BY ALFRED B. STREET.
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“Contingent or executory remainders, whereby no present interest passes, are, where the estate in remainder is limited to—(how warm it is)—to take effect either to a dubious and—uncertain—person—or—upon—either to a dubious and uncertain person, or (conscience, how sleepy I am) upon a—a—dubious—and—uncertain—event—to take effect—either—estate in remainder—is—contingent or executory remainders whereby—no—” woods—birds—sunshine—moss—green leaves—crash—bless me, Sir William Blackstone, Knt., one of his majesty’s Justices of Common Pleas, flat upon his reverend face, (wig and all) shocking! Well, all I can do by way of apology, will be to raise the learned knight from his unbecoming posture, and—how tedious this law is! I really thought a moment ago I was in the woods; but, alas! I was only dozing. My office to-day appears very dull. That book-case, with its rows of Johnson’s, Cowen’s, and Wendell’s Reports, Chitty on Bills, Comyn on Contracts, Barbour’s Chancery Practice, et cetera—this desk piled with papers tied with red tape—these three or four yellow chairs—that spectral broom in its dark corner—and this spotted spider on my one window, industriously engaged in weaving a large wheel-like web over two of its upper panes—really I begin to be sick of them. I’ll see what is “going on” out of doors. What a golden day. The sky is of a rich, tender blue, with here and there a soft pearly cloud sleeping in its depths, like snow-flakes on a bed of violets. And the sunshine, what a rich, deep blue it has. I think I’ll take a walk. Those woods, out there beyond Fairchild’s pond, seem beckoning to me; and the village offers as little variety as my office. There are two or three idlers on Wiggins’ tavern stoop—a cow and three geese are feeding quietly in the green lane that runs to “our barn,” past my office—beside the barn stands my gig, clean and glittering, from the just suspended efforts of “Black Jake”—a couple of stage-drivers are tarring the wheels of one of the huge red coaches that run regularly between Bloomingburgh and Monticello—the captain is on his way to the “corner well,” for a pail of water—an old horse is grazing on the “green” near the court-house—and a “team” or two are standing by St. John’s store. Let me see—which way shall I go! up the turnpike, or down to the “Big Rock.” But, hey-day! here comes Mayfield in great haste.
“Well, Mayfield, what’s in the wind now?”
“I say, squire, how would you like a pic-nic at White Lake this afternoon?”
“A pic-nic! hurrah! just the thing. Will the girls go?”
“They are all crazy at the idea—that is, all that I’ve seen.”
“Then let us speak to Lavigne, and Hull, and Murray, and Williams, and so on, and all bustle round and invite our ladies, and be off in an hour.”
Away we both go, and in a short time the boys are all notified, the girls all invited, and the arrangements all made.
At three P. M. we start from “Hamilton’s stoop,” as usual. Williams, with his wife, in his neat little wagon; myself and lady in the gig, and the rest in a huge, lumbering two-horse conveyance, with a range of seats, and clattering, when in motion, like a hail-storm. Up the broad village street (to wit, turnpike) we merrily go—by the Episcopal Church, surrounded with its mountain-ash trees (amidst which even now stands our respected “Dominie,” gazing at them with the affection of a parent—for he planted them there with his own hands)—through the outskirts of the village—past the fence of pine-roots, wreathed in every imaginable shape, like twining serpents—and in a short time we are toiling up the steep winding pitch, called “Jones’ Hill.” The sunshine is sweet, although somewhat warm, and there is now and then the downy touch of a breeze upon our foreheads. We glance at the stretch of wood and meadow, backed by a low, blue line of hills, which meets us at the summit, and then bowl down the slope into the hollow. “Kinne’s Hill” next taxes the endurance of our steeds; but we reach the top, and look around us. How beautiful is the scene! What streaming black shadows are cast by every object; what a soft gloss is on yon emerald meadow, and how far the pointed shade of that solitary hay-barrack is cast upon its rich surface. How the light gleams upon the fences—catches upon the acclivities—bathes the tips of the scattered chimneys, and stripes half the bosoms of the distant hills. How it touches in here, and streaks out there, and settles in a broad space of deep yellow in another place; for, be it known, that at four o’clock of a summer afternoon (just the hour that we are upon “Kinne’s,”) commences the time for witnessing the effects of the now slanting sunshine. But I must not stay here forever admiring views and effects, particularly as my horse, “Old George,” is dancing up and down as if his hoofs were encased in hot iron. So I ease the reins, and down we dash toward the Mongaup, which we soon see flowing, sweet and cool, in the shadow cast by the opposite hill. Beautiful stream, I hail thee! How often have I “churned” thy pure, soft current in pursuit of the golden-spotted trout; and in the mellow autumn sunshine, when the rich haze of the “Indian Summer” shimmered in thy forests, how long and patiently have I beat thy thickets, and stood upon thy run-ways to “draw lead” upon the deer. However, this is no time for the pathetic; so I keep a cautious rein upon “George,” as I pass through the covered bridge spanning the stream, and then let him out past the white-porticoed tavern upon the right. Up and down hill we then all move and rattle, until gaining the summit of a long ascent, we see “Jordan’s Inn,” and a little beyond, the broad, bright waters of our destined goal, White Lake. Severally alighting at the door of the tavern, our steeds are commended to the tender mercies of the landlord; and we all, with our baskets of eatables and drinkables, pursue our way to the borders of the lovely sheet. How beautifully it is slumbering beneath this rich light and soft heaven. The pictures of the white clouds sail across it like pure thoughts over a happy heart. Deliciously stream the shadows from the projecting banks; and see, there comes a little breeze, dotting the waters with its light footsteps, and then leaping up into yonder maple, making it turn suddenly pale with its flutter. The opposite shore looks green and cool; and there, in a beautiful recess or hollow, is to be our pic-nic. I discovered that recess myself. I was out fishing one day with Ike Davis, and waxing rather weary toward sundown, we pulled along the western shore to enjoy the shadow. Pushing along through the water-lilies, whose blossoms were strewed like golden balls all around us, I chanced to spy this little hollow. So we drove our skiff half its length on the silver strip of sand, and threw ourselves upon the soft grass, enjoying the coolness and fragrance till the stars came. I dreamed a great day-dream during those two hours; a dream fleeting and unsubstantial as the gold and crimson cloud whose reflection lay upon the smooth water before me. But to return.