IT is a good thing to have an old-fashioned fire-place in the country; a broad-breasted, deep-chested chimney-piece, with its old-fashioned fender, its old-fashioned andirons, its old-fashioned shovel and tongs, and a goodly show of cherry-red hickory, in a glow, with its volume of blue smoke curling up the thoracic duct. “Ah! Mrs. Sparrowgrass, what would the country be without a chimney corner and a hearth? Do you know?” said I, “the little fairies dance upon the hearth-stone when an heir is born in a house?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she did not know it, but, she said, she wanted me to stop talking about such things. “And the cricket,” said I, “how cheerful its carol on the approach of winter.” Mrs. S. said the sound of a cricket made her feel melancholy. “And the altar and the 80 hearth-stone: symbols of religion and of home! Before one the bride — beside the other the wife! No wonder, Mrs. Sparrowgrass, they are sacred things; that mankind have ever held them inviolable, and preserved them from sacrilege, in all times, and in all countries. Do you know,” said I, “how dear this hearth is to me?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, with hickory wood at eight dollars a cord, it did not surprise her to hear me grumble. “If wood were twenty dollars a cord I would not complain. Here we have everything —
and as I sit before our household altar,” said I, placing my hand upon the mantel, “with you beside me, Mrs. S., I feel that all the beautiful fables of poets are only truths in parables when they relate to the hearth-stone, I may say, of home!”
This fine sentiment did not move Mrs. Sparrowgrass a whit. She said she was sleepy. After all, I begin to believe sentiment is a poor thing in the country. It does very well in books, and on the 81 stage, but it will not answer for the rural districts. The country is too genuine and honest for it. It is a pretty affectation, only fit for artificial life. Mrs. Peppergrass may wear it, with her rouge and diamonds, in a drawing-room, but it will not pass current here; any more than the simulated flush of her cheeks can compare with that painted in the skin of a rustic beauty by the sun and air.
“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, “let us have some nuts and apples, and a pitcher of Binghamton cider; we have a good cheerful fire to-night, and why should we not enjoy it?”
When Mrs. Sparrowgrass returned from giving directions about the fruit and cider, she brought with her a square, paper box full of garden seeds. To get good garden seeds is an important thing in the country. If you depend upon an agricultural warehouse you may be disappointed. The way to do is, to select the best specimens from your own raising: then you are sure they are fresh, at least. Mrs. Sparrowgrass opened the box. First she took out a package of seeds, wrapped up in a newspaper — then she took out another package tied up in brown paper — then she drew forth a bundle that was pinned up — then another that was taped up — 82 then another twisted up — then out came a bursted package of watermelon seeds — then a withered ear of corn — then another package of watermelon seeds from another melon — then a handful of split okra pods — then handsful of beans, peas, squash seeds, melon seeds, cucumber seeds, sweet corn, evergreen corn, and other germs. Then another bursted paper of watermelon seeds. There were watermelon seeds enough to keep half the county supplied with this refreshing article of luxury. As the treasures were spread out on the table, there came over me a feeling that reminded me of Christmas times, when the young ones used to pant down stairs, before dawn, lamp in hand, to see the kindly toy-gifts of Santa Claus. Then the Mental Gardener, taking Anticipation by the hand, went forth into the future garden; peas sprouted out in round leaves, tomato put forth his aromatic spread; sweet corn thrust his green blades out of many a hillock; lettuce threw up his slender spoons; beans shouldered their way into the world; like Æneases, with the old beans on their backs; and watermelon and cucumber, in voluptuous play, sported over the beds like truant school-boys.
