The day was well along, and the sun showed a decided intention of soon disappearing behind the top of “Old Jack,” before I insisted on departing. Then the calico horse was watered, saddled and bridled, and brought out for inspection and admiration. His appearance elicited expressions of unbounded admiration, his great, soft, brown, and beautifully expressive eyes, his amiability and active intelligence coming in for no end of complimentary remarks. The boys were especially enthusiastic and proposed a “swap for a four-year-old raised on the place.”
The oats question was again brought up for adjudication, and, after considerable argument, the party owning the injured crop determined to leave the amount of damage an open question until the individual responsible for it could “come around agin.”
The moment had arrived for the reluctant good-by, the grasp of hands, the mount and the start, amid great excitement and noise on the part of the animals; and then commenced a most exhilarating run of more than fifteen miles over a softish dirt road, through a series of lovely valleys, to the little village of D——, where we called a halt for the night, which was destined to be prolonged into the orthodox Sunday rest of the place and period.
By this time the organization of three had crystallized into exact form, and without effort had settled into an habitual daily routine, and the incidents of to-day were quite certain to be repeated to-morrow. There was always plenty of time, evenings and middle parts of days, for talking with the “folks”—oracles about the village taverns—who, like the old-time bar-room Major and Judge of the Slave States, were always on hand and on tap for a copious outpouring of village gossip and political information. In justice to the Major and Judge of the old days of the South, it must be written that they were usually waiting for another sort of a tap-flow to be turned on, from a tap not of their own.
It is doubtful if the happy trio ever appreciated the greatness of this three weeks’ manifestation of themselves, through which they were unambitious but undoubted involuntary heroes among the country folk. John Gilpin could not have been more fortunate in the way of attracting attention from all beholders; and “the more they gazed the more the wonder grew,” and the puzzle of forty years ago, in the villages through which we passed, of “What is it, anyway?” remains as profound a mystery as ever.
In some places I was regarded as a very considerable personage on a secret mission of great import; at other times the saddle-valise was accused of containing a supply of a newly discovered life-saving pill; but, generally, we were mistaken by the wise know-it-alls of the village as the advance agents of a coming circus; if not, why the calico horse? which to the rural mind, from the most remote period, has been associated with the gorgeous, gilded bandwagon, spangles, and sawdust. The fortunate suspicion of circus affiliations brought to us a measure of attention far beyond our merits; both animals were treated with the greatest respect, as possible performers of high standing, and upon several occasions I was asked to “make ’em show off.”
The summer Saturday afternoon and evening in Vermont is always the same. At the “stores” business flourishes, and profitable activity reigns supreme until late into the evening hours. On the farm the opposite is the rule, a general “slicking up for Sunday” and the doing of “odd chores” around the house and barn is the order of the day, the whole being a fitting prelude to the coming Sunday, which is always what it ought to be, not the Lord’s any more than another day, nor anybody else’s day, but a day of rest, pure and simple, for all the creatures of the Creator. Ever since I can remember, Vermonters, without asking leave of this or that authority have chosen their own way of Sunday resting.
In no state west of the Rocky Mountains do the beauties of nature make a stronger appeal for human appreciation than in Vermont, and never are they seen to better advantage than upon a quiet summer Sunday morning, when the brilliant blue sky is filled with light, and all the world seems to be at peace. The clear, limpid streams move silently on as though controlled by the all-pervading spirit of rest; the leaves of the trees, yielding to the universal feeling of repose, keep silence with the rest of nature, and over all there is the fascinating power of wondrous beauties abounding not made by the hands of man. Such days are made for rest and reflection, when nature invites us to commune with her works, that we may know more of them and be able to rise to a higher and more ennobling appreciation of her beauties. The quiet, suggestive New England summer Sunday morning’s appeal is nature’s most beneficent call to her children to come to her and search for knowledge of things which lead through untrodden paths, where, at every step, new pleasures unfold to the view for our instruction and enjoyment.
Upon such occasions we yield to the influence of the silent voice and the unseen hand, and unconsciously follow the beckonings of a wingless fairy, Nature’s ever-present handmaid, who, without our knowledge, leads us to a new Fairyland, where new beauties abound, and where countless joys are within the reach of the most humble subjects of the Creator.
Such a typical Sunday as the one I have attempted to describe followed the Saturday after our arrival at the little village of D——. The first duties of the day were to our four-footed friends, and then came the standard breakfast of the place and period for the superior being. Fifty years ago this was very much more of a living Yankee institution than now. In those days the French menu, much to the satisfaction of those practitioners in the dental line, had not penetrated within the borders of the New England rural districts. I remember distinctly the color and taste of the native bean-coffee, the solidity of the morning pie-crusts, the crumble after the crash of the cookey, and the greasy substantiality of the venerated doughnut. All these we had in abundance, with the incidental “apple sass” thrown in between courses that lovely Sunday morning, forty-one years ago this writing.