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Accounting An Introduction 4th Edition Peter Atrill
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Peter Atrill
ISBN(s): 9781408212158, 0273711369
Edition: 4th Revised edition
File Details: PDF, 11.68 MB
Year: 2007
Language: english
 Accounting Fourth Edition
An Introduction Fourth Edition

Eddie McLaney Peter Atrill

Fourth Edition
Accounting
Accounting: An Introduction 4th edition is renowned for its clear, accessible and uncluttered style. It provides a
An Introduction
comprehensive introduction to the main principles of financial accounting, management accounting, and the core
elements of financial management. With a clear and unequivocal focus on how accounting information can be used

Accounting An Introduction
to improve the quality of decision making by managers, combined with a strong practical emphasis, this book
provides the ideal grounding for a career in management.
Eddie McLaney
Audience Features
Suitable for all those studying an introductory course ● Progress checks: numerous activities and Peter Atrill
in accounting, who are seeking an understanding of exercises enable you to constantly test
basic principles and underlying concepts without your understanding and reinforce learning.
detailed technical knowledge. ● Lively and relevant examples from the real
world demonstrate the practical application
Authors and value of concepts and techniques learnt.
Eddie McLaney is Visiting Fellow in Accounting and ● Interactive ‘open learning’ style is ideal for
Finance at the University of Plymouth. self study.
Peter Atrill is a freelance academic and author ● Decision making focus on the use of
working with leading institutions in the UK, Europe accounting information rather than its
and SE Asia. He was previously Head of Business preparation is highly appropriate for
and Management at the University of Plymouth tomorrow’s business managers.
Business School. ● Fully incorporates International Financial
Reporting Standards, which are crucial in
Visit the companion website at the European and world business arena.
www.pearsoned.co.uk/mclaney
● Key terms, glossary and bulleted summaries
are excellent revision aids.
● Clearer distinctions between process
costing and job order costing.
● More extensive coverage of corporate
governance and ethics issues.

The text is supported by MyAccountingLab, a completely new type of educational resource. MyAccountingLab
complements student learning by presenting the user with a study plan that adapts and customises to the student’s
individual requirements as they progress through online tests. Students can also practice problems before taking
tests, and because most of these are algorithmically driven, they can practice over and over again without repetition.

Peter Atrill
Eddie McLaney
Additionally, students have access to an eBook, animated guides to various key topics, and guided solutions, all of
which are designed to help them overcome the most difficult concepts. Both students and lecturers have access to
gradebooks that allow them to track progress, and lecturers will have the ability to create new tests and activities
using the large number of problems available in the question database.

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ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page i

Accounting
An Introduction

Visit the Accounting: An Introduction, fourth edition Companion Website at

www.pearsoned.co.uk/mclaney to find valuable student learning material
including:

● Multiple choice questions to help test your learning

● Additional exercises and review questions
● Solutions to end of chapter review questions
● Links to relevant sites on the web
● An online glossary to explain key terms
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page ii

We work with leading authors to develop the strongest

educational materials in Accounting, bringing cutting-edge
thinking and best learning practice to a global market.

Under a range of well-known imprints, including

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publishing, please visit us on the World Wide Web at:
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ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page iii

4th
edition

Accounting
An Introduction

Eddie McLaney
and
Peter Atrill
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page iv

Pearson Education Limited

Edinburgh Gate
Harlow
Essex CM20 2JE
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and Associated Companies throughout the world

Visit us on the World Wide Web at:

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First published 1999 by Prentice Hall Europe

Second edition published 2002
Third edition published 2005
Fourth edition published 2008

© Prentice Hall Europe 1999

© Pearson Education Limited 2002, 2005, 2008

The rights of Eddie McLaney and Peter Atrill to be identified as authors of this work have
been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a
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Licensing Agency Ltd, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

All trademarks used herein are the property of their respective owners. The use of any
trademark in this text does not vest in the author or publisher any trademark ownership
rights in such trademarks, nor does the use of such trademarks imply any affiliation with
or endorsement of this book by such owners.

ISBN 978-0-273-71136-0

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
11 10 09 08 07

Typeset in 9.5/12.5pt Stone Serif by 35

Printed and bound by Mateu Cromo Artes Graficas, Spain

The publisher’s policy is to use paper manufactured from sustainable forests.

ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page v

Brief contents

Preface • How to use this book • Guided tours • Acknowledgements xxi–xxviii

1 Introduction to accounting and finance 1

Part 1 Financial accounting 35

2 Measuring and reporting financial position 37

3 Measuring and reporting financial performance 71
4 Accounting for limited companies (1) 115
5 Accounting for limited companies (2) 159
6 Measuring and reporting cash flows 192
7 Analysing and interpreting financial statements 221

Part 2 Management accounting 277

8 Relevant costs for decision making 279

9 Cost–volume–profit analysis 297
10 Full costing 332
11 Costing and pricing in a competitive environment 372
12 Budgeting 430
13 Accounting for control 470

Part 3 Financial management 507

14 Making capital investment decisions 509

15 Financing the business 566
16 Managing working capital 614

Part 4 Supplementary information 657

Appendix A Recording financial transactions 659

Appendix B Glossary of key terms 677
Appendix C Solutions to self-assessment questions 693
Appendix D Solutions to review questions 709
Appendix E Solutions to selected exercises 723
Appendix F Present value table 787

Index 789
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page vi
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page vii

Detailed contents

Preface xxi
How to use this book xxii
Guided tour of the book xxiv
Guided tour MyAccountingLab xxvi
Acknowledgements xxviii

1 Introduction to accounting and finance 1

Introduction 1
Learning outcomes 1
What are accounting and finance? 2
Who are the users of accounting information? 3
The conflicting interests of users 5
How useful is accounting information? 5
Evidence on the usefulness of accounting 6
Providing a service 7
But . . . is it material? 8
Weighing up the costs and benefits 9
Accounting as an information system 11
Management and financial accounting 13
Scope of this book 15
Has accounting become too interesting? 15
The changing face of accounting 16
Why do I need to know anything about accounting and finance? 17
Accounting for business 18
What is the purpose of a business? 18
What kinds of business ownership exist? 19
Sole proprietorship 19
Partnership 20
Limited company 20
How are businesses organised? 22
How are businesses managed? 24
What is the financial objective of a business? 25
Balancing risk and return 28
Not-for-profit organisations 28
Summary 30
Key terms 32
References 32
Further reading 32
Review questions 33
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page viii

viii CONTENTS

Part 1 Financial accounting

2 Measuring and reporting financial position 37

Introduction 37
Learning outcomes 37
The major financial statements – an overview 38
The balance sheet 42
Assets 42
Claims 44
The effect of trading operations on the balance sheet 47
The classification of assets 49
Current assets 50
Non-current assets 50
The classification of claims 52
Balance sheet layouts 52
The balance sheet and time 55
Accounting conventions and the balance sheet 55
Business entity convention 55
Historic cost convention 56
Prudence convention 56
Going concern convention 57
Dual aspect convention 57
Money measurement 58
Goodwill and brands 59
Human resources 60
Monetary stability 60
Valuing assets on the balance sheet 61
Tangible non-current assets (property, plant and equipment) 61
Intangible non-current assets 63
The impairment of non-current assets 63
Inventories (stock) 64
Interpreting the balance sheet 65
Summary 66
Key terms 67
Further reading 67
Review questions 68
Exercises 68

3 Measuring and reporting financial performance 71

Introduction 71
Learning outcomes 71
The income statement 72
The income statement and the balance sheet 73
Income statement layout 74
Some further issues 75
Cost of sales 76
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page ix

