Recent
Rambles
Lior
| Charles. Conrad Abbott
“1 Reet
H Un
18
ouch with nature
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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. —over such poor pasture. Mean be-
yond compare are the flowers of this one-time
field, and but a single buttercup is within sight.
There are weeds, though, that thrive upon ill
treatment, and shrubs so hardy they withstand
neglect. The village cows cannot tramp all bloom
May-Day out of Town. 93
out of existence, and a bit of chickweed or a
mat of whitlow-grass here and there star the
stunted grass. But where is the honey for the
patient bees? Surely not in such flowers as these,
and their beauty alone is not anattraction; beauty
that needs a magnifier that man may see it. Is it
an inherited instinct that brings the bees?
Scarcely that; but the day was when the bloom-
ing clover tempted the whole hive.
Everywhere there is ruin nature cannot wholly
conceal. The old apple-tree is the last vestige of
an orchard, and beyond it, where the ground
slightly rises, are the scattered stones of a founda-
tion-wall. Better than these, even, to recall the
past, there grows a dwarfed lilac-bush hard by,
with no other evidence of life than a few half-
expanded leaves. Wild life, save the few birds
and omnipresent insects, has long since disap-
peared, and this it is makes the song of every
sparrow heard to-day sad, when we pause to think
of what has been. The sparrow now perched on
the lone lilac sings sweetly as ever, but what of
the merry host that thronged the vanished lilac
hedge and dreamed of no better world than the
94 In Touch with Nature.
cottage garden of nigh a century ago? Then
the morning songs of merry birds fell not upon
deaf ears here, where the farmer lived far from the
town, and his fields on every side were weighted
with the award of toil. But we must bow to the
inevitable. The growing town is inexorable, and
to mourn a dismantled farm is mawkish sentimen-
tality. Another May-day will be celebrated here,
not by the songs of birds, but by the grating of
saws and thud of the hammer. New habitations
will arise upon the ruins of the old, and still
longer become the town-dweller’s tramp ere he
reaches the open country. The naturalist’s last
chance at this spot will then be when the earth is
upturned and a cellar dug; when, perchance, relics
of the Indians, or bones of the animals the dusky
hunters slew, will hold him for the day; or some
local historian may air his knowledge over the
belongings of other days,—a rusty ploughshare ora
well-worn coin. As I now stand listening to the
songs of birds,—their farewell concert it may be,—
I fancy that I see a troop of graybeards hobbling
hither to watch the building of a new house, and,
gathering about some trivial trace of other days,
May-Day out of ‘l'own. 95
hear their leader say, “ Here was my father’s farm
some fifty years ago.”
And now to the near woods. Not even the
glorious grosbeak’s matchless song could hold me,
and the sun gilded the sorrow of the lonely field.
I feared that I might fall to serious thinking, even
on a May-day, when I would shout and sing.
There were other pastures in which to browse,
and from them I would cull sweets free from the
slightest trace of bitterness.
With eager steps, brushing the dew from butter-
cups, a few scattered oaks were soon reached that
as yet but hinted of their bright, broad leaves.
Not so the densely-clustered trees beyond. These
already shut from the mossy paths beneath the
sun’s rays, leaving in cool, gray light the snowy
blossoms of dentaria, pale-blue houstonia, and
pink spring-beauty. The change from field to
forest was not abrupt, and yet was startling. All
had appealed to the ear before, now nature ap-
pealed only to the eye. Not birds and blossoms,
as the rambler would ever have it, but from birds
to blossoms,—from tuneful to silent beauty. It is
doubtful if nature in America presents a more
96 In Touch with Nature.
charming spectacle than the fresh green foliage
of a forest. The shadows beneath it are not
harshly defined ; the straggling sunbeams light up
the crooked paths, even to the winter run-ways of
the mice and rabbits; there is no hint of gloom,
as in midsummer. Nor is the wood but:an ex-
panse of mottled green. The snowy dog-wood,
the blooming cherry, and violet-mantled knolls
give that variety we crave when we look at nature
as a whole rather than single features of it.
But the woods were not deserted. Scarcely a
tree was without its attendant warblers. These
are essentially May-day birds. There are many
that remain throughout the summer, more than
one that is with us during winter; but now the great
host are upon us, the greater number bound north-
ward to Maine, Canada, and beyond. These birds
are widely different, yet the family likeness run-
ning through all is very marked. To-day they were
abroad in full force, and such marvellous energy
and unceasing motion are not seen elsewhere in
the bird-world. Swallows may be more swift, the
humming-bird outspeed them; but with the war-
blers it is not mere flight, but the gymnastic
May-Day out of Town. 97
climbing and somersaulting, over and above every
twig of every tree, that shows how absolutely tire-
less these birds are. Nor are they silent. Faint,
but not listless, melody ripples from their breasts,
whether in mid-air, seeking new hunting-grounds,
or busy with the food their sharp eyes have spied
out in the crannies of rough bark. Not all keep
to the tree-tops. There is one, the Maryland
yellow-throat, that loves the swampy ground, with
its rank growth of symplocarpus and arum, and
few finer song-birds have we than this, if we judge
bird music by its associations.
It is hard to choose among them, but I hold in
high regard the bay-breasted warblers that come
and go with such delightful uncertainty. It was
not May-day, but. nearly three weeks later, that I
chanced in these woods a year ago. It might well
have been called Warbler-day, so abundant were
these dainty birds. To watch them was bewilder-
ing, to single out any one well-nigh impossible.
As I stood by a group of four large tulip-trees,
that towered above the surrounding oaks, I heard
a merry twitter that sounded from above, and,
while clear and distinct, was distant. It came
E § 9
98 In Touch with Nature.
from the tall trees, and there, sure enough, were
a host of these beauties, fly-catching on the out-
skirts of creation. In the clear sunlight their
contrasted colors showed well, but the moment
they entered the shade each was black as ebony.
Not one would come near me; none came within
thirty or forty feet from the ground. So far, a most
commonplace occurrence; but, with that abrupt-
ness that bewilders the on-looker, these warblers
suddenly disappeared. Not a trace of them any-
where, though I searched most diligently: for
aught I knew, they had dissolved into the thin air
in which they had been sporting.
Merely a coincidence, doubtless, but this is a
foundation we all build upon. Late in the evening
of that day, while sitting before a film of smoke
that half hid the andirons, there came a tapping
at the window, loud enough to suggest Poe’s raven,
and, when the sash was raised, in came a bay-
breasted warbler. There was no bust of Pallas
for it; and, after flitting aimlessly in the dim light,
it rested on the head of a stuffed owl. The yield-
ing feathers offered no foothold, and it perched
next upon my table, twittered as if half afraid, and
May-Day out of Town. 99
then darted back into the night. Did it come with
a message from its fellows and forget or fear to
deliver it? We will never know, but I hold them
now above other warblers and await their commu-
nication. How many secrets do the birds with-
hold? Is there one that we can fully comprehend ?
This bay-breasted fairy is a lover of tall trees, and
seldom deigns to descend even to the lower
branches; yet I have twice had them peer into
my face since one entered my study. There isa
bond between us, yet of its import I know nothing.
None the less does it bind me, and I have an inkling
now of the mystery of superstition. Such trivial’
coincidences as I have mentioned have affected
my whole life, and why not others? To injure a
bay-breasted warbler would be murder on my part.
Beyond the woods were the river-skirting mead-
ows. There is much in a name, after all. Meadow:
and May-day fit well together, and he who now
sees the low-lying reaches of green pasture and
treacherous marsh, perhaps sees them at their best.
Possibly this has been said of these same meadows
seen at other seasons, but something must be
allowed for May-day enthusiasm. We are under
100 In Touch with Nature.
a new order of things now, and abrupt changes
always lead to extravagant expressions. Spring
has been relegated to mythology; is a pretty play-
thing for the folk-lore student. It is a long time
since we have had a real winter, and April of this
year was once white with snow, and wore a frosty
mantle oftener than did March; but to-day, May-
May-Day out of Town. 101
day, it is summer. If there is any meaning in
temperature, in the condition of vegetation, in the
activity of animal life, then summer reached us
during the past night. She came with the whip-
poorwill, as, according to the Indians, she always
does. What could have given rise to the idea of
a whole season sandwiched between winter and
summer ?P
As so often happens, the reckless profusion of
attractions was bewildering, and every one with
merit worthy of undivided attention. It is well to
be a specialist in such a place. He is the happier
botanist who never hears a bird sing. This niorn-
ing, in and about the marshes, little and great
frogs vied with each other in shouting the merits
of May-day. The shrill, fife-like notes of some,
the rattling click of others, and the deep bass of
batrachian patriarchs proved a mighty chorus, that
impressed if it did not charm. Think of frogs,
perhaps tens of thousands to an acre, and each
screeching, roaring, whistling at its best! These
creatures have an object in all this, but what?
The naturalists say these sounds are love-calls;
but what of affection as violent as their cacopho-
9*
102 | In Touch with Nature.
nous announcement of it? ‘What if the tender
human swain proposed through a fog-horn, and
his lady replied with a steam-whistle? But in an
instant the meadows were silent. Not a frog
whimpered. In wonderment I looked about, and
saw nothing amiss but the shadow of a cloud;
and this, doubtless, had been the cause. Could
it have been associated in their minds with the
shadows cast by passing birds, as the herons and
bittern, their greatest enemies? This is giving
the frogs credit for considerable wit, but not more
than is their due.
