UPON OUR RETURN to the
village, after the day's outing was over, our visiting cousins were always
confronted with a serious question. Where were they to take supper? Their
Uncle Ed and Aunt Lib Martindale had their latch strings out for their
nieces and nephews. They had no children and our folks had but one, a
rapscallion by the name of Paul. There was more prospect for merriment in
the Harris home and that was a factor to be considered; it gave the Harris
home the edge, so to speak. The common sense thing, of course, for my
cousins to do was to ascertain which house was to have the best supper and
unless Aunt Lib could show good reasons to the contrary, the honors would
be ours. When we arrived home Cousin Ed would ask the question, "What you
got for supper, Ma?" and when the answer was given, he would scurry
through the back yard to Aunt Lib's and put the same question to her.
There was one thing, which when offered, always
overcame all advantages and predilections, and that was corned beef hash.
When that toothsome dish was offered, all bets were off. It used to seem
to me that my cousins would gratefully have accepted an invitation by
Satan himself if corned beef hash had been on the bill of fare. Had it
been left to me, I would have filled the cellar knee-deep with corned beef
hash on the first intimation that my cousins, the Fox boys and girls, were
coming.
Our cellar was well stocked with good things and
the cold storage room in the barn was stocked with foods which had to be
kept frozen. When the winter season had advanced far enough so that steady
cold could be relied upon, grandfather bought from a farmer one-half of a
bog and one-quarter of beef. Some of the hog went into salt pork, lard,
ham and sausage and some of the beef was corned. Every inch was used.
Pig's ears made succulent souse and pig's feet were an excellent relish
and the pig's curly tail was the most delicious tidbit of all; it would
fairly melt in one's mouth, The residue from the trying out of lard was
called scraps and they were almost too rich even for the stomachs of boys.
Whatever remained of the pork and beef was hung in the store room and
frozen stiff for daily consumption during the winter season.
We had chickens and eggs from our henhouse and
vegetables from our garden. Apples, pears, currants and berries from the
mountainside together with small quantities bought at the grocery store
were enough to sustain us until the butcher, the fishman and the hulled
corn man came on their rounds. I almost forgot the chunk of dried beef and
the salt codfish that adorned the walls of the cellar stairway. Both were
hard enough to knock a man cold if used for that purpose, but in the hands
of New England housewives they became food for the gods.
After a day on the ice followed by a hearty
supper, we began our games on the dining room table. Old maid, authors,
logomachy, dominoes and checkers. Then for the evening there were
butternuts in plenty from our aged but still productive trees, a step only
from the summer kitchen door, and there were hickory nuts the fruits of
Saturday forays in the mountains. Forays is right for we frequently helped
ourselves to the storcs, accumulated by squirrels, which we found in
hollow trees. Robbers? Maybe, but remember it was this same breed of
four-footed rascals who helped themselves to butternuts from our trees.
There were Gilliflower, Baldwin and Northern Spy
apples and Flemish Beauty pears from our orchard, and, if all these were
not enough to save us from starvation, there was corn to pop, molasses
candy or fudge to be made and maple syrup to be waxed or grained as taste
might dictate, or mixed with butternut meats to make the tastiest of all
maple-sugar candy.
After such matters had been attended to and the
heads of the younger children began to droop, grandmother would say,
"Children get off to bed, there are other days coming you know." So away
to bed and dreamless slumber we would go in preparations for the events of
another day.
As the winter advanced pastimes changed to suit
changing conditions. The turn of the year ushered in the real winter.
Heavy falls of snow opened up opportunities to catch rides on sleds of
indulgent farmers returning to their farms on the mountains after having
delivered their loads of four-foot wood; jubilant precursors of the modem
hitch-hiker were we. To the stout legged farm horses it mattered not
whether we were on or off and even our bobsleds with their long connecting
boards added little to their burden. The bobs, or traverses as we called
them, were to us essential because of the return trip down the mountain,
the return being the principal lure.
When the snow was packed hard or turned to ice the
descent was in the nature of a parachute jump. Sometimes we arrived at the
bottom of the mountain right side up; at others, after long leaps over
"thank-you-marms" and slews at curves, we were spilled along the road, a
jumble of excited laughing boys.
