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AN American resident in
England is reported as saying that the English have an atmosphere but
no
climate. The reverse of this remark would apply pretty accurately to
our own
case. We certainly have a climate, a two-edged one that cuts both ways,
threatening us with sun-stroke on the one hand and with frost-stroke on
the
other; but we have no atmosphere to speak of in New York and New
England,
except now and then during the dog-days, or the fitful and uncertain
Indian
Summer. An atmosphere, the quality of tone and mellowness in the near
distance,
is the product of a more humid climate. Hence, as we go south from New
York,
the atmospheric effects become more rich and varied, until on reaching
the
Potomac you find an atmosphere as well as a climate. The latter is
still on the
vehement American scale, full of sharp and violent changes and
contrasts,
baking and blistering in summer, and nipping and blighting in winter,
but the
spaces are not so purged and bare; the horizon wall does not so often
have the
appearance of having just been washed and scrubbed down. There is more
depth
and visibility to the open air, a stronger infusion of the Indian
Summer
element throughout the year, than is found farther north. The days are
softer
and more brooding, and the nights more enchanting. It is here that Walt
Whitman
saw the full moon
as any one may see her,
during the full, from October to May. There is more haze and vapor in
the
atmosphere during that period, and every particle seems to collect and
hold the
pure radiance until the world swims with the lunar outpouring. Is not
the full
moon always on the side of fair weather? I think it is Sir William
Herschel who
says her influence tends to dispel the clouds. Certain it is her beauty
is
seldom lost or even veiled in this southern or semi-southern clime.
a description that would not
apply with the same force farther north, where the air seems thinner
and less
capable of absorbing and holding the sunlight. Indeed, the opulence and
splendor of our climate, at least the climate of the Atlantic seaboard,
cannot
be fully appreciated by the dweller north of the thirty-ninth parallel.
It
seemed as if I had never seen but a second-rate article of sunlight or
moonlight until I had taken up my abode in the National Capital. It may
be,
perhaps, because we have such splendid specimens of both at the period
of the
year when one values such things highest, namely, in the fall and
winter and
early spring. Sunlight is good any time, but a bright, evenly tempered
day is
certainly more engrossing to the attention in winter than in summer,
and such
days seem the rule, and not the exception, in the Washington winter.
The deep
snows keep to the north, the heavy rains to the south, leaving a blue
space
central over the border States. And there is not one of the winter
months but
wears this blue zone as a girdle.
I am not thinking especially
of the Indian summer, that charming but uncertain second youth of the
New
England year, but of regularly recurring lucid intervals in the weather
system
of Virginia fall and winter, when the best our climate is capable of
stand
revealed, — southern days with northern blood in their veins,
exhilarating,
elastic, full of action, the hyperborean oxygen of the North tempered
by the
dazzling sun of the South, a little bitter in winter to all travelers
but the
pedestrian, — to him sweet and warming, — but in
autumn a vintage that
intoxicates all lovers of the open air.
It is impossible not to
dilate and expand under such skies. One breathes deeply and steps
proudly, and
if he have any of the eagle nature in him, it comes to the surface
then. There
is a sense of altitude about these dazzling November and December days,
of
mountain-tops and pure ether. The earth in passing through the fire of
summer
seems to have lost all its dross, and life all its impediments.
But what does not the
dweller in the National Capital endure in reaching these days! Think of
the
agonies of the heated term, the ragings of the dog-star, the purgatory
of heat
and dust, of baking, blistering pavements, of cracked and powdered
fields, of
dead, stifling night air, from which every tonic and antiseptic quality
seems
eliminated, leaving a residuum of sultry malaria and all-diffusing
privy and
sewer gases, that lasts from the first of July to near the middle of
September!
But when October is reached, the memory of these things is afar off,
and the
glory of the days is a perpetual surprise.