Soon the great roaring recommenced, and again
as suddenly ceased. No shadow of a cloud dis-
turbed them then, but a gentle breeze, that swept
over the water with great speed, leaving a chill
behind it. It would seem as if the day’s outing
must abruptly close. With folded arms, and back
resting against a sturdy oak, it was not so doleful
an incident after all, even on May-day, to look
across the meadows while it rained. The swal-
lows were in ecstasies; the hawks screamed with
delight; robins replied to the distant thunder ;
and now, as if assured that no danger threatened
May-Day out of Town. 103
them, the frogs joined in their mighty chorus once
again. Surely for many minutes the lovers of
Wagnerian music would have been entranced.
The shower was of short duration, and a happy
incident, for beauty emerging from a bath is ever
engaging. While waiting for this the time sped
happily. The huge oak that sheltered me has no
history, it is true, being a growth of this quiet
Indian and staid Quaker country, but no tree
needs such fortuitous aid to render it an object
of admiration. Here on the meadows oaks re-
place rocks, and are scarcely less an evidence of
the world’s stability. The rocks have their his-
tory plainly written upon them; but what of the
chafed and gnarly branches of the primeval oaks?
what of the murmuring breezes that I now hear,
and the scream of the winters’ storms that has
been so often sounded? Truly, the autobiogra-
phy of an oak would be rare reading. And yet,
so strongly implanted is our belief in man’s tran-
scendent importance that trees with a human his-
tory outvie all others. Let us be sure that a
tragedy—even a disgusting one—was enacted be-
neath its branches, and the gaping crowd will be
104 In Touch with Nature.
blind to all else the forest contains. What boots
it that some truly great man stood here two cen-
turies ago, if his coming was a necessity and not
a sentiment ? He who follows, not merely in an-
other’s footsteps, but breaks his own path to do
homage to an aged tree, is the greater man. Tree-
worship is as old as religion itself, and a worthier
phase of it than hero-worship.
It still rains, and I recall another May-day out-
ing when colonial history gave zest to the ramble
at the outset, but soon faded before the teeming
wealth of natural history. With a companion I
followed the general trend of the Towsissink
- Creek, where yet stands a remnant of the primeval
forest, and came suddenly to a shallow basin
where bubbles many a sparkling spring, the whole
overshadowed by the out-spreading branches of a
single tree. A nobler temple was never reared
than a white-oak in its prime, and here was one
without a blemish; a tree five feet in diameter and
more than one hundred in the spread of its
branches. But there are other and larger oaks
nearer home, so why come so far to visit this?
It is a tree with a history; one that was blazed
May-Day out of Town. 105
with P when the boundary of Penn’s first purchase
was marked, from the spruce upon the bank of the
Delaware westward to the Neshaminy. Armed
with his note-book and compass, my companion
studied the tree as an ancient deed-mark, and left
me to drift wheresoever fancy might determine.
I scarcely moved and had no desire to wander.
It was my most happy fate to be held by the mute
eloquence of the imperious oak, and I long rested
upon a grassy bed, looked upward at the tree’s
strange gestures, and marked the continuous
stream of life that, as if to consult an oracle, sud-
denly appeared and as speedily departed. I was
the only slave, perhaps, but ready to kiss my
chains. There was little to commend and much
to deplore when my companion reappeared and
snapped them. Probably nowhere, in the same
space, could life in such varied forms be found as
in, on, and about such an oak as this. It was
alike the home or resting-place of the extremes
of bird-life, the eagle and the humming-bird. The
raccoon, squirrel, and mice of two kinds made it
a home or temporary refuge ; snakes were among
its branches and about its roots; the lizard and
106 In Touch with Nature.
the tortoise were here alike at home, and the pool
where gathered the waters of the springs so closely
nestled by the tree that the two were one; and
here were lithe salamanders and dainty fishes.
The teeming millions of insect-life I pass by. Is
it strange, then, to have forgotten that here was
the tree singled by Penn as one of his landmarks,
and one that every Indian must recognize when he
hunted in the surrounding forest or planted his
corn-field in the clearings ?
But what of the meadows again? for it has
ceased raining. Doubtless there might be much
discovered if one had the pluck to plunge 2
medias res, but walking through wet weeds is not
attractive. Man’s ancestor was an aquatic creature
so very long ago that his love of water has not
remained equal to such a task. I skirted the low
grounds, where the cow-path offered a fair footing,
and played bo-peep with a bull-frog. He wasa
monstrous fellow of his kind, and took my in-
trusion testily. There was a trace of fire in his
great, watery eyes, and defiance, I fancied, in the
grunt that heralded every leap. Was this really
meant as a warning that injury would be inflicted
May-Day out of Town. 107
if I ventured too far? So far, at least, I have not
solved the problem of a frog’s intelligence; and
the sunshine now was growing too bright to
warrant tarrying longer. I left the frog to his
Maying and went upon my own. The flowers
were fresher since their recent bath; the birds
took up the songs the shower had cut short ; every
wheel: was again in motion, and I walked as if
speed was the true spirit of an outing. Such
spurts of aimless activity are not uncommon, but,
happily, they are of short duration; sooner or
later we butt against a stone wall. I butted against
the strange spectacle of a bat’s carnival; at least,
I can think of no clearer description. There were
hundreds of them, or so it seemed, and not one
was bat-like and natural. Had it been March 1,
and not May-day, I should have concluded it was
their first outing, and much joy had made them
mad; but here they were, dancing up and down
and seldom circling, the point of attraction or fas-
cination being a tall tulip-tree that, I knew, had a
great hollow in its trunk. From it, it may be,
they had come; but why in broad daylight? Not
one made any sound save the fluttering of their
108 In Touch with Nature.
leathern wings. There was no quarrelling. It
was a thoroughly weird, unearthly, and disturbing
sight, that gave a sombre tint to the remaining
hours of the day; that reversed the happy order
that gives a silver lining to a leaden cloud, and
unto this day I never see a bat but I recall that
host of fluttering imps that, by their mysterious
antics, closed in sadness a merry May-day out of
town.
Windy Bush.
IF it be true that the birds which haunt the bab-
bling brooks sing only of rippling waters, echo
the bell-like trickling of tiny streams, and trill the
murmuring of the fretted tide, then the wood-
peewee has caught the languor of the hot high
noon, and his note, when it fills the woods, even
before the sun climbs the distant hills, is an
evidence of what the day will be. For years I
have held the long-drawn notes of this fly-catcher
to be so far prophetic. To-day, save the red-eye,
that, too, braves the noontide, all other birds were
silent before the dew had gone from the grass, and
the doleful peewee was our perpetual reminder of
what was coming. Its song was so languid, so
full of longing, that the breeze seemed to lose its
freshness, as though commanded to be sad and
10 109
110 In Touch with Nature.
take on a funereal pace, leaving all thought of
May-day merriment behind it.
But let me say where I happen to be, and why.
As the sun set yesterday, our wanderings ceased,
and, by happy chance, M. and I camped on
Windy Bush. What a grandly suggestive name
for hot-weather days! The tent ready, the supper
cooked, the camp-fire freshened, we were ready
for a moonlight stroll, and by its happily uncertain
light, that leaves the imagination to build what it
chooses of that our prosy eyes but dimly see, we
listened to the charming chatter of the oldest
inhabitant ; learned when and by whom the oldest
houses were built; the strange adventures of the
“ originals,” as he called the first settlers; what
was still current of the Indians. He pointed out
the mineral spring, a cave dug by the Indians in
the hill-side, and showed us where red men were
buried; told so much, indeed, that we felt as if on
Windy Bush had always been our home,—brought
us in touch with Nature, ever kind fortune’s
goodliest gift. Many an old man of an old
neighborhood is an uncut gem of humanity. He
had, at least, not rounded out fourscore years for
Windy Bush. II
nothing; and when at last the wordy interview
was over, and I had sought the shelter of my
tent, there was many a grain of good wheat to be
sifted from his abundant chaff.
Morning broke beautifully over the ringing
woods, and as the birds discovered us we were
greeted not as new-comers, but as old friends.
Whether thrush or grosbeak, lark or robin
sounded the louder or the sweeter welcome, it
matters not; but let the future wanderer rest
assured bird-music is best heard when we are
but half awake. Then its spirit only is sifted
into our senses: the pure wine without a trace
of lees.
Where nothing comes amiss, be it botany or
history, a matter of birds and beasts, or the find-
ing of a flint arrow, it is safe to start off in any
direction; and the initial tramp was towards the
quaint old house, of which we had heard much.
It was but a little two-story stone dwelling,
framed of huge oak logs, and the interspaces filled
with broken stone and held by mortar as white as
the driven snow. At the chimney or fireplace end
the masonry was solid. All was weed-grown and
112 In Touch with Nature.
forsaken about the one-time yard, but I noticed a
straggling—yes, struggling—rose-bush clung to a
corner, and a single half-opened bud showed tim-
idly above the tall grass. How like, I thought,
many a man who has lost heart, living hopelessly
among unsympathetic folks, a very prince in the
realm of beggardom, .
Turning a great iron key that threaded the
maze of a ponderous lock and drew back its bolt,
I entered this ancient dwelling, now deserted, but
straightway peopled with the spirits of that hardy
folk who knew the Indians as neighbors. The
cavernous fireplace, now cold and clammy,—fit
home for salamanders that scuttled across the
hearth-stones,—grew quickly bright with the flick-
ering flames that of old leapt from the back log.
The dim outline of a high-backed settle filled the
corner; the trusty rifle leaned against the wall.
From the crane swung the steaming kettle: there
lacked nothing of a happy old-time colonial
home. The wind that moaned through the huge
chimney and rattled the loose shingles of the roof
was not a sobering sound; fancy freed it of all
melancholy. The wild tales of woodland adven-
Windy Bush. 113
ture and hair-breadth escape were heard again,—
for an hour I lived in an earlier century.
It is well that the scene should shift suddenly.
It was but a step to the deep woods, and both M.
and myself aimed for the time to live a free wild
life, in touch only with uncontaminated Nature.
Birds sang almost without a pause, yet the woods
were silent. The brief intermissions were so
deadly still that about us we had not sound, but
silence framed in song. Yet this is Windy Bush,
and suggestive of tumult rather than peace. It
was the trees’ holiday, I concluded, for no rude
blasts troubled them, and the fitful breezes were
considerate. The truth is, they happened to pass
by high overhead, as the masses of white clouds
clearly showed. When, particularly in winter,
these blasts of cruel air swept across the hill, it is
not strange that every tree shivered and the dang-
ling dead leaves rattled, and suggested all manner
of uncanny thoughts to the Indians. Indeed,
they claimed that summer or winter the wind
never ceased, and hence the name that still clings
to it. Later, these rustling leaves made faint-
hearted fo'k a little timid, or, as the octogenarian
h 10*
114 In Touch with Nature.
put it, “better minded to go ’round the hill o’
nights than go over it.” I am happy to say I
slept unguarded upon its summit, nor came to
grief. My only sorrow was that of leaving so
soon. The Indians were right about the wind,
perhaps, but it was not always the trees that were
bowed before it ; to-day it was the clouds.
Swift as the swallow, on its deadly quest,
The fleecy clouds of summer hurry by,
Borne by the breeze: as by great fear oppressed
They onward rush where sounds the warning cry ;
’Tis said a curse upon the hill doth rest
For crime of ages gone; by Nature still unblest.
But brave of heart in these sad latter days
The woodland bird forgives the deed once done;
He shouts at break of day his hymn of praise,
And trills a soothing song at set of sun ;
No fear of harm to him his tongue betrays,
Then, lingering here, why stand in dread amaze?
No blanched and trembling blossom starred the grass,
No feathery fern shrank curled upon its stem ;
Though restless breezes through their petals pass,
The forest flowers looked boldly back at them.
Why then, unmeaning dread, our minds harass ?
Despite our pride and strength, a coward still, alas !
Windy Bush. 115
The wood-peewee was right in his prognostics ;
it was torrid at noontide. The cows in the distant
pastures gathered in the shade of scattered trees,
and in many ways it is well to take our cue from
other forms of life. Many a despised creature,
even a worm, can give us useful hints, if we but
heed their methods. A nap at mid-day may prove
more refreshing than a night-long slumber. I was
painfully envious of the far-off cows until, like
them, I curled in the shade of a hill-side chestnut,
and then how trivial a matter was the blazing sun!
Whether a-dreaming or awake, it matters not, but
the distant landscape was a source of joy. Bow-
man’s Hill and many a mile of intervening
meadow spread out before me, and what a laden
table at which one’s soul might feast! We may
envy the eagle his all-searching gaze, but are con-
soled by feeling we can reach, in thought, beyond
the horizon. Whether hill or dale, it is but the
bird’s resting-place; but within the same bounds
is a home for more than a mere body. Weary
now, I halt in the restoring shade of a splendid
chestnut and wander, the while, among the far-off
hills.
116 In Touch with Nature:
The looked-for shower came far sooner than
expected, and my first intimation of its approach
was the threatening peal of thunder that echoed
down the valley, and seemed rather to gather
strength, than die, as it had reached the hills be-
yond. Such thunder, without a hint of lightning’s
destructive touch in its tones, is one of Nature’s
noblest melodies. It does not awe the birds that
sang merrily in reply to many a peal. But the
Windy Bush. 117
sudden downpour silenced them, and, like myself,
they sought shelter. Doubtless they have in mind
many a safe retreat, for they suffer from wet
feathers at times as much or more than we do
by wet clothing. I found none with bedraggled
feathers, however, when the rain was over, and,
indeed, was more entertained by a huge slug that
slipped slimily over a prostrate log than by the
robins and thrushes that made every nook and
comer of the forest ring with their rejoicings.
This slug watched me curiously with its absurd
telescopic eyes, which continuously collapsed when
I became too demonstrative. But its curiosity
was unbounded, and quickly reappeared the
slender stalks with eyes perched on their tips. I
teased his slugship for a long time, and finally
made bold to touch one of the eye-stalks. Of-
fended beyond measure, it moved off with its head
tucked under its breast, and took a back track
gracefully, turning at a sharp angle, and made of
its body for a time a squeezed-up letter V. Then
I left the poor creature in peace. The glistening
trail of slime that it left behind it, by which alone
I was to remember the meeting, was not pleasing ;
118 In Touch with Nature.
but why complain? Half the people we meet
leave as uncanny a track on the tablet of our
memory.
By the camp-fire, not long after, I was disposed
to rebel at the thought of leaving so sweet a spot;
but there was the great beyond through which we
proposed to ramble, and I soon returned to com-
mon sense. How easy it is to be foolish! Whether
paradise or purgatory depends in great measure
upon ourselves; but looking across the valley
now, I cannot believe the hills beyond hold in
store for us anything better than these wood-clad
reaches of old Windy Bush.
On Historic Ground.
It is an experience worth the having to passa
delightful May-day in an old colonial mansion; to
be able to wander about a spacious dwelling built
more than two hundred years ago, still in excellent
repair, and not fatally modernized. Think of it!
I passed a postprandial hour in a cozy room
wherein Franklin and his friend Galloway were
wont to discuss electricity and the coming crisis.
Whether or not Galloway thought Franklin a
crank in the matter of electricity, possibly no one
knows; but these intellectual giants took opposite
sides politically, and for aught I know, parted,
during Revolutionary times, for their remaining
years.
It was a happy thought, on mine host’s part, to
give me an inkling of the mansion’s history;
forthwith my imagination did me good service in
peopling every nook and corner with the old-time
folk. The stately, high-backed chairs were
11g
120 In Touch with Nature.
occupied by grave, but not forbidding, men; the
wide hall resounded with the pleasant patter of
fun-loving youth, whose romping savored of the
wild woods about them. Life had its drawbacks,
doubtless, then as now; but who has not cast
loving backward glances and thought of the
boundless forest before the moccasin-print of the
Indian had vanished? It was so to-day. The
hands of the world-clock were set back two cen-
turies while I tarried in the house.
Then, the afternoon’s ramble. It is an unfor-
tunate taste, perhaps, but tales and traditions of
long ago, howsoever teeming with comedy or with
tragic events, are soon forgotten when, in the
shade of clustered hemlocks, the wild-bird’s song
and flaunting blossoms champion the passing hour.
It was so to-day. Strolling over grassy fields and
pausing only to pay due respect to an enormous
hawthorn that stands like a sentinel in a wide
reach of pasture, we soon reached the creek-side
woods. No sound save the rippling of rapid
waters stayed our progress; for who is not ready
to pause when the wood-thrush sings? Then,
afar off, was heard the vehement reiteration of the
On Historic Ground. 121
oven-bird and the pleasant lisping of a passing
warbler. Reading here and there in the open
pages of the woodland almanac, my mind ran to
orchids, and, careless of the treacherous foot-path,
my eyes sought the damp soil between mossy
rocks, hoping at every step to find some treasure
of fantastic bloom. Nor did I lookinvain. That
pink-and-white beauty, the showy orchis, unknown
at the home hill-side, grew here in great profusion,
Still, despite their numbers, it needed constant
care to spy them out, they were so carefully
guarded by overtopping growths. It is not
strange that many people pass through the woods
and re-enter the open world empty-handed, and
worse, without a new idea. In matters botanical,
as well as those of more practical and prosy
nature, eternal vigilance is the price of novelty.
But the woods were not all green and orchid-
spotted. The pinxter flower held its showy head
aloft, and whenever the genial sunbeams struggled
through the interlocking branches of the trees,
bluebells and snowy wind-flower brightened the
grim, gray rocks. It was a fitting place to rest
and ruminate, here, where the sloping rocks offered
¥F ir
122 In Touch with Nature.
a tempting seat; but our rumination was strictly
physical. We were lost, for the time, to nature’s
beauties, and vigorously chewed sweet cicely.
It may seem to many a sad fall to quit the
higher pleasures of contemplation and seek com-
fort in eating weeds, but the merit of sweet cicely
lies hidden in the aromatic root rather than in its
inconspicuous white flowers, which, as yet, had
not appeared. Why not, then, if the weed be
mentioned, tell the whole truth? It is good to
eat, and good for nothing else; and its merit as
food is not merely that it is pleasantly aromatic ;
it has, too, the magic charm of recalling other
days. He who chewed sweet cicely forty years
ago, and had no other care than the fear that the
supply might some day be exhausted, will know
what joy in after-years lies in reclining on a rock
in the woods, and while listening to birds and
rippling waters, chewing sweet cicely again. It is
worth a small fortune, after weeks of worry, to be
able, if but for a brief hour, to be a boy once
more.
The goal was not yet reached. On through
the tangled underbrush and over hill-side brooks,
On Historic Ground. 12%
we came at last te other rocks that jutted from
the steeply-sloping bank and the creek’s bed.
These uptilted rocks also offered us most tempting
seats, and had not a shower threatened, I, for one,
should have gladly remained until now. It is not
enough to see the world by daylight. There is a
night side of nature full of meaning and attractive-
ness, and he who knows it not has but half of the
world’s story wherewith to please him. It would
have been jolly indeed to camp at such a spot,
notwithstanding the rain, for the prospect of an
early return to the city was a blacker cloud than
any the sky above could ever boast of.
Regardless of the distant mutterings of the
coming storm, I looked for garnets in the glisten-
ing rocks, and saw hundreds that were still held
fast, but found none that I could carry away.
