Here was a stroke of management worth all the speeches of the day. No one suspected that there was a dinner in preparation, and when Ike made the announcement, there was a shout that came from the heart, and made the woods ring. And the meeting adjourned to "Gillett's Corners."
Several other public political gatherings were held, and a very large amount of breath, time, and eloquence were expended; but the result was the election of Wiggins by a tremendous majority, and I do not now recollect of hearing of an allusion, by him, in the legislature, to any of those "leading measures" that occupied his thoughts on the "stump."
I believe, after all, that the country was very well represented. Wiggins used about as much gas and deception in securing his seat as a New York politician, but not any more; but after he had obtained it, he felt and acted like a representative of the people, who had a reputation of his own to sustain. When I say "well represented," I mean that he did no harm—nor any good either—but always voted right on party questions, because his name began with W, and was nearly the last called—if it had begun with A, he would have ruined himself, and perhaps his country—so true it is that a man's fame or infamy may hang by a single thread.
CHAPTER IX.
Winter upon us.—The Roosters in the early Morning.—The Blue-Jays and the Squirrels.—The Improvident Turkey.—The Domestic Hearth, and who occupied it.—The Old Dog.—The Blessed Old Mail-Horse.—The Newspapers.—Our Come-to-Tea.—Mrs. Brown, her Arrival and Experiences.—Entrée of Bird, Beagles & Co.—Conflicting Elements, and how Ike Turtle assimilated all.—Gratifying Consequences.
My little family, that I have spoken of, were quietly nestled away in the log hut, and winter was now upon us. The days came and went, and were marked by light and darkness, and our own domestic joys. There were no startling events to disturb any person's serenity—no rise or fall of stocks—no fires—no crashes in business—no downfall of pride—no bustle in the streets about the latest news—no nothing. The world moved on as monotonous as the tick-tick of a clock.
The gray of each morning was first heralded by a famous rooster, which I had imported from the east. He blew his clarion voice at about four, and I used to lie and hear its echoes wander away off through the streets of Puddleford, until they finally expired in the wilderness. He was usually answered by some half-awakened cock, whose drowsy, smothered crow was quite ludicrous. Then he would give another blast—and get, usually, a snappish answer from some quarter, saying as well as it could be said—"Well, I know it—what of it?" Pretty soon, a braggadocio fellow would belch forth in a coarse, sullen strain—"I've been-up-these-two-hours." This was followed, often, by the cracked voice of some nervous old fellow, away in another direction, declaring, "I rather guess you h—a—i—n—t." And so one after another, strain was added to strain, until the whole orchestra were blowing their horns in the face of opening day.
At sunrise, the blue-jays and other birds gathered about the door and garden, to pick the dry seeds that the weeds were shedding on the earth. What are snow birds? Where do they live? See them chirping in yonder ray of sunlight—darting hither and thither, like motes in a beam of light. See them go whirling through the tempest, like angel spirits, beautiful in the very midst of the storm. What are they? Do they sleep on the wings of the wind, or hide themselves in a scroll of snow? How is it that these little singing harps live on amid such dreary scenes? The blue-jays, however, were very petulant. Their gorgeous summer plumage was exceedingly mussed, and they went about from bush to bush, and tree to tree, screaming and fretting at each other and themselves. They acted like so many Siberian prisoners, who were forced to brave the blasts as the penalty of some crime they had committed.