Childrens Own Longfellow | Page 3

of
flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the
plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old,
and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from
the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their
station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian
village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of
hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the
Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables
projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet
and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden Flax for the
gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their
sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the
maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the
children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then
came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down
to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the
Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns of pale
blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Rose from a hundred

hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in
love these simple Acadian farmers,-- Dwelt in the love of God and of
man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and
envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor
bars to their windows; But their dwellings were open as day and the
hearts of the owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived
in abundance.
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre, Dwelt on
his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household, Gentle
Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and
stately in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale was he,
an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; White as the snow were his
locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
oak-leaves.
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen
summers.
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by
the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown
shade of her tresses! Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that
feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers
at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the
maiden. Fair was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its
turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the
long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. But a
celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
Shone on her face and
encircled her form, when, after confession, Homeward serenely she
walked with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it
seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the
side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady Sycamore grew by the
door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the

porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide,
and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore-tree were hives
overhung by a penthouse, Such as the traveller sees in regions remote
by the roadside, Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of
Mary. Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its
moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the
horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns
and the
farm-yard.
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique
ploughs and the
harrows;
There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his
feathered seraglio, Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with
the selfsame Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one Far
o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch;