So up the hill we pass, and down the hill we go, and now we are in the forest with the soft, cool, green shadow falling over us like a mantle. We are pleased with every thing—we smile at every thing—no thought of care is in our happy hearts. The world is Eden, with the angel Hope smiling us forward with her azure wings, and bidding us, with soft entreating tones, to enter in its pathways, whilst the gate, the pure white gateway, swings upon the post, shrouding our eye from all that is behind, and forcing us to dwell upon the soft and fairy picture that the future paints, to lure our steps in its delicious maze.
W-h-e-w! what a leap Pegasus has taken to be sure. Pat him gently, pat him gently, for his eye is bright with fire; pat him gently, pat him gently, for his heart is hot with ire; pat him gently, rein him gently, or his hoof will spurn the ground, and on high he’ll rise and soar and fly, with a swift and curbless bound—and, plain common sense! you will be left kicking in the mud.
Well, we’ve patted him gently, the arching of his glossy neck is over—his eye hath lost its mad brightness, his hoof settles into his customary trot, and “Pegasus is himself again”—Shakspeare.
Hurrah! the pond is in view, appearing like a great looking-glass. Come, let us hurry to the bank and have some fun. Here is our usual parlor—a floor of silver sand—a roof of thick woven laurels—mossy logs for our chairs, and the pond itself for our mirror. Here we are safe and sound—call the roll!—no one missing. Now, now will we speed the bright hours away, all shod with pure gold from the sun’s merry ray; with song and with laughter we will wait till the west with gold and with crimson the wreathed clouds has dressed; no care shall distract us, no sorrow annoy, again you’re a girl and once more I’m a boy; with a pure sky above us, and heaven within, ere you had known trouble or I had known sin; let pleasure then smile on us—throw care away, come what may, come what will, we’ll be happy to-day. So we will—say one, say all.
A party of us “male critturs” now leave the ladies plunged deep in song and sentiment, for a plunge in the delicate balm of the waters stretched like a dream of delight far, far away to our vision.
About half a mile from the party is a deep narrow cove, with a long wooded point shutting it completely from observation. It is the most lovely and retired spot in the universe for a “quiet dip.” And, reader, here let me inform you, that bathing in our American ponds, and bathing in the surf at the sea-side, are two different things. In the latter case you go habited in a night-gown, striped like a state’s-prison bird, and with many an “oh!” and “ah!” you feel your way over the moist cool sand. At length you see the tall wave lifting itself up like a rearing war-horse, and with silver-mane flashing, and azure-breast dashing, on it comes. You stand stock still with suspended breath, and at length you see the glittering and magnificent billow combing right over your head. You involuntarily duck, but there is no escape, down comes the gorgeous thing, slap, right over your whole person, wetting you through in an instant, and as staggering and blinded you reel back to the shore, you hear the delicious crumble of the wave upon the beach, than which no sound in nature can be so deep and yet so rich, so sounding and yet so mellow. But fresh water bathing is a different matter. No striped night-gowns, but “in puribus naturalibus,” (I don’t know whether that is good Latin or not, and don’t care,) you walk boldly along some cool, soft, mossy log, its surface yielding like velvet to your naked feet, and, souse, head first you dive into the limpid element.
And that was the case with us, until a dozen heads were on the surface looking like magnified lily blossoms. A close net of these lilies was woven in the water about six feet from the shore, the water being perfectly paved with the great broad leaves, and it was necessary to break our way right through them before reaching the deeper waters of the cove. And right through them our way did we break. We made a charge like a charge of South Sea Islanders, and though the tough, spongy, supple stems clung around our limbs as if they meant to drag us under—and the strong, thick, gigantic leaves, huge as the ear-flaps of the moose, (who, by the bye, luxuriates upon the pond water lily,) cut our arms and flapped heavily in our faces—and the round, cylindrical, yellow blossoms kept bobbing into our mouths and knocking into our eyes, we persevered until we struggled through them, and reached the deep water. And then didn’t we luxuriate. Some “trod water,” some stretched themselves out for a long swim, and one huge fellow, with fat enough to keep him floating whether or no, elongated himself in a most wonderful manner, laying his head flat upon the water at every impulsion of his body snorting all the time like a porpoise. At length we became tired of the deep water, and concluded to adjourn to the shallows inside the lilies, and have a battle of shooting water at each other. This sport was the usual termination to our baths.
