On the morning of the day after their arrival, Ralph and Ichabod, accompanied by Barton, examined the farm and the improvements which had been made by the energy of the latter. Some fifteen acres of forest had already been cleared, and Sambo, on this morning, was engaged in still farther invading the domains of the wilderness; and with his bare and muscular arms was wielding the axe like a redoubtable soldier among a multitude of enemies.
There is something pleasant to the eye in beholding the struggle of man with the wilderness; to see old, mossy trees, that had stood for ages, faithful guardians of the soil, whose long, leafy boughs and bushy crowns, seemed to belong as much to the sky in which they waved and nodded, as to the earth which sustained them, bow down their heavy heads with a crash, that to the imaginative mind, seems, with its echoes, like a mournful wail issuing from the surviving forest. As the tree falls, the golden sunlight darts into a new and unexplored region, and the melancholy forest abode recedes, as if pursued by an implacable enemy. But it is a rescue of the earth from the long slumber of past time, and an offering to the comforts and necessities of the future.
It is scarcely to be wondered at, that in earlier times, when the imaginations of men overruled their powers of reason, the sombre, melancholy forest abode was peopled with fanciful beings—children of the shadow and of the forest—Fairies, Dryads, and Satyrs, with Arcadian landscapes, and the good god Pan to preside over sylvan sports! But in these days of utility, the reed of the shepherd and the music of the sylvan gods are drowned in the clatter of saw-mills, and the hoarse song of the woodchopper.
Ichabod, who had not forgotten the conversation of the previous evening, endeavored, two or three times, to revive the project which on that occasion he had proposed to Barton; but he was unsuccessful in his attempts to renew the discussion. After a few hours thus spent, the party returned to the cottage. Barton proposed, for the afternoon, a fishing excursion upon the pond. "It is filled," said he, "with pickerel and perch—both very delicious fish, and they are taken with the utmost ease. This is just the season for them."
Ralph inquired if the streams contained any specimens of trout; and Barton answered, "that the river contained some very fine specimens, although they were not so numerous as in the smaller streams. Occasionally we take pike, but they do not come so far up the river in very large quantities. But," he continued, with a zeal that showed he was not a stranger to the gentle art, "our brooks are filled—absolutely filled—with trout. There is a stream, about a mile and a half west of us, which comes from the northwest, through a wilderness, with which I am almost wholly unacquainted, where they can be taken in great numbers. In an hour, we can catch as many as it will be convenient to carry. If you like, we will go over there to-morrow, or next day; but for to-day, I am anxious to show you sport nearer by."
It was arranged, that in the afternoon the suggestion of Barton should be followed; and hearing the latter giving some directions to Sambo, which it will be unnecessary here to repeat, Ralph and Ichabod proceeded leisurely towards the cottage.
"There is a charm, for me, about a life in the woods," said Ralph, "which I cannot explain. Mingled with the idea of a nearer approach to the Court of Nature, is that of separation from the passions and vices of men in the world. One feels to exclaim with the Bard of Avon,
"Is not this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?"
"I don't dispute the general idea," said Ichabod, "about the sweetness of a life in the woods. I have never tried it very much, but I always have a different sort of feeling from usual when I find myself in the forest; but I reckon that it can't be considered very patriotic for a Captain in the Revolutionary Army to be quoting Shakspeare, or any other British poet. What did he know about our woods? All the woods he ever saw were but a child's play-ground compared with the eternal, never-ending forests of America. As for me, if I've got any poetry to quote, I can find enough of our own manufacture. I believe in the home manufacture of that article, just as much as I do in that of the other kind we were talking about last night."
Ralph smiled at Ichabod's literary bigotry. He answered: