The old farm-house nestling in its
valley; hills stretching off to the south and green meadows to
the east; the small stream which came noisily down its ravine,
washing the old garden-wall and softly lapping on fallen stones
and mossy roots of beeches and hemlocks; the tall sentinel
poplars at the gateway; the oak-forest, sweeping unbroken to
the northern horizon; the grass-grown carriage-path, with its
rude and crazy bridge,--the dear old landscape of my boyhood
lies outstretched before me like a daguerreotype from that
picture within, which I have borne with me in all my
wanderings. I am a boy again, once more conscious of the
feeling, half terror, half exultation, with which I used to
announce the approach of this very vagabond and his "kindred
after the flesh."
The advent of wandering beggars, or "old stragglers," as we
were wont to call them, was an event of no ordinary interest in
the generally monotonous quietude of our farm-life. Many of
them were well known; they had their periodical revolutions
and transits; we would calculate them like eclipses or new
moons. Some were sturdy knaves, fat and saucy; and,
whenever they ascertained that the "men folks" were absent,
would order provisions and cider like men who expected to pay
for them, seating themselves at the hearth or table with the air
of Falstaff,--"Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" Others,
poor, pale, patient, like Sterne's monk,(1) came creeping up to
the door, hat in hand, standing there in their gray wretchedness
with a look of heartbreak and forlornness which was never
without its effect on our juvenile sensibilities.
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