The Puddleford Papers; Or, Humors of the West

by Henry Hiram Riley

The rivers that watered this waste were large, and flowed from still deeper solitudes towards the great lakes. The sun, as ancient as they, rose and set upon them now as it did centuries ago. The forests upon their banks sprang up, flourished, waxed old, and died; and still the river ran, and new forests rose upon the ruins of the old, and the glory of the new stood implanted in the grave of the old. The bison, moose, and bear drank from the sources of these rivers, driven upward by the noise of civilization. But they had an interest to me beyond all this: they were the inlets to Christian missionaries more than a century ago. It was up these streams that the French Jesuit,[C] with his eye aloft, and the cross erect, paddled his solitary canoe among the aborigines. Here he built his camp-fire beneath the stars, and told his rosary in the awful presence of his God—how awful, indeed, in such a spot, at such a time! We can almost see the venerable man, and hear the dip of his oar; the water-fowl scream, scared, and dive along before him, and the Indian stands upon the bank in his presence, like a monument in wonder.

The footprints of the Jesuits are still found upon the bluffs of these rivers. Mounds, which were thrown by them into square and circular forms, now roofless and silent, and matted all over with vines, still bear witness to their devotion. Yet how little is thought of them now! Because the Jesuits did not till the earth, and sow, and reap, and swell the commerce of the world: but didn't they sow? They sowed the seeds of everlasting life among the simple children of the forest; and they have sown from age to age since, and many an Indian still offers the prayer which was taught his forefathers so long ago.

Such, reader, were the woods around Puddleford, and such the associations. I was in the habit of going down into their depths, and scraping acquaintance with the inhabitants. It was a relief to me. I sometimes even went so far as to set myself up as a sportsman. I made a special visit, just after the first frost, for the purpose of spying out the game. The morning was still and bright, and the dash of a distant rivulet, which I could step across, filled the "long drawn aisles" with its echoes. I had been down often during the summer, but every object looked strangely different now. The first frost had given Nature a shock—a kind of palsy; she looked serene, almost sad. Its inmates had gadded about during the summer in a very reckless way; they looked more sober after the first frost—more thoughtful—more anxious about something.

It was late in September, and yet "the storms of the wild Equinox, with all its wet," had not come. It was due and over-due. Amid the more hardy foliage the first frost had drawn his brush in the most delicate way possible—a mere tinge, and no more—a kind of autumnal hint. There was one limb of an oak just changing, and the balance of the tree stood up as bravely and defiant as ever; the soft maple was completely dipped—it blazed; the aspen trembled and glowed; the hickory was only touched, and still hesitated about her full suit of yellow; while the dog-wood and spice bush had entirely given up the ghost.

It was just after the first frost, so I went down to the banks of the rivulet that had so long been singing its woodland psalm. It came from away off somewhere, and strayed, and dove over precipices, and spread into miniature lakes; but, where I stood, it tumbled through a gorge with green, sloping banks. As I gazed, the sun waxed higher and warmer. Day wore its way up the gorge, and literally struck a sisterhood of frosted sumachs, and they turned blood-red; I thought I saw them shift their summer dress.

Near by, a vine circled a tree, and swung out from its top. I had noticed it many times before during the season. It was then hung with large-mouthed flowers, which opened with the morning. Was it a summer chime of bells that tolled the sunlight into the temple?—the forest clock, that opened and shut the hours? The bells were broken now; the first frost had cracked them. I saw a bird, dressed in blue, run up the vine, and hitch along in a very deliberate way, and peer into this bell and into that, as if he wondered why they did not spread; but this might have been an odd fancy of mine.

The first frost seemed to have passed through the tree-tops that rolled over the gorge in a hurry. The prominent points of the foliage were tufted with russet, but its hollows and dells were as green as ever.

The woodland harvest was nigh—the Creator's own harvest, sown and reaped without the aid of man. The pawpaw began to shed its fruit; mandrakes stood up all over the forest, like umbrellas loaded with apples of gold; the wild cucumber was bending under its own weight; the bark of the hickory and beech nut was broken, and the fruit peeped out; acorns were loosening in their cups; the grape was purple and fragrant, and ready to gush with richness; and away down below me I noticed a crabbed, sour-looking plum tree, holding on to the hill-side with all its energy, and covered with its rosy-cheeked children.

A few flowers yet lingered on the upland, breathing their last. The pink, violet, lupine, and a thousand nameless ones, had shed and buried their seeds long before; but the flaming, cardinal-fringed gentian, the yellow moccasin, and troops of lilies, still crowded the swales and watercourses, braving out the first frost. Insects were singing a melancholy dirge around me; a bee droned past in great haste, with a consequential hum; the year was passing and dying, like a vibration over the earth.

The air was filled with winged seeds, sailing away off here and away off there, and going I do not know where. The wild cotton burst its pod, and furred out at a great rate; a large company of thistle balloons rolled up lazily into the sky, and went out of sight (to the stars, probably), directed by some invisible hand to the place of their destination. Birds were picking and carrying clusters of grapes and s'coke far and wide. How beautifully Nature sows her solemn wastes! The winds and the birds are her husbandmen, and the work goes on with a song.