Yet there is beauty even there when green
And sunbright—there the ground-pine twines its fringe,
And the low whortleberries give the scene
(So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,
And mossy paths are branching all about,
But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!
Hour after hour, the stranger passing through
This member of the "southern tier" will see
Naught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,
But then life's naught without variety,
Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,
He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,
And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"
Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,
Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,
Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,
How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,
You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.
The people, too, who live—I mean, who stay
In their green Alpine homes, (I like a touch
Of the sublime,) presents a queer array
Of three most interesting species—Dutch,
Yankee and mongrel—and this triple mixture
Form when they meet a very curious picture.
They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,
"Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,
They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"
And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"
And the word "deacon," in this charming region,
Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.
And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"
That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,
Ready to fight or drink as others wish,
Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,
Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumber
When "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."
Their toil is pastime when the river leaps
On, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,
With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweeps
The forest fragments on its roaring path,
What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,
And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."
Then from deep eddy and from winding creek
His mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,
And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,
With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,
Whilst confident in skill he fearless drifts
By swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.
From rafts we glance to saw-mills—oft you meet
Their pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,
And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheet
Flinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,
(When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)
Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.
[1] The Indian (Delaware) name for the Delaware River.