Recent Rambles Lior | Charles. Conrad Abbott “1 Reet H Un 18 ouch with nature l RETURN TO ALBERT R. MANN LIBRARY ITHACA, N. Y. Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924001109358 RECENT RAMBLES or In Touch with NATURE : L By CHARLES sotneeer M.D. “J AUTHOR OF “A Naturalist’s Rambles about Home," “ Waste- land Wanderings,” ‘‘ Outings at Odd Times,” Etc. Drink in a goodly draugnt of the moming breeze, and keep in touch with Nature. ILLUSTRATED PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY A 36%4 45- Coryricut, 1892, BY JB. Lrerincorr Company. Copyright, 1898, by J. B. Lirpincorr Company. Preface. WHENEVER opportunity occurs I take an outing, and the following pages are the outcome of two years of rambling. Whether the main incident of these days out of doors proves grave or gay matters little, if it recalls some pleasant adventure to graybeard readers or spurs the ambition of my youthful friends. Succeeding in this, I am well rewarded. When out, on pleasure bent, it is not to be sup- posed that life’s shady side will never be turned towards you. Happily, though, the tragedies are one-act, as a rule, while the comedies scarcely know an ending. Even sunshine, however, can be too continuous, and the longest day of summer 3 4 Preface. is not necessarily the jolliest. To be many-sided ourselves, we must know all that Nature has to tell. With the sky only above us, we are among quickly-shifting scenes and should be blind to none. Sunshine and clouds tell the whole story; but without the flight of the shadow over the land- scape, without hearing the scream of the victim as well as the exultant cry of the victor, we can never know the world aright,—never keep in touch with Nature. CCA. BRISTOL, PENNSYLVANIA, June 1, 1892. Contents. PAGE In Touch wiTH NATURE... 2.2 ee ee eee ow 6 A WINTER CaT-BIRD .. 2. 2-2 6 ee ee eee -. WY INTIMATIONS 4 6 2 ®RST KH H SRT HERE SS 25 A RIVER VIEW... 2.2. ee eae Ce eee ae 44 In THE SERPENTS’ PATH. .. +... one ee 51 A VICTIM OF THOREAU .. we ee ee ee ee «sg 102) ANIMALS AS BAROMETERS .. 1... + eee Sas ee JO A RECENT RAMBLE... 6 0 eee ee ee ee ee) OL May-Day ouT oF TOWN . 2... ee ee ew eee 89 Winpy BusH. . . 2. 2 ee ee eee oe eae ee 109 On Hisroric GROUND. .... ow HE we ce FIG ALL DAY AFLOAT. . 6 6 ss ee eee ee tae we 125 AN UP-RIVER RAMBLE . . 6 6 ee ee ee ee ew ww 135 A Day in New MexIco...........2+2.-. 144 RounpD ABOUT BISBEE . . 1. 2. 2 ee ee oe eee 152 A Rocky RAMBLE .. 2-1 eee ee ee ee 2 ee 160 AN ARIZONAN HILL-SIDE . . . ee 6 eo 2 ee ew ee 170 In A SEA-SIDE FOREST ......-. at arreak al ek on Fou 178 A Coo, Gray DAY. 2. 1 ee ee ee we we ew 196 6 Contents. PAGE An AuGusT REVERIE... 26 6 ee ee ee ee ee 208 THE DEFENCE OF IDLENESS .. . . «6 © «© © + «© © © © 220 A PRE-COLUMBIAN MINE . 1. we ee ee ee ee 232 Wuy bo SOME Birps SING?. . . 2. 2 6 ee ee ee 242 AT A Pusiic SALE . 2. 1 ww ee ee ee ee ee 251 OLp FENNY’s DEAD! . 2. 2. 2 6 ee ee ee ee ew ee 257 Tue GATHERING OF THE CLANS... 2... + +e + ~ 262 CAUGHT IN THE RAIN. . . 1 1 1 ee eee ee ew 270 PERSIMMONS .. 1 6 6 eee ee eet ee ee ew we 278 TRACES OF TROGLODYTES .. 1... 26+ + ee 2 ws 289 In WINTER-QUARTERS. . - ee 6 ee ee ee ee es OK THE DuTcH ON THE DELAWARE. .......... 312 List of Hlustrations. PAGE SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW ....... « « Frontispiece. In ToucH witH NATURE... . 0.0.0 ee ee eee QO WHERE I FOUND THE CaT-BIRD ......-+++- IQ A RIVER MIEWs @ a «ee oa we RK Re Ee He AB AN INVITING COVE . 1. 6 ee wee ee ee ew we ee) 52 THE BEAUTIES OF A FroG-POND.......-2.+.2-+ 63 May-Day OUT OF TOWN... 1 2 ee ee eee eee 89 “LET NATURE BE YOUR TEACHER”. ...... 4... 100 AT WINDY BUSH 2. a eee eee ee ee we we ee FTO “ AND THE LoNG RIPPLE WASHING IN THE REEDS” . . 126 THE HILLs ABOUT BISBEE. . 2. ee ee ee ee ee 152 A Coon,GRAY DAY. 2. ee ee ee ee ee G7 Oe eC a 207 IDLE DAYS: ace eee TH CHR eR ee w BBO A CONTEMPLATIVE TREE-TOAD. .........44.. 231 WHERE THE SONG-BIRDS GATHER. . « « «se we ee 245 THE HAUNT OF THE BLACKBIRD. .....* *... 262 PERSIMMONS . «0 se ee ee te et ee ew ww we 279 IN WINTER-QUARTERS. «6 6 se ee ee ew ee ee 33 WHERE THE QLD HousE sTOOD ........... 