I sally out in the morning
with the ostensible purpose of gathering chestnuts, or autumn leaves,
or
persimmons, or exploring some run or branch. It is, say, the last of
October or
the first of November. The air is not balmy, but tart and pungent, like
the
flavor of the red-cheeked apples by the roadside. In the sky not a
cloud, not a
speck; a vast dome of blue ether lightly suspended above the world. The
woods
are heaped with color like a painter's palette, — great
splashes of red and
orange and gold. The ponds and streams bear upon their bosoms leaves of
all
tints, from the deep maroon of the oak to the pale yellow of the
chestnut. In
the glens and nooks it is so still that the chirp of a solitary cricket
is
noticeable. The red berries of the dogwood and spice-bush and other
shrubs
shine in the sun like rubies and coral. The crows fly high above the
earth, as
they do only on such days, forms of ebony floating across the azure,
and the
buzzards look like kingly birds, sailing round and round.
Or it may be later in the
season, well into December. The days are equally bright, but a little
more
rugged. The mornings are ushered in by an immense spectrum thrown upon
the
eastern sky. A broad bar of red and orange lies along the low horizon,
surmounted by an expanse of color in which green struggles with yellow
and blue
with green half the way to the zenith. By and by the red and orange
spread
upward and grow dim, the spectrum fades, and the sky becomes suffused
with
yellow white light, and in a moment the fiery scintillations of the sun
begin
to break across the Maryland hills. Then before long the mists and
vapors
uprise like the breath of a giant army, and for an hour or two, one is
reminded
of a November morning in England. But by mid-forenoon the only trace of
the
obscurity that remains is a slight haze, and the day is indeed a
summons and a
challenge to come forth. If the October days were a cordial like the
sub-acids
of a fruit, these are a tonic like the wine of iron. Drink deep, or be
careful
how you taste this December vintage. The first sip may chill, but a
full
draught warms and invigorates. No loitering by the brooks or in the
woods now,
but spirited, rugged walking along the public highway. The sunbeams are
welcome
now. They seem like pure electricity, — like a friendly and
recuperating
lightning. Are we led to think electricity abounds only in the summer
when we
see storm-clouds, as it were, the veins and ore-beds of it? I imagine
it is
equally abundant in winter, and more equable and better tempered. Who
ever
breasted a snowstorm without being excited and exhilarated, as if this
meteor
had come charged with latent auroræ of the North, as
doubtless it has? It is
like being pelted with sparks from a battery. Behold the frost-work on
the
pane, — the wild, fantastic limnings and etchings! can there
be any doubt but
this subtle agent has been here? Where is it not? It is the life of the
crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of
the
sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it. When I come in at night
after an
all-day tramp I am charged like a Leyden jar; my hair crackles and
snaps
beneath the comb like a cat's back, and a strange, new glow diffuses
itself
through my system.
It is a spur that one feels
at this season more than at any other. How nimbly you step forth! The
woods
roar, the waters shine, and the hills look invitingly near. You do not
miss the
flowers and the songsters, or wish the trees or the fields any
different, or
the heavens any nearer. Every object pleases. A rail fence, running
athwart the
hills, now in sunshine and now in shadow, — how the eye
lingers upon it! Or the
strait, light-gray trunks of the trees, where the woods have recently
been laid
open by a road or clearing, — how curious they look, and as
if surprised in
undress! Next year they will begin to shoot out branches and make
themselves a
screen. Or the farm scenes, — the winter barnyards littered
with husks and
straw, the rough-coated horses, the cattle sunning themselves or
walking down
to the spring to drink, the domestic fowls moving about, —
there is a touch of
sweet, homely life in these things that the winter sun enhances and
brings out.
Every sign of life is welcome at this season. I love to hear dogs bark,
hens
cackle, and boys shout; one has no privacy with nature now, and does
not wish
to seek her in nooks and hidden ways. She is not at home if he goes
there; her
house is shut up and her hearth cold; only the sun and sky, and
perchance the
waters, wear the old look, and to-day we will make love to them, and
they shall
abundantly return it.