In case anyone happens not to know what a
"thank-you-marm" is, I will explain that it is a big bump in the road
something like the take-off on a ski jump. No mountain road was complete
in my day without its "thank-you-marms." When tired farm horses drawing
heavily loaded wagons up the mountains needed rest and breathing spells,
they could relieve themselves of strain by pulling over a "thank-you-marm"
to the level spot in the road on the up-hill side. There was always a
"thank-you-marm" at the watering tough half way up the mountain side where
horses could rest an extra long time and drink their fill of the cold,
sparkling spring water contained in a trough made from a log hewn out to
fit the needs. On hot summer days watering troughs and "thank-you-marms"
were to tired farm horses previews of Heaven.
When coming "lickety-split down a mountainside in
a buckboard or buggy with your sweetheart by your side, if you do not slow
up when you see a "thank-you-marm" before you, you and your sweetheart
will find yourselves thrown high in the air. In this event if you are born
and bred Vermonters, you will, as you straighten your hats on your heads,
ejaculate, "Thank-you-marm." To foreigners this may seem a very silly
piece of business and easily avoidable, but to Vermonters of my time those
words would come out to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter, in spite
of all we could do.
"Thank-you-marms" served also another purpose dear
to the hearts of boys; in fact, we never could have gotten along without
them in the winter time. When "Sabe's" Hill, short for Sabin's Hill, was
coated with ice, it was the sportiest hill by far in our part of the
valley. Its descent was long and steep and it was abundantly supplied with
"thank-you-marms , one of which was glorious indeed. Our sleds were no
high spindly affairs such as were used by girls or sissified boys. They
were built from rock maple, braced and riveted like battleships. They were
provided with runners made from hard, round steel which gave them
springiness as well as endurance. At no point did these marvelous
creations stand more than six inches above the hard packed snow.
It was a sight to see a daring and skillful
coaster take off from the top of a hill. He would grasp his sled by the
seat, one hand forward, the other aft. He would then run briskly forward
to the brink of the hill to gain momentum and then spring high into the
air carrying his sled with him. While still in the air he would stage an
amazing contortion, and when the runners landed on the ice the rider would
be seen lying securely on his left thigh, his right foot dangling like a
rudder on the rear, his hands unchanged in position, his shoulders
crouched low with his head between the runners almost skimming the ground.
Who is that taking off? By crackeyl it's wild Bill
Rutherford on his homemade sled. He is flying like a bullet toward the big
"thank-you-marm" opposite Martin Williams' house. Up he goes high into the
air. "Betcher he jumped forty feet." "Now he's past the cheese factory;
now he's out of sight." Well, that is one thing "thank-you-marms" are good
for. Beside giving tired horses a chance for breathing spells, they give
little boys a chance to see daring coasters at their glorious best.
If neither skating nor coasting conditions were
such as to appeal to us, mountain climbing was in order, or leaps from
cliffs into deep banks of snow. High up we discovered especially fine
views of my beautiful valley in its white blanket of snow and of other
mountains far beyond. Sometimes we climbed over the top of a mountain and
down into an unfamiliar valley; exploration was the charm of mountain
climbing through deep snows; we found ourselves in new, thrilling and
fanciful worlds. These events occurred long before skiing became popular;
that sport would have added much to the joy of our adventures.
On bright days millions of dazzling snow crystals
sparkled in the sunshine and on cloudy days, other delightful pictures
were revealed; it mattered little what the weather was, joy was always to
be found.
Some of the recesses of the forest were like great
cathedrals and the tall spruce trees with their branches bent to the
ground by their burdens of snow, were like titanic vestured monks bowing
low. The white birch trees which some poet has designated, "white angels
of the forest" hallowed the scene with their chaste and modest presence.
The unearthly quiet was broken at times by the
cawing of a crow lazily circling in the sky above or by the drumming of a
cock partridge as if he were proclaiming the sanctity of the forest
cathedral and warning against the intrusion of apostates. Who better in
tune with the Infinite than they?
Every pine and fir and
hemlock
Wore ermine too dear
for an Earl
And the poorest twig
on the elm free
Was ridged inch deep
with pearl.
-Lowell.
