They say that it grew from a green stake which the first land-surveyor planted there for one of his points of sight.John was reminded of it years after when he sat under the shade of the decrepit lime-tree in Freiburg and was told that it was originally a twig which the breathless and bloody messenger carried in his hand when he dropped exhausted in the square with the word "Victory!" on his lips, announcing thus the result of the glorious battle of Morat, where the Swiss in 1476 defeated Charles the Bold.Under the broad but scanty shade of the great button-ball tree (as it was called)stood an old watering-trough, with its half-decayed penstock and well-worn spout pouring forever cold, sparkling water into the overflowing trough.It is fed by a spring near by, and the water is sweeter and colder than any in the known world, unless it be the well Zem-zem, as generations of people and horses which have drunk of it would testify, if they could come back.And if they could file along this road again, what a procession there would be riding down the valley!--antiquated vehicles, rusty wagons adorned with the invariable buffalo-robe even in the hottest days, lean and long-favored horses, frisky colts, drawing, generation after generation, the sober and pious saints, that passed this way to meeting and to mill.
What a refreshment is that water-spout! All day long there are pilgrims to it, and John likes nothing better than to watch them.
Here comes a gray horse drawing a buggy with two men,--cattlebuyers, probably.Out jumps a man, down goes the check-rein.What a good draught the nag takes! Here comes a long-stepping trotter in a sulky; man in a brown linen coat and wide-awake hat,--dissolute, horsey-looking man.They turn up, of course.Ah, there is an establishment he knows well: a sorrel horse and an old chaise.The sorrel horse scents the water afar off, and begins to turn up long before he reaches the trough, thrusting out his nose in anticipation of the coot sensation.No check to let down; he plunges his nose in nearly to his eyes.in his haste to get at it.Two maiden ladies--unmistakably such, though they appear neither "anxious nor aimless "--within the scoop-top smile benevolently on the sorrel back.It is the deacon's horse, a meeting-going nag, with a sedate, leisurely jog as he goes; and these are two of the "salt of the earth,"--the brevet rank of the women who stand and wait,--going down to the village store to dicker.There come two men in a hurry, horse driven up smartly and pulled up short; but as it is rising ground, and the horse does not easily reach the water with the wagon pulling back, the nervous man in the buggy hitches forward on his seat, as if that would carry the wagon a little ahead! Next, lumber-wagon with load of boards; horse wants to turn up, and driver switches him and cries "G'lang," and the horse reluctantly goes by, turning his head wistfully towards the flowing spout.Ah, here comes an equipage strange to these parts, and John stands up to look; an elegant carriage and two horses; trunks strapped on behind; gentleman and boy on front seat and two ladies on back seat,--city people.The gentleman descends, unchecks the horses, wipes his brow, takes a drink at the spout and looks around, evidently remarking upon the lovely view, as he swings his handkerchief in an explanatory manner.
Judicious travelers.John would like to know who they are.Perhaps they are from Boston, whence come all the wonderfully painted peddlers' wagons drawn by six stalwart horses, which the driver, using no rein, controls with his long whip and cheery voice.If so, great is the condescension of Boston; and John follows them with an undefined longing as they drive away toward the mountains of Zoar.
Here is a footman, dusty and tired, who comes with lagging steps.He stops, removes his hat, as he should to such a tree, puts his mouth to the spout, and takes a long pull at the lively water.And then he goes on, perhaps to Zoar, perhaps to a worse place.
So they come and go all the summer afternoon; but the great event of the day is the passing down the valley of the majestic stage-coach,--the vast yellow-bodied, rattling vehicle.John can hear a mile off the shaking of chains, traces, and whiffle-trees, and the creaking of its leathern braces, as the great bulk swings along piled high with trunks.It represents to John, somehow, authority, government, the right of way; the driver is an autocrat, everybody must make way for the stage-coach.It almost satisfies the imagination, this royal vehicle; one can go in it to the confines of the world,--to Boston and to Albany.
There were other influences that I daresay contributed to the boy's education.I think his imagination was stimulated by a band of gypsies who used to come every summer and pitch a tent on a little roadside patch of green turf by the river-bank not far from his house.It was shaded by elms and butternut-trees, and a long spit of sand and pebbles ran out from it into the brawling stream.Probably they were not a very good kind of gypsy, although the story was that the men drank and beat the women.John didn't know much about drinking; his experience of it was confined to sweet cider; yet he had already set himself up as a reformer, and joined the Cold Water Band.The object of this Band was to walk in a procession under a banner that declared,"So here we pledge perpetual hate To all that can intoxicate; "and wear a badge with this legend, and above it the device of a well-curb with a long sweep.It kept John and all the little boys and girls from being drunkards till they were ten or eleven years of age;though perhaps a few of them died meantime from eating loaf-cake and pie and drinking ice-cold water at the celebrations of the Band.