Even the crows and the
buzzards draw the eye fondly. The National Capital is a great place for
buzzards, and I make the remark in no double or allegorical sense
either, for
the buzzards I mean are black and harmless as doves, though perhaps
hardly
dovelike in their tastes. My vulture is also a bird of leisure, and
sails
through the ether on long flexible pinions, as if that was the one
delight of
his life. Some birds have wings, others have "pinions." The buzzard
enjoys this latter distinctions. There is something in the sound of the
word
that suggests that easy, dignified, undulatory movement. He does not
propel himself
along by sheer force of muscle, after the plebeian fashion of the crow,
for
instance, but progresses by a kind of royal indirection that puzzles
the eye.
Even on a windy winter day he rides the vast aerial billows as placidly
as
ever, rising and falling as he comes up toward you, carving his way
through the
resisting currents by a slight oscillation to the right and left, but
never
once beating the air openly.
This superabundance of wing
power is very unequally distributed among the feathered races, the
hawks and
vultures having by far the greater share of it. They cannot command the
most
speed, but their apparatus seems the most delicate and consummate.
Apparently a
fine play of muscle, a subtle shifting of the power along the
outstretched
wings, a perpetual loss and a perpetual recovery of the equipoise,
sustains
them and bears them along. With them flying is a luxury, a fine art;
not merely
a quicker and safer means of transit from one point to another, but a
gift so
free and spontaneous that work becomes leisure and movement rest. They
are not
so much going somewhere, from this perch to that, as they are
abandoning
themselves to the mere pleasure of riding upon the air.
And it is beneath such grace
and high-bred leisure that Nature hides in her creatures the occupation
of
scavenger and carrion-eater!
But the worst thing about
the buzzard is his silence. The crow caws, the hawk screams, the eagle
barks,
but the buzzard says not a word. So far as I have observed, he has no
vocal
powers whatever. Nature dare not trust him to speak. In his case she
preserves
discreet silence.
The crow may not have the
sweet voice which the fox in his flattery attributed to him, but he has
a good,
strong, native speech, nevertheless. How much character there is in it!
How
much thrift and independence! Of course his plumage is firm, his color
decided,
his wit quick. He understands you at once and tells you so; so does the
hawk by
his scornful, defiant whir-r-r-r-r.
Hardy, happy outlaws, the crows, how
I love them! Alert, social, republican, always able to look out for
himself,
not afraid of the cold and the snow, fishing when flesh is scarce, and
stealing
when other resources fail, the crow is a character I would not
willingly miss
from the landscape. I love to see his track in the snow or the mud, and
his
graceful pedestrianism about the brown fields.
He is no interloper, but has
the air and manner of being thoroughly at home, and in rightful
possession of
the land. He is no sentimentalist like some of the plaining,
disconsolate
song-birds, but apparently is always in good health and good spirits.
No matter
who is sick, or dejected, or unsatisfied, or what the weather is, or
what the
price of corn, the crow is well and finds life sweet. He is the dusky
embodiment of worldly wisdom and prudence. Then he is one of Nature's
self-appointed constables and greatly magnifies his office. He would
fain
arrest every hawk or owl or grimalkin that ventures abroad. I have
known a
posse of them to beset the fox and cry "Thief!" till Reynard hid
himself for shame. Do I say the fox flattered the crow when he told him
he had
a sweet voice? Yet one of the most musical sounds in nature proceeds
from the
crow. All the crow tribe, from the blue jay up, are capable of certain
low
ventriloquial notes that have peculiar cadence and charm. I often hear
the crow
indulging in his in winter, and am reminded of the sound of the
dulcimer. The
bird stretches up and exerts himself like a cock in the act of crowing,
and
gives forth a peculiarly clear, vitreous sound that is sure to arrest
and
reward your attention. This is no doubt the song the fox begged to be
favored
with, as in delivering it the crow must inevitably let drop the piece
of meat.
