THE WALK AND THE PIC-NIC.

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BY ALFRED B. STREET.

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The sky is a sapphire, the clouds pearly white,

The wind from the west winnows blandly and light,

Deep and rich is the gloss of the sunshine below⁠—

The grass, leaves, and flowers all rejoice in the glow;

The shadows, cast down by the air-skimming sails,

Are rippling o’er hill-tops and glancing o’er vales;

’Tis the day for our pic-nic; let’s haste, or the sun

Will be dipping below e’er our long path is won.

At length, from all ports of the village, we throng⁠—

O’er the maple-lin’d sidewalk we scatter along,

With baskets well stor’d; and so loud our delight,

That we start Taggett’s team from Nate’s store in affright:

We pass by the office—“Alf, why do you wait?”

To a laggard shouts Cady—“you’re always too late!”

We turn the stone store—up the Pleasant Pond road:

Green richer the fields on each side never show’d;

We pass the flat rock, where we often found rest,

When, on our return-walk, gleam’d golden the west;

On the hill-brow we turn, the white village to view,

Its three modest steeples trac’d clear on the blue;

To the right Brownson’s pond—now we enter the wood:

Its echoes leap out to our frolicsome mood;

The sweet ringing laugh of gay Martha is heard,

And Kate trips along with the grace of a bird;

To the wind’s downy kisses bares Sarah her brow,

And Mary’s black eyes were ne’er brighter than now,

While one, grave and thoughtful, to each proffers aid,⁠—

My friend! sleeping now in the valley of shade,

As the cloud over sunshine, remembrance of thee,

My boyhood’s companion! draws sadness o’er me.

“Alf, faster!” cries Cady, “and think where you are;

Bring your thoughts from the clouds, or we’ll never be there!”

We all move on speedily; down the descent,

With song, talk and laughter, our journey is bent:

“Alf, carry this basket!” says Wright, in a huff

At the speed of our way, “I’ve had trouble enough!”

“See that rose!” cries Louisa, and instant the stem

Is mourning the loss of its beautiful gem.

Our party has reach’d now the foot of the hill,

And we rest for a space on the trunk by the rill;

One twists from the hopple a chalice of green,

And stoops, for the lymph, the dense thicket between;

One whirls a thick branch, as a fine twanging sound

On the ear tells the hungry musketoe is round,

Whilst Wright, never loath, takes immediate seat,

Complaining in bass of the dust and the heat.

We leave the green spot, our swift journey resume⁠—

The forest twines closer its cool verdant gloom;

Above, like an arbor, the green branches meet,

And the moss springs elastic, yet soft, to our feet.

The shade is so dense, the gray rabbit scarce fears

To show, o’er the fern clump, his long peering ears,

And the saucy red-squirrel, erect on his spray,

Were unseen, if his chatter-tongue did not betray;

A scatter of viands, with plunge in the brake,

As one stumbles o’er a coil’d root like a snake,

There’s a laugh from the group, and a lofty perch’d crow

Lifts his foot, with a croak, and looks wisely below;

But onward we journey—we catch, as we pass

Through the vistas, quick glimpses of rock, stream and grass,

Then fitful we loiter by mounds plump with moss,

With sunbeams, like fluid gold, streaking across,

We peel the sweet birch bark, we pluck from the ground

The rich, pungent wintergreen growing around,

We taste the sour sorrel, in handfulls we pick

The bright partridge-berry sown crimson and thick,

We hear the near quail, from the rye stubble, call,

And we watch the black beetle on rolling his ball;

Then forward again, with new strength, on our way,

Our footsteps as light as our bosoms are gay,

A whirr—and, so sudden, the heart gives a bound,

The partridge bursts up from his basin of ground;

Three clear, fife-like notes—first, a low, liquid strain,

Then high, and then shrill—all repeated again,

’Tis the brown-thresher, perch’d on yon pine grim and dark,

Our sweetest of minstrels—our own native lark.

We pass the low sawmill—the bridge o’er the brook,

Where it glides, slow and deep, by each alder-cloth’d nook,

We toil up the hill—o’er the fields are the frames

Of hemlocks, scath’d black by the fierce fallow-flames,

Or girdled, with half naked trunks smooth and gray,

To catch the red lightning, or sink in decay.

Again the wood closes—still wend we along,

The robin is cheering our hearts with his song,

The black snake, warm basking, his sunlight forsakes,

As, at the loud beat of our steps, he awakes,

The trees shrink away—one more hill to our feet,

And our eyes, Pleasant Pond, in its beauty will greet;

There glitters the outlet—still, upward, we pass,

And there, spreads its smooth polish’d bosom of glass.

On the East, lifts a hill, low and rounded, its crown

With a slope, like a robe, on each side falling down,

All verdant with meadow, and bristling with grain,

From its top, to the edge of the bright liquid plain,

Thence the banks, sweeping round to the North and the West,

With clearing and field interspersed on their breast,

Are lost in the black frowning gloom of the wood

That hides, with its shadows, the Southernmost flood.

How quiet, how peaceful, how lovely, the scene!

The glossy black shades, from yon headlands of green,

That sheet of bright crystal, which spreads from the shore,

Now dark’ning, as lightly the breeze tramples o’er,

Those shafts of quick splendor—these dazzles of light⁠—

So painful, so blinding, eyes shrink from the sight;

And still, to our fix’d gaze, new colors reveal,

Here, gleaming like silver—there, flashing like steel.

We hear, in the stillness, the low of the herd,

The sound of the sheep-bell, the chirp of the bird,

All borne from the opposite border—and hark!

How the echoes long mimic the dog’s rapid bark!

See that white gleaming streak—’tis the wake of the loon

As she oars her swift passage—her dive will be soon;

She’s vanish’d—but upward again to the sight,

Her dappled back lit by a pencil of light,

But the bark has arous’d her—she’s seeking to fly;

She stretches her neck, with shrill, tremulous cry,

She flounders in low heavy circles just o’er,

Till nerv’d by the loud hostile sounds from the shore

Uprising, she shoots, like a dart, to her brood

Close hid in the water-plants edging the wood.

On this lap of green grass, the white cloth is display’d,

A maple sheds over its golden streak’d shade,

We place cup and trencher—the viands are spread,

Whilst a pile of pine-knots flame a pillar of red,

We slice the rich lemon—the gifts of the spring

Bubbling up in its gray sandy basin, we bring

The white glistening sugar—the butter, like gold,

And the fruits of the garden, our baskets unfold,

The raspberry bowl-shap’d—the jet tiny cone

Or the blackberry, pluck’d from the thickets are strown,

All grace the grass-table—our cups mantle free

With the dark purple coffee, and light amber tea,

Wood, water, and bank tongue the laugh, and the jest,

And the goddess or mirth reigns supreme in each breast.

The sunset is slanting—a pyramid bright

Is traced on the waters, in spangles of light;

A grey blending glimmer then steals like a pall;

Gold, leaves hill and tree-top—brown, deepens o’er all;

The bat wheels around—sends the nighthawk his cry,

And the cross-bill commences her sweet lullaby;

In the grass chirps the cricket—the tree-toad crows shrill,

And the bark of the watch-dog sounds faint from the hill.

We smile at the hoarse heav’d-up roar of the frog,

And his half smother’d gulp as he dives from his log,

And then hasten homeward, fatigu’d, but still gay,

With the moon’s lustrous silver to brighten our way.