Name/Title
AU Lambert, Bertha Elizabeth [Harris] - XXXX-XX-XX - 'Gathering Walnuts'Entry/Object ID
1990.1.385Context
GATHERING WALNUTS
by
Bertha Elizabeth Lambert
It is a bright afternoon in October. The air is cool and crisp. The first frost has painted the hilly woodland in yellow and gold and red. The barns are full to bursting with the last load of harvest. The cellar bin is fragrant with the newly picked apples. Only yesterday the last load of big round ruddy pumpkins was stored in the shed.
We hear the rumbling of wheels and a jolly voice calls, “Come children, we're going to gather walnuts.” No second invitation is needed for this was an annual occurrence of the greatest importance to us. And that dear jolly father was just wise enough to make it a more wonderful event by keeping it a secret all his own until the moment when the old farm wagon with its prancing steeds stood at the door. Pell-mell, helter-skelter, hurry-scurry, we piled into the wagon. One, two, three, four, five, six—yes, almost a dozen, until it would seem there could be no room for the gathered sweetmeats. But no one must be left behind for this is our gala holiday.
Down the long shady lane, and then the pasture fields, the wagon rumbles along while we sing and shout just to hear the echo through the hills. The long whip cracks in the air and away the happy steeds go along by the babbling brook where on warm summer days we cooled our feet in that self same brook. We wonder sometimes why it never stops and how it can flow on day after day and year after year. The cows grazing on the hillside look up as we pass and wonder why we have come for them so early.
The sheep have hardly time to greet us, but with a mouthful of grass they “blaaaa.” Crows fly past and echo their “caw-caw” as they stare at us and wonder what is the occasion for such merriment.
And now we come to the great trees laden with the brown nuts. Last night's wind has already covered the ground and while strong arms rattle down the remaining ones the rest engage in picking them up in baskets until the old farm wagon almost groans with its load of winter treasures. It is no matter to us that our hands are brown already with the stain from the green hulls.
We think of the long winter evenings when we will sit by the big fireplace cracking nuts and eating apples; while we vainly try to count the sparks as they ascend the great chimney and wish we had so many dollars.
As we wend our way homeward through the pasture fields and up the long shady lane we watch the golden sunset and wonder if Heaven is not somewhere just beyond with its streets of gold and its gates of pearl. But though we do not know it, heaven is already in our hearts. For what can compare to the happy, care-free life of childhood.