317 In Touch with Nature. WE carry too much with us when we go into the woods. I had rather dine upon a handful of wild strawberries than gorge myself with canned apri- cots. Doing the former, one is ready to realize what is transpiring; the latter, and the chances are you will feel like a fool. Eat, as a matter of necessity, when in the field; but do not poison the fresh air of a wilderness with the fumes from a frying-pan. It is a woful error to carry the city in a grip-sack whenever we take to wild life. It forces the thoughts of civilization to the front, and we are simply out of place, while anxious to ‘be in touch with nature. Town trumpery in the woods is mental poison. Twist a broad oak-leaf into a funnel, and you have a goblet worthy of pure spring water; and if a mussel-shell, reflect- ing all the hues of a sunset sky, is not a spoon to 9 10 In Touch with Nature. suit you, keep out of the woods. The shady side of a village street is all you need. There were high hills behind the tent, a broad river in front, and in mid-stream two beautiful islands. The latter were evidently one island originally, although the oldest inhabitant denies it. Whether or not, I shall call them one, for the separating cross-flow of water does not prevent wading from the upper to the lower section. The interest here is threefold —its natural history, its archeology, and its colonial history. When we find so much worthy of contemplation, and so little of man’s destructive interference, it is well to be in touch with our surroundings. Merely catching a glimpse from the car-window of the river and its double island, one would little sus- pect how much has transpired in this quiet nook, and how very much remains of truly olden times. Moss had gathered on the walls of more than one house before the Revolution was dreamed of, and on that island once lived that sturdy hunter that walked (?) sixty odd miles in a day and a half, in the interests of the brothers Penn. This man, Edward Marshall, has passed into In Touch with Nature. II history, and tales of his exploits in Indian warfare are endless throughout the neighborhood. I sat for a while, one morning, on the porch of his brother’s house, holding the doughty Edward’s rifle in my lap, the while listening to the strange adventures, as tradition has them, wherein this rifle played a most important part. With it, one story goes, Marshall killed ninety-nine Indians, and his sole regret at dying was, that he had not had opportunity to make it an even hundred. It is true the Indians had killed his wife, but this is overmuch revenge for one who claimed to be a Quaker. Doubtless many a fanciful touch has been added to the family traditions in the last century, but that he was a man of unusual parts is certain. A few words concerning Indians credited to him indicates this: “When I discover an Indian I shut one eye and we never meet again.” But let us to weightier matters: awake at dawn, but not responding with commendable promptness to the call of a red-bird perched upon the high rocks behind us, I allowed myself to indulge in that dearest of the day’s occupations, matutinal reveries,—too often “dear” in every sense of the 12 In Touch with Nature. word. There was endless work to do, but who can resist the golden chains that birds bind about us? There was a Carolina wren within a stone’s throw of the tent, and when it sang, I was down the river fifty miles or more, and rusty barns re- placed the rugged mountains. It is not advocating laziness to lie abed, if life’s pleasure comes by so doing, and our time is not another’s. To insure being in touch with nature this day, I had the birds rouse me very gradually, and my proper business was to do wholly as I pleased. The sun was well above the Jersey hills when the river was crossed and we stood on the island. I confess to our method being too cold-blooded and business-like. It had been told us that In- dians once lived here; it was left to us to prove it. Nothing would come amiss, whether bones or stone weapons, It was our purpose to explore, but with the first arrow-head found, I was surfeited; kicked over the traces and made for the woods. The others labored; Iloafed. Shut in by a goodly company of ancient trees, there was opportunity to reduce loafing to a fine art. I did not offer to take the trees by the hand, but every one patted In Touch with Nature. 