Fowling

A morn in September, the east is yet gray;
Come, Carlo! come, Jupe! we 'll try fowling to-day:
The fresh sky is bright as the bright face of one,
A sweeter than whom the sun shines not upon;
And those wreathed clouds that melt to the breath of the south,
Are white as the pearls of her beautiful mouth:
My hunting-piece glitters, and quick is my task
In slinging around me my pouch and my flask;
Cease, dogs, your loud yelpings, you 'll deafen my brain!
Desist from your rambles, and follow my train.
Here, leave the geese, Carlo, to nibble their grass,
Though they do stretch their long necks, and hiss as we pass
A nd the fierce little bantam, that flies your attack,
Then struts, flaps, and crows, with such airs, at your back; „,
And the turkey, too, smoothing his plumes in your face,
Then ruffling so proud, as you bound from the place;
Ha! ha! that old hen, bristling up mid her brood,
Has taught you a lesson, I hope, for your good;
By the wink of your eye, and the droop of your crest,
I see your maraudings are now put at rest.
The rail-fence is leap'd, and the wood-boughs are round,
And a moss-couch is spread for my foot on the ground:
A shadow has dimm'd the leaves' amethyst glow,
The first glance of Autumn, his presence to show:
The beech-nut is ripening above in its sheath,
Which will burst with the black frost, and drop it beneath.
The hickory hardens, snow-white, in its burr,
And the cones are full grown on the hemlock and fir;
The hopple's red berries are tinging with brown,
And the tips of the sumach have darken'd their down;
The white, brittle Indian-pipe lifts up its bowl,
And the wild turnip's leaf curls out broad like a scroll;
The cohosh displays its white balls and red stems,
And the braid of the mullen is yellow with gems;
While its rich, spangled plumage the golden-rod shows,
And the thistle yields stars to each air-breath that blows.
A quick, startling whirr now bursts loud on my ear,
The partridge! the partridge! swift-pinion'd by fear,
Low onward he whizzes, Jupe yelps as he sees,
And we dash through the brushwood, to note where he trees;
I see him! his brown, speckled breast is display'd
On the branch of yon maple, that edges the glade;
My fowling-piece rings, Jupe darts forward so fleet,
While loading, he drops the dead bird at my feet:
I pass by the scaurberries' drops of deep red,
In their green, creeping leaves, where he daintily fed,
And his couch near the root, in the warm forest-mould,
Where he wallow'd, till sounds his close danger foretold.
On yon spray, the bright oriole dances and sings,
With his rich, crimson bosom, and glossy black wings;
And the robin comes warbling, then flutters away,
For I harm not God's creatures so tiny as they;
But the quail, whose quick whistle has lured me along,
No more will recall his stray'd mate with his song,
And the hawk that is circling so proud in the blue,
Let him keep a. look-out, or he 'll tumble down too!
He stoops — the gun echoes — he flutters beneath,
His yellow claws curl'd, and fierce eyes glazed in death:
Lie there, cruel Arab! the mocking-bird now
Can rear her young brood, without fear of thy blow;
And the brown wren can warble his sweet little lay,
Nor dread more thy talons to rend and to slay;
And, with luck, an example I 'll make of that crow,
For my green,sprouting wheat kne wno hungrier foe;
But the rascal seems down from his summit to scoff,
And as I creep near him, he croaks, and is off.
The woods shrink away, and wide spreads the morass,
With junipers cluster'd, and matted with grass;
Trees, standing like ghosts, their arms jagged and bare,
And hung with gray lichens, like age-whiten'd hair.
The tamarack here and there rising between,
Its boughs clothed with rich, star-like fringes of green,
And clumps of dense laurels, and brown-headed flags,
And thick, slimy basins, black dotted with snags:
Tread softly now, Carlo! the woodcock is here,
He rises — his long bill thrust out like a spear;
The gun ranges on him — his journey is sped;
Quick scamper, my spaniel! and bring in the dead!
We plunge in the swamp — the tough laurels are round;
No matter; our shy prey not lightly is found;
Another up-darts, but unharm'd is his flight;
Confound it! the sunshine then dazzled my sight;
But the other my shot overtakes as he flies:
Come, Carlo! come, Carlo! I wait for my prize;
One more — still another — till, proofs of my sway,
From my pouch dangle heads, in a ghastly array.
'From this scene of exploits, now made birdless, I pass;
'Pleasant Pond gleams before me, a mirror of glass:
The boat's by the marge, with green branches supplied,
,From the keen-sighted duck my approaches to hide;
A flock spots the lake; now crouch, Carlo, below!
And I move with light paddle, on softly and slow,
By that wide lily-island, its meshes that weaves
Of rich yellow globules, and green oval leaves.
I watch them; how bright and superb is the sheen
Of their plumage, gold blended with purple and green;
How graceful their dipping — how gliding their way!
Are they not all too lovely to mark as a prey?
One flutters, enchain' d, in those brown, speckled stems,
His yellow foot striking up bubbles, like gems,
While another, with stretch'd neck, darts swiftly across
To the grass, whose green points dot the mirror-like gloss.
But I pause in my toil; their wise leader, the drake,
Eyes keen the queer thicket afloat on the lake;
Now they group close together — both barrels! —
O, dear!
What a diving, and screaming, and splashing are here!
The smoke-curls melt off, as the echoes rebound,
Hurrah! five dead victims are floating around!
But "cloud-land" is tinged now with sunset, and bright
On the water's smooth polish stretch long lines of light;
The headlands their masses of shade, too, have lain,
And I pull with my spoil to the margin again.