They were dingy anyhow, so I do not care; and
perhaps in anticipation of such a result, I was
given a huge rosy crystal from Alaska that out-
glittered all the gems in the Neshaminy valley.
It was the old story of the many against one;
there were none to bear me company, and I
paused when it came to perching alone upon the
124 In Touch with Nature.
wrinkled rock. All reluctantly, I turned my face
homeward, and there was something soothing in
the silence of the woods. Scarcely a bird
twittered save the restless swallows, and blossoms
lost their brightness. Sorrow, it seems, sees the
world through a smoked glass.
If a summer shower is to be avoided as though
there was pestilence in its touch, we were none too
soon in reaching the kindly shelter of the old
mansion. It rained steadily for a short time, and
so I was given again opportunity to linger in the
historic rooms. The subdued light fitted well
with the surroundings, for antiquity loses some-
thing of its charm when exposed to too bright
sunlight. In the gloaming time’s ravages are
veiled, and what might have marred the scene at
noonday was now an added glory.
The rain ceasing, a second start was made, and
with those pleasing impressions that such a visit
is sure to give, we hurried down a long lane,
pausing a moment to look once more at the giant
hemlocks that overshadowed the gate, and then
Trevose, the one-time home of the Growdens, was
to us a thing of the past.
All Day Afloat.
THE world is never as empty as it seems; but
then, when. beyond the town limits, one must be
willing to link arms with a weed or commune
with a cobble-stone. For an hour I had seen little
but water, the boat merely skimming the surface
in response to the oar-stroke, and disturbing
nothing save the few spirit ducks that cleft ‘the
clear air without a sound; then I tarried at the
fishery, as the seine was drawn, and what wealth
of vigorous life was brought to the “keen, sword-
cutting air!” Shad, herring, and a host of lesser
fry were tossed ashore,—life that so soon before
had peopled the unsuspected world of water over
which I had thoughtlessly passed. Let me again
protest against the common impression that life is
absent because beyond the ‘range of our vision.
If it should so happen that at a given hour every
11* 125 ;
126 In Touch with Nature.
one remained in-doors, a city would appear
deserted ; so the well-wooded banks of the river
as I passed by. Not a leaf seemed to stir, and
not a bird came or went; not even a swallow.
Life absent, indeed! Rounding a pine-clad point,
while drifting in the mile-wide stream where not a
feather was to be seen, the music from a hundred
All Day Afloat. 127
gleesome throats was mingled: the tireless red-
eye’s half-impatient cry, the fretting of the over-
anxious crows, the boasting oriole’s exultant call,
the sad song of the plaintive thrush, the ceaseless
chatter of the restless wren, here met upon the
waters.
A moment here and the silence was oppressive ;
turning but a step and all the world was merry.
There seems to be little doubt but that birds and
blossoms have tastes in common. Of all the
features of a bright May morning, no one is more
in touch with the conditions than the north-bound
warblers. It may be that, if they tarried long, we
would count them tiresome, but never at sucha
time as this will one weary of watching such
marvels of brilliant bird-life. There are three to
be found in this river valley that match well with
the bright plumage of the birds of the tropics,—
the hooded, the spotted, and Blackburnian war-
blers. To-day I had the spotted only to keep me
company, and had they chosen to remain so long,
I would willingly still be sitting in my boat.
Never a pessimistic thought clouds their joy, and
none overshadows the on-looker at such a time
128 In Touch with Nature.
and place. The sobering thought that these birds
were dealing death to myriads of unseen insects
does not intrude.
It is well to be without a settled purpose if,
being baffled in that, we are stranded and helpless.
I turned from the river’s bank to the river’s bed,
hoping to see and recognize some, at least, of the
many fishes found here. In this I failed. All
were in too great haste to reach some distant
point, and the occasional dark flash or silvery
glitter may have been a herring ora perch. Not
even the minnows tarried within range, and the
curious darters that rest on the sand jerked
themselves into new positions or quite burrowed
under flat pebbles whenever I moved my head for
a better view. At last a puff of wind half turned
the drifting boat, and a little company of these
darters was brought to view. I had not to move
to see each one, and, very conveniently, they did
not stir. These fish cannot take a leisurely stroll
up or down stream; it is either a question of
sitting still or darting off to new quarters. As I
looked at them to-day, each rested as demurely on
the rippled sand as listening and learned judges.
All Day Afloat. 129
Let us hope they have thoughts to occupy them,
for they appear to have little else; and that their
wits are ready events proved. A small snake
passed dangerously near, and straightway these
little darters disappeared; but it was a desperate
effort. Nota tittle of the ease of a startled pike,
but a heavy contortion of the whole body, rapid
vibration of every fin, and a mad rush for shelter.
In spite of this, they seemed to take in their
surroundings at a glance, for the snake passed by
without a victim, and then, reaching down, I lifted
here and there a flat pebble, and found these fish
beneath them.
But one source of entertainment was lacking.
No sturgeons were seen. One hundred and forty-
two years ago an observing traveller passed this
very spot, and has left on record, “Sturgeons
leaped often a fathom into the air. We saw them
continuing this exercise all day, till we came to
Trenton.” It is not so strange that our bird-life
should have lost many attractive features, as cranes
and pelicans, but the bottom of the river appeared
to offer a fairly safe harbor for even such huge
fishes. If increase of kuman population has alone
130 In Touch with Nature.
to do with it, are we slowly being reduced to
domestic animals and insects ?
What an undiscovered country is the bed of a
river! A mile or more away, where the water
was much deeper, I again endeavored to peer into
the depths, and saw more than one suggestive
object. Not strange forms of life merely, albeit
there were many, and these may well suffice to
bid us pause, for however commonplace any
creature may be when dead and out of place, it is
an object of ceaseless interest when in its native
haunts. Let one watch mackerel in the open sea,
and then draw comparison with the hacked and
salted carcass in the corner grocery. There were
dimly to be discerned traces of old-time navigation,
and how I longed to catch a glimpse of an Indian
canoe! Doubtless a vain wish, but not an absurd
one. Writes Peter Kalm of the Indians of this
very river valley: “Whenever they intended to
hollow out a thick tree for a canoe, they laid dry
branches all along the stem of the tree as far as it
must be hollowed out. They then put fire to
those dry branches, and as soon as they were
burnt they were replaced by others. . . . The tree
All Day Afloat. 131
being burnt hollow as far as they found it sufficient,
... they took . . . stone hatchets or sharp flints
and quartzes, or sharp shells, and scraped off the
burnt part of the wood and smoothened the boats
within. By this means they likewise gave it what
shape they pleased. . . . A canoe was commonly
between thirty and forty feet long.”
There are doubtless many of these deeply
buried in the river mud, but how small the chance
of their discovery! I have no such excellent for-
tune to report, but something scarcely less sug-
gestive: above the sand projected a ship-timber ;
possibly a bit of some old Dutchman’s boat, such
as passed up and down this stream almost three
centuries ago. It looked old, and why not think
it? It is on record that about 1624-25 the Dutch
West India Company established a trading-house
on a small island near the western shore of the
Delaware, just below Trenton Falls,—a mere rocky
ripple——and placed thereon four families. The
Dutch carried on a profitable trade with the In-
dians as early as 1621. There is evidence of this
in the objects gathered from one-time village sites,
and many valuable relics were unearthed well-nigh
132 In Touch with Nature.
a century ago near the head of tide-water, which
would be worth their weight in gold were they in
existence now; but they were valueless then, when
the Indians were looked upon simply as “ hea-
then” and scarcely human; although a book con-
cerning them had appeared declaring them to be
the lost tribes. Was it not enough to juggle them
out of their lands without permitting a crank to
lie about them afterwards? This slowly-decaying
piece of hewn timber was suffering no sea-change.
Neither coral nor sea-weed beautified it, and the
few lazy mussels that ploughed the sand near by
were as dull and forbidding in hue; but there was,
better than all this, a wealth of suggestiveness,
Taking my oars in hand, I hurried now to the
opposite shore and landed upon a narrow but
clean, bright, pebbly beach. Again the Indian
loomed up, but without the Dutch traders. The
rounded bits of many different rocks were full of
beauty in themselves, and here they were mingled
with fragments of bog iron ore or limonite, which
recalled the contents of more than one Indian
grave I had opened. Here were scattered little
cups and rings and many’an oddly-fashioned form
All Day Afloat. 133
such as attracted other eyes, centuries ago, for
reasons given ; and it was evident whence came the
cue to the Indian in the matter of personal adorn-
ment. Not a type of stone ornament as they are
found on the upland fields but has its double in
the water-worn and frost-fractured fragments that
strewed the beach. But was there ever an Indian
at this point? Who can say? Nevertheless, as I
pushed my boat off shore, I sighted a broken
arrow-point.
It was a quick transition from the past to
the present, but not an unwelcome one. A
straining tug rounded the near-by bend, and,
following in its wake, a string of rafts. Here was
a golden opportunity to return without labor. I
had but to hold to the long rudder of the hindmost
raft, and did so. All was novel, and he who loves
laziness would have been charmed. Still, I could
not be altogether idle. The same incentive, it may
be, moved the birds, and many took the ride with
me. It was rather startling to see a green heron
perched upon a log and in no wise concerned about
my close proximity. It seldom shifted its position,
and seemed asleep, not even noticing its fellows that
12
134 In Touch with Nature.
continually crossed and recrossed the river. These
were never silent; my companion always so, for
which I was grateful, as the others were forever
clearing their throats, and never getting beyond a
guttural. Purple grakles hopped from log to log,
insect-hunting, I supposed, but nothing like a bug
was within sight from where I sat. A song-spar-
row came within a log’s length and sang twice be-
fore departing. All told, we were a merry com-
pany; and what a luxury is elbow-room! Public
highways a mile wide are seldom a feature of the
land. Here we were as much alone as if in the
moon.