13 me upon the back. There was no stereotyped murmur of the wind high overhead, but, instead, a gentle crooning of every tree and shrub: a com- muning among themselves that my presence did not disturb. I was welcome to all they had to tell, but alas! who has lived that can report the secrets of a forest? It is idle to attempt it, but none the less is the rambler repaid who can unaffectedly think of trees as his friends. While walking’ thusaimlessly along, profiting, I trust, through unconscious cerebration, I chanced upon a dark pool that might from appearance have been bottomless, but doubtless was extremely shallow. Probably it would not be remembered now, but for a turtle that proved a physicist, if not a philosopher. It was sunning itself or taking an airing, for the sunshine was limited to very uncer- tain flashes, and resting on a bit of wood more than sufficient for its own needs, but not enough for a neighbor. This latter fact was doubtless well impressed upon its mind, and when presently another turtle popped its head above the surface of the water near the raft and attempted to climb on board, the turtle in possession objected and 2 14 In Touch with Nature. pushed the intruder back. Again and again the swimming turtle tried, but without success. Brute force failing, the persistent fellow sunk out of sight and was gone perhaps a minute, when it suddenly reappeared in the rear of the one on the raft, and, giving it a quick blow with its snout from below upward, sent it sprawling into the water; then the tricky fellow climbed quickly on board and looked about, oh, so innocently. It was the modern political game of the “ins” and the “ outs.” It showed, too, that a ready wit counts for a great deal, even among turtles. But now, although little past noontide, the woods began to grow dark; the pleasant murmur ceased, and a forbidding muttering came from the clustered giants of the wood. The lofty tulip- trees were violently moved; the older oaks pro- tested sullenly: a moment of absolute silence, and then the pelting rain. It proved but a passing cloud, and there is no merrier music than tinkling rain-drops rolling from leaf to leaf, splashing and sparkling in the fitful sunbeams. Every bird, too, was ready to sing the song of the shower. Better, I thought, living woods than dead Indians, as I In Touch with Nature. 15 re-entered the open country: a conclusion that led to discussion when I saw my campmate’s grand dis- covery. He had laid bare a one-time village site, and brought to light many a long-buried secret. In suggestive array were the simple weapons with which they hunted and fought; the devices with which they fished; the simpler tools with which they tilled the ground; their corn-mills, cooking utensils and dishes; and, more striking than all else, a cache of more than one hundred beautifully-clipped stone knives that, from the day when the cunning artisan hid them safely until now, had been lying in the ground. They had been closely packed in a small circular hole, so closely that but little sand had sifted between the blades. This was a discovery well worth making, and he is but a sluggish lump of laziness who cannot enthuse under such circumstances. Writes William Strachey, in his “ History of Travaile in Virginia,” more than two centuries ago: “Their corne and (indeed) their copper, hatchetts, howses (hoes), beades, perle and most things with them of value according to their estymacion, they hide, one from knowledge of another, in the ground within 16 In Touch with Nature. the woods and so keep them all the yeare, or until they have fit use for them.” Seeing all these things, as I stood on that lonely island, my companion was an Indian: so was I. The whole country was, in very truth, a wilderness, and the owner of this unearthed treasure might well have rushed upon us.out of the fast-gathering darkness. A shadowy Indian stalked at my elbow as we crossed over to the main shore; he stood by the flickering camp-fire while supper was prepared ; nor left us in peace until the moon rose above the mountain and flooded the valley with a searching, silvery light. What volumes of history there may be in a fragment of broken stone! No mouldering potsherd from the dusty fields, No battered axe but speaks of ancient glory ; No point of arrow that the way-side yields But tells a winsome story. All night I dreamed of a dual existence: that of a loafer