Childrens Own Longfellow | Page 5

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 song 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