The crow in his purity, I
believe, is seen and heard only in the North. Before you reach the
Potomac
there is an infusion of a weaker element, the fish crow, whose helpless
feminine call contrasts strongly with the hearty masculine caw of the
original
Simon.
In passing from crows to
colored men, I hope I am not guilty of any disrespect toward the
latter. In my
walks about Washington, both winter and summer, colored men are about
the only
pedestrians I meet; and I meet them everywhere, in the fields and in
the woods
and in the public road, swinging along with that peculiar, rambling,
elastic
gait, taking advantage of the short cuts and threading the country with
paths
and byways. I doubt if the colored man can compete with his white
brother as a
walker; his foot is too flat and the calves of his legs too small, but
he is
certainly the most picturesque traveler to be seen on the road. He
bends his
knees more than the white man, and oscillates more to and fro, or from
side to
side. The imaginary line which his head describes is full of deep and
long
undulations. Even the boys and young men sway as if bearing a burden.
Along the fences and by the
woods I come upon their snares, dead-falls, and rude box-traps. The
freedman is
a successful trapper and hunter, and has by nature an insight into
these
things. I frequently see him in market or on his way thither with a
tame
'possum clinging timidly to his shoulders, or a young coon or fox led
by a
chain. Indeed, the colored man behaves precisely like the rude
unsophisticated
peasant that he is, and there is fully as much virtue in him, using the
word in
its true sense, as in the white peasant; indeed, much more than in the
poor
whites who grew up by his side; while there is often a benignity and a
depth of
human experience and sympathy about some of these dark faces that comes
home to
one like the best one sees in art or reads in books.
One touch of nature makes
all the world akin, and there is certainly a touch of nature about the
colored
man; indeed, I had almost said, of Anglo-Saxon nature. They have the
quaintness
and homeliness of the simple English stock. I seem to see my
grandfather and
grandmother in the ways and doings of these old "uncles" and
"aunties;" indeed, the lesson comes nearer home than even that, for I
seem to see myself in them, and, what is more, I see that they see
themselves
in me, and that neither party has much to boast of.
The negro is a plastic human
creature, and is thoroughly domesticated and thoroughly anglicized. The
same
cannot be said of the Indian, for instance, between whom and us there
can never
exist any fellowship, any community of feeling or interest; or is there
any
doubt but the Chinaman will always remain to us the same impenetrable
mystery
he has been from the first?
But there is no mystery
about the negro, and he touches the Anglo-Saxon at more points than the
latter
is always willing to own, taking as kindly and naturally to all his
customs and
usages, yea, to all his prejudices and superstitions, as if to the
manner born.
The colored population in very many respects occupies the same position
as that
occupied by our rural populations a generation or two ago, seeing signs
and
wonders, haunted by the fear of ghosts and hobgoblins, believing in
witchcraft,
charms, the evil eye, etc. In religious matters, also, they are on the
same
level, and about the only genuine shouting Methodists that remain are
to be
found in the colored churches. Indeed, I fear the negro tries to ignore
or
forget himself as far as possible, and that he would deem it felicity
enough to
play second fiddle to the white man all his days. He liked his master,
but he
likes the Yankee better, not because he regards him as his deliverer,
but
mainly because the two-handed thrift of the Northerner, his varied and
wonderful ability, completely captivates the imagination of the black
man, just
learning to shift for himself.
How far he has caught or is
capable of being imbued with the Yankee spirit of enterprise and
industry,
remains to be seen. In some things he has already shown himself an apt
scholar.
I notice, for instance, that he is about as industrious an
office-seeker as the
most patriotic among us, and that he learns with amazing ease and
rapidity all
the arts and wiles of the politicians. He is versed in parades, mass
meetings,
caucuses, and will soon shine on the stump. I observe, also, that he is
not far
behind us in the observance of the fashions, and that he is as good a
church-goer, theatre-goer, and pleasure-seeker generally, as his means
will
allow.