and of a relic-hunter, the merits of which battled for supremacy. A red-bird aroused me before sunrise with the question still unanswered, but not so torn by conflicting emotions but that I remained still in touch with Nature. A Winter Cat-Bird. IT is not down in the books, Dr. Warren’s “Birds of Pennsylvania,” even, does not mention it; and the learned ornithologists of elsewhere pronounce ita myth. But there are those who have seen it, nevertheless, and not merely once but often; have seen lively, healthy, chattering cat-birds in mid- winter, strong enough of wing to have migrated had they so desired. Occasionally there is but one, more frequently there are two, and scarcely less often four or five together, as though a family had elected to remain, even if they must brave a typical old-style winter. Had they known about it, many a migratory bird might have stayed over from autumn until spring, a year ago. There was no dearth of green grass then, nor of active insect life, even in January; but not so now: to-day the Q river is a broad field of ice, and scarcely a leaf 6 2% 17 18 In Touch with Nature. lingers in the sheltered nooks. The greenbrier is a forbidding tangle, offering no shelter from the keen winds that whistle through it; the tall grasses have long been levelled; the bare trees stand stiff and stark against a cold gray sky. Itis truly a stout-hearted intruder that dares venture now along the river shore, yet such brave creatures are seldom wanting. No winter’s blustering ever daunted the chickadee, nor driving snow-storm frightened the crested tit. Less courageous spar- rows and the cardinal red-bird will seek the south- side shelters, and you: may ramble for miles and hear not even the twitter of a tree-creeper; but let the next day be warmer, the wind come from the south, and all is changed. Then no nook is too exposed, and we shall have not only birds a-plenty, but bird music. At such a time one may look for January cat-birds. They are no stay- at-homes when the valley is filled with winter sun- shine. Their dreary dens in the dark cedars are promptly vacated. I did not think of over-staying summer birds to-day. It was enough to have the nuthatch make merry as it rattled the loose bark of the -A Winter Cat-Bird. 19 birches; and a hint of May-days brightened the outlook as pine-finches twittered in the tops of the tall riverside oaks. And then it was a single bird wrought almost a miracle. A cat-bird threaded the tangled maze of underbrush, perched upon a pebble at the water’s edge, intently eyed the frost- bound ripple that it could not reach, flirted its tail impatiently, and uttered its old-time summer plaint, suggestive of many a long-gone August noontide. A moment more and the bird was gone; but how 20 In Touch with Nature. different that whole day, from the instant of the bird’s appearance! It needs but a tiny twig to ripple the flow of placid waters; and but for this casual glimpse of a cat-bird, how monotonous might have proved the current of my thought, rambling on such a day! No, not rambling. It is truer to say, we walk in winter, and ramble in spring ; just as one is given to loafing in summer and to taking the world meditatively during autumn’s dreamy days. But walking does not forbid a searching glance, as we leave trees, rocks, and frozen river behind. Even from a car window the world may be seen suggestively. Turning, by mere chance, at the proper moment, I once saw a prong-horned ante- lope bounding over the prairie,‘while the train was speeding through Colorado; and again, in Arizona, saw the ground cuckoo or chaparral cock running from the train as rapidly as we were moving from it; yet in neither case did so simple an incident fail to bring back many a bright picture and page after page of many a well-thumbed volume. To walk successfully, every step should give our wits as well as our bodies an impetus, My winter cat- A Winter Cat-Bird. 21 bird, that came and went so quickly, tinged with rosy light the dullest of dull-gray, leaden days. That dreary aspect for which we are prepared at the outset of a walk in winter vanishes into thin air when unlooked-for phenomena become promi- nent. It becomes a matter now of changed con- ditions merely, and not the repellent outlook of a dead past; while in ourselves a constant longing