The Lovers’ Rendezvous.
Glance into the forest-glade! It is an opening in the woods—a clearing, not made by the labour of human hands, but a work of Nature herself: a spot of earth where the great timber grows not, but in its place shrubs and tender grass, plants and perfumed flowers.
About a mile distant from the cabin of Hickman Holt just such an opening is found—in superficial extent about equal to the squatter’s corn-patch. It lies in the midst of a forest of tall trees—among which are conspicuous the tulip-tree, the white magnolia, cotton-woods, and giant oaks. Those that immediately encircle it are of less stature: graduating inward to its edge, like the seats in an amphitheatre—as if the forest trees stooped downward to kiss the fair flowers that sparkle over the glade.
These lesser trees are of various species. They are the sassafras laurel, famed for its sanitary sap; the noble Carolina bay, with its aromatic leaves; the red mulberry: and the singular Osage orange-tree (Maclura aurantica), the “bow-wood” of the Indians. The pawpaw also is present, to attest the extreme richness of the soil; but the flowering plants, that flourish in profuse luxuriance over the glade, are sufficient evidence of its fertility. Why the trees grow not there, is one of Nature’s secrets, not yet revealed to man.
It is easier to say why a squatter’s cabin is not there. There is no mystery about this: though there might appear to be, since the clearing is found ready to hand. The explanation is simple: the glade is a mile distant from water—the nearest being that of the creek already mentioned as running past the cabin of the squatter. Thus Nature, as if jealous of this pretty wild-wood garden, protects it from the defilement of man.
Nevertheless, the human presence is not unknown to it. On this very morning—this fair morning in May, that has disclosed to our view the cabin and clearing of the squatter—a man may be observed entering the glade. The light elastic step, the lithe agile form, the smooth face, all bespeak his youth; while the style of his dress, his arms and equipments proclaim his calling to be that of a hunter.
He is a man of the correct size, and, it may be added, of the correct shape—that is, one with whose figure the eye finds no fault. It is pleased at beholding a certain just distribution of the members promising strength and activity for the accomplishment of any possible physical end. The countenance is equally expressive of good mental qualities. The features are regular and open, to frankness. A prominent chin denotes firmness; a soft hazel eye, gentleness; and a full rounded throat, intrepid daring. There is neither beard upon the chin, nor moustache upon the lip—not that the face is too young for either, but both have been shaven off. In the way of hair, a magnificent chevelure of brown curls ruffles out under the rim of the cap, shadowing over the cheeks and neck of the wearer. Arched eyebrows, a small mouth, and regular teeth, give the finish to a face which might be regarded as a type of manly beauty.
And yet this beauty appears under a russet garb. There is no evidence of excessive toilet-care. The brush and comb have been but sparingly used; and neither perfume nor pomatum has been employed to heighten the shine of those luxuriant locks. There is sun-tan on the face, that, perhaps with the aid of soap, might be taken off; but it is permitted to remain. The teeth, too, might be made whiter with a dentifrice and brush; but in all likelihood the nearest approach to their having ever been cleansed has been while chewing a piece of tough deer-meat. Nevertheless, without any artificial aids, the young man’s beauty proclaims itself in every feature—the more so, perhaps that, in gazing upon his face, you are impressed with the idea that there is an “outcome” in it.
In his dress, there is not much that could be altered for the better. The hunting-shirt of the finest buckskin leather with its fringed cape and skirt, hangs upon his body with all the grace of an Athenian tunic; while its open front permits to be seen the manly contour of his breast, but half concealed under the softer fawn-skin. The wrappers of green baize, though folded more than once around his legs, do not hide their elegant tournure; and an appropriate covering for his feet is a pair of strong mocassins, soled with thick leather. A coon-skin cap sits high upon his head slightly slouched to the right. With the visage of the animal turned to the front, and the full plume-like tail, with its alternate rings, drooping to the shoulder, it forms a head-dress that is far from ungraceful. A belt around the waist—a short hunting-knife in its sheath—a large powder-horn hanging below the arm-pit—a bullet-pouch underneath, and voilà tout! No, not all, there remains to be mentioned the rifle—the arm par excellence of the American hunter. The portrait of Frank Wingrove—a dashing young backwoodsman, whose calling is the chase.
The hunter has entered the glade, and is advancing across it. He walks slowly, but without caution—without that habitual stealthy tread that distinguishes the sons of Saint Hubert in the West. On the contrary, his step is free, and the flowers are crushed under his feet. He is not even silent; but humming a tune as he goes. Notwithstanding that he appears accoutred for the chase, his movements are not those of one in pursuit of game. For this morning, at least, he is out upon a different errand; and, judging from his jovial aspect, it should be one of pleasure. The birds themselves seem not more gay.