CONTENTS ix

Classification of expenses 77
The accounting period 78
Recognising revenue 79
Long-term contracts 80
Services 81
Recognising expenses 82
When the expense for the period is more than the cash paid
during the period 83
When the amount paid during the year is more than the full
expense for the period 85
Profit, cash and accruals accounting 86
Depreciation 87
Tangible non-current assets (property, plant and equipment) 87
Depreciating intangible assets 93
Depreciation and the replacement of non-current assets 94
Depreciation and judgement 95
Costing inventories 97
First in, first out (FIFO) 97
Last in, first out (LIFO) 98
Weighted average cost (AVCO) 98
Inventories – some further issues 100
Dealing with trade receivables’ problems 101
Interpreting the income statement 107
Summary 107
Key terms 109
Further reading 109
Review questions 110
Exercises 110

4 Accounting for limited companies (1) 115

Introduction 115
Learning outcomes 115
The main features of limited companies 116
Legal nature 116
Perpetual life 116
Limited liability 117
Legal safeguards 119
Public and private companies 119
Taxation 121
Transferring share ownership: the role of the Stock Exchange 122
Managing a company 123
Strengthening the framework of rules 124
The Combined Code 124
Financing limited companies 128
The owners’ claim 128
The basic division 129
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page x

x CONTENTS

Share capital 130

Reserves 131
Altering the nominal value of shares 133
Bonus shares 134
Share capital jargon 136
Raising share capital 136
Borrowings 137
Withdrawing equity 139
The main financial statements 142
The income statement 144
The balance sheet 144
Dividends 145
Accounting for groups of companies 145
Summary 150
Key terms 152
Reference 152
Further reading 152
Review questions 153
Exercises 153

5 Accounting for limited companies (2) 159

Introduction 159
Learning outcomes 159
The directors’ duty to account 160
The need for accounting rules 161
Sources of accounting rules 161
Presenting the financial statements 164
Income statement 165
Balance sheet 166
Statement of changes in equity 166
Cash flow statement 168
Explanatory notes 168
General points 168
The framework of principles 169
The IASB framework 169
The auditors’ role 170
Directors’ report 171
Segmental financial reports 171
Segmental reporting rules 172
Segmental disclosure 173
Problems of segmental reporting 174
Narrative reporting 175
The OFR framework 176
The business review and RS 1 179
Summary financial statements 180
Creative accounting 180
Creative accounting methods 180
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xi

CONTENTS xi

Checking for creative accounting 184

Creative accounting and economic growth 185
Summary 185
Key terms 187
Further reading 187
Review questions 188
Exercises 188

6 Measuring and reporting cash flows 192

Introduction 192
Learning outcomes 192
The cash flow statement (or statement of cash flows) 193
Why is cash so important? 194
The main features of the cash flow statement 195
A definition of cash and cash equivalents 195
The relationship between the primary financial statements 196
The form of the cash flow statement 197
The normal direction of cash flows 199
Preparing the cash flow statement 201
Deducing net cash flows from operating activities 201
Deducing the other areas of the cash flow statement 204
What does the cash flow statement tell us? 208
Summary 211
Key terms 212
Further reading 212
Review questions 213
Exercises 213

7 Analysing and interpreting financial statements 221

Introduction 221
Learning outcomes 221
Financial ratios 222
Financial ratio classifications 223
The need for comparison 223
Past periods 224
Similar businesses 224
Planned performance 224
Calculating the ratios 225
A brief overview 227
Profitablility 228
Return on ordinary shareholders’ funds (ROSF) 228
Return on capital employed (ROCE) 229
Operating profit margin 230
Gross profit margin 231
Efficiency 233
Average inventories turnover period 233
Average settlement period for trade receivables 234
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xii

xii CONTENTS

Average settlement period for trade payables 235

Sales revenue to capital employed 236
Sales revenue per employee 237
Relationship between profitablility and efficiency 238
Liquidity 240
Current ratio 240
Acid test ratio 241
Cash generated from operations to maturing obligations 241
Financial gearing 242
Gearing ratio 244
Interest cover ratio 245
Investment ratios 248
Dividend payout ratio 248
Dividend yield ratio 249
Earnings per share 250
Cash generated from operations per share 250
Price/earnings (P/E) ratio 251
Financial ratios and the problem of overtrading 256
Trend analysis 258
Using ratios to predict financial failure 260
Using single ratios 260
Using combinations of ratios 262
Z score models 263
Limitations of ratio analysis 264
Summary 266
Key terms 268
References 268
Further reading 268
Review questions 269
Exercises 269

Part 2 Management accounting

8 Relevant costs for decision making 279

Introduction 279
Learning outcomes 279
What is meant by ‘cost’? 280
Relevant costs: opportunity and outlay costs 282
Sunk costs and committed costs 286
Qualitative factors of decisions 287
Summary 289
Key terms 290
Further reading 290
Review questions 291
Exercises 291
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xiii

CONTENTS xiii

9 Cost–volume–profit analysis 297

Introduction 297
Learning outcomes 297
The behaviour of costs 298
Fixed costs 298
Variable costs 300
Semi-fixed (semi-variable) costs 301
Estimating semi-fixed (semi-variable) costs 302
Finding the break-even point 303
Contribution 307
Margin of safety 308
Operating gearing 311
Operating gearing and its effect on profit 311
Profit–volume charts 313
The economist’s view of the break-even chart 313
Failing to break even 315
Weaknesses of break-even analysis 315
Using contribution to make decisions: marginal analysis 317
Accepting/rejecting special contracts 318
The most efficient use of scarce resources 319
Make-or-buy decisions 322
Closing or continuation decisions 323
Summary 325
Key terms 326
Further reading 326
Review questions 327
Exercises 327

10 Full costing 332

Introduction 332
Learning outcomes 332
Why do managers want to know the full cost? 333
What is full costing? 334
Single-product businesses 334
Multi-product businesses 335
Direct and indirect costs 336
Job costing 337
Full (absorption) costing and the behaviour of costs 338
The problem of indirect costs 340
Overheads as service renderers 340
Job costing: a worked example 340
Selecting a basis for charging overheads 344
Segmenting the overheads 347
Dealing with overheads on a departmental basis 348
Batch costing 358
Full (absorption) cost as the break-even price 359
The forward-looking nature of full (absorption) costing 359
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xiv

xiv CONTENTS

Using full (absorption) cost information 360

Criticisms of full (absorption) costing 362
Full (absorption) costing versus variable costing 362
Which method is better? 363
Summary 364
Key terms 366
References 366
Further reading 366
Review questions 367
Exercises 367

11 Costing and pricing in a competitive environment 372

Introduction 372
Learning outcomes 372
Costing and the changed business environment 373
Costing and pricing in the traditional way 373
Costing and pricing in the new environment 374
Activity-based costing 374
An alternative approach to full costing 375
What drives the costs? 376
Cost pools 376
ABC and service industries 377
Criticisms of ABC 381
Other approaches to cost management 385
Total (or whole) life-cycle costing 385
Target costing 388
Costing quality control 389
Kaizen costing 390
Value chain analysis 390
Benchmarking 392
Non-financial measures of performance 393
The Balanced Scorecard 394
Measuring shareholder value 401
The quest for shareholder value 401
How can shareholder value be created? 401
The need for new measures 402
Economic value added (EVA®) 403
Pricing 409
Economic theory 409
Some practical considerations 416
Full cost (cost-plus) pricing 417
Pricing on the basis of relevant/marginal cost 420
Target pricing 422
Pricing strategies 422
Summary 423
Key terms 425
References 425
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xv

