They race across the snow with
flying feet,
The red, the black-and white, and gold,
Spaniels at play, light as brown leaves, and fleet,
Winging their ears, and sniffing the still cold.
The good far scent of fox is in the air,
And rabbit print assails the velvet nose,
Secret the silver weasel keeps his lair,
Swift slides the mink along the reedy close.
Eyes that are eager, hearts
that beat so loud,
Oh wild and lovely freedom they possess,
The Spaniel hunters, they the brave and proud,
Dreaming their dream of conquered wilderness.
How vast a kingdom then is
mine, who see
How swift they turn and leave the hunt for me!
The
New England countryside is now
deep in winter. The wind blows wild and dark up the hill and batters the house. The great
giant maples lose ant branches that are dying; they crash down in the night and start the
cockers barking like mad. some days the snow drifts over the fencetops and then the wind
comes again and bare ground shows.
Our forefathers were sturdy men and wise to weather; they knew how to build for this
winter wind. The house is low toward the north, the roof slants steeply. The barns faced
the wind, too, and the cattle sheltered in the lee of the building.
All down the valley the little white houses are snugged down in February, and many of them
have close-packed branches of evergreen banked around the foundation.
I like to go across to the neighbor's barn at dusk and stand inside where the cows are
being milked. The air is steamy and warm from the heat of the cows, and smells of fresh
milk and sweet hay. As George milks, the sound of the milk falling into the clean pail is
a pleasant sound. There are always waiting kittens, and the big dog wags his way into the
warmth. The kittens get a dish of warm milk, and their little tongues lap so delicately as
they drink.
The cows stand quietly, turning their heads to look at me with mild surprise. I always
wonder what cows think about. They seem content, but perhaps they, too, have yearnings for
a life of ranging the woods, free and leading their own lives.
One of my favorite legends is the story of Europa and the beautiful milk-white bull, who
was Zeus in disguise and who bore the beautiful maiden away over the blue sea. It is a
story filled with enchantment, with the singing light of the gold sun, the meadow
sprinkled with blue and white flowers, the sea sparkling on a dreamy shore and the young
girl with her arms filled with the blossoms. no wonder the god loved her. The white bull
was suddenly beside her and she probably dropped the flowers, half afraid and half
wondering - I'm sure his hoofs and horns were silver - and then she wreathed the horns in
garlands of blue and gold, and rode away to immortality. The world was innocent and young
when the gods came down and dwelt with the mortals whenever they were bored with Olympus!
We need to keep the old legends alive in our matter-of-fact world. This month has its own
legend, the tale of St. Valentine. I hope we always celebrate Valentine's Day. The making
of valentines was a serious business when I was growing up. Gilt and silver paper, red
hearts, lacy paper frills, blue ribbons, and little doves to paste on the finished product
- we loved them all. I usually got my doves on upside down, but I thought they were
elegant. Does anyone ever forget the excitement of that large valentine signed in
masculine scrawl GUESS WHO?
It had its hazards too. There was always a girl who got more valentines than anyone else.
and a boy who got only a few funny ones. My mother had them in mind when she arranged for
us to have extras. It was possible to increase some girls quota in a hurry, or add a few
for the boy.
Later on, when we were older, there was Valentine's Day when the only boy in the world
produced a package from his pocket with a present in it. Really better than Christmas, for
everyone exchanged gifts for Christmas, but a real Valentine, not just candy - that was
something. Oh enchanted winter moon shining down on two bent heads, on mittened hands! The
paper crackled, the ribbon was folded away, and there it was, the little locket set with
chips of what might be diamonds, or the silver ring with the matrix stone. Who ever
forgets first love, and the first real valentine?
 One of my friends suggested
that I spend at I devote at least part of the new year to studying birds. So I made a
resolution to that effect, although I already see to have more interests than one lifetime
will adequately supply time for. Actually, I can't think of a better thing to do than
begin a new interest for the new year.
Jill said, "What with photography and vegetables and dogs and children and literature
and cooking and fishing and flowers and music, we have almost enough interests, I should
think. Not to mention making furniture and working jigsaw puzzles."
"I don't make furniture," I pointed out. "I can't
saw straight. You make the furniture."
"Yes, but if you take up birds, I know who will have to get
up at five and gallop around looking them up," she finished. "It'll be me.
When you canned all those mixed vegetables, I noticed that I scraped quite a horde
of potatoes and things."
Her
canny reference to early morning did bother me. I never could see why bird fanciers have
to get up at day-break and lope around over a damp landscape to commune with the birds.
Birds, I think, ought to hang around at reasonable hours. Maybe I wouldn't get very
excited identifying a blue-billed whatnot, when I hadn't had a good, hot breakfast. On the
other hand, thee is this whole world of nature, this various and complete life, that I am
stranger to; and that is a sad thought.
Jill got me
an impressive bird book to begin with. After studying it hard, I was greatly troubled.
"How can you tell all these things," I asked, "unless the birds come up and
sit on your lap?"
"You get field glasses," said Jill.
I felt
even more doubtful. I never have been adept at focusing opera glasses. Just as I get the
right end to my eye, and screw the things up, whatever I am viewing moves away and I only
see odd blurs and table legs. I should never catch anything so flighty as a bird.
I went
into one of my customary reveries, trying to go back to any birds I had known. There were
the canaries, three of them, and they fought so the whole house was full of feathers and
sand from the cage. We had to keep them in separate cages, and then they sulked in
silence. The canary interval was a lurid one. when they weren't sulking, they amused
themselves tearing up newspapers and strewing them from the cages. They had a kind of
feverish intensity which you wouldn't expect in a canary. They did everything but sing.
Then I
remember the parrot I met in Charlottesville, Virginia. As I entered the elegant library
with a friend, politely gloved and hatted and ready to be formally introduced, this parrot
stuck her head out of her cage, lifted one claw carelessly, and then burst into a wild
shriek of laughter. considerably embarrassed, I smoothed my skirt and gave myself a hasty
glance in the mirror over the mantel. The hostess advanced, and I put out a tentative
hand. The parrot threw back her head and yelled with mirth. nobody could doubt that she
thought I was the funniest sight any bird ever saw.
I said,
"Hello, Polly."
"Ha-ha-ha."
My
formal call was over as soon as I could manage. As I left the house, I involuntarily
looked back. There was the parrot in the window, one eye gleaming at me, and as she saw me
go, she almost fell off her perch with hysterics. I was so shaken I found I had lost my
gloves.
But I
have one memory that is not funny. I was so full of sorrow on this particular day that I
did not see how I could keep going. It was February then, too, and the day was as cold and
dark as my own grief. Snow drifted high over the fences, and the sky was grey and dim. I
went out, because the house shut my grief in so close, and I drove out from the little
town to the country, where there was no sign of life or movement anywhere. And then
suddenly I came over the edge of a snowy hill, and there on a broken fence rail, sat a
cardinal, scarlet in the snow. He was swaying back and forth, and his light, alive body
caught all the light there was.
I
stopped and looked, and he cocked his head at me and then flew up into the greyness with a
flash of scarlet wings. All at once I was comforted, hope and strength were renewed in my
heart like a miracle. just because a redbird perched on a winter fence rail.
The Book of Stillmeadow
On to February
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