As a bootblack or newsboy,
he is an adept in all the tricks of the trade; and as a fast young man
about
town among his kind, he is worthy his white prototype: the swagger, the
impertinent look, the coarse remark, the loud laugh, are all in the
best style.
As a lounger and starer also, on the street corners of a Sunday
afternoon, he
has taken his degree.
On the other hand, I know
cases among our colored brethren, plenty of them, of conscientious and
well-directed effort and industry in the worthiest fields, in
agriculture, in
trade, in the mechanic arts, that show the colored man has in him all
the best
rudiments of a citizen of the States.
Lest my winter sunshine
appear to have too many dark rays in it, — buzzards, crows,
and colored men, —
I hasten to add the brown and neutral tints; and maybe a red ray can be
extracted from some of these hard, smooth, sharp-gritted roads that
radiate
from the National Capital. Leading out of Washington there are several
good
roads that invite the pedestrian. There is the road that leads west or
northwest from Georgetown, the Tenallytown road, the very sight of
which, on a
sharp, lustrous winter Sunday, makes the feet tingle. Where it cuts
through a
hill or high knoll, it is so red it fairly glows in the sunlight. I'll
warrant
you will kindle, and your own color will mount, if you resign yourself
to it.
It will conduct you to the wild and rocky scenery of the upper Potomac,
to
Great Falls, and on to Harper's Ferry, if your courage holds out. Then
there is
the road that leads north over Meridian Hill, across Piny Branch, and
on
through the wood of Crystal Springs to Fort Stevens, and so into
Maryland. This
is the proper route for an excursion in the spring to gather wild
flowers, or
in the fall for a nutting expedition, as it lays open some noble woods
and a
great variety of charming scenery; or for a musing moonlight saunter,
say in
December, when the Enchantress has folded and folded the world in her
web, it
is by all means the course to take. Your staff rings on the hard
ground; the
road, a misty white belt, gleams and vanishes before you; the woods are
cavernous and still; the fields lie in a lunar trance, and you will
yourself
return fairly mesmerized by the beauty of the scene.
Or you can bend your steps
eastward over the Eastern Branch, up Good Hope Hill, and on till you
strike the
Marlborough pike, as a trio of us did that cold February Sunday we
walked from
Washington to Pumpkintown and back.
A short sketch of this
pilgrimage is a fair sample of these winter walks.
The delight I experienced in
making this new acquisition to my geography was of itself sufficient to
atone
for any aches or weariness I may have felt. The mere fact that one may
walk
from Washington to Pumpkintown was a discovery I had been all these
years in
making. I had walked to Sligo, and to the Northwest Branch, and had
made the
Falls of the Potomac in a circuitous route of ten miles, coming
suddenly upon
the river in one of its wildest passes; but I little dreamed all the
while that
there, in a wrinkle (or shall I say furrow?) of the Maryland hills,
almost
visible from the outlook of the bronze squaw on the dome of the
Capitol, and
just around the head of Oxen Run, lay Pumpkintown.
The day was cold but the sun
was bright, and the foot took hold of those hard, dry, gritty Maryland
roads
with the keenest relish. How the leaves of the laurel glistened! The
distant
oak woods suggested gray-blue smoke, while the recesses of the pines
looked
like the lair of Night. Beyond the District limits we struck the
Marlborough
pike, which, round and hard and white, held squarely to the east and
was
visible a mile ahead. Its friction brought up the temperature amazingly
and
spurred the pedestrians into their best time. As I trudged along,
Thoreau's
lines came naturally to mind: —
"When
the spring stirs my
blood With the instinct of travel, I can get enough gravel On the old Marlborough road." |
Cold as the day was (many
degrees below freezing), I heard and saw bluebirds, and as we passed
along,
every sheltered tangle and overgrown field or lane swarmed with
snowbirds and
sparrows, — the latter mainly Canada or tree sparrows, with a
sprinkling of the
song, and, maybe, one or two other varieties. The birds are all social
and
gregarious in winter, and seem drawn together by common instinct. Where
you
find one, you will not only find others of the same kind, but also
several
different kinds. The regular winter residents go in little bands, like
a
well-organized pioneer corps, — the jays and woodpeckers in
advance, doing the
heavier work; the nuthatches next, more lightly armed; and the creepers
and
kinglets, with their slender beaks and microscopic eyes, last of all.1
Now and then, among the gray
and brown tints, there was a dash of scarlet, — the cardinal
grosbeak, whose
presence was sufficient to enliven any scene. In the leafless trees, as
a ray
of sunshine fell upon him, he was visible a long way off, glowing like
a
crimson spar, — the only bit of color in the whole landscape.
