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Now had the
season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the
ice-bound,
Desolate northern bays to the shores of
tropical islands.
Harvests were gathered in; and wild
with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the
forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
All the signs
foretold a winter long and inclement.
Bees, with
prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters
asserted
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the
fur of the foxes.
Such was the advent of autumn. Then
followed that beautiful season,
Called by the pious
Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was
the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the
landscape
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness
of childhood.
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and
the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment
consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
Voices
of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the
farmyards,
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the
cooing of pigeons,
All were subdued and low as the
murmurs of love, and the great sun
Looked with the
eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and
yellow,
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each
glittering tree of the forest
Flashed like the
plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.
Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and
stillness.
Day with its burden and heat had departed,
and twilight descending
Brought back the evening star
to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.
Pawing
the ground they came, and resting their necks on each
other,
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the
freshness of evening.
Foremost, bearing the bell,
Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
Proud of her
snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her
collar,
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of
human affection.
Then came the shepherd back with his
bleating flocks from the sea-side,
Where was their
favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of
his instinct,
Walking from side to side with a lordly
air, and superbly
Waving his bushy tail, and urging
forward the stragglers;
Regent of flocks was he when
the shepherd slept; their protector,
When from the
forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves
howled.
Late, with the rising moon, returned the
wains from the marshes,
Laden with briny hay, that
filled the air with its odour.
Cheerily neighed the
steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous
saddles,
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned
with tassels of crimson,
Nodded in bright array, like
hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
Patiently stood the
cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
Unto the
milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets
descended.
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter
were heard in the farmyard,
Echoed back by the barns.
Anon they sank into stillness;
Heavily closed, with a
jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
Rattled
the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
Indoors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly
the farmer
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how
the flames and the smoke wreaths
Struggled together
like foes in a burning city. Behind him,
Nodding and
mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into
darkness.
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back
of his arm-chair
Laughed in the flickering light, and
the pewter plates on the dresser
Caught and reflected
the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of
Christmas,
Such as at home, in the olden time, his
fathers before him
Sang in their Norman orchards and
bright Burgundian vineyards.
Close at her father's
side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
Spinning flax
for the loom that stood in the corner behind her.
Silent a while were its treadles, at rest was its
diligent shuttle,
While the monotonous drone of the
wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
Followed the old
man's song, and united the fragments together.
As in
a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals
ceases,
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words
of the priest at the altar,
So, in each pause of the
song, with measured motion the clock clicked.
Thus, as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and,
suddenly lifted,
Sounded the wooden latch, and the
door swung back on its hinges.
Benedict knew by the
hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,
And by
her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as the footsteps paused
on the threshold,
"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come,
take thy place on the settle
Close by the
chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of
tobacco;
Never so much thyself art thou as when
through the curling
Smoke of the pipe or the forge
thy friendly and jovial face gleams
Round and red as
the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the
blacksmith,
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat
by the fireside: -
"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou
hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
Ever in
cheerfulest mood art thou, when others are filled with
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before
them.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst
picked up a horseshoe."
Pausing a moment, to take the
pipe that Evangeline brought him,
And with a coal
from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued: -
"Four days now are passed since the English ships at
their anchors
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with
their cannon pointed against us.
What their design
may be is unknown; but all are commanded
On the
morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's
mandate
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas!
in the meantime
Many surmises of evil alarm the
hearts of the people."
Then made answer the farmer:
-"Perhaps some friendlier purpose
Brings these ships
to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England
By
untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle
and children."
"Not so thinketh the folk in the
village," said, warmly, the blacksmith,
Shaking his
head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued: -
"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor
Port Royal.
Many already have fled to the forest, and
lurk on its outskirts,
Waiting with anxious hearts
the dubious fate of tomorrow.
Arms have been taken
from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;
Nothing is
left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the
mower."
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the
jovial farmer: -
"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst
of our flocks and our cornfields,
Safer within these
peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
Than our
fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
Fear no evil, my friend, and tonight may no shadow of
sorrow
Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the
night of the contract.
Built are the house and the
barn. The merry lads of the village
Strongly have
built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about
them,
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with
food for a twelvemonth.
Rene Leblanc will be here
anon, with his papers and inkhorn.
Shall we not then
be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"
As
apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her
lover's,
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her
father had spoken,
And as they died on his lips the
worthy notary entered.
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