to carry a bag of potatoes up for a colored woman; she lives way up t’other side of the aquaduck, and when I took the bag into the kitchen, I see a little end of the girt and a buckle just peeking out under the bed, so I said nothin’, but thinks I, wherever there’s a girt there’s a saddle, and what are they doin’ with a saddle when they ain’t got no horse? says I; so I told my 202 wife, and she told me to tell the squire, and so he sent up the constable and took the man and the things, and now he’s up at White Plains.”
I immediately thanked old Dockweed for this kind effort on his part, which cost me a week’s time at least, waiting upon the court as witness, to say nothing of expenses of wagon-hire to get here, and hotel bills when I got there; besides, if there ever were a case of horse-thieving that merited my approval, over which I had chuckled in golden chuckles, and satirically approved and forgiven, this was one. “Dockweed,” said I, “I feel much obliged to you for your kind attentions, and as a public spirited individual — as one to whom the community owes a debt of gratitude, permit me to make a slight present in acknowledgment of your eminent services."
This oration being in concord with the mind of old Dockwood, he took off his mitten, and held out his hand. “I do not intend,” said I, “to offer you money, but something more pleasing to you, something you will watch over, and guard with tender care; something that will constantly remind you of yourself as a conservator of public morals.” Here old Dockweed doffed his rabbit-skin cap, and dropped into the deepest 203 deep of humility. “I intend,” said I, “to present you with my horse!” I never saw so wild and withered a look as the old teamster’s, when these awful words broke upon his two credulous ears. “Well,” he replied, slowly drawing on his mitten, his eyes still cast down, “well, as to that, I ain’t got stable room just now, and — and it’s too much — it’s a lettle too much, to give away yer hos — jist for that — but (in great perplexity) now — I’ll tell you what I’ll do — I won’t touch yer hos — it’s too much, but I’ll call it square, and take the saddle and bridle!” With that he hooked on his rabbit-skin cap, collected his fee for bringing the cider, and put himself in his wagon without further delay. I watched the old rogue as he stood up under the moon, and envied him his ride home. “Well, my dear,” said I to Mrs. S., after I had told her the whole story, “I suppose it will be a pleasant thing to go to White Plains; it will enable me to give you an account of it, its scenery, its people, its manners and customs, its population, its geology, and above all, its court-house. I hope the snow will hold, so that at least there will be good sleighing.
“After all Christmas is coming — a fig for subpœnas! Merry Christmas, and in the country! I wish 204 some of the rare old sports remained of picturesque ages. We certainly must do something; a boar’s head for instance, and a lemon; snap-dragon, and some chirping old songs —:
“A Christmas tree we must have, and some masque, or pantomime for the children. Let us look up some old carols, for the morning, and rouse the small world with gun-fire and blare of bugle. There will be stockings to fill, and we will get colored candles to light the toy-table before cock-crow. I wish we could have a yule clog for the hearth, but the chimney flue is too small; at all events, we can brew a pitcher of mulled wine, and stick sprigs of evergreens all around the room. That will make some show and jollity. Holly, bay, and mistletoe, so common in the Southern 205 States, are not plants of this region, but we can borrow some ivy leaves and make out as we may
‘Sing holly, go whistle and ivy!’
“Come, we must have old Misrule with his yellow ruff, and Carol with his robe and flute, and Mistress Mince Pie, and Mumming, in his mask, and ancient Wassail, with his brown bowl.
“There, now, and if the snow holds, we will have a snow statue — say Santa Claus, with his arms 206 stuck full of toys, and his cold cheeks blown out with a penny trumpet.
“I wish we had suitable music for the day, Mrs. Sparrowgrass — harps and pipes; but who could play harp and pipe, if we had them? I think, though, we can get a drum.
“I think,” said Mrs. S., who was very busy making a little cap, “it will please the children quite as well if you buy them a magic lantern, and put up a white sheet to exhibit it on. It seems to me this Christmas masque will cost a world of labor.” “Capital!” said I. “You have a wise little head of your own, Mrs. S., and when I buy the lantern, I mean to buy a big one!