AMONG WOODLAND PASTURES. 



THEODORE ROBERTS. 



'Tis Memory weaving across her loom 

 The story of my desire." 



Let me collect my thoughts and tran- 

 quilize my nerves with this mild cigar. 

 Even the name soothes a little. 



Great Caesar! how the months have 

 gone, and the world has covered its face 

 with a new mask! Here I sit, with the yel- 

 low circle of light from my tall lamp flood- 

 ing a few scrawled papers, who, but a day, 

 or half an eon ago, warmed my feet at the 

 farm fireplace. How merrily the wind 

 smote the corners of the little cottage. The 

 poplars outside trailed their thin fingers 

 across the shingles. Inside what comfort 

 there was with the mater in her chair knit- 

 ting, and the dogs, Romulus and Toby, 

 dreaming in the warmth and light. 



After the day in the open fields or 

 shadowed woods, how comfortable to 

 smoke and dream before the fireplace. 

 First of all, on that November morning. 

 Andrew and I foddered the cattle, dealt out 

 hay and oats to the impatient horses, and 

 milked. Toward noon the ground thawed 

 enough for us to plow awhile. Then, leav- 

 ing Andrew, axe in hand, at the wood-pile 

 I started off with Rom. and Toby, and 

 tramped the woods until dark. By follow- 

 ing for Yz mile the rough wagon-track 

 which starts behind the barn, I passed 

 through Aldergarth from end to end. Half 

 way lies the pond, with its fringe of alder 

 and its guardian spirit, the brooding 

 meadow-hen. Here, early in the morning, 

 one may surprise a few ducks or a young 

 goose grown wing- weary. Beyond the 

 pond the land rises steep, to a height of 

 about 20 feet. The flat in which the pond 

 lies is watered by a little brook called the 

 Seymoure, which creeps away through al- 

 ders, poplars and forests of spruce to join 

 the Dunbar. On this flat the grass grows 

 tender and thick among the bushes, mak- 

 ing ideal pasturage, and in season one is 

 always sure to find a bird or 2 among the 

 alders. The farther side of the valley is 

 covered with second growth spruce and fir, 

 maple and birch. A fairy pathway, once a 

 wagon road, winds through this squirrel- 

 haunted wood, and joins the back-settle- 

 ment highway. 



The ash of my cigar breaks and drops, 

 awakening me from my reverie. The hands 

 of my watch mark midnight, but even now 

 it is not too late to write a little while, let- 

 ting the memories of past days move my 

 pen. 



The farm of Aldergarth was composed of 

 no acres of land, about 40 of which had, 

 at one time or another, been under the 

 plow. The rest of its area was covered with 

 wood where a fellow might cut fence-rails, 

 firewood or walking-sticks at his pleasure. 

 The arable land lay on a hillside facing the 

 East, all enclosed by one fence. This fence, 

 which in some places ran through the 

 woods, and was simply a mass of dead ever- 

 greens and felled saplings, was a constant 

 source of trouble. To these weak places 

 came breachy cattle, and gazed over the 

 barriers and between the leaves at the 

 patches of green oats and blossoming peas, 

 which I had sowed and harrowed, bestow- 

 ing on them both care and love. Then, 

 while their mouths watered, some adventu- 

 rous critter, perhaps my neighbor's bull or 

 one of my own 2-year old steers, would dart 

 at the mass of dried branches or rotted 

 rails. Away would go the stakes, down 

 would go the brush fence, and with much 

 switching of tails, those confounded cattle 

 would file into my beautiful crops. Perhaps 

 an hour later — perhaps 2, I would discover 

 them, standing knee-deep with their 

 mouths full, or else resting in bovine medi- 

 tation on the trampled grain. The dogs 

 barked and I — but we will draw a veil over 

 what I did and said on these trying occa- 

 sions. After the cattle had been driven 

 out, new stakes were cut and more trees 

 were chopped down and the barrier 

 strengthened. 



Parts of the field which had been left in 

 grass bore a scanty crop in which butter- 

 cups and bulls'-eye daisies predominated. 

 The grasshoppers had not shade enough to 

 keep their backs from becoming sunburned. 

 Year after year hay had been cut and hauled 

 away, to be fed on some distant farm, rob- 

 bing the fine loam of that hillside field of all 

 its strength, or " heart " as my neighbors 

 called it. But where the land had been 

 plowed and dressed with barnyard manure, 

 and then sowed to grain — why. there it 

 looked encouraging. 



My peas and oats were my favorite crop. 

 In the fall the land was turned up in long 

 brown furrows. All winter the frost crink- 

 led it and the snow swirled over it. Then 

 when it had become dry and warm in the 

 spring — but why describe the method of 

 sowing a crop, when the manner of harvest- 

 ing it was known only to those devilish 

 steers and cows. 



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