The Puddleford Papers; Or, Humors of the West

by Henry Hiram Riley

CHAPTER XXVI.

Spring at the West.—"Sugar Days."—Performances of the Cattle.—April.—Advent of the Blue-Jays and the Crows.—The Bluebirds, Phebes, and Robins.—April and its Inspiring Days.—The Frogs and their Concerts.—Gophers, Squirrels, Ants; Swallows, Brown-Threshers, and Blackbirds.—The Swallows, the Martins, and the Advent of May.

Spring opens in the western wilds with great pomp and beauty. After our winter had passed, accompanied with few out-door amusements, how inspiring were her first footsteps! February slowly gave way to March, the sun each day rolled higher and higher, and the heavens grew bluer and bluer. Then came the still, clear, cold nights, when the stars flashed like diamonds, and the still, warm days, that flooded the lakes and streams. Here and there a bird would appear—one of the more hardy sort—a kind of courier, that had been sent out by his fellows, lonely, like the dove from the ark, to spy out the land, and report its condition. These couriers, who I supposed were birds that were with us the preceding year, rummaged around the woods, like a family who had just returned to a long deserted mansion. They flew from tree to tree, eyed the knot-holes, examined everything, shivered a few nights on a snowy limb, and then hurried back to make their report. The outside birds who were thus represented, and who were so anxious to "come on," were like a press at the theatre, before the hour had arrived to hoist the curtain.

These March days were "sugar days." Puddleford was, of course, in confusion; men, women, and children turned out with kettles and pans, into the "bush;" and one would have supposed, from the clouds of smoke that rolled over the tops of the trees, that a tribe of gypsies had camped there. The girls, dressed in linsey-woolsey, were boisterous; the boys, uproarious; and a whole army of dogs, full of the spirit of the occasion, stormed around, barking at every deer track, and tore all the rotten logs in pieces. Then came a long, warm, still rain—and the frogs shouted to each other their melancholy music—and the grass and the roots that were soaking in the marshes sent out their sweetness—the bud began to swell on the willow—the geese gathered in a procession, with some pompous gander at its head, and marched to the river—and the barn-yard fowls climbed up into trees, on top of the sheds and stacks, and cackled, and crowed, and clucked, and chatted together, like so many guests at a party.

The cattle congregated, and wandered away off to an open plain, and went through certain exercises, the significance of which was known only to themselves. One old cow of mine, whose reputation was good, and whose frosty bones had scarcely moved during the winter, and who was present at this celebration, suddenly wheeled out of the ranks, rolled her tail over her back, put herself on a circuitous canter, cutting as many capers as a French dancing-master, and brought up, at last, with a bellowing blast that was quite terrific.

At a distance stood another of the herd, frothing at the mouth, lashing herself with her tail, and throwing clouds of sand on high with her fore feet. Away, in another quarter, were a couple of very thoughtful looking animals, fencing with their horns. Every little while some good or evil spirit would take possession of them, and the whole company would fling their tails aloft, and with a great noise go off in a stampede that made the ground tremble.

As April approached, or rather the reflected light from her distant wheels, the voice of the birds changed into a mellower tone. The blue-jay, whose harsh scream had so long grated on my ear, grew softer, and he blew once in a while one of his spring pipes (for he is a great imitator, and has many), which, after all, sounded rather husky and winter-like. His heart grew warmer, too. He would sit on a dry tree close to the eaves of my house, and peer through the windows, to see what was going on inside, jump down, and bow himself up on the door-steps, to remind us, in the best way he could, of the sunshine outside.

Soon the crows began to sweep solemnly through the air with their caw! caw! They sailed round and round, now lighting on some tree, now on the ground, then away they went into the heavens again. They seemed to be taking a very thorough examination of the premises, making out the lines of occupation, and acquiring a new possession of the same, for the use of themselves and those they represented. Sometimes a body of them, lazily winging their way over my house, and looking down from their height upon my diminutive form, would shower upon my head ten thousand Ca's! as if in utter contempt of both me and mine. I occasionally fired a shot at them, and the only answer I got was a quick "Ca-Ca!"—as much as to say, "Try it again! Try it again? Who cares?"

Then came the bluebird. I threw up my window amid the latter days of March, one sunshiny morning, and there she sat on a maple, blowing her flute. Banks of snow were scattered here and there, but the ground smelled moist and spring-like. Where did that little piece of melody come from? Where was she the day before? Her song was a little poem about south-west winds, and violets, and running brooks—perhaps she was a preacher, sent out by the daisies to herald their coming—perhaps her song was only a prayer—for she went round from place to place, on this tree and that, in her little cathedral, as priests do in theirs, and erected her altar, and made her offering. She had a great deal to say, and a great many persons and things to deliver her message to; for in a little while she went, rising and falling as though she were riding billows of air, to the roof of my neighbor's house, where she sang the same song again; and after thus spending an hour or two about the neighborhood, she crossed the river, and dashed into the woods.