Scenes in my Native Land/The Snow-Storm
THE SNOW-STORM.
How quietly the snow comes down,
When all are fast asleep,
And plays a thousand fairy pranks
O'er vale and mountain steep.
How cunningly it finds its way
To every cranny small,
And creeps through even the slightest chink
In window, or in wall.
To every noteless hill it brings
A fairer, purer crest
Than the rich ermine robe that decks
The haughtiest monarch's breast.
To every reaching spray it gives
Whate'er its hand can hold—
A beauteous thing the snow is,
To all, both young and old.
The waking day, through curtaining haze,
Looks forth, with sore surprise,
To view what changes have been wrought
Since last she shut her eyes;
And a pleasant thing it is to see
The cottage children peep
From out the drifts that to their eaves
Prolongs its rampart deep.
The patient farmer searches
His buried lambs to find,
And dig his silly poultry out,
Who clamor in the wind;
How sturdily he cuts his way,
Though wild blasts beat him back,
And caters for his waiting herd
Who shiver round the stack.
Right welcome are those feathery flakes
To the ruddy urchins' eye,
As down the long, smooth hill they coast,
With shout and revelry;
Or when the moonlight, clear and cold,
Calls out their throng to play—
Oh! a merry gift the snow is
For a Christmas holiday.
The city miss, who, wrapped in fur,
Is lifted to the sleigh,
And borne so daintily to school
Along the crowded way,
Feels not within her pallid cheek
The rich blood mantling warm,
Like her who, laughing, shakes the snow
From powdered tress and form.
A tasteful hand the snow hath—
For on the storied pane
I saw its Alpine landscapes traced
With arch and sculptured fane,
Where high o'er hoary-headed cliffs
The dizzy Simplon wound,
And old cathedrals reared their towers
With Gothic tracery bound.
I think it hath a tender heart,
For I marked it while it crept
To spread a sheltering mantle where
The infant blossom slept.
It doth to Earth a deed of love—
Though in a wintry way;
And her turf-gown will be greener
For the snow that's fallen to-day.
The occurrence of slight snow-storms, being unusually frequent during the autumn of 1843, I amused myself with making the following simple calendar of them in their order of succession.
Monday, October 23d.
Snow! Snow! Who could have expected such a guest, now in the very autumn prime? The sun was shining so gloriously too, at early morning. The trees stand utterly amazed, in their rich robes of crimson, and orange, and brown, like dowagers in their court-dresses, arrested on their way to the palace. Especially, are the flower-people incommoded and struck with consternation. The roses, with their bosoms full of snow, look indignant, and redden to a wrath-glow, while the meek verbenas and violets at their feet partake less of the chilling shower, for dwelling so humbly sub-rosa. The buxom marigold lifts her hardy cheek with a smile, as if to say "I'll make the best of it," while the aristocratic dahlias curb their chins in displeasure. Well, this is a republican clime, my ladies. It respecteth not your high-sounding titles of countesses and queens. Crowns and coronets are at a discount in this pilgrim-planted land, and the snow settleth as saucily upon them, as upon the unbonnetted cottager.
Yonder, ensconced in a snug recess, are two Hydrangeas, with their broad purple and pink faces bending towards each other, like a pair of rustic lovers in a tête-a-tête. How aghast they look when the snow discovers and parts them. That tiny lakelet at their side, which shone like a mirror in the morning ray, how it swallows the chill morsels with a dim and sullen face. Up come the gold and silver fishes, their smart liveries powdered with the insinuating flakes. Keep your gills close, my gay piscatorials, and don't nibble at those floating nodules, mistaking them for crumbs of Naples biscuit. In the same nook is a prim-bush, badly trimmed, reaching forth its angular arms and claw-shaped fingers to gather all it can. Methinks it is of the miser-genus. Friend Prim, dreamest thou that thou hast gotten gold? Well, make the most of thy cold handfuls. Peradventure it may last thee as long as the winged riches in which thy betters trust.
While the beauties of the garden, bear their rebuke as they may, lo! there passeth by a blighted bud of our own higher nature. An infant with its funeral train, goeth slowly homeward to its last repose. They divide the snow-wreaths to lay it by the side of its young mother. Thou canst nestle no more into her bosom, poor babe, it is marble cold. She stretcheth forth no fond arm to welcome and enfold thee. Only a few times didst thou gaze upon her, ere she hasted away to the angels. Yet, shall not the bright drops of that affection, which were shed into her heart amid extremest agony, be gathered up in Heaven, and flow on as the river of life, an eternal stream?
"Oh! when a mother meets on high,
The babe she left in its infancy,
Is there not then, for all her fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?"
Tuesday, November 7th.
Well done, Mr. Saggitarius, thou hast brought us a fair gift, notwithstanding thy belligerent moods, and thy skill in archery! snow-flakes, falling as quietly as the slumbers of innocence. This is better than to pierce us with thy frosty arrows, or smite us with ague-fits.