An Up-River Ramble:
THE definition of “ picnic,” given by Stormonth,
is really a brief but suggestive essay on a delight-
ful subject. Perhaps I can meet all requirements
by merely stating: June 20, perfect day, picnic.
See Stormonth.
Think of a perfect June day! And add thereto
“Top-Rock,” the “ Ringing Stones,” and “ High
Falls,” with a ride in the valley of the Delaware
that never becomes commonplace, however long
the day’s ramble. The drive at the base of the
cliff was of itself sufficient to fill the day; but
although we might well have halted at every step
to revel in nature’s riches, there was an over-
powering impulse in every one to go yet farther
and reach Ultima Thule. It is scarcely to one’s
credit to admit that these magnificent rocks, with
ferns, flowers, and reckless trees that clung to
135
136 In Touch with Nature.
giddy heights, should have passed with but a
glance. There was such suggestiveness in each
overhanging shelf and gloomy crevice, indelible
footprints of Time, the day might well have been
spent in contemplation at any point. There was
food for thought in abundance, but, alas! there
was food also in various hampers, and the day was
devoted to a picnic in its broadest sense.
Let us return to Stormonth: he says, Pick, to
eat by morsels ; Wick, the former familiar name of
the tankard for liquor. Strictly, then, we were to
Pic, and the nicking was to be omitted. At least,
I have nothing to say of the latter. The rocks
whereon we halted for the feast afforded ample
room not only to recline while eating, but to
dance and make merry should one be inclined,
while the more staid and geologically inclined
found the flat layers of slaty rock an absorbing
object-lesson. There was but a mere rivulet trick-
ling over one edge of the exposure at the time,
but every evidence that at no distant day, geologi-
cally speaking, a torrent had rushed through the
glen and leaped with majestic force over the brink
of a precipice hard by. How much more readily
An Up-River Ramble. 137
we may recall the past if we have even the slen-
derest thread holding us thereto! This little rivu-
let, that one might pass over without seeing, sang
no less the wondrous story of the past because it
lisped in childish treble, and every utterance was
lost if a bird sang or the wind murmured through
the hemlocks. It was almost pathetic to see the
waters gather their puny strength where the flat
rocks abruptly ended and plunge into the deep
gorge below. Plunging as if to move the mighty
rocks that barred their way, but only to be lost
among the broken masses that strewed the dark,
tortuous channel of the mountain-brook. No
charm was missing because the spot was now so
calm. It was a time fitted to contemplate what
had been rather than follow the rush of tumultu-
ous activity. I was thankful, for one, that there
was no roar of sullen waters to awe, no giddy
abyss from which to shrink in fear. Better, by
far, the bell-like ripple, cheery as a bird’s song,
that so gently hinted of the tragic long-ago.
The feast over, we were conducted to the
“Ringing Stones,” and here grandeur of a
wholly different type confronted us. It is hard
12*
138 In Touch with Nature.
to believe that such a spot could fail to arouse
interest in the spectator, and yet the fame of these
rocks is not far-travelled. Until I saw them to-
day I never knew of them, and yet have lived
within almost a day’s walk of them all my life.
In a little woods we found them resting in absolute
silence, but not one but responded in deep or
gayer tones to the touch of our timid feet. It
was wretched walking, but we little thought of
danger, as peal after peal rang out, when chosen
masses were sharply struck with bits of stone. It
was a most strange spot. A veritable crater, from
which had bubbled up a molten mass, now cracked
into huge angular masses, heaped in the most hap-
hazard way,—
“ Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world.”
This rugged, rocky music will not bear trans-
planting, and rejects a home in any mere frag-
ment such as one might carry away. I am glad
of this, for else these massive stones would be
stolen by lovers of Wagner. The sound given
out, when these masses of crystalline rock are
An Up-River Ramble. 139
sharply struck with a metal hammer or a piece of
stone, is due not only to the crystalline structure
of the rock itself, but to the position in which each
mass lies, those having fewest points of contact
with the surrounding masses having the clearest
and sweetest “voices,” as I call them.
As had been true of every other point whereat
we had tarried through the day, so here was a
spot about which I longed to tarry, and, as in
many a melancholy case before, was forced to
console myself with the hope that I might come
again. The plan of the leader must be followed
out, and reluctantly turning from these sweet-
tongued rocks, we were soon ez voute for the
great feature of the day’s excursion, “ Top-Rock.”
This was no outstanding point to be seen from a
distance, like a snow-capped peak, and climbed in
imagination before its base was reached. To all
but the leader it was a matter of faith until the
moment it was fairly stepped upon. In fact, it was
with some misgiving that a pedestrian tour was un-
dertaken, when, the carriages halting in the dusty
highway, the fact that such was necessary was
announced, Had I not already seen enough?
140 In Touch with Nature.
was the question asked by more than one. Be-
sides, we were at a cottage-door, and a bubbling
spring, with mossy pebbles set about, and a clam-
shell cup, tempted too strongly to have faith in
stronger things. But we started at last, and never
hath a hedge shut in so marvellous a view. As
the field was crossed, there was nothing suggestive
of other than the lowest lowlands, but we were, in
fact, on a long reach of table-land that ended with
startling suddenness behind a hedge. A mere
fragment of a wood-path was followed, when,
without an intimation of what was near, the valley
of the Delaware was spread out before us. We
stood upon an overhanging cliff, nearly four hun-
dred feet above the water.
These are the Nockamixon Rocks, we were
told, and very different the appearance from the
summit as compared with that at the base; not
that the latter does not merit all that can be said,
but here we are above comparative description.
These rocks are really a cliff, nearly one mile in
length, of the new red sandstone, but do not be
misled by this term “new.” They are ancient in
every sense, and their sheer front facing the east
An Up-River Ramble. 141
has borne the brunt of untold centuries of storms.
All that is new about them is each succeeding sum-
mer’s mantle of vine and flower. These, clinging
to the narrowest of ledges, and finding root-hold
in the shallow cracks, gave rise to much specula-
tion in my mind, for they seemed so unequal to
withstanding storms, yet were as luxuriant as the
growths in the valley beneath.
We had had an opportunity of comparing
man’s work with nature, and the little canal at
the very base-of the bluff was a ludicrous feature
of the landscape from where we stood. But the
river beyond was in no wise commonplace. It
flowed, as of old, serenely past innumerable bould-
ers that fretted its course, but from our point of
view there was no evidence of haste or hesitancy;
the flow seemingly as calm and unruffled as the
wide-reaching landscape and the overarching sky.
Heeding only the hills that hemmed it in, as a
glistening thread of silver it reached to other
scenes the high hills shut from us, and was the
dearer to every rambler for that, miles away, with
the same gladsome brightness, it rippled past our
homes. How much there is in sucha feeling! Not
142 In Touch with Nature.
strangers in a strange land, but at home, whether
we wander where the river is but a mountain-brook,
or broadens until lost in the sea. This it is that
makes, for me, the Delaware something more than
“A river bare,
That glides the dark hills under,”
and so disputes that
“There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
Nature never duplicates a birthplace.
We saw few flowers, but abundant evidence
that there are many in their season. Finding no
trace of the coveted rose-root, I contented
myself with fern and purple raspberry. The
rose-root has a history. Gray says of it, found
“throughout Arctic America, extending southward
to the coast of Maine, and chffs of Delaware
River.” Think of a flower that has withstood the
changes since the glacial epoch! Here we have
it; one that made the garlands of palzolithic
maidens. There is archeology gone mad for
you!
Of the immediate landscape nothing need be
An Up-River Ramble. 143
said. Description, if detailed, is nauseating ; and
to be worthily comprehensive who shall dare?
Contemplating a landscape, one naturally drifts
towards comparisons, but avoid them sedulously.
My companions, to my sorrow, were not like-
minded. A fair pedagogue suggested crazy patch-
work! Miles of magnificent valley compared to a
bedquilt! And this, too, from one who is writing
a novel. Her words were the one cloud that
dimmed the glorious sunshine of a perfect day.
A. Day in New Mexico.
Com inc, as I had, from the far East, where
nature, if seen at all, is viewed from a comparatively
near stand-point, it was a novel experience to
while away the hours of a sunny day, studying
mountains apparently near at hand, yet miles and
miles away. As I glanced, for the last time, at
the landscape from the car-windows, I planned to
wander across the intervening plain to at least the
base of a beautiful range of rocky hills that
bounded it in one direction; but learning soon
after that the proposed goal was twelve miles away,
contemplated it, as stated, from afar. Probably I
did not lose much, for, protected from the search-
ing sunshine of a New Mexican noontide, it was
possible to remain delightfully cool and yet mark
the endless changes on the mountains beyond.
The country here is simply a broad, treeless
plain, hemmed in, at scattered points, by moun-
tains. Without these the hotel would have seemed
144
A Day in New Mexico. 145
more like a ship at sea, so monotonous are these
level stretches of almost barren ground; but there
is endless variety where the hills begin. Against
the background of cloudless, deep-blue sky there
is traced the most fantastic grouping of tapering
points, narrow notches, and that chance accumu-
lation of shapeless sculpture one tries in vain to
disentangle. For this reason the outlook never
becomes monotonous. Fancy is slow to weary
of playing with such building-blocks; but when
she does, it is but a step from form to color, and
the magnificence of this is only equalled by the
magnitude of the other. The restless chasing of
light and shadow across the rugged hill-sides
never ceases. What but a moment ago were deep,
dark gorges are now sunlit prominences, and the
outstanding features that held our gaze so recently
have now faded from view. Later, when the long
shadows creep slowly across the plain, masses of
snowy clouds rest upon every peak. The scene is
wholly changed. Mountains and clouds become
as one; a mighty barrier that shuts out the sun.
