There was a bustle in a hickory—a black squirrel was flirting about, and making an examination of the crop. He had come early into the harvest-field. He ran up and down the branches, nipped the nuts, jumped upon his haunches, thought a while, chattered to himself, and said—or I thought he said—"Little too soon"—"Little too soon"—"Come again"—"Come again." At a distance, a male partridge, with his tail curved like a fan, and his feathers erect, was blustering and strutting around with great pomp, as consequential as a Broadway fop—a rabbit, crouched in a heap, sat off timidly under an upturned root, eating a pawpaw—a lonely snipe came tetering up the rivulet—a robin lit upon a scoke-bush, picked a berry or two, whistled, took a kind of last look, and departed; a little bird, as rich as sunset, next startled me with a stream of fire, which he wove through the green foliage, as if he were tying it up with a blazing cord; a sanctimonious crow floated in circles in the air, and screamed very savagely to things below him, like a preacher in a passion; and I heard turkeys clucking and calling to each other in every direction.
Suddenly, a flock of pigeons broke the few bars of light that were struggling down, and wheeled to a dry limb, at a respectful distance; they ranged themselves in rows like platoons of soldiers, and bowed forwards and sideways, in a very polite, diplomatic way. A few words passed between them—(pigeons don't talk much)—exchanging, no doubt, opinions of me and my whereabouts. By and by, one spread his wings and fluttered to the ground, and began feeding—then another, and another, until the whole flock descended, except three sentinels, who remained posted to watch and guard. I knew them well. There was a "roost" in a tamarack swamp, some miles distant. Not long before, I had visited their noisy metropolis. It was at the close of day, and its evergreen canopy was half-dipped in light. I recollected what hosts came thronging in, on all sides, roaring like a tempest, and how they piled themselves upon the top of each other upon the boughs like swarming bees—and how all night the trees bent and cracked with the crowded population, who seemed continually treading upon each other's toes, and tumbling each other's beds—and how, when the day dawned, they all dissolved, and winged their way to the plains, and the troubled city was as silent as fallen Babylon.
I like the pigeon. He has a business-way, and a way of minding his own business. He is always doing something. Who ever saw a pigeon trifle or frolic, or put on airs? He is the clipper of the skies' air-line. Eight hundred miles a day, few stoppages, and no bursting of boilers. He is a practical bird—no such dreamy, twilight sort of a thing as the whippoorwill, who is forever complaining about nothing, like a miserable rhymester—whir—whir—whir. "Ah! you are going. Pay my respects to the alligators among the rice swamps of Florida," said I, "when you see them next winter."
The pigeons were started by the bay of hounds. By their voice, the hounds had probably been on the chase during most of the night—(it was a weary voice and almost painful)—and I soon discovered that they were approaching. Soon a drove of deer, led forward by a noble buck, carrying antlers like tree-branches, came crashing by, leaped the ravine, and were soon followed by their pursuers, and I watched them afar over the plain until they were lost. I knew the dogs. They belonged to Venison Styles. But where was Venison? I could see the old hunter, in my imagination, standing away off on some "run-way," listening to the strife around him, and watching for his victims.
Perhaps you know, and perhaps you don't know, reader, that deer, at certain seasons of the year, have "run-ways"—that they have great highways—thoroughfares that follow mountains, thread morasses, cross lakes and streams, up and down which they travel. I cannot say who first laid them out. It may be they can tell. If I ever find out, I will let you know.
I was next overhauled by a fleet of white butterflies, who came winding down the brook in a very loitering sort of a way. They anchored in front of me, near the water's edge, and amused themselves by opening and shutting their huge sails—huge for butterflies. Their wings were all bedropped with gold, and powdered with silver dust. Then another fleet, arrayed in chocolate velvet, came up the stream. They were large and showy. Their chocolate wings were ribbed with lines of blue and green; and a few plain, yellow plebeians followed on after, train-bearers, probably, to their lordly superiors. What brush touched those rich and delicate wings? What alchemist wrought those magical colors? Who put on those gorgeous uniforms? Were they equipped for the beauty and glory of the world, or their own? For what purpose was this winged mystery sent upon the earth? Just here a large frog, who had been sitting on a stone near the water, wrapped up to his eyes in his green surtout, looking as taciturn and gloomy as the Pope, went down with a "jug-a-ro," and spoiled my reflections.
It was just after the first frost, and the wasps were hard at work, preparing, or repairing their mansions for winter. The mason-wasp, as he is called, was digging up the mud, which he carried to a hollow log, where he lived. He was "plastering up a little." The "paper-wasp" was gathering wild cotton and flax, and manufacturing it, for his palace that hung, half furnished, swinging in a tree like a top. Strange that man should have so long remained without the secret of making paper—when the wasp had made and hung it up high before his eyes, for so many thousand years!
Thus, reader, the great wilderness was alive—and away down the chain of animated being, beyond the reach of the eye or ear, there was life—busy life—all links in a great chain held and electrified by the hand of the Almighty.
What sermons there were all around me—Nature preaching through her works! What cathedral like this, with its living pillars—its dome of sun, and moon, and stars? Morn swings back its portals with light and song, and evening gently closes them again amid her deepening shadows—and the worship and work goes on like the swell of an anthem; but the great high-priest that worshipped at its altars, and burnt incense to the spirit that pervades this solitude, where is he? Where are his fires now? The temple still stands, and the anthem is still heard, but the worshippers are gone "Lo! the poor Indian."