CONTENTS xv

Further reading 425

Review questions 426
Exercises 426

12 Budgeting 430
Introduction 430
Learning outcomes 430
How budgets link with strategic plans and objectives 431
Collecting information on performance and exercising control 432
Time horizon of plans and budgets 432
Limiting factors 434
Budgets and forecasts 434
Periodic and continual budgets 434
How budgets link to one another 435
How budgets help managers 437
The budget-setting process 440
Using budgets in practice 443
Incremental and zero-base budgeting 446
Preparing the cash budget 447
Preparing other budgets 451
Activity-based budgeting 454
Non-financial measures in budgeting 455
Budgets and management behaviour 455
Who needs budgets? 456
Beyond conventional budgeting 457
Long live budgets! 460
Summary 461
Key terms 462
References 462
Further reading 462
Review questions 463
Exercises 463

13 Accounting for control 470

Introduction 470
Learning outcomes 470
Budgeting for control 471
Types of control 472
Variances from budget 473
Flexing the budget 474
Sales volume variance 474
Sales price variance 477
Materials variance 478
Labour variances 479
Fixed overhead variance 480
Reasons for adverse variances 484
Non-operating-profit variances 486
Investigating variances 486
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xvi

xvi CONTENTS

Compensating variances 489

Making budgetary control effective 490
Behavioural issues 490
The impact of management style 491
Reservations about the Hopwood study 492
Failing to meet the budget 492
Standard quantities and cost 494
Setting standards 494
What kinds of standards should be used? 494
Information gathering 495
The learning-curve effect 496
Other uses for standard costing 497
Some problems . . . 497
The new business environment 498
Summary 499
Key terms 501
References 501
Further reading 501
Review questions 502
Exercises 502

Part 3 Financial management

14 Making capital investment decisions 509

Introduction 509
Learning outcomes 509
The nature of investment decisions 510
Investment appraisal methods 511
Accounting rate of return (ARR) 513
ARR and ROCE 515
Problems with ARR 515
Payback period (PP) 518
Problems with PP 520
Net present value (NPV) 522
Interest lost 523
Risk 523
Inflation 524
What will a logical investor do? 524
Using discount tables 527
Why NPV is better 529
NPV’s wider application 530
Internal rate of return (IRR) 530
Problems with IRR 533
Some practical points 534
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xvii

CONTENTS xvii

Investment appraisal in practice 537

Dealing with risk 541
Assessing the level of risk 541
Reacting to the level of risk 551
Managing investment projects 552
Stage 1: Determine investment funds available 553
Stage 2: Identify profitable project opportunities 554
Stage 3: Evaluate the proposed project 554
Stage 4: Approve the project 555
Stage 5: Monitor and control the project 555
Summary 557
Key terms 559
References 559
Further reading 559
Review questions 560
Exercises 560

15 Financing the business 566

Introduction 566
Learning outcomes 566
Sources of finance 567
Sources of internal finance 567
Long-term sources of internal finance 568
Retained profits 568
Short-term sources of internal finance 569
Tighter credit control 569
Reducing inventories levels 570
Delaying payment to trade payables 570
Sources of external finance 570
Long-term sources of external finance 570
Ordinary shares 571
Preference shares 572
Loans (borrowings) 573
Finance leases and sale-and-leaseback arrangements 580
Hire purchase 582
Gearing and the long-term financing decision 583
Share issues 586
Rights issue 586
Offer for sale and public issue 589
Private placing 590
Bonus issue 590
The role of the Stock Exchange 590
Advantages of a listing 592
Disadvantages of a listing 594
Alternative Investment Market 596
Short-term sources of external finance 597
Bank overdraft 597
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xviii

xviii CONTENTS

Debt factoring 597

Invoice discounting 598
Long-term versus short-term borrowing 600
Providing long-term finance for the small business 601
Venture capital 601
Business angels 603
Government assistance 603
Summary 605
Key terms 607
Further reading 607
Review questions 608
Exercises 608

16 Managing working capital 614

Introduction 614
Learning outcomes 614
The nature and purpose of working capital 615
Managing working capital 616
The scale of working capital 616
Managing inventories 618
Budgeting future demand 620
Financial ratios 620
Recording and reordering systems 620
Levels of control 622
Inventories management models 622
Managing receivables 627
Which customers should receive credit and how much should
they be offered? 627
Length of credit period 629
Cash discounts 631
Debt factoring and invoice discounting 632
Collection policies and reducing the risk of non-payment 632
Managing cash 635
Why hold cash? 635
How much cash should be held? 636
Controlling the cash balance 636
Cash budgets and managing cash 638
Operating cash cycle 638
Cash transmission 641
Bank overdrafts 642
Managing trade payables 642
Controlling trade payables 643
Working capital problems of the small business 644
Managing inventories 644
Credit management 644
Managing cash 645
Managing credit suppliers 645
ACCA_A01.qxd 7/08/2007 11:14 Page xix

CONTENTS xix

Summary 646
Key terms 648
Reference 648
Further reading 648
Review questions 649
Exercises 649