for a return of better things gives way to eager anticipation. Pleased with what is, we cease to dwell moodily upon what has been. So it proved with the frozen river. The blue waters glittering in golden sunshine, the rippling shallows hid by the encroaching grass, the trembling shadows of overarching trees,—these we held dear while sum- mer lasted, but have we nothing left us? The sun shines fitfully to-day, but when the drifting clouds break from his path, how daintily the ice-gorged shore is tinted! Never a bow so brilliant in the sky above as the roseate masses of uplifted ice that bind the river. If in the bright blossoms of early June we see only color, we have it here again: the valley and the river offer us not merely the ruins of more genial seasons, but one that 22 In Touch with Nature. teems with merit of its own. Not even the broad expanse of ice, forbidding as this may seem, is shunned; a white gull even now is searching for open water, and a crow, perched upon drift-wood, calls to his kind that have gathered in the trees along the shore. How wondrously clear is his meaning cry, floating in frosty air! and does it revive, among other birds, the memory of other days? It had scarcely died away before the cat- bird reappeared and murmured in his old-time way; the gathering finches chirped far more cheerily than before; the tit whistled to the pass- ing wind a clearly defiant note. Call this winter if you choose; shudder at every blast of the cold west wind, and seek the nearest shelter; but in all fairness use no disparaging adjectives. I have said there was no green thing in my path. True, for a mile or more, but one may turn homeward too soon. It is easy to fail, by a single step, of reaching the great prize of a long day’s ramble, but I was not so unfortunate. Beneath the oaks, where the crisp leaves carpeted the frozen turf, prince’s-pine grew rankly, and no lus- tier growth greets the eager botanist even in May. A Winter Cat-Bird. 23 Its pearly-striped and dark-green leaves had all the freshness of a flower, and I plucked them quite as eagerly. There is nothing strange in seeing much, even when Nature seems to close the doors upon you. Even if so disposed, she cannot hide all her treas- ures. And, after all, is it not a misconception upon our part to suppose her back is ever turned, or that she really closes a door upon you? Can the world be dead or sleeping where there are birds, and living, growing plants? Plunge but the tip of your finger in the icy waters and you will realize how chill they are; yet, overturning a little stone, some strange creature darted away and took refuge beneath another sheltering pebble. Even there, where ice-crystals replaced the lush grasses of the past summer, strange forms of life found Nature open-handed ; and if such should spurn to hibernate, why should not we be brave enough to laugh at winter even when he frowns ? It is easy to catalogue the doings of a day, and even less laborious to list the objects that, in a brief walk, we pass by; but if they are in nowise suggestive, have we really seen them ? About the 24 In Touch with Nature. withered stem should ever linger the ghost of the brilliant blossom. The leafless tree should still cast that shade where in the long June days we were wont to linger. If nothing of this comes of a winter’s walk, we have walked in vain. Our limbs may have been exercised, it is true, but what of our wits? He who sees a winter cat-bird, as I saw one to-day, will not be roused to enthusiasm if the bird is but a mere accident, an overstaying thrush, foolhardy rather than wise. As a mere curiosity, the bird is a flat failure; but in the meagre sunshine, that touched with gold the ice- bound river, this same bird, by its mere presence, clothed every tree with its full complement of leaves ; restored the dead grass to a living green; unfolded blossoms upon every shrub, While the bird tarried, the swift flight of the winter wind that rocked the oaks and swept through the valley gave forth no dolorous note; it was but the breath of summer, laden with the melody of many min- strels. Intimations. THE first expanded blossom on the tree at once calls up a vision of the perfect fruit. The cherries of June and peaches of August and all that they mean are enjoyed in anticipation, because