Accordingly we hastened to the battle-ground, and took opposite sides. Arranged in two long lines, we approached each other, each elbow drawn back, and hand raised so as to bring the bottom of the palm on a level with the water. In silence did we eye each other for a season—the word then came, and then commenced the battle. And furiously raged the strife. Not the legions of Cæsar pouring from their galleys, and the wild warriors of Britain’s snowy cliffs—not the fierce mustaches of Napoleon, and the sturdy red-coats of Wellington, poured greater destruction upon one another, than we dashed the glittering crystal of the frighted cove on each other’s ranks. No faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow, into the eyes of our foes, we plied our work—no faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow into the eyes of their foes, they also plied their work. Closer and closer we approached, and then, each one singling his opposite for single combat, closed for desperate strife. One cataract of tumbling water, raised by four scooping hands, now sheltered two combatants, who finding the shots too heavy for face and eyes, fairly turned back to back and madly dashed behind them the flashing water. At length nearly blinded, all simultaneously retreated from each other and sought the brink—all but the fat-headed, porpoise-breathing fellow before mentioned, who, blinded by his own torrents of water, and supposing that his antagonist was still contending, kept up a most determined, desperate, and valorous dashing, until gasping, choking, and blind from the cataracts which his own hands scooped, and which dashed upon his own carcase, he turned at last to the shore, bawling lustily for “quarter, quarter!” yelling at the same time—“I yield—I yield—I yield!”
By the time this worthy had reached the shore, the rest of us were dressed, and accordingly this victim to his own courage, was obliged to undergo the interesting ceremony of “mumbling the peg!” Plucking at last, with his strong teeth, the peg, driven fast and deep into the firm earth by the heels of certainly a half dozen, he dons his garments, and we all then join the ladies. By this time the pond is turning all colors in the sunset. There, in the middle of its glassy surface, is a blush as beautiful as ever crimsoned the cheek of beauty whilst listening to the whispers of the dearly loved—and near it is a space of golden water, lustrous as the shield of Galahad when approaching the “round table” of Arthur and his knights, (knight most blest,) he proclaimed he had found the “holy grail.” Purple is not wanting, rich as that around the neck of the wild pigeon—nor emerald either, bright as the hue that glitters on the body of the house-fly—nor glossy black, deep as the thunder-cloud’s bosom when coming to scathe and destroy. Ah, how the tints glow—ah, how they tremble, such as in the rainbow show, such do they resemble. Ah, how the tints glow, and mingle, and pulsate—now are they woven in one gorgeous robe that really makes plain Pleasant Pond look like some paradisiacal scene of “the reign of Haroun Alraschid.” But at last the colors fade—they die, alas! alas! alas!—they fade—they die—and now remains of all that brilliant Eden not one single gleam. All—all has departed.
By the time we ascend the banks, thread the labyrinth of “Bates’ ” logging, and regain the road, the harvest-moon has risen. Snow white in the pearly twilight, she soon will deepen into gold, and then change into deep silver. Behold she changes even now, and the twilight deepens, and now the broad and magnificent moonlight reigns. Ah, how glorious! ah, how beautiful! A silver day is smiling, more soft, more delicate, more radiantly pure than the “garish” one that just went glittering out through the rosy portals of the west. The near forests and the distant hills are all suffused, and mingled, and melted into a sweet romantic picture of bewitching beauty. Back we retrace our path through the jeweled woods, and now, scenting the odor of the clover-grass, we diverge from our road into the deep cool verdure of the meadow. No danger of dampening the dainty delicate feet of our girls either, for there has been no rain for a month, and the earth is as dry as powder. So we wade through the swaying verdure, and enjoy the “compacted sweets” of the clover odors. Thence we scramble over a rough stone-wall, the girls giving pretty screams, and holding up their petti—I beg pardon, drapery, so as to jump more readily, and enter a corn-field. The rich soil loosened by the hoe crumbles at our tread, and the plumy stalks shake above our heads, almost excluding the moonlight. Mercy, what round thing is that I stumbled over just then! not a skull I hope, although corn-fields before now have sprung above church-yards and battle-fields. Who knows but this field now rustles above some “Indian burial-place” or frontier battle-ground. However, this can’t be a skull, for my foot has just “squashed” into another, and—why it is only a pumpkin. Confound the long vines too, how they trip one up. What on earth is the reason that they can’t plant corn-fields without putting pumpkins in also? They only serve to trip up the girls and boys who condescend of a summer’s night to enter the precincts.