It was on a morning of the lovely New England May
that we left the horse-car, and, spreading our umbrellas,
walked down the street to our new home in Charlesbridge,
through a storm of snow and rain so finely blent by
the influences of this fortunate climate, that no
flake knew itself from its sister drop, or could be
better identified by the people against whom they
beat in unison. A vernal gale from the east fanned
our cheeks and pierced our marrow and chilled our
blood, while the raw, cold green of the adventurous
grass on the borders of the sopping sidewalks gave,
as it peered through its veil of melting snow and
freezing rain, a peculiar cheerfulness to the landscape.
Here and there in the vacant lots abandoned hoop-skirts
defied decay; and near the half-finished wooden houses,
empty mortar-beds, and bits of lath and slate strewn
over the scarred and mutilated ground, added their
interest to the scene. A shaggy drift hung upon
the trees before our own house (which had been built
some years earlier), while its swollen eaves wept
silently and incessantly upon the embankments lifting
its base several feet above the common level.
This heavenly weather, which the Pilgrim Fathers,
with the idea of turning their thoughts effectually
from earthly pleasures, came so far to discover, continued
with slight amelioration throughout the month of May
and far into June; and it was a matter of constant
amazement with one who had known less austere climates,
to behold how vegetable life struggled with the hostile
skies, and, in an atmosphere as chill and damp as that
of a cellar, shot forth the buds and blossoms upon
the pear-trees, called out the sour Puritan courage
of the currant-bushes, taught a reckless native grape-vine
to wander and wanton over the southern side of the
fence, and decked the banks with violets as fearless
and as fragile as New England girls; so that about
the end of June, when the heavens relented and the
sun blazed out at last, there was little for him to
do but to redden and darken the daring fruits that
had attained almost their full growth without his
countenance.
Then, indeed, Charlesbridge appeared to us a kind
of Paradise. The wind blew all day from the southwest,
and all day in the grove across the way the orioles
sang to their nestlings. The butcher’s wagon
rattled merrily up to our gate every morning; and
if we had kept no other reckoning, we should have
known it was Thursday by the grocer. We were living
in the country with the conveniences and luxuries
of the city about us. The house was almost new
and in perfect repair; and, better than all, the kitchen
had as yet given no signs of unrest in those volcanic
agencies which are constantly at work there, and which,
with sudden explosion, make Herculaneums and Pompeiis
of so many smiling households. Breakfast, dinner,
and tea came up with illusive regularity, and were
all the most perfect of their kind; and we laughed
Copyrights
Suburban Sketches from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