Part 4 Supplementary information

Appendix A Recording financial transactions 659

Introduction 659
Learning outcomes 659
The basics of double-entry bookkeeping 660
Recording trading transactions 662
Balancing acccounts and the trial balance 665
Preparing the financial statements (final accounts) 669
The ledger and its division 672
Summary 673
Key terms 673
Further reading 674
Exercises 675
Appendix B Glossary of key terms 677
Appendix C Solutions to self-assessment questions 693
Appendix D Solutions to review questions 709
Appendix E Solutions to selected exercises 723
Appendix F Present value table 787
Index 789
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intimate, are quite as rare as perfectly sound bodies. At that rate
there cannot be more than two or three truly sane men in this small
town; and the probabilities are that I am not one of them.
 A DAY IN FRANCONIA
It is the most delightful of autumn days, too delightful, it seemed to
me this morning, to have been designed for anything like work. Even
a walking vacationer, on pedestrian pleasures bent, would accept the
weather’s suggestion, if he were wise. Long hours and short
distances would be his programme; a sparing use of the legs, with a
frequent resort to convenient fence-rails and other seasonable
invitations. There are times, said I, when idleness itself should be
taken on its softer side; and to-day is one of them.
Thus minded, I turned into the Landaff Valley shortly after breakfast,
and at the old grist-mill crossed the river and took my favorite road
along the hillside. As I passed the sugar grove I remembered that it
was almost exactly four months since I had spent a delicious Sunday
forenoon there, seated upon a prostrate maple trunk. Then it was
spring, the trees in fresh leaf, the grass newly sprung, the world full
of music. Bobolinks were rollicking in the meadow below, and
swallows twittered overhead. Then I sat in the shade. Now there
was neither bobolink nor swallow, and when I looked about for a
seat I chose the sunny side of the wall.
Only four months, and the year was already old. But the mountains
seemed not to know it. Washington, Jefferson, and Adams;
Lafayette, Haystack, and Moosilauke;—not a cloud was upon one of
them. And between me and them lay the greenest of valleys.
So for the forenoon hours I sat and walked by turns; stopping beside
a house to enjoy a flock of farm-loving birds,—bluebirds especially,
with voices as sweet in autumn as in spring,—loitering under the
long arch of willows, taking a turn in the valley woods, where a
drumming grouse was almost the only musician, and thence by easy
stages sauntering homeward for dinner.
For the afternoon I have chosen a road that might have been made
on purpose for the man and the day. It is short (two miles, or a little
more, will bring me to the end of it), it starts directly from the door,
with no preliminary plodding through dusty village streets, and it is
not a thoroughfare, so that I am sure to meet nobody, or next to
nobody, the whole afternoon long. At any rate, no wagon loads of
staring “excursionists” will disturb my meditations. It is substantially
level, also; and once more (for a man cannot think of everything at
once) it is wooded on one side and open to the afternoon sun on the
other. For the present occasion, furthermore, it is perhaps a point in
its favor that it does not distract me with mountain prospects.
Mountains are not for all moods; there are many other things worth
looking at. Here, at this minute, as I come up a slope, I face halfway
about to admire a stretch of Gale River, a hundred feet below,
flowing straight toward me, the water of a steely blue, so far away
that it appears to be motionless, and so little in volume that even
the smaller boulders are no more than half covered. Beyond it the
hillside woods are gorgeously arrayed—pale green, with reds and
yellows of all degrees of brilliancy. The glory of autumn is nearly at
the full, and at every step the panorama shifts. As for the day, it
continues perfect, deliciously cool in the shade, deliciously warm in
the sun, with the wind northwesterly and light. Many yellow
butterflies are flitting about, and once a bright red angle-wing alights
in the road and spreads itself carefully to the sun. While I am
looking at it, sympathizing with its comfort, I notice also a shining
dark blue beetle—an oil-beetle, I believe it is called—as handsome
as a jewel, traveling slowly over the sand.
I have been up this way so frequently of late that the individual
trees are beginning to seem like old friends. It would not take much
to make me believe that the acquaintance is mutual. “Here he is
again,” I fancy them saying one to another as I round a turn. Some
of them are true philosophers, or their looks belie them. Just now
they are all silent. Even the poplars cannot talk, it appears (a most
worthy example), without a breath of inspiration to set them going.
The stillness is eloquent. A day like this is the crown of the year. It is
worth a year’s life to enjoy it. There is much to see, but best of all is
the comfort that wraps us round and the peace that seems to brood
over the world. If the first day was of this quality, we need not
wonder that the maker of it took an artist’s pride in his work and
pronounced it good.
As for the road, there is still another thing to be said in its praise:
While it follows a straight course, it is never straight itself for more
than a few rods together. If you look ahead a little space you are
sure to see it running out of sight round a corner, beckoning you
after it. A man would be a poor stick who would not follow. Every
rod brings a new picture. How splendid the maple leaves are, red
and yellow, with the white boles of the birches, as white as milk, or,
truer still, as white as chalk, to set off their brightness. I could walk
to the world’s end on such an invitation.
But the road, as I said, is a short one. Its errand is only to three
farms, and I am now on the edge of the first of them. Here the
wood moves farther away, and mountains come into view,—
Lafayette, Haystack, and the Twins, with the tips of Washington,
Jefferson, and Adams. Then, when the second of the houses is
passed, the prospect narrows again. An extremely pretty wood of
tall, straight trees, many fine poplars among them (and now they
are all talking), is close at my side. The sunlight favors me, falling
squarely on the shapely, light-colored trunks (some of the poplars
are almost as white as the birches), and filling the whole place with
splendor. I go on, absorbed in the lovely spectacle, and behold, it is
as if a veil were suddenly removed. The wood is gone, and the
horizon is full of mountain-tops. I have come to the last of the
farms, and in another minute or two am at the door.
There is nobody at home, to my regret, and I sit down upon the
doorstep. Moosilauke, Kinsman, Cannon, Lafayette, Haystack, the
Twins, Washington, Clay, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison—these are
enough, though there are others, too, if a man were trying to make
a story. All are clear of clouds, and, like the trees of the wood, have
the western light full on them. Even without the help of a glass I see
a train ascending Mt. Washington. Happy passengers, say I. Would
that I were one of them! The season is ending in glory at the
summit, for this is almost or quite its last day, and there cannot have
been many to match it, the whole summer through.
I loiter about the fields for an hour or more, looking at the blue
mountains and the nearer, gayer-colored hills, but the occupant of
the house is nowhere to be found. I was hoping for a chat with him.
A seeing man, who lives by himself in such a place as this, is sure to
have something to talk about. The last time I was here he told me a
pretty story of a hummingbird. He was in the house, as I remember
it, when he heard the familiar, squeaking notes of a hummer, and
thinking that their persistency must be occasioned by some unusual
trouble, went out to investigate. Sure enough, there hung the bird in
a spider’s web attached to a rosebush, while the owner of the web,
a big yellow-and-brown, pot-bellied, bloodthirsty rascal, was turning
its victim over and over, winding the web about it. Wings and legs
were already fast, so that all the bird could do was to cry for help.
And help had come. The man at once killed the spider, and then,
little by little, for it was an operation of no small delicacy, unwound
the mesh in which the bird was entangled. The lovely creature lay
still in his open hand till it had recovered its breath, and then flew
away. Who would not be glad to play the good Samaritan in such
guise? As I intimated just now, you may talk with a hundred smartly
dressed, smoothly spoken city men without hearing a piece of news
half so important or interesting.
It is five o’clock when I leave the farms and am again skirting the
woods. Now I face the sun, the level rays of which transfigure the
road before me till its beauty is beyond all attempt at description. I
look at it as for a very few times in my life I have looked at a painted
landscape, with unspeakable enjoyment. The subject is of the
simplest: a few rods of common grassy road, arched with bright
leaves and drenched in sunshine; but the suggestion is infinite. After
this the way brings me into sight of the fairest of level green