And now what of the intervening plain? The
soil is very like, if not, pulverized lava, and that
G k 13
146 In Touch with Nature.
vegetation should exist at all is marvellous. Yet
there are bushes that thickly cover the ground,
but, if we except the few sickly cotton-woods that
have been planted near the dwellings, there are no
trees ; their place is taken by countless windmills.
These are no addition to the landscape, and are
made the more hideous from being painted white,
and too often spotted and splashed with red and
blue. A green windmill would be far less con-
spicuous, but this color appears to find little favor
with the dwellers on this plain. One needs but to
tarry here for a few days to learn to love trees,
and, indeed, well-nigh every feature of the Atlantic
seaboard States.
Without this beggarly show of vegetation there
would be no animal life here worth mentioning ;
but as it is, the plain is far from being deserted.
My attention, on leaving the cars, was first called
to a few swallows twittering about the railway
station ; then a dull-gray kingbird perched upon
the telegraph-wires, and launched out into the
glaring sunshine for huge green beetles, that
seemed to replace the house-flies at home. Then,
too, there were ravens that flapped lazily over the
A Day in New Mexico. 147
long rows of freight-cars, croaking dismally, and,
by their presence, adding no charm to the land-
scape, as do the merry, noisy, cunning crows at
home, Of the two birds, I prefer the latter. The
raven may figure better in poetry, and its name
sound less harshly upon the ear; but for the
pleasant purpose of recalling days gone by, or as
an object of study, give me the crow. If the
ravens at Deming are fair representatives of their
race, then the crow is, I believe, a brainier bird.
Strolling about the plain, one other bird at-
tracted my attention continually, and made the
place less dreary. It was the black-throated spar-
row. Although the voice was harsh and dry,
fitting the arid surroundings, there was an as-
surance in its lame attempts at song that the
world here was not utterly desolate. I listened
hour after hour to these cheerful birds, fancying
there was melody in their attempts at song, and
wondering why, when their lines had been cast in
such forbidding places, the gift of a sweet voice had
not been vouchsafed them. Does the extremely
dry atmosphere have to do with it? Nota sound
that I heard had that fulness of tone common to
148 In Touch with Nature.
the allied utterances at home. At the limit of my
longest stroll I heard a mountain mocking-bird, as
it is misnamed in the books, and his was a disap-
pointing song. It was the twanging of a harp of
a single string, and that a loose one.
Of skunks, lizards, snakes, and creatures of that
ilk I heard much, but my stay was too brief to
encounter any; but of the dreaded tarantula I
saw much, and, as usual, was disappointed. One
would fancy, from what he reads, that this huge
spider was a veritable fiend incarnate. If so, it
must be at seasons only. They were not so here
and now. During the day I could find no trace
of them, and it is said that during the dry season
they remain in their burrows or under heavy tim-
ber, as the floor of the railway platform, but after
sundown they made their appearance, and the first
impression I received was that no other spider
was so very timid. They started at approaching
footsteps, were ever disposed to run when ap-
proached, and showed fight only when cornered,
This seemed to me the more strange, as every
person I met held them to be very brave, very
fierce, and very poisonous. I could not verify
A Day in New Mexico. 149
these assertions, although I did not experiment
upon myself as to the effects of their biting.
That they can produce a very irritating sore, and
the venom, when taken up by the circulation, pro-
duces constitutional effects, is unquestionably true,
but I do not believe that death ever results di-
rectly from their bites. Not fearing the creatures,
I watched one in particular, to see what evidences
of intelligence it would exhibit. These were not
very apparent. It simply realized that it was a
prisoner, and made desperate efforts to escape.
When teased with a bit of straw or leaf, it made
no attempt to bite, but appeared to recognize my
finger, although protected by a glove, and gave
me several vicious nips, but could not penetrate
an ordinary kid glove. I noticed that there was
left upon my finger a minute drop of yellow,
sticky fluid, after the first and second attempts to
bite, but not afterwards, these two efforts seem-
ingly exhausting the contents of the poison-sacs.
No person that I questioned attributed a voice
to the tarantula, and I failed to demonstrate that
they could make a faint whizzing or whirring
sound, but I fancied such was the case. On the
13*
150 In Touch with Nature.
whole, these huge black spiders are disappointing,
and would scarcely have received the attention
that has been given them were they not superla-
tively ugly, and mankind naturally afraid of the
whole race of Arachnids.
I was sorry to see no tarantula-hawks, as a
certain gigantic blue wasp is called. They are
formidable-looking creatures themselves, but de-
serve encouragement as the relentless foe of the
dreaded spider. It is said of them: they seem
“ never to rest a moment, and with tireless energy
fly and walk rapidly along the ground, running .
into every crevice and hole, and examining every
suspicious object,—after the dreaded tarantula.
The fate of the giant spider when discovered by
the hawk is both certain and attended with fas-
cinating horror.
“ The winged insect hovers over the victim until
it finds a good opportunity to sting. The poison
acts in a peculiar manner, the tarantula becoming
paralyzed.”
The twilight is short at Deming, and when the
sun sinks at last behind the distant hills it is
quickly night. The birds, unlike many a robin
A Day in New Mexico. 151
and thrush at home, have no evening song, and
silence, were it not for myriad insects, would
brood over the plain. But the crickets are now in
their glory, and a sound as of rushing waters fills
the air. Its volume increases and diminishes with
the fitful breeze that rushes by or lazily toys with
the stiff shrubbery that dots the plain. And it
matters not if there be moonlight. Except the
insects’ steady trill, the world was now at rest;
hushed, as in deep slumber, albeit the moon over-
topped the distant hills and flooded the plain with
a mellow light that caused every object to stand
out with startling distinctness. Here wasa feature
unlike our moonlit fields at home. There, the
charming indistinctness shrouding every object,
even when the sky is cloudless, gives the fancy full
play, and a bush or tree is whatsoever we are
pleased to think it; but not so here. The plain
that was bathed in brilliant sunshine through the
day is almost as distinct now; and even the
mountains are not less rugged, and every peak
pierces the upper air, but with an added glory, for
upon each there rest, and over all there twinkle,
millions of glittering stars.
Round about Bisbee.
ALTHOUGH I had been for some days sight-
seeing from a car-window in New Mexico, and
had had more than one good stroll over desert-
like prairies, I was not so forcibly impressed with
the fact that I was in the far West as when I
reached this wonderful Arizona mining region.
Then the country back of me was indeed “on
East,” and I was at last “ out West.”
Of Bisbee itself there is little to be said. It is
gathered together in a little valley, hidden by high
hills, and presents no striking feature, as seen from
the station, when you leave the cars, or later, as
you pass along its single street. The little adobe
houses perched upon the hill-sides, however, are
somewhat picturesque, and, what is of more
importance, very comfortable. It was then—late
in July—the rainy season, and from noon until
152
Round about Bisbee. 153
about sunset the rain is likely to be violent; but
during the early morning one may wander over
the hills and along the valleys without fear of a
wetting.
What had I in view in coming here? was the
tiresome question that every miner asked as
opportunity afforded; and when assured that it
was merely to see new sights and a new country,
an expression of doubt was plainly depicted on
their countenances. They believed it was not
merely to see a new flower or hear a new bird
that brought me here. But it was: and now what
of the sights and sounds round about Bisbee?
Upon arrival I did not plunge zz medias res, but
looked upon the summits of the highest hills as
inaccessible, and revelled in what I called mountain-
climbing by scrambling over the near-by rocks.
This tested my strength, gave me practice, added
to my surefootedness, and so the day of a steep
ascent found me equal to the task. We were off
by 5 aM., three of us, with a burro to carry
our traps and a.small boy to coax the patient
donkey over the rocky trail. Our purpose was
twofold: to reach the summit, and take photo-
154 In Touch with Nature.
graphs of such objects as struck our fancy. We
succeeded admirably.
There was not one familiar feature about or
above us from the very start, for even the air and
sky were strangely clear, and a soaring eagle that
kept long in view seemed almost within gunshot,
although circling far above an adjoining mountain ;
and later, when, following a swift-descending swoop,
its impatient scream came floating earthward, we
stopped as if the bird was threatening us. So it
was that at the very outset the scales dropped from
our eyes and our ears were quickened to novel
sounds. But no new sound, as a bird’s song, is so
sure to attract attention as some one that has the
subtle charm of association. A curved-billed
thrush across the wide valley commenced singing,
and at once the mountains vanished. How long
T stood in the cool shadow of a thrifty oak I can-
not tell, but when from a misty cloud the moun-
tains reappeared, I was quite alone. I had been
wandering under the homestead oaks, and for
long after their misty outlines stood against the
sky.
If a clear atmosphere and high altitude sharpens
Round about Bisbee. 155
one’s wits, it may, too, overstrain the nerves and
lead to many a blunder, particularly if the spirit
of adventure is well upon one. I was in such a
plight, and strange indeed if something should
not befall me before I joined my party! As I was
trudging along alone, every pebble rattling beneath
my tread, I fancied some strange creature in my
path. Not a crooked stick but suggested a ser-
pent; and so, guarding against imagined dan-
gers, I finally met with a real one: I sat upon a
cactus. As a cure for unbridled imagination, I
commend it.