83“Now,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, let us arrange these in proper order; I will make a chart of the garden on a piece of paper, and put everything down with a date, to be planted in its proper time.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought that was an excellent plan. “Yes,” I replied, tasting the cider, “we will make a garden to-night, as it were, and plant from that; now, Mrs. S., read off the different packages.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass took up a paper and laid it aside, then another, and laid it aside. “I think,” said she, as the third paper was placed upon the table, “I did not write any names on the seeds, but I believe I can tell them apart; these,” said she, “are watermelon.” “Very well, what next?” “The next,” said Mrs. S., “is either muskmelon or cucumber seed.” “My dear,” said I, “we want plenty of melons, for the summer, but I do not wish to plant half an acre of pickles by mistake; can’t you be sure about the matter?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she could not. “Well, then, lay the paper down 84 and call off the next.” “The next are not radishes, I know,” said Mrs. S., “they must be summer cabbages.” “Are you sure now, Mrs. Sparrowgrass?” said I, getting a little out of temper. Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she was sure of it, because cabbage seed looked exactly like turnip seed. “Did you save turnip seed also?” said I. Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied, that she had provided some, but they must be in another paper. “Then call off the next; we will plant them for cabbages, whether or no.” “Here is a name,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, brightening up. “Read it,” said I, pen in hand. “Watermelons — not so good,” said Mrs. S. “Lay that paper with the rest and proceed.” “Corn,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, with a smile. “Variety?” “Pop, I am sure.” “Good, now we begin to see daylight.” “Squash,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “Winter or Summer?” “Both.” “Lay that paper aside, my dear.” “Tomato.” “Red or yellow?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she had pinned up the one and tied up the other, to distinguish them, but it was so long ago, she had forgot which was which. “Never mind,” said I, “there is one comfort, they cannot bear without showing their colors. Now for the next.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, upon tasting 85 the tomato seed, she was sure they were bell peppers. “Very well, so much is gained, we are sure of the capsicum. The next.” “Beans,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
There is one kind of bean, in regard to which I have a prejudice. I allude to the asparagus bean, a sort of long-winded esculent, inclined to be prolific in strings. It does not climb very high on the pole, but crops out in an abundance of pods, usually not shorter than a bill of extras, after a contract; and although interesting as a curious vegetable, still not exactly the bean likely to be highly commended by your city guests, when served up to them at table. When Mrs. Sparrowgrass, in answer to my question, as to the particular species of bean referred to, answered, “Limas,” I felt relief at once. “Put the Limas to the right with the sheep, Mrs. S., and as for the rest of the seeds sweep them into the refuse basket. I will add another stick to the fire, pare an apple for you, and an apple for me, light a cigar, and be comfortable. What is the use of fretting about a few seeds more or less? But, next year, we will mark all the packages with names, to prevent mistakes, won’t we, Mrs. Sparrowgrass?”
There has been a great change in the atmosphere within a few days. The maple twigs are all scarlet and yellow fringes, the sod is verdurous and moist; in the morning a shower of melody falls from the trees around us, where blue birds and “pewees” are keeping an academy of music. Off on the river there is a long perspective of shad-poles, apparently stretching from shore to shore, and, here and there, a boat, with picturesque fishermen, at work over the gill-nets. Now and then a shad is held up; in the distance it has a star-like glitter, against the early morning sun. The fruit trees are bronzed with buds. Occasionally a feeble fly creeps along, like a valetudinarian too early in the season at a watering-place. The marshes are all a-whistle with dissipated bull-frogs, who keep up their revelry at unseemly hours. Our great Polander is in high cluck, and we find eggs in the hens’ nests. IT IS SPRING! It is a good thing to have spring in the country. People grow young again in the spring in the country. The world, the old globe itself, grows young in the spring, and why not Mr. and Mrs. Sparrowgrass? The city, in the spring, is like the apples of Sodom, “fair and pleasant to behold, but dust and ashes within.” But 87 who shall sing or say what spring is in the country?
“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, “the weather is beginning to be very warm and spring-like; how would you like to have a festa?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said that, in her present frame of mind, a fester was not necessary for her happiness. I replied, “I meant a festa, not a fester; a little fête, a few friends, a few flowers, a mild sort of spring dinner, if you please; some music, claret, fresh lettuce, lamb and spinach, and a breakfast of eggs fresh laid in the morning, with rice cakes and coffee.