meadows, with pools of smooth water—“water stilled at even”—and
scattered farmhouses. The day is ending right; and when I reach the
hotel piazza and look back, there in the east is the full moon rising in
all her splendor, attended by rosy clouds.
 WITH THE WADERS
The 12th of October was a day. There are few like it in our
Massachusetts calendar. And by a stroke of good fortune I had
chosen it for a trip to Eagle Hill, on the North Shore. All things were
near perfection; the only drawbacks to my enjoyment being a slight
excess of warmth and an unseasonable plague of mosquitoes.
“Yes, it is too fine,” said the stable-keeper, who drove me down from
the railroad station. “It won’t last. It’s what we call a weather
breeder.”
“So be it,” thought I. Just then I was not concerned with to-morrow.
Happy men seldom are. The stable-keeper spoke more to the
purpose when he told me that during the recent storm a most
exceptional number of birds had been driven in. A certain gunner, Cy
Somebody, had shot twenty-odd dollars’ worth in one day. “There he
is now,” he remarked after a while, as a man and a dog crossed the
road just before us. “Any birds to-day, Cy?” he inquired. The man
nodded a silent affirmative—a very unusual admission for a Yankee
sportsman to make, according to my experience.
I was hardly on foot before I began to find traces of this good man’s
work. The first bird I saw was a sandpiper with one wing dragging
on the ground. Near it was an unharmed companion which, even
when I crowded it a little hard, showed no disposition to consult its
own safety. “Well done,” said I. “‘There is a friend that sticketh closer
than a brother.’”
A few steps more, and a larger bird stirred amid the short marsh
herbage beyond the muddy flat—a black-bellied plover, or “beetle-
head.” He also must be disabled, I thought, to be staying in such a
place; and perhaps he was. At all events he would not fly, but edged
about me in a half circle, with the wariest kind of motions (there was
no sign of cover for him, the grass coming no more than to his
knees), always with his big black eye fastened upon me, while my
field-glass brought him near enough to show all the beauty of his
spots.
He was well worth looking at (“What short work a gunner would
make of him!” I kept repeating to myself), but I could not stay.
Titlark voices were in the air. The birds must be plentiful on the
grassy hills beyond; with them there might be Lapland longspurs;
and I followed the road. This presently brought me to a bit of pebbly
beach, along which I was carelessly walking when a lisping sound
caused me to glance down at my feet. There on the edge of the
water was a bunch of seven sandpipers; white-rumps, as I soon
made out, though my first thought had been of something else. One
of them hobbled upon one leg, but the others seemed thus far to
have escaped injury. There they stood, huddled together as if on
purpose for some pot-shooter’s convenience, while I drew them
within arm’s length; pretty creatures, lovely in their foolish
innocence; more or less nervous under my inspection, but holding
their ground, each with its long black bill pointed against the breeze.
“We who are about to die salute you,” they might have been saying.
Having admired them sufficiently, I passed on. Titlarks were
beginning to abound, but where were the longspurs? A shot was
fired some distance away, and as I looked in that direction two great
blue herons went flying across the marsh, each with his legs behind
him. It was good to see them still able to fly.
Then something—I have no idea what; no sight or sound that I was
sensible of—told me to look at a bird beside the little pool of water I
had just passed. It was another white-rumped sandpiper, all by
himself, nearer to me even than those I had left a little way back.
What a beauty he was!—his dark eye (which I could see winking),
the lovely cinnamon-brown shading of his back and wings, setting
off the marbled black and white, and his shyly confiding demeanor. I
had scarcely stopped before he flew to my side of the pool and
stood as near me as he could get—too near to be shot at. He too
had been hit, or so it seemed. One foot was painful, though he could
put it down, if necessary, and even take a limping step upon it.
Happy bird! He had fared well!
Up the steep, grassy hill I started out of the road; but I soon halted
again, this time to gaze into the sky. Straight above me were
numbers of herring gulls, some far, far up under the fleecy cirrus
clouds, others much lower. All were resting upon the air, sailing in
broad circles. Round and round they went,—a kind of stationary
motion, a spectator might have called it; but in a minute or two they
had disappeared. They were progressing in circles, circle cutting
circle. It is the sea-gull’s way of taking a long flight. I remember it of
old, and have never seen anything to surpass it for gracefulness. If
there were only words to describe such things! But language is a
clumsy tool.
The hilltop offered beauty of another kind: the blue ocean, the
broad, brown marshes, dotted with haycocks innumerable, the hills
landward, a distant town, with its spires showing, the inlet yonder,
whitened with swimming gulls. Crickets chirped in the grass, herds
of cattle and sheep grazed peacefully on all sides, and when I turned
my head, there behind me, a mile away, perhaps, were the shining
Ipswich dunes, wave on wave of dazzling white sand. I ought to
have stayed with the picture, perhaps; but there were no longspurs,
and somehow this was a day for birds rather than for a landscape. I
would return to the muddy flats, and spend my time with the
sandpipers and the plover. The telltale yellow-legs were whistling,
and who could guess what I might see?
At the little pool I must stop for another visit with my single
sandpiper. He would be there, I felt certain. And he was; as pretty as
before, and no more alarmed at my presence, though as he
balanced himself on one leg his body shook with a constant
rhythmical pulsation, as if his heart were beating more violently than
a bird’s heart should. He did not look happy, I thought. And why
should he, far from home, with a wounded foot, no company, and an
unknown number of guns yet to face before reaching the end of his
long journey? He was hardly bigger than a sparrow, but he was one
of the creatures which lordly man, endowed with “godlike reason,” a
being of “large discourse,” so wise and good that he naturally thinks
of the Creator of all things as a person very like himself, finds it
amusing to kill.
And when I came to the few rods of beach, there stood my seven
sandpipers, exactly as before. They stirred uneasily under my gaze,
whispering a few words to one another (“Will he shoot, do you
think?”), but they kept their places, bunched closely together for
safety. Did they know anything about their lonely brother—or sister
—up yonder on the hillside? If they noticed her absence, they
probably supposed her dead. Death is so common and so sudden,
especially in migration time.
Now I am back again on a grassy mound by the muddy flats, and
the big plover is still here. How alert he looks as he sees me
approach! Yet now, as an hour ago, he shows no inclination to fly.
The tide is coming in fast. He steps about in the deepening water
with evident discomfort, and whether he will or not, he must soon
take to wing or wade ashore. And while I am eyeing his motions my
glass falls unexpectedly on two sandpipers near him in the grass;
pectoral sandpipers—grass-birds—I soon say to myself, with acute
satisfaction. It is many years since I saw one. How small their heads
look,—in contrast with the plover’s,—and how thickly and finely their
breasts are streaked! I remember the portrait in Nelson’s “Birds of
Alaska,” with its inflated throat, a monstrous vocal sac, half as large
as the bird itself. A graceful wooer!
They, too, are finding the tide a trouble, and no doubt are wishing
the human intruder would take himself off. Now, in spite of my
presence, one of them follows the other toward the land, scurrying
from one bit of tussock to another, half wading, half swimming. Time
and tide wait for no bird. Both they and the plover have given up all
thoughts of eating. They have enough to do to keep their eyes upon
me and the water.
The sandpipers, being smaller, make their retreat first. One, as he
finds himself so near a stranger, is smitten with sudden fright, and
runs by at full speed on his pretty dark-green legs. Yet both
presently become reassured, and fall to feeding with all composure
almost about my feet. I have been still so long that I must be
harmless. And now the plover himself takes wing (I am glad to find
he can), but only for a rod or two, alighting on a conical bit of island.
There is nothing for him to eat there, apparently, but at least the
place will keep his feet dry. He stands quiet, waiting. And so he
continues to do for the hour and more that I still remain.
My own stay, I should mention, is by this time compulsory. I, too,
am on an island (I have just discovered the fact), and not choosing
to turn wader on my own account, must wait till the tide goes down.
It is no hardship. Every five minutes brings me something new. I
have only now noticed (a slight cry having drawn my attention) that
there are sandpipers of another kind here—a little flock of dunlins, or
redbacks. They are bunched on the pebbly edge of a second island
(which was not an island a quarter of an hour ago), nearer to me