To better nurse my countless trivial wounds, I
chose a rock for a resting-place, and considered
the innumerable fragments of flinty stone that
covered the entire hill-side. If color has aught
to do with it, I was leaving behind me most
tempting specimens of minerals. At almost every
step I had been rolling down the hill crystals of
many a hue, and dull-colored stone made beauti-
ful by the green, blue, and crimson incrustations
that covered them. Many a bit that I picked up
and flung away was varied as the rainbow. But,
beautiful as were all these, they paled to utter
156 In Touch with Nature.
insignificance when brought in contact with the
masses from the heart of the mountain. If one
would know how magnificent a mineral may be,
how it surpasses even the orchids among flowers,
the butterflies among insects, or birds of paradise
among birds, let him gather from the mouth of the
great copper-mine fragments of the ore as they
are ruthlessly dumped upon the ground. When
malachite, azurite, and cuprite are seen as I saw
them at Bisbee, then one can form some idea of
Nature’s perfected handiwork. If in the earth’s
unexplored regions there is awaiting man’s com-
ing some yet more magnificent exhibition than
the play of sunlight upon clustered crystals, as I
found them here, then man should have other
senses whereby to appreciate it.
Resuming my journey, I soon overtook my
companions, and long before noon reached the
summit. It was but a mass of loose, angular
rocks, no larger than those that covered the
mountain-side, nor more weather-beaten, although
it is at such a spot that the clouds literally burst
and spend their pent-up fury. This thought in
mind, I was surprised to find, scattered between
Round about Bisbee. 157
rock-masses, gray-green, brittle ferns, and one
bright, ruddy flower, akin in appearance to our
brilliant “painted cup” of the Jersey hills. How
they could withstand the fury of the storms that
rage thereabout, let some philosopher explain.
Insignificant as was the vegetation here, it was
equal to the task of holding desolation at bay,
and no gloomy thoughts arose as we stood over-
looking miles and miles of country. We were
perched well aloft, surely, but as a mere speck
overhead still floated the eagle that we had seen
early in the day. It was a thrilling fancy that the
eagle above us might be looking over the Pacific,
and, with scarcely an effort, might turn eastward
and be over our New Jersey home before we
could reach the village at our feet. It was a
merit of this day that rapid transit was the rule in
all things, and we were never shocked by sudden
transition from fancy to fact. From the soaring
eagle to the broad-tailed humming-bird was a not
unpleasant change, as I had: never before seen a
living species of this family except the familiar
ruby-throat. It came and went, as such birds
always do, without our knowledge of the direction
14
158 In Touch with Nature.
it took, and promised to be quite uninteresting,
until at last it spied our dog, and then its ire was
excited. With an angry, bee-like whiz it darted
to and fro, never actually touching the dog, but
very loud in its threatenings as to the constantly-
postponed next time. It seemed a more cowardly
bird than the Eastern ruby-throat, which makes
good its threats, and has been known to strike
first and threaten afterwards, Fear of man seemed
characteristic of a great deal of the animal life
met with on the mountain, and I was not pre-
pared to cope with this difficulty, having expected
to find even the birds comparatively tame. Cer-
tainly the creatures that still linger in these now
treeless mountains are seldom molested, and yet
they all were more difficult to approach than allied
forms at home. I realized this when a shining-
crested flycatcher, that, as I saw it, looked like a
black cedar-bird, came within fifty feet, and would
permit of no nearer approach. But, thanks to the
clear air, where nothing obstructs the sound, and
vision is surprisingly acute, I could both see and
hear this curious bird with some satisfaction. Its
song is very sweet, yet I did not hear the full
Round about Bisbee. 159
range of its melody, as one does who meets the
bird during the nesting season. As to the wrens,
they were not so bold as the little, brown fellows
at home; and so through the whole list of ani-
mated nature. Herein lay the one disappointing
feature of my mountain-climb.
Over-anxiety for my neck caused my thoughts
to centre in my heels on the return, and I saw
surprisingly little; so consoled myself with the
thought that what my first mountain failed to
yield might be the special gift of an adjoining
hill; and so it proved.
But to spend hours on a mountain and come
back with but one poor weed was too much for
the patience of the miners, and I was truly pitied.
For once, if not oftener, they had found an un-
questionable crank. Very likely. But, then, if a
man is not mildly a crank in some one direction,
is he not sure to be a nonentity in all?
A Rocky Ramble.
F Rom the top of the highest peak, the adjoining
mountains look much alike, but it will not do to
climb one hill and then judge of the whole range.
This may suffice for some purposes, as those of a
physical geographer, but will never satisfy the
whims of a rambler bent on close acquaintance
with each hill-side’s unconsidered trifles.
It has been asked, What is the distinguishing
whim of a professional rambler? It is, I take it,
to gather pleasure rather than profit from the
world about him. He is supposed to be one free
of all definiteness of purpose other than that
mentioned. Whether some projecting rock is
diorite or dolerite is.to him of little moment, but
whether it is dull or glistening, bare or covered,
becomes a matter of importance. Upon it may
depend the measure of his joy as he scans the
160
A Rocky Ramble. 161
landscape. How vividly I recall one long, bare
ledge of pale-gray rock, capping the precipitous
wall of a deep ravine! As at first seen, it was
mere Titanic masonry, but soon I caught a glimpse
of one trembling fern fluttering in the fitful breeze.
The rocks were changed; they were no longer
grand by reason of their desolation, but glorious
because of the little fern that clung tothem. A
fig for the name of the species! That it grew at
such a dizzy height and brightened the grim gray
wall was fact enough for the rambler. It is some-
times well not to be a botanist. Whether ignoble
or not, I always yield to the temptations of aim-
lessness.
And now let us to the mountain: the hill is not
high, but the path is very rough. Whether man
was or was not once a creeping animal, it is well
that at times he can go upon all-fours ; otherwise
many a chance to see goodly sights would be lost
to him. It was so to-day. Loose rocks could
not have been better arranged to prevent our
progress,—there were three of us,—and so our
satisfaction was increased as we gained, from time
to time, a promising outlook. But there were
t 14*
162 In Touch with Nature.
dangers that could not be overlooked. There is
nothing funny in facing a rattlesnake, and to put
your hand upon a centipede may stay farther
climbing for that day. Even to have a tarantula
comb your eyebrows is somewhat of a shock.
None of these things happened, but the climb was
by no means stupid; and when a great bare rock
was reached, whereon we rested, each was eager
to narrate his own little adventure. He who first
spoke uttered the opinion of all, that probably no
one had ever been so foolhardy before as to climb
this hill, and the pleasant feelings of the discoverer
filled our silly breasts ; but only to receive a shock.
A clatter as of rolling stones was heard. We
looked down the hill, and there was a Mexican
walking at his ease, his patient burro following.
Conversation ceased and I turned my thoughts
into new channels. These Mexican wood-gatherers
and their little donkeys or burros did not prove
vastly entertaining. They moved along with less
animation than the ore-buckets on the tram-way,
and recalled the sluggish “Gila monsters,” that
will wait a week for a rock to roll away rather
than go round it. In one case the donkey proved
A Rocky Ramble. 163
the more polite of the two, for my salutation,
“Good-morning,” was met by silence on the part
of the man, but the donkey’s fifteen inches of ears
waved gracefully as the animal passed. Still,
sitting on the great flat rock, I watched the man
and his donkey as they walked towards the woods
above us. Their trained eyes made out a path to
which we were blind, and the sole merit of the
Mexican was his ease in stepping from stone to
stone without pausing to look at the loose rocks
before him. Soon he passed out of sight and out
of mind, leaving us to the hill-side, which we had
fondly supposed no others would be rash enough
to visit. It is something to have neighbors, even
if the mere knowledge of their existence meets
every need.
Except a solitary bird, at long intervals, or
butterflies that we brushed from blooming cacti,
there was no evidence of animal life upon this
rugged hill-side ; but when we were quietly perched
upon the roomy rock and made no pronounced
demonstration, many a creature that had been
startled by our strange appearance as we scram-
bled upward, came one by one in view. It was
164 In Touch with Nature.
the old story. We had been watched at every
step, as is every noisy rambler in Eastern woods
when he fancies himself alone. As an illustration:
our presence was held not unsafe to them by a
pair of huge gray squirrels, after some consultation
upon their part, and, while in full view, they
warned every creature not to come too near, by
barking as loudly and as lustily as a peevish ter-
rier. It became tiresome at last, and I innocently
threw a stone at them. Here my ignorance ,
cropped out again. The stone fell so far short of
the squirrels that they were not aware of my mur-
derous design. They were quite a quarter of a
mile away, perhaps farther, and yet their every
movement was plainly seen, and I fancied I could
hear their chattering, meant for themselves only.
It is not strange, in such an atmosphere, that timid
animals should be rarely seen. A man’s approach
would be signalled by his footsteps when almost a
mile away, and every unfamiliar sound would put
an animal on the alert. Certainly many a one
could discriminate, too, between clumsy Easterners
like ourselves and that machine-like Mexican that
just passed.
om
A Rocky Ramble. 165
It was here that I saw my first centipede, a shiny,
brown creature, that rested in a crevice of the
rock. It did not suggest “melancholy ferocity,”
—I quote the “Encyclopedia Britannica,”—and
if possessed of such poisonous fangs, why should
it be so cowardly? A slight movement on my
part, after I had discovered it, caused it to disap-
pear instantly. No animal, I take it, ever moved
more rapidly, not even a humming-bird. Here is
the puzzling feature of this uncanny beast. For
long it had been resting in this sunny crevice, and
had, of course, seen us, and—may I add ?—saw that
we did not see it. If this startling suggestion is
true, it ascribes a deal of wit to a centipede ; and
the longer I take note of the creatures about me,
the more I am inclined to exalt their mental
status. We often see such actions on the part of
birds and mammals, and, too, of snakes. They
are swayed by conflicting emotions,—curiosity and
fear,—and while the latter usually gets the upper
hand in time, it is not always so. Why a centi-
pede, several inches long, feared by all creatures,
even by man, should be so extremely shy, is a
difficult problem to solve. If they have wit
166 In Touch with Nature.
enough to act as I hold did this one to-day, they
need scarcely trouble themselves about possible
enemies before an attack is made.
