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1st (search for this): chapter 3
scrolls,— Tells, in all tongues, the tale of mercy o'er, And bids the guilty, ‘Go and sin no more!’ It now was dew-fall; very still The night lay on the lonely hill, Down which our homeward steps we bent, And, silent, through great silence went, Save that the tireless crickets played Their long, monotonous serenade. A young moon, at its narrowest, Curved sharp against the darkening west; And, momently, the beacon's star, Slow wheeling o'er its rock afar, From out the level darkness shot One instant and again was not. And then my friend spake quietly The thought of both: “Yon crescent see! Like Islam's symbol-moon it gives Hints of the light whereby it lives: Somewhat of goodness, something true From sun and spirit shining through All faiths, all worlds, as through the dark Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark, Attests the presence everywhere Of love and providential care. The faith the old Norse heart confessed In one dear name,—the hopefulest And tenderest heard from mortal li
March (search for this): chapter 3
r blooming, And all about the social air Is sweeter for her coming. Unspoken homilies of peace Her daily life is preaching; The still refreshment of the dew Is her unconscious teaching. And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing; Her garments to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing. And when, in pleasant harvest moons, The youthful huskers gather, Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways Defy the winter weather,— In sugar-camps, when south and warm The winds of March are blowing, And sweetly from its thawing veins The maple's blood is flowing,— In summer, where some lilied pond Its virgin zone is baring, Or where the ruddy autumn fire Lights up the apple-paring,— The coarseness of a ruder time Her finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of pleasure fills Each rustic sport she graces. Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it. If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it. For larger life and wiser aims The farmer is he<
April (search for this): chapter 3
Massachusetts Bay, 1760. Upwards of one thousand of the Acadian peasants forcibly taken from their homes on the Gaspereau and Basin of Minas were assigned to the several towns of the Massachusetts colony, the children being bound by the authorities to service or labor. the robins sang in the orchard, the buds into blossoms grew; Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins knew! Sick, in an alien household, the poor French neutral lay; Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the April day, Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's warp and woof, On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs of roof, The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on the stand, The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped from her sick hand! What to her was the song of the robin, or warm morning light, As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless of sound or sight? Done was the work of her hands, she had eaten her bitter bread; The world of the alien people lay behind her
May (search for this): chapter 3
terday are one Blooming girl and manhood gray, Autumn in the arms of May! Hushed within and hushed without, Dancing feet and wrestlers' shou bashful boy Who fed her father's kine? She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns,apes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom i neighborhood; Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed, Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet; For them the song-sparrow and the bobomy worth, presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming?” Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle sence. I along Crane River's sunny slopes Blew warm the winds of May, And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks The green outgrew the gray. The had shorn with his sword the cross from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, Harried the heathen round about, And whipped the Quakers
June (search for this): chapter 3
es, The marriage list, and thejeu d'esprit, All reach my ear in the self-same tone,— I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on! Oh, sweet as the lapse of water at noon O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone, Of her in whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her sideerrun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we
October (search for this): chapter 3
he piled — up rubbish at the chimney's back; And, in sad keeping with all things about them, Shrill, querulous women, sour and sullen men, Untidy, loveless, old before their time, With scarce a human interest save their own Monotonous round of small economies, Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood; Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed, Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet; For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves; For them in vain October's holocaust Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, The sacramental mystery of the woods. Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls And winter pork with the least possible outlay Of salt and sanctity; in daily life Showing as little actual comprehension Of Christian charity and love and duty, As if the Sermon on the Mount had been Outdated like a last year's almanac: Rich in broad woodlands and i
December (search for this): chapter 3
Little cared the owner whither; Heart of lead is heart of feather, Noon of night is noon of day! Come away, come away! When such lovers meet each other, Why should prying idlers stay? Quench the timber's fallen embers, Quench the red leaves in December's Hoary rime and chilly spray. But the hearth shall kindle clearer, Household welcomes sound sincerer, Heart to loving heart draw nearer, When the bridal bells shall say: “Hope and pray, trust alway; Life is sweeter, love is dearer, For the tand inspiration I have found in her friendship and sympathy. The poem in its first form was entitled The Wife: an Idyl of Bearcamp Water, and appeared in The Atlantic Monthly for January, 1868. When I published the volume Among the Hills, in December of the same year, I expanded the Prelude and filled out also the outlines of the story. Prelude. along the roadside, like the flowers of gold That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, And the red
December 24th (search for this): chapter 3
erpast, And daily life, beyond his hope's forecast, Pleasant and beautiful with sight and sound, And flowers upspringing in its narrow round, And all his days with quiet gladness crowned. He sang not; but, if sometimes tempted strong, He hummed what seemed like Altorf's Burschensong; His good wife smiled, and did not count it wrong. For well he loved his boyhood's brother band; His Memory, while he trod the New World's strand, A double-ganger walked the Fatherland! If, when on frosty Christmas eves the light Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sight Of Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white; And closed his eyes, and listened to the sweet Old wait-songs sounding down his native street, And watched again the dancers' mingling feet; Yet not the less, when once the vision passed, He held the plain and sober maxims fast Of the dear Friends with whom his lot was cast. Still all attuned to nature's melodies, He loved the bird's song in his dooryard trees, And the low hum o
1207 AD (search for this): chapter 3
birches hold. What nameless horror of the past Broods here forevermore? What ghost his unforgiven sin Is grinding o'er and o'er? Does, then, immortal memory play The actor's tragic part, Rehearsals of a mortal life And unveiled human heart? God's pity spare a guilty soul That drama of its ill, And let the scenic curtain fall On Birchbrook's haunted mill! 1884. The two Elizabeths. Read at the unveiling of the bust of Elizabeth Fry at the Friends' School, Providence, R. I. A. D. 1207. amidst Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt, A high-born princess, servant of the poor, Sweetening with gracious words the food she dealt To starving throngs at Wartburg's blazoned door. A blinded zealot held her soul in chains, Cramped the sweet nature that he could not kill, Scarred her fair body with his penance-pains, And gauged her conscience by his narrow will. God gave her gifts of beauty and of grace, With fast and vigil she denied them all; Unquestioning, with sad, pathetic face,
1524 AD (search for this): chapter 3
on the targum-marge of Onkelos In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words were read: “Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead; Forget it in love's service, and the debt Thou canst not pay the angels shall forget; Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone; Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy own!” 1868. Norembega. Norembega, or Norimbegue, is the name given by early French fishermen and explorers to a fabulous country south of Cape Breton, first discovered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificent city of the same name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The site of this barbaric city is laid down on a map published at Antwerp in 1570. In 1604 Champlain sailed in search of the Northern Eldorado, twenty-two leagues up the Penobscot from the Isle Haute. He supposed the river to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion that those travellers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw no evidences of anything like civ
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