Maryland is here rather a
level, unpicturesque country, — the gaze of the traveler
bounded, at no great
distance, by oak woods, with here and there a dark line of pine. We saw
few
travelers, passed a ragged squad or two of colored boys and girls, and
met some
colored women on their way to or from church, perhaps. Never ask a
colored
person — at least the crude, rustic specimens — any
question that involves a
memory of names, or any arbitrary signs; you will rarely get a
satisfactory
answer. If you could speak to them in their own dialect, or touch the
right
spring in their minds, you would, no doubt, get the desired
information. They
are as local in their notions and habits as the animals, and go on much
the
same principles, as no doubt we all do, more or less. I saw a colored
boy come
into a public office one day, and ask to see a man with red hair; the
name was
utterly gone from him. The man had red whiskers, which was as near as
he had
come to the mark. Ask your washerwoman what street she lives on, or
where such
a one has moved to, and the chances are that she cannot tell you,
except that
it is a "right smart distance" this way or that, or near Mr.
So-and-so, or by such and such a place, describing some local feature.
I love
to amuse myself, when walking through the market, by asking the old
aunties,
and the young aunties, too, the names of their various "yarbs." It
seems as if they must trip on the simplest names. Bloodroot they
generally call
"grubroot;" trailing arbutus goes by the names of "troling"
arbutus, "training arbuty-flower," and ground "ivory;" in
Virginia they call woodchucks "moonacks."
On entering Pumpkintown
— a
cluster of five or six small, whitewashed blockhouses, toeing squarely
on the
highway — the only inhabitant we saw was a small boy, who was
as frank and
simple as if he had lived on pumpkins and marrow squashes all his days.
Half a mile farther on, we
turned to the right into a characteristic Southern road, — a
way entirely
unkempt, and wandering free as the wind; now fading out into a broad
field; now
contracting into a narrow track between hedges; anon roaming with
delightful
abandon through swamps and woods, asking no leave and keeping no
bounds. About
two o'clock we stopped in an opening in a pine wood and ate our lunch.
We had
the good fortune to hit upon a charming place. A wood-chopper had been
there,
and let in the sunlight full and strong; and the white chips, the
newly-piled
wood, and the mounds of green boughs, were welcome features, and helped
also to
keep off the wind that would creep through under the pines. The ground
was soft
and dry, with a carpet an inch thick of pine-needles; and with a fire,
less for
warmth than to make the picture complete, we ate our bread and beans
with the
keenest satisfaction, and with a relish that only the open air can
give.
A fire, of course,
— an
encampment in the woods at this season without a fire would be like
leaving
Hamlet out of the play. A smoke is your standard, your flag; it defines
and
locates your camp at once; you are an interloper until you have made a
fire;
then you take possession; then the trees and rocks seem to look upon
you more
kindly, and you look more kindly upon them. As one opens his budget, so
he
opens his heart by a fire. Already something has gone out from you, and
comes
back as a faint reminiscence and home feeling in the air and place. One
looks
out upon the crow or the buzzard that sails by as from his own
fireside. It is
not I that am a wanderer and a stranger now; it is the crow and the
buzzard.
