Pretty butter-and-eggs still bloomed beside the stone wall, and the “folksy mayweed” was plentiful about a barnyard. Out from the midst of it scampered a rabbit as I approached the fence to look over. He disappeared in the cornfield, his white tailtip showing last, and I wondered where he belonged, as there seemed to be neither wood nor shrubbery within convenient distance.
Just beyond this point (after noticing a downy woodpecker in a Balm-o’-Gilead tree, if the careful compositor will allow me that euphonious Old Colony contraction), I had stopped to pick up a shagbark when five children, the oldest a girl of nine or ten, came down the road together.
“Out of school, so early?” said I.
“No,” was the instantaneous response; “we’ve got the whooping cough.”
“Ah, that’s better than going to school, isn’t it?” said I, not so careful of my moral influence as a descendant of the Puritans ought to have been, perhaps; but I spoke from impulse, remembering myself how I also was tempted.
“Yes,” said one of the children; “No,” said another; and the reader may believe which he will, looking into his own childish heart, if he can still find it, as I hope he can.
Apple trees were loaded; hollyhocks, marigolds, and even tender cannas and dahlias, still brightened the gardens (so much for being near the sea, even on the North Shore), but what I most admired were the handsome yellow quinces in many of the dooryards. Quince preserve must be a favorite dish in Ipswich. I thought I should like to live here. I could smell the golden fruit—in my mind’s nose—clean across the way. And when I reached the village square I stopped (no, I walked slowly) to watch a real Old Colony game that I had not seen played for many a day. Two young men had stuck a jackknife into the hard earthen sidewalk and were “pitching cents.” It was like an old daguerreotype. One of the gamesters was having hard luck, but was taking it merrily. “I owe you six,” I heard him say, as his coin stood on edge and rolled perversely away from the knife-blade.
This was very near to “Meeting-house Green.” I hope I am doing no harm to speak of it.
AUTUMNAL MORALITIES
For the month past my weekly talk has been more or less a traveler’s tale—of things among the mountains and at the seaside. Now, on this bright afternoon in the last week of October, a month that every outdoor man saddens to see coming to an end (like May, it is never half long enough), let me note a little of what is passing in the lanes and by-roads nearer home.