of the fluttering white or pink blossom that dots the still dreary landscape. How far the realization will fill the crowded pic- ture of our spring-tide fancy it boots not to con- sider. It is the end of winter now, and let what joy comes of the thought be unalloyed. Of it- self, the present time is not alluring, but precious by reason of its promises. Doubt is out of place if pleasure is our aim, and to seek for intimations that come to the front, even while yet ice and snow prevail, may happily fill the short hours of a win- ter ramble. The drooping branches of the leafless larch, as I see it from afar, are dreary beyond words. Every B 3 25 26 In Touch with Nature. twig is of so dull and rusty a hue that one can think only of decay and death. But, drawing nearer, a faint blush overspreads it all, and when I stand beneath the tree, every twig bears a roseate blossom that has no lovelier rival in the bowers of June. We stand too far aloof and wait until the new birth is quite accomplished. There has been a potent but unobtrusive force long at work, un- suspected because unheralded by blare of trump- ets; and we, shutting ourselves from Nature, cry “dreary, dreary,” because of lack of knowledge and lack of faith. Where the rocks shelter from the wind, and catch the mid-day sunbeams, I turn the heaped-up leaves that have lain since autumn and find green growths are everywhere. Pale spring-beauties are even now in bud, and the purple myrtle offers us its simple flowers as a proof that winter has ceased to kill, The rank leaf-growth of the sassafras is of fresher tint than a month ago, and prince’s-pine flourishes even in the shadow of a snow-bank. In the swamps, at the very name of which so many shudder, the skunk-cabbage is well above the ground, and far above them, where there is no Intimations. a7 shelter from the cutting north wind, the buds of the brave maples are ruddy. Even the chilly waters are not without promise, and that dainty, crimson-decked creature, the fairy shrimp, lights up the shady pool with flashes of brilliant color. We have but to look and listen. Many a wood- bird has abundant faith, and far off among the cedars I hear the love-call of the black-cap, and that sweetest of all sounds, the anticipatory warble of the bluebird. To hear this is to be well repaid, whatever you may have undergone. It soothes the smart of every pricking thorn. What fairy structure will not rise at the mind’s bidding and shape itself a thing of beauty to the bluebird’s song! Nature, here where I stand, is in truth repulsively brutal; the margin of the swamp is but scattered ruins of last winter’s storms; but how the jagged edges round off and meet their neighbors! how green the dead rushes grow! how quickly the naked branches of a lone tree bend to the little arbor of my early home, while that song of songs fills all the upper air! The song of the bluebird works a greater miracle than any magician’s wand. 28 In Touch with Nature. The river is near by, and across ‘the meadows and beyond the wood I see, floating high overhead and darkly limned against the leaden sky, restless gulls that have wandered from the sea. The naturalist has not yet shown that they have aught to do with any change, but they are oftener seen now than when all signs of winter have disap- peared. This of late years; but it was not always so. In the long ago of colonial days, and when the Dutch even were the only white people on the Delaware, gulls were as frequent here as swallows in midsummer. But something closer in touch with intimations is near at hand: a flock of red- winged blackbirds. Their keen senses have de- tected the whispered promise, and we may well believe with them that spring is not afar off. True, the north winds may come again, laden with snow and ice, but their fury will be in vain; no material damage will be wrought, and in the contest between frost and fire, the sun will come off more than conqueror. It is a strange habit that the rambler falls into, this of merely cataloguing. Signs of spring! These I came to look for, but why not rest content Intimations. 29 when they have been found? Is not one flower and one song enough? In such a matter, having one swallow, you can make the summer. The merit of this, the last day of February, is that it is inexpressibly dismal.