The chickadees were silent at first, but now they approach by little
journeys,
as if to make our acquaintance. The nuthatches, also, cry "Yank!
yank!" in no inhospitable tones; and those purple finches there in the
cedars, — are they not stealing our berries?
How one lingers about a fire
under such circumstances, loath to leave it, poking up the sticks,
throwing in
the burnt ends, adding another branch and yet another, and looking back
as he
turns to go to catch one more glimpse of the smoke going up through the
trees!
I reckon it is some remnant of the primitive man, which we all carry
about with
us. He has not yet forgotten his wild, free life, his arboreal
habitations, and
the sweet-bitter times he had in those long-gone ages. With me, he
wakes up
directly at the smell of smoke, of burning branches in the open air;
and all
his old love of fire and his dependence upon it, in the camp or the
cave, come
freshly to mind.
On resuming our march, we
filed off along a charming wood-path, — a regular little
tunnel through the
dense pines, carpeted with silence, and allowing us to look nearly the
whole
length of it through its soft green twilight out into the open sunshine
of the
fields beyond. A pine wood in Maryland or in Virginia is quite a
different
thing from a pine wood in Maine or Minnesota, — the
difference, in fact,
between yellow pine and white. The former, as it grows hereabout, is
short and
scrubby, with branches nearly to the ground, and looks like the
dwindling
remnant of a greater race.
Beyond the woods, the path
led us by a colored man's habitation, — a little, low frame
house, on a knoll,
surrounded by the quaint devices and rude makeshifts of these quaint
and rude
people. A few poles stuck in the ground, clapboarded with cedar-boughs
and
cornstalks, and supporting a roof of the same, gave shelter to a
rickety
one-horse wagon and some farm implements. Near this there was a large,
compact
tent, made entirely of cornstalks, with, for door, a bundle of the
same, in the
dry, warm, nest-like interior of which the husking of the corn crop
seemed to
have taken place. A few rods farther on, we passed through another
humble
dooryard, musical with dogs and dusky with children. We crossed here
the
outlying fields of a large, thrifty, well-kept-looking farm with a
showy,
highly ornamental frame house in the centre. There was even a park with
deer,
and among the gayly painted outbuildings I noticed a fancy dovecote,
with an
immense flock of doves circling above it; some whiskey-dealer from the
city, we
were told, trying to take the poison out of his money by agriculture.
We next passed through some
woods, when we emerged into a broad, sunlit, fertile-looking valley,
called
Oxen Run. We stooped down and drank of its clear white-pebbled stream,
in the
veritable spot, I suspect, where the oxen do. There were clouds of
birds here
on the warm slopes, with the usual sprinkling along the bushy margin of
the
stream of scarlet grosbeaks. The valley of Oxen Run has many
good-looking
farms, with old picturesque houses, and loose rambling barns, such as
artists
love to put into pictures.
But it is a little awkward
to go east. It always seems left-handed. I think this is the feeling of
all
walkers, and that Thoreau's experience in this respect was not
singular. The
great magnet is the sun, and we follow him. I notice that people lost
in the
woods work to the westward. When one comes out of his house and asks
himself,
"Which way shall I walk?" and looks up and down and around for a sign
or a token, does he not nine times out of ten turn to the west? He
inclines
this way as surely as the willow wand bends toward the water. There is
something
more genial and friendly in this direction.
Occasionally in winter I
experience a southern inclination, and cross Long Bridge and rendezvous
for the
day in some old earthwork on the Virginia hills. The roads are not so
inviting
in this direction, but the line of old forts with rabbits burrowing in
the
bomb-proofs, and a magazine, or officers' quarters turned into a cow
stable by
colored squatters, form an interesting feature. But, whichever way I
go, I am
glad I came. All roads lead up to the Jerusalem the walker seeks. There
is
everywhere the vigorous and masculine winter air, and the impalpable
sustenance
the mind draws from all natural forms.