The birds, however, are mightily discomposed. They convene in noisy Congress, clamoring for immediate emigration. Troops of orators mount the rostrum, vociferating, vanishing, and returning to the charge. Many more speakers than hearers, and no chairman to call them to order. How the black-birds chatter and gesticulate, and what throngs of swallows besiege yonder old church-steeple. My eloquent gentry, I counsel you forthwith to commence your journey; for, as the ancient proverb elegantly saith, "great cry, and little wool," so this babel-like discussion helpeth not forward your weary pilgrimage. Please remember us among the groves of the Bosphorus, or the gardens of the Nile, and come back with the spring-flowers,—and so, farewell.
The domestic fowls congregate under the fences, or hay-stacks, with a remarkable solemnity. Chicklings of the last summer, who have had no regular introduction to the snow, dip their bills in it and look grave. Perhaps, like chemists, they are essaying to analyze it. The young house-cat, having the antipathy of her race to wet feet, steps into the new element, and suddenly draws back, steps again, and draws back: then with long leaps gains the shelter of the kitchen-threshold, and applies her soothing lips, to her maltreated paws.
But what exultation among the boys, who rushing from school discover it. How it clings with a humid tenacity to their caps and shoulders, for the careful mother to brush off, when they reach home. With what zeal they gather it in their hands, the merry urchins. How eagerly they anticipate their winter-sports, which suit so well the quick flowing blood of the young. Often have I watched the bright-browed throngs of Boston boys, gliding with swift sled over their noble Common, and rejoiced in their joy, and blessed the wisdom of those law-givers, who protect the happiness of children.
Wednesday, November 29th.
The beautiful Indian-summer, which our poor aborigines used to call "the smile of the Great Spirit," hath been among us. With its elastic breath, it quickened all the springs of life. Between the storms, it stole hither, touching the faded leaf with its early hues, and the skies with their cloudless azure, rekindling the scarlet of the woodbine and hardy rose, and whimpering to our hearts of the cheerful patience that should arm them for winter's adversity. It wrapped the distant landscape in soft mists, like a dream of Paradise. Then, foreseeing the evil time, it vanished, while the snow-spirit made haste to whiten its robe as it departed.
Thursday, November 30th.
A little snow this evening, a few hoarse threats from the winds, and then the clouds relented. They would not cast a lasting shade over New England's almost sole festival. For this day is her annual Thanksgiving, set apart by the fathers amid colonial toil and privation, when, amid the scanty harvest, the rude hovel, and the Indian conspiracy,
"They shook the depths of the desert-gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer."
Methinks even the pitiless storm would not willingly blot out the joy of the child, preparing to return to its home, from a distant school, or from service, to brighten, for a brief season, the loved circle around the hearth-stone.
Hark! the steam-engine shrieks, the mellow stage-horn winds, and see, they come. The spruce, young collegian arrives, ready to display new stores of knowledge to his wondering sisters; and the soberly-clad apprentice grasps heartily with his hardened hand that of parent or friend. A carriage stops at the door of a pleasant farm-house. A fair, young woman, who at the last Thanksgiving wore the white robe of the bride, descends, and with her husband enters the home of her nativity.
What does she bring with her? What is so cunningly concealed beneath her warm mantle? Lo! a little rose-bud, with a beating heart. How its large, clear eyes expand with wonder, as the young people, proud of their new titles of uncle and aunt, unsheath it from its convolutions of soft blankets, and cover its face with kisses. The new father mingles in the group with rapturous delight, and bends on her, who has thus completed the climax of his joys, that smile of the heart which effaces every care. The grand-parents welcome this young scion of their house with secret pride; yet taught, by long experience in life's changeable road, to chastise that buoyant sentiment, they wear a sedate gravity, as they lead the way to the laden board.
Invoking Heaven's blessing on their happiness, all zealously address themselves to the work before them. Justice must be done to the huge turkey, and the chickens, which they themselves have reared; the numerous tarts must all be tasted, as they are the productions of the young daughters; nor must the fruits and nuts be slighted, which the boys have so carefully gathered. The satisfaction of a feast in a farmer's family is heightened by knowing the history of every viand, or having had some agency in preparing it for its post of honor.
But see, passing the window is a melancholy stranger, pale with home-sickness. His heart is with the spot of his nativity, in the distant halls where his childhood grew. Here are no fond eyes to welcome him, no kind voice to bid him to the hospitable repast.
Send thou, and gather him as a sheaf into thy garner. Make glad his soul with the incense of thy fireside charities. So shall his smile of gratitude strike to the depths of thine own spirit, and dry its secret tears.
Oh, at this festival, and at that still more sacred one, of our dear Lord's nativity, forget not the forgotten, nor the forsaken, nor the poor. For if thou hast sent portions unto the needy, and if the stranger or the orphan sitteth beside thee at thy board, thine own feast shall be the sweeter, and be remembered at the banquet on high.