We were occasionally rewarded materially for our
efforts by the discovery of that rare product of the forest, genuine
spruce gum; but we stood not in need of material rewards; they are
temporary at best. Our greatest reward for our labored climbs through
drifts up the mountain was imperishable. The indefinable enchantment of
the awesome silence of the mountains still lives and brings peace to tired
nerves and assures us that beneath the mystery of human existence there is
something supremely lovely.
When a frigid night followed a warm bright day in
winter, a new glory awaited us in the morning; that of the crusted snow
strong enough to support us with our sleds, skates or improvised toboggans
made from barrel staves. Hills and mountains were the equivalent of scores
of toboggan chutes. From the top we could glide to the bottom with amazing
speed and when the snow was deep enough to cover stone walls and rail
fences, over them also we sped.
Sometimes we made snow shoes of our barrel staves,
fastening them to our boots with leather straps, and made the descent, or
as much of it as we could without mishap, standing erect. However, mishaps
were more the rule than the exception and the last part of the course was
generally covered in an ungainly sprawl. The victim was usually greeted
with raucous guffaws by the onlookers but it was all taken good naturedly
as a matter of course. If the weather continued cold enough, and the sun
shone not too brightly, the crust remained all day and possibly other days
to follow; but whether the duration was brief or long, we were always
prepared to meet with exuberant spirits any changes dame nature might
make. Even when the mountains were coated with solid ice, we could chop
holes for our moccasined toes and make precarious ascent to the top.
I shall not soon forget the time a companion, who
was climbing in advance of me, lost his toe-hold and came hurtling past me
like a streak of light subject to no law except the law of gravity which
claimed him as its own and flung his helpless body over a precipice far
down below. In tenor I worked my way down the side of the mountain fully
expecting to find his mangled remains. Imagine my relief when he emerged
in sight; merciful Providence had covered the rocks at the foot of the
drop with a blessed protecting blanket of soft, deep snow.
It required a deal of persuasion to induce
grandmother to permit me to go coasting in the evening. To her mind all
the sins of the universe were committed under cover of night. My plea
generally had to be reinforced by that of some of the older children in
whose discretion she had confidence. Moonlight coasting parties were
delightful but the old moon really had to shine if I was permitted to go
out. Of course the girls were included in the coasting parties, and on one
occasion I experienced a thrill such as never agitated me before. Though I
made no mention of my emotion, it was clear that deep down within me there
was something more than a mere casual regard for a certain plump,
fair-haired, brown-eyed little lady whom I managed to get seated next to
as we were about to take off from the top of the hill. I entertained fond
hopes that my sentiments were reciprocated, but I had no means of knowing,
it being the case that her adoration, if any, was as mute as my own.
The possessory passion had gotten a grip upon me,
and, in the secret of my innermost thoughts, I welcomed the fact that I
had a girl of my own. Her residence in our valley was brief. Where she
came from; what Wallingford family she was connected with, I do not know
but it was the sweet and appropriately named Josie Lilly who first set my
heart to palpitating. Josie was only one of a procession of comers and
goers who spent periods of varying duration in our valley; most of them
came unheralded and left unmourned, after having caused mere ripples on
the surface of our everyday lives.
Sometimes we climbed into the mountains to see the
French-Canadian farmers cutting down trees for firewood. It was a sight to
see the tree crash down after the vigorous strokes of the axeman. They
could make the trees fall just where they wanted them to fall. The skill
with which they could lop the branches off with a few strokes, then saw
the trunks into just the right length, split them and convert them into
cord wood which they piled along the pathways convenient for loading on
the low ox drawn sleds, was wonderful to behold. Riding down the mountain
sides on the wood sleds was a dangerous though exhilarating sport; the
sleds carromed against the rocks and stumps but eventually arrived at the
bottom right side up.
Whatever else may
be said of our French-Canadian immigrants, none could deny that they were
the most colorful of all of our newcomers in New England. Whether they
were joking or talking seriously was always a matter of conjecture. Their
strutting pomposity and stories of impossible achievement were unique,
take them as one would. It remained for William Drummond, a Scotsman to
immortalize the French-Canadians in his book of rhymes, "The Habitant." We
youngsters were always sure of one good laugh at least when we made for
the forests on the mountainsides where our own "Habitants" were cutting
their wood.
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