even than the plover’s, and are making the best of the high tide,
which has driven them from their feeding-grounds, by taking a
siesta. Once, when I look that way,—which I can do only now and
then, there are so many distractions,—I find the whole eight with
their bills tucked under their wings. Now, isn’t that a pretty sight!
Their name, as I say, is the red-backed sandpiper; but at this season
their upper parts are of a uniform mouse color, or soft, dark gray—I
hardly know how to characterize it. It is very distinctive, whatever
word we use, and equally so is the shape of the bill, long and stout,
with a downward inflection at the tip. Eight birds, did I say? No,
there are nine, for I have just discovered another, not on the island,
but under the very edge of the grassy bank on which I am standing.
He has a broken leg, poor fellow, and seems to prefer being by
himself; but by and by, with a sudden cry of alarm, for which I can
see no occasion, he flies to rejoin his mates.
Meanwhile, seven white-rumps have come and settled near them;
the same flock that I saw yonder on the roadside beach, I have little
question. Probably the encroaching tide has disturbed them also. At
the same time I hear distant voices of yellow-legs, and presently six
birds are seen flying in this direction. They wheel doubtfully at the
unexpected sight of a man, and drop to the ground beyond range;
but I can see them well enough. How tall they are, and how wide-
awake they look, with their necks stretched out; and how silly they
are,—“telltales” and “tattlers” indeed,—to publish their movements
and whereabouts to every gunner within a mile! While my head is
turned they disappear, and I hear them whistling again across the
marsh. They are all gone, I think; but as I look again toward my
sandpipers’ island, behold! there stands a tall fellow, his yellow legs
shining, and his eye fastened upon me. Either he has lost his reason,
if he ever had any, or he knows I have no gun. Perfectly still he
keeps (he is not an absolute fool, I rejoice to see) as long as I am
looking at him. Then I look elsewhere, and when my eye returns to
his place, he is not there. He has only moved behind the corner of
the islet, however, as I find when I shift my own position by a rod or
two. He seems to be dazed, and for a wonder he holds his tongue.
Titlarks are about me in crowds. One is actually wading along the
shore, with the water up to his belly. Yes, he is doing it again. I look
twice to be sure of him. A flock of dusky ducks fly just above my
head, showing me the lining of their wings. Truly this is a birdy spot;
and luckily, though there are two or three “blinds” near, and guns
are firing every few minutes up and down the marshes, there is no
one here to disturb me and my friends. I could stay with them till
night; but what is that? A buggy is coming down the road out of the
hills with only one passenger. This is my opportunity. I pack up my
glass, betake myself to the roadside, and when the man responds to
my question politely, I take a seat beside him. As he gets out to
unlatch the gate, a minute afterward, a light-colored—dry-sand-
colored—bird flies up and perches on a low fence-rail. This is no
wader, but is none the less welcome. It is an Ipswich sparrow, I
explain to my benefactor, who waits for me to take an observation.
The species was discovered here, I tell him, and was named in the
town’s honor. He seems interested. “I shouldn’t have known it,” he
says. So I have done some good to-day, though I have thought only
of enjoying myself.
 ON THE NORTH SHORE AGAIN
If you have once seen a picture, says Emerson somewhere, never
look at it again. He means that hours of insight are so rare that a
really high and satisfying experience with a book, picture, landscape,
or other object of beauty is to be accepted as final, a favor of
Providence which we have no warrant to expect repeated. If you
have seen a thing, therefore, really seen it and communed with the
soul of it, let that suffice you. Attempts to live the hour over a
second time will only result in failure, or, worse yet, will cast a
shadow over what ought to have been a permanently luminous
recollection.
There is a modicum of sound philosophy in the advice. We must take
it as the counsel of an idealist, and follow it or not as occasion bids.
The words of such men, as one of them was given to saying, are
only for those who have ears to hear. We may be sure of one thing:
poems, landscapes, pictures, and all other works of art (art human
or superhuman) are never to be exhausted by one look, or by a
hundred. If a man is good for anything, and the poem or the
landscape is good for anything, he will find new meanings with new
perusals. In other words, we may turn upon Emerson and say: “Yes,
but then, you know, we never do see a picture—a picture that is a
picture.”
As was related a week ago, I spent the 12th of October on the North
Shore. I brought back the remembrance of a glorious piece of the
world’s beauty. In outline, I had it in my mind. But I knew perfectly,
both at the time and afterward, that I had not really made it my
own. I had been too much taken up with other things. The eye does
not see the landscape; nor does the mind see it. The eye is the lens,
the mind is the plate. The landscape prints itself upon the mind,
through the eye. But the mind must be sensitive and still, and—what
is oftener forgotten—the exposure must be sufficiently prolonged.
The clearest-eyed genius ever born never saw a landscape in ten
minutes.
On all grounds, then, I was entitled to another look. And this time,
perhaps, the Lapland longspurs would be there to be enjoyed with
the rest. I would go again, therefore; and on the morning of the
18th, long before daylight, judging by the quietness of the trees
outside that the wind had gone down (for wind is a serious
hindrance to quiet pleasure at the seashore in autumn, and visits
must be timed accordingly), I determined to set out in good season
and secure a longish day. Venus and the old moon were growing
pale in the east when I started forth, and three hours afterward I
was footing it through Ipswich village toward East Street and the
sea.
As I crossed the marsh and approached the gate, a stranger
overtook me. We managed the business together, one pulling the
gate to, the other tending the hook and staple, and we spoke of the
unusual greenness of the hills before us, on which flocks and herds
were grazing. “There’s better feed now than there’s been all
summer,” the stranger said. It was easy to believe it. Those broad-
backed, grassy hills are one of the glories of the North Shore.
I followed the road as it led me among them. A savanna sparrow
had been dodging along the edge of a ditch near the gate; titlark
voices at once became common, and after a turn or two I saw
before me a bunch of shore larks dusting themselves in the sandy
middle of the track. They were making thorough work of it, crowding
their breasts and necks, and even the sides of their heads into the
soil, with much shaking of feathers afterward.
The road brought me to a beach, where were two or three houses,
and, across the way, a pond stocked with wooden geese and ducks,
with an underground blind for gunners in the side of the hill. Some
delights are so keen that it is worth elaborate preparations to enjoy
them. Here the titlarks were in extraordinary force, and I lingered
about the spot for half an hour, awaiting the longspurs that might be
hoped for in their company. Hoped for, but nothing more. I was still
too early, perhaps.
Well, their absence, the fact of it once accepted, left me free-minded
for the main object of my trip. I would go up the hill, over the grass,
and take the prospect northward. A narrow depression, down which
a brook trickled with a pleasant, companionable noise, as if it were
talking to itself, afforded me shelter from the wind, and at the same
time bounded my outlook on either side, as a frame bounds a
picture. The hill fell away sharply to the water just beyond my feet,
and up and down the inlet gulls were flying. Once, to my pleasure,
two black-backed “coffin-bearers” passed, the only ones I was able
to discover among the thousands of herring gulls that filled the air
and the water, and crowded the sand-bars, the whole day long.
Across the blue water were miles of brown marsh, and beyond the
marsh rose wooded hills veiled with haze, the bright autumnal colors
shining through. Crickets were still musical, buttercups and
dandelions starred the turf, and once a yellow butterfly (Philodice)
flitted near. The summer was gone, but here were some of its
children to keep it remembered. Titlarks walked daintily about the
grass, or balanced themselves upon the boulders, and once I turned
my head just in time to see a marsh hawk sailing over the hill at my
back, his white rump showing.
When I had left the hills behind me, and was again skirting the
muddy flats, I found myself all at once near a few sandpipers,—a
dozen, more or less, of white-rumps,—one with a foot dragging, one
with a leg held up, and beside them a single red-back, or dunlin,
staggering on one leg, the same bird, it seemed likely, that I had
pitied a week ago. I pitied him still. Ornithology, studied under such
conditions, was no longer the cheerful, exhilarating science to which
I am accustomed. It was more like sociology.
