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 bunters
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 farm-yards,
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 seaside,
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
odor.
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 farm-yard,
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.
In-doors, 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 awhile 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 songs 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 their
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 cheerfullest 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 mean time
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 to-morrow.
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 to-night 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.