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she was willing. “Then,” said I, “Mrs. S., I will invite a few old friends, and we will have an elegant time.” So, from that day we watched the sky very cleverly for a week, to ascertain the probable course of the clouds, and consulted the thermometer to know what chance there was of having open windows for the occasion. The only drawback that stood in the way of perfect enjoyment was, our lawn had 88 been half rooted out of existence by an irruption of predatory pigs. It was vexatious enough to see our lawn bottom-side up on a festive occasion. But I determined to have redress for It. Upon consulting with the best legal authority in the village, I was told that I could obtain damages by identifying the animals, and commencing suit against the owner. As I had not seen the animals, I asked Mrs. Sparrowgrass if she could identify them. She said she could not. “Then,” said I to my legal friend, “what can I do?” He replied that he did not know. “Then,” said I, “if they come again, and I catch them in the act, can I fire a gun among them?” He said I could; but that I would be liable for whatever damage was done them. “That,” said I, “would not answer; my object is to make the owner suffer, not the poor quadrupeds.” He replied that the only sufferers would probably be the pigs and myself. Then I asked him, if the owner recovered against me, whether I could bring a replevin suit against him. He said that, under the Constitution of the United States, such a suit could be brought. I asked him if I could recover. He said I could not. Then I asked him what remedy I could have. He answered that if I 89 found the pigs on my grounds, I could drive them to the pound, then call upon the fence-viewers, get them to assess the damages done, and by this means mulct the owner for the trespass. This advice pleased me highly; it was practical and humane. I determined to act upon it, and slept soundly upon the resolution. The next day our guests came up from town. I explained the lawn to them and having been fortified on legal points, instructed them as to the remedy for trespass. The day was warm and beautiful; our doors and windows were thrown wide open. By way of offset to the appearance of the lawn, I had contrived, by purchasing an expensive little bijou of a vase, and filling it with sweet breathing flowers, to spread a rural air of fragrance throughout the parlor. The doors of the bay-window open on the piazza; in one door-way stood a tray of delicate confections, upon two slender quartette tables. These were put in the shade to keep cool. I had suborned an Italian to bring them up by hand, in pristine sharpness and beauty of outline. I was taking a glass of sherry with our old friend, Capt. Bacon, of the U. S. Navy, when suddenly our dogs commenced barking. We keep our dogs chained up by daylight. Looking 90 over my glass of sherry, I observed a detachment of the most villainous looking pigs rooting up my early pea-patch. “Now,” said I, “Captain,” putting down my glass deliberately, “I will show you some fun; excuse me for a few minutes;” and with that I bowed significantly to our festal guests. They understood at once that etiquette must give way when pea-patch was about being annihilated. I then went out, unchained the dogs, and commenced driving the pigs out of the garden. After considerable trampling of all my early vegetables, under the eyes of my guests, I managed to get the ringleader of the swinish multitude into my parlor. He was a large, powerful looking fellow, with a great deal of comb, long legs, mottled complexion, and ears pretty well dogged. He stood for a moment at bay against the sofa, then charged upon the dogs, ran against the centre table, which he accidentally upset, got headed off by Captain Bacon, who came to the rescue, darted under our quartette tables — making a general distribution of confectionary, and finally got cornered in the piazza.
By this time I was so much exasperated that I was capable of taking the life of the intruder, and 91 probably should have done so had my gun not been at the gunsmith’s. In striking at him with a stick, I accidentally hit one of the dogs such a blow as to disable him. But I was determined to capture the destroyer and put him in the pound. After some difficulty in getting him out of the piazza, I drove him into the library and finally out in the ground. The rest of his confederates were there, quietly feeding on the remains of the garden. Finally I found myself on the hot, high road, with all my captives and one dog, in search of the pound. Not knowing where the pound was, after driving them for a quarter of a mile, I made inquiry of a respectable looking man, whom I met, in corduroy breeches, on the road. He informed me that he did not know. I then fell in with a colored boy who told me the only pound was at Dobb’s Ferry. Dobb’s Ferry is a thriving village about seven miles north of the Nepperhan. I made a bargain with the colored body for three dollars, and by his assistance the animals were safely lodged in the pound. By this means I was enabled to return to my guests. Next day I found out the owner. I got the fence-viewers to estimate the damages.
The fence-viewers looked at the broken mahogany 92and estimated. I spoke of the vase, the flowers, [green-house flowers] and the confectionery. These did not appear to strike them as damageable. It think the fence-viewers are not liberal enough in their views. The damages done to a man’s temper and constitution should be included, if ever I get to be fence-viewer; to say nothing of exotics trampled under foot, and a beautiful dessert ruthlessly destroyed by unclean animals. Besides that, we shall not have a pea until everybody else in the village has done with peas. We shall be late in the season with our early peas. At last an advertisement appeared in the country paper, which contained the decision of the fence-viewers, to wit:
“Under the circumstances,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, what do you think of the pound as a legal remedy?” Mrs. S. said it was shameful. “So I think, too; but why should we repine? The birds sing, the sky is blue, the grass is green side up, the trees are full of leaves, the air is balmy, and the children, God bless them! are happy. Why should we repine about trifles? If we want early peas we can buy them, and as for the vase, flowers, and confectionery, they would have been all over with, by this time, if the pigs had not been here. There is no use to cry, like Alexander, for another world; let us enjoy the one we have, Mrs. Sparrowgrass.”