Perhaps I am sentimental. If so, may I be forgiven. There is no man
but has his weakness. The dunlin was nothing, I knew; one among
thousands; a few ounces of flesh with feathers on it; what if he did
suffer? It was none of my business. Why should I take other men’s
amusements sadly? The bird was greatly inferior to the being who
shot him; at least that is the commonly accepted theory; and the
superior, as every one but an anarchist must admit, has the rights of
superiority. And for all that, the dunlin seemed a pretty innocent,
and I wished that he had two good legs. As for his being only one of
thousands, so am I—and no very fine one either; but I shouldn’t like
to be shot at from behind a wall; and when I have a toothache, the
sense of my personal insignificance is of small use in dulling the
pain. Poor dunlin!
I allowed myself two hours from the gate back to the railroad
station, though it is less than an hour’s walk. Some of the fairest
views are to be obtained from the road; and there, I told myself, I
should be sheltered from the wind and could sit still at my ease. The
first half of the distance, too, would take me between pleasant
hedgerows, in which are many things worthy of a stroller’s notice.
For some time, indeed, I did little but stop and look behind. The
marshes pulled me about: so level, so expansive, so richly brown, so
pointed with haycocks (once, the notion taking me, I counted far
enough to see that there were more than two hundred in sight), and
so beautifully backed by the golden autumnal hills. I can see them
yet, though I have nothing to say about them.
“The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the
sky!”
Trains of gulls went flying up the inlet as the tide went out. They live
by the sea’s almanac as truly as the clam-diggers, two of whom I
had watched, an hour before, sailing across the inlet in a rude boat
(more picturesque by half than a gentleman’s yacht), and setting
about their day’s work on a shoal newly uncovered. Thank Heaven,
there are still some occupations that cannot be carried on in a
factory.
The roadsides were bright with gay-colored fruits: barberries, thorn
apples, Roxbury waxwork, and rose-hips. Of thorn bushes there
were at least two kinds; one already bare-branched, with scattered
small fruit; the other still in leaf, and loaded with gorgeous clusters
of large red apples. More interesting to me than any of these were
the frost grapes; familiar acquaintances of an Old Colony boyhood,
but now grown to be strangers. They were shining black, ripe and
juicy (of the size of peas), and if their sweetness failed to tempt the
palate, that, for aught I know, may have been the eater’s fault
rather than theirs. Why might not their quality be of a too excellent
sort, beyond his too effeminate powers of appreciation? Is there any
certainty that man’s taste is final in such matters? Was my own
criticism of them anything more than a piece of unscientific,
inconclusive impressionism?
Surely they were not without a tang. The most exacting mouth could
not deny them individuality. I tried them, and retried them; but after
all, they seemed most in place on the vines. To me, in the old days,
they were known only as frost grapes. Others, it appears, have
called them chicken grapes, possum grapes, and winter grapes. No
doubt they find customers before the season is over. Thoreau should
have liked them and praised them, but I do not recall them in his
books. Probably they do not grow in Concord. They are of his kin, at
all events, wildings of the wild. I wish I had brought a bunch or two
home with me. In my present mood I believe they would “go to the
spot.”
But if I was glad to see the frost grapes, I was gladder still to see a
certain hickory tree. I was scarcely off the marsh before I came to it,
and had hardly put my eye upon it before I said to myself (although
so far as I could have specified, it looked like any other hickory; but
there is a kind of knowledge, or half knowledge, that does not rest
upon specifications), “There! That should be a bitternut tree.” Now
the bitternut is not to be called a rarity, I am assured; but somehow
I had never found it, notwithstanding I was a nut-gatherer in my
youth, and have continued to be one to this day, an early taste for
wild forage being one of the virtues that are seldom outgrown. Well,
something distracted my attention just then, and I contented myself
with putting a leaf and a handful of nuts into my pocket. Only on
getting home did I crack one and find it bitter. Now, several days
afterward, I have cracked another, and tested it more fully. The shell
is extremely thin,—like a pecan nut’s for fragility,—and the meat,
which is large and full, is both bitter and puckery, suggesting the
brown inner partitions of a pecan shell, which the eater learns so
carefully to avoid. In outward appearance the nut is a pig-nut pure
and simple, the reader being supposed to be enough of a
countryman to know that pig-nuts, like wild fruits in general, vary
interminably in size, shape, and goodness.
Pretty butter-and-eggs still bloomed beside the stone wall, and the
“folksy mayweed” was plentiful about a barnyard. Out from the
midst of it scampered a rabbit as I approached the fence to look
over. He disappeared in the cornfield, his white tailtip showing last,
and I wondered where he belonged, as there seemed to be neither
wood nor shrubbery within convenient distance.
Just beyond this point (after noticing a downy woodpecker in a
Balm-o’-Gilead tree, if the careful compositor will allow me that
euphonious Old Colony contraction), I had stopped to pick up a
shagbark when five children, the oldest a girl of nine or ten, came
down the road together.
“Out of school, so early?” said I.
“No,” was the instantaneous response; “we’ve got the whooping
cough.”
“Ah, that’s better than going to school, isn’t it?” said I, not so careful
of my moral influence as a descendant of the Puritans ought to have
been, perhaps; but I spoke from impulse, remembering myself how I
also was tempted.
“Yes,” said one of the children; “No,” said another; and the reader
may believe which he will, looking into his own childish heart, if he
can still find it, as I hope he can.
Apple trees were loaded; hollyhocks, marigolds, and even tender
cannas and dahlias, still brightened the gardens (so much for being
near the sea, even on the North Shore), but what I most admired
were the handsome yellow quinces in many of the dooryards. Quince
preserve must be a favorite dish in Ipswich. I thought I should like
to live here. I could smell the golden fruit—in my mind’s nose—clean
across the way. And when I reached the village square I stopped
(no, I walked slowly) to watch a real Old Colony game that I had not
seen played for many a day. Two young men had stuck a jackknife
into the hard earthen sidewalk and were “pitching cents.” It was like
an old daguerreotype. One of the gamesters was having hard luck,
but was taking it merrily. “I owe you six,” I heard him say, as his coin
stood on edge and rolled perversely away from the knife-blade.
This was very near to “Meeting-house Green.” I hope I am doing no
harm to speak of it.
 AUTUMNAL MORALITIES
For the month past my weekly talk has been more or less a
traveler’s tale—of things among the mountains and at the seaside.
Now, on this bright afternoon in the last week of October, a month
that every outdoor man saddens to see coming to an end (like May,
it is never half long enough), let me note a little of what is passing in
the lanes and by-roads nearer home.
Leaves are rustling below and above. As is true sometimes in higher
circles, they seem to grow loquacious with age; the slightest
occasion, the merest nudge of suggestion, the faintest puff of the
spirit sets them off. For me they will never talk too much. I love their
preaching seven days in the week. The driest of them never teased
my ears with a dry sermon. I scuff along the path on purpose to stir
them up. “Your turn will come next,” I hear them saying; but the
message does not sound like bad news. I listen to it with a kind of
pleasure, as to solemn music. If the doctor or the clergyman had
brought me the same word, my spirit might have risen in rebellion;
but the falling leaf may say what it likes. It has poet’s leave.
How gracefully they come to the ground, here one and there
another; slowly, slowly, with leisurely dips and turns, as if the breeze
loved them and would buoy them up till the last inevitable moment.
Children of air and sunshine, they must return to the dust. So all
things move in circles,—life and death, death and life. Happy leaves!
they depart without formalities, with no funereal trappings. The wind
whispers to them, and they follow.
As I watch them falling, a gray squirrel startles me. I rejoice to see
him. He, too, is a falling leaf. In truth, his living presence takes me
by surprise. So many gunners have been in this wood of late, all so
murderously equipped, that I had thought every squirrel must before
this time have gone into the game-bag. Be careful, young fellow;
you will need all your spryness and cunning, all your knack of
keeping on the invisible side of the trunk, or your frolic will end in
sudden blackness. This is autumn, the sickly season for squirrels and
birds. “The law is off,” and the gun is loaded to kill you. Take a
friend’s advice, and fight shy of everything that walks upright “in the
image of God.”
Yonder round-topped sweet birch tree is one of October’s
masterpieces; a sheaf of yellow leaves with the sun on them. How
they shine! Yet it is not so much they as the sunlight. Nay, it is both.
Let the leaves have the honor that belongs to them. In a week they
will all be under foot. To-day they are bright as the sun, and airy and
frolicsome as so many butterflies. Blessed are my eyes that see
them. And look! how the light (what a painter it is!) glorifies the
lower trunk of the white oak just beyond. The furrowed gray bark is
so perfect a piece of absolute beauty that, if it were framed and set
up in a gallery, the crowd—or the few that are better than a crowd—
would be always before it. So cheap and universal are visual
delights, so little dependent upon place or season—sunlight and the
bark of a tree!
In the branches overhead are chestnut-loving blackbirds, every one
with a crack in his voice. Far away a crow is cawing, and from
another direction a jay screams. These speak to the world at large.
Half the township may hear what they have to offer. I like them;
may their speech never be a whit softer or more musical; but if
comparisons are in order, I give my first vote for less public—more
intimate—birds, such as speak only to the grove or the copse. And
even as I confess my preference, a bluebird’s note confirms it: a
voice that caresses the ear; such a tone as no human mouth or
humanly invented instrument can ever produce the like of. He has no
need to sing. His simplest talk is music.
Here, by the wayside, a few asters have sprung up after the scythe,
and are freshly in flower. How blue they are! And how much
handsomer a few stalks of them look now than a full acre did two
months ago. So acceptable is scarcity. There is nothing to equal it for
the heightening of values. It is only the poor who know what money
is worth. It is only in October and November that we feel all the
charm of Aster lævis. I think of Bridget Elia’s lament over the “good
old times” when she and her cousin were “not quite so rich.” Then
the spending of a few shillings had a zest about it. A purchase was
an event, a kind of festival. I believe in Bridget’s philosophy; for the
asters teach the same; yes, and the goldenrods also. They, too, have
come up in the wake of the scythe, and still dwarfed, having no time
to attain their natural growth, as if they knew that winter was upon
them, are already topped with yellow. I carry home a scanty half
handful of the two, asters and goldenrods, as treasure-trove. They
are sure to be welcome. When all the fields were bright with such
things, they seemed hardly worth house-room. This late harvest of
blossoms is one small compensation for all the ugliness inflicted
upon the landscape by the habit—inveterate with highway
“commissioners”—of mowing back-country roadsides. As if stubble
were prettier than a hedge!
Now I pass two long-armed white oaks, which I never come near
without thinking of a friend of mine and of theirs who used to walk
hereabouts with me; a real tree lover, who loves not species, not
white oaks and red oaks, but individual trees, and goes to see them
as one goes to see a man or a woman. This pair he always called
the twins. They have summered and wintered each other for a
hundred years. Who knows—putting the matter on grounds of pure
science—whether they do not enjoy each other’s companionship?
Who knows that trees have no kind of sentience? Not I. We take a
world of things for granted; and if all our neighbors chance to do the
same, we let the general assumption pass for certainty. If trees do
know anything, I would wager that it is something worth knowing,
something quite as good as is to be found in any newspaper.
Here are red maples as bare as December, and yonder is one that is
almost in full leaf; and by some freak of originality every leaf is
bright yellow. Three days more and it will be naked also. Under it are
white-alder bushes (Clethra) clothed in dark purple, and tall
blueberry bushes all in red, with yellow shadings by way of contrast.
This is in a swampy spot, where a lonesome hyla is peeping. Just
beyond, the drier ground is reddened—under the trees—with
huckleberry and dangleberry. Nobody who has not attended to the
matter would imagine how much of the brightness of our New
England autumn—one of the pageants of the world—is due to these
lowly bushes, which most people think of solely as useful in the
production of pies and puddings. Without being mown, the
huckleberry bears a second crop—a crop of color. It is twice blest; it
blesses him that eats and him that looks. In many parts of New
England, at least, the autumnal landscape could better spare the
maples than the blueberries and the huckleberries. Rum-cherry trees
and shrubs—more shrubs than trees—are dressed in lovely shades
of yellow and salmon. Spicebushes wear plain yellow of a peculiarly
delicate cast. I roll a leaf in my hand and find it still spicy. A bush
looks handsomer, I believe, if it is known to smell good. The same
thought came to me a week ago while I was admiring the sassafras
leaves. They were then just at the point of ripeness. Now they have
turned to a dead brown. The maple’s way is in better taste—to shed
its leaves while they are still bright and fresh. They are under my
feet now, a carpet of red and yellow.
One of the oddest bits of fall coloration (I cannot profess greatly to
like it) is the ghostly white—greenish white—of Roxbury waxwork
leaves. It is unique in these parts, so far as I can recall, but is almost
identical with the pallor of striped maple foliage (Acer
Pennsylvanicum) as one sees it in the White Mountains. Waxwork
pigments all go to the berries, it appears. These are showy enough
to suit the most barbaric taste, and are among the things that speak
to me strongest of far-away times, when my childish feet were just
beginning to wander in nature’s garden. The sight of them reminds
me of what a long time I have lived.
A gust of wind strikes a tall willow just as I approach it. See the
leaves tumble! Thick and fast they come, a leafy shower, with none
of those pretty, hesitating, parachute-like reluctances which we
noticed the rounder and lighter birch leaves practicing half an hour
ago. The willow leaves, narrow and pointed, fall more like arrows. I
am put in mind, I cannot tell why, of an early morning hour, years
ago, when I happened to cross a city garden after the first killing
frost, and stopped near a Kentucky coffee-tree. Its foliage had been
struck with death. Not a breath was stirring, but the leaves, already
blackened and curled, dropped in one continuous rain. The tree was
out of its latitude, and had been caught with its year’s work half
done. The frost was a tragedy. This breeze among the willow
branches is nothing so bad as that. Its errand is all in the order of
nature. It calls those who are ready.
My meditations are still running with the season, still playing with
mortality, when a blue jay quits a branch near by (I had not seen
him) and flies off in silence. The jay is a knowing bird. No need to
tell him that there is a time for everything under the sun. He has
proverbial philosophy to spare. Hark! he has found his voice; like a
saucy schoolboy, who waits till he is at a safe distance and then puts
his thumb to his nose, and cries “Yaah, yaah!”
Well, the reader may thank him for one thing. He has made an end
of my autumnal sermon, the text of which, if any one cares to look
for it, may be found in the sixty-fourth chapter of Isaiah, at the sixth
verse.
 A TEXT FROM THOREAU
“There is no more tempting novelty than this new November. No
going to Europe or to another world is to be named with it. Give me
the old familiar walk, post-office and all, with this ever new self, with
this infinite expectation and faith which does not know when it is
beaten. We’ll go nutting once more. We’ll pluck the nut of the world
and crack it in the winter evenings. Theatres and all other sight-
seeing are puppet shows in comparison. I will take another walk to
the cliff, another row on the river, another skate on the meadow, be
out in the first snow, and associate with the winter birds. Here I am
at home. In the bare and bleached crust of the earth, I recognize my
friend.”
Thus bravely did Thoreau enter upon the gray month. It was in
1858, when he was forty-one years old. He wants nothing new, he
assures himself. He will “take the shortest way round and stay at
home.” “Think of the consummate folly of attempting to go away
from here,” he says, underscoring the final word. As if whatever
place a man might move to would not be “here” to him! As if he
could run away from his own shadow! So I interpret the italics.
His protestations, characteristically unqualified and emphatic, imply
that thoughts of travel have beset him. Probably they beset every
outdoor philosopher at this short-day season. They are part of the
autumnal crop. Our northern world begins to look—in cloudy moods
—like a place to escape from. The birds have gone, the leaves have
fallen, the year is done. “Let us arise and go also,” an inward voice
seems to whisper. Not unlikely there is in us all the dormant
remainder of an outworn migratory instinct. Civilization has caged us
and tamed us; “hungry generations” have trodden us down; but
below consciousness and memory there still persists the blind
stirring of ancestral impulse. The fathers were nomads, and the
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