There was more upon this hill to attract a bot-
anist than upon those previously climbed. One
sprawling, prickly weed was very common, and
conspicuous by reason of its handsome blossoms,
These were snowy white, with a deep golden cen-
tre, and contrasted admirably with the light-green
leaves of the plant. Again, there were tangled
mats of vine-like growth, bearing numerous nar-
row leaves, and many a huge trumpet-shaped
flower, also purely white, but with a rich purple
throat. These, with other less conspicuous bloom,
relieved the monotony of bare rocks and brown
earth; but a far more striking feature was the
growth of mistletoe on the mountain-oaks. I had
long been familiar with this parasite on the gum-
trees of Southern New Jersey, and in Kentucky,
along the Ohio River, but nowhere does it grow
in greater luxuriance than in this corner of Ari-
zona. Nor does it seem to have the same blight-
ing effect that marks its progress on our Eastern
trees. Upon one oak, well down in the valley, I
A Rocky Ramble. 167
counted eleven bunches, each as large as a bushel-
basket, yet the tree showed no symptoms of
decay.
Having rested long enough to forget our sev-
eral aches and pains, it was without misgiving
that the descent was undertaken; but as the up-
ward climb was laborious, it followed, in our
fancy, that the downward progress would be very
easy. Not a bit of it. There was no stone that
did not threaten to roll as we touched it, and
many carried out their threats at the most inop-
portune moment. How quickly and how often I
sat down! And then, when well-nigh discouraged,
we heard footsteps behind us, and, looking back-
ward, saw that morose Mexican with his burro.
How deftly they picked their way; how stately
the tread of that swarthy mountaineer! He did
not deign to glance at us; and even if we had
been helpless, would doubtless have passed us by.
But that little burro! His ears alone were plainly
visible, and by them we knew him. His burden
made him not less polite, and again the long ears
waved gracefully as he passed. That this animal
could bear up under two great bundles of crooked
168 In Touch with Nature.
,
sticks, each as large as the creature’s body, and,
withal, walk down a steep hill covered with loose
stones,—this was the most marvellous of the many
strange sights I witnessed. But I was in part on
the same errand, and strove to learn a lesson from
this patient donkey. I followed closely at his
heels, watching every movement. Unfortunately,
I have but two legs and the donkey rejoiced in
four, and that I should imitate successfully with
two limbs the movements of a quadruped was not
to be expected. How, when, where, and why I
threw my legs about I cannot now recall, but at
last my antics caused both the Mexican and his
burro to halt, and I sat down upon a jagged rock
utterly bewildered. After that it was a matter of
careful climbing, with but here and there an occa-
sional step upon some kindly level ledge; and
so, without serious mishap, the valley road was
reached, with, I trust, a proper feeling of thank-
fulness. I have said, “without serious mishap,”
but this bears reference to my body only. I was
still in distress. Into what strange shapes my
clothes had been converted, and how freely the
passing breeze swept through them! Now that I
A Rocky Ramble. 169
was upon level ground, I recalled that I had been
stoutly shod at the outset; but now the soles
of my shoes were as loose box-lids. Was it
strange, as I entered the village, that many miners
laughed?
An Arizonan Hill-side.
My many questions caused me to be set down
as a “ tender-foot” the moment I reached a certain
mining-camp in Southern Arizona. Amusement
or disgust was depicted upon the countenance of
every miner that I questioned, and both, in one
unhappy instance, when I asked if the San Pedro
River was an irrigation ditch. This blunder de-
monstrated that I had all to learn, and from that
moment I pursued a course of quiet investigation.
Of mining-camps in general nothing need here
be said. Probably this particular one has no dis-
tinctive feature. Let it suffice that the surround-
ings, and not the camp, called me so far from
home, and it was to them that I turned as soon as
possible. Out of the village there was but one of
two things for the rambler to do: to follow this
or that tortuous valley, or climb to some one
170
An Arizonan Hill-side. 171
of the innumerable hills, as anything akin to a
prairie was beyond easy walking-distance.
I reached Bisbee at noon, July 8, and climbed a
high hill early the next morning.
There is a never-failing charm in turning into
new paths; to have opened to you a new vista; to
enter for the first time the bounds of a new terri-
tory. Fatigue is set at defiance. One’s old self
slinks into the background. We are mentally born
again. What though the region was here a des-
ert, so long had it been since a refreshing rain had
fallen. The oaks were brave of heart and held
their leafy crowns aloft, cacti were in bloom, birds
sang, butterflies flitted in the brilliant sunshine,
and snow-white clouds floated from peak to peak
of the distant mountains. At last I was in a wil-
derness, with not a familiar object about me, and
it was with honest pleasure that I handled rocks,
plants, and many a living creature of which I
knew not the name. It was sufficient merely to
recognize their position in the grand scheme of
organic nature.
For long there had been no rain, and the first
impression was that of wonder that so great a
172 In Touch with Nature.
variety of animals should choose so arid a region,
when capable of migrating to others more in-
viting. Here were birds in abundance, nesting in
scattered oaks, and finding abundant food-supply
among the heated rocks and repellent cacti. It
is true, I was told that the rainy season should
have commenced before this, and that the birds
simply anticipated the coming change; but could
they not have waited for it? In the East we cer-
tainly associate abundance of animal life with the
constant presence of water, and never an upland
field so teeming with creatures of every kind as
the low-lying marshes with their ranker vegeta-
tion. The river valleys within reach of these
Arizonan hills have not much to commend them:
still, that they were not over-crowded, and the
hills deserted, was a surprise; the more so that
Professor Henshaw, our authority on the orni-
thology of this region, states that this over-crowd-
ing near water commonly occurs. However, here
among the uplifted rocks were the birds and a
goodly company of less prominent creatures, to
which I turned again and again, notwithstanding
the grandeur of the landscape spread before me.
An Arizonan Hill-side. 173
The cactus-wren, because of its close kinship to
the dear wrens of the homestead door-yard, but
more by reason of its own merits, held me long,
and it will ever be a mystery how this restless bird
thridded the maze of spiny branches that baffled
all my efforts to follow it. That it could dart
through the tangled branches of a stag-horn
cactus without a wound is simply miraculous, and
do this, too, when pursued; rushing with reckless
haste from a supposed enemy. Possibly it was
pricked now and then, but if its feathers were ever
ruffled, not so its temper ; and often, when the fates
seemed most against it, this bird would perch be-
tween thorns of dangerous lengths and sing with
that whole-souled ardor that should cause faint-
hearted folk to blush. If ever a little foot-sore,
and you long to return to the smoothened path-
way of the village street, pray for the cactus-wren
to find you out. Never a blue-devil so brave as to
listen to that bird’s song.
There were other creatures on the hill-side that
merit our attention, and I would that I had weeks
instead of minutes to devote to them. Lizards
and skinks are well-nigh countless ; but not, too,
15*
174 In Touch with Nature.
the snakes, which fact I deplored. It was not so
long ago that the lively lizards in New Jersey pine
barrens had given me much to do to gain some
insight into their life-history, and now I recalled
each time, place, and circumstance, as these same
animals darted over the rocks and between the
scattered cacti. The surroundings were not dis-
similar: was there any peculiarity of habit? I
could detect none. The lizards were as swift, but
still a little strategy enabled me to capture them
with my hands, and they straightway became
tame, as had proved the case in the East, while
the wary skinks defied all my efforts to capture
them, and even when badly wounded by bird-shot,
bit me savagely,—an Eastern experience also, Let
him who will attempt to explain why these ani-
mals, with essentially the same habits, and con-
stantly associated, differ in this one respect of
temper. In New Jersey the skink is a solitary
animal, and lives in hollows of old trees, often
twenty, thirty, or fifty feet from the ground,—
locations the common lizard seldom visits,—which
may or may not explain the difference of temper
of the two animals; but here, on this Arizonan
An Arizonan Hill-side. 175
hill-side, the same rocks and cacti sheltered both.
They basked upon the same sunlit surfaces, often
in actual contact; they fed upon the same food,
and took refuge in the same safe harbors when
pursued; but in every instance it held good that
the lizard was amiable and the skink otherwise.
I fancied a score of reasons for this while on the
spot, but have no foundation upon which to rest
any one of them, even for superficial investigation.
A merit of such a stroll as this of to-day is that
one must keep moving. To sit long in the same
spot where rocks are rugged and loose wearies far
more quickly than a constant change of position,
and with this change is endless novelty. It needed
but half a turn of the head to catch winning
glimpses of a new world. From the wriggling
centipede at my feet, which delighted me by reason
of its graceful movements, to some distant moun-
tain, wrapped in rosy clouds, was a bold leap, but
one that the mountain rambler has constantly to
make. However vividly an object impressed itself
upon me, be it one at hand or many a mile away,
I was never so occupied as to be too late for
something new; and why regret such aimless
176 In Touch with Nature.
wandering? If I learned little, I enjoyed much,
and these are vacation days. But does one learn
so little when method is left in the lurch? There
is at such a time a deal of unconscious cerebra-
tion, and the most trivial incident of a mountain,
tramp, when recalled, stands out in boldest out-
line and has far more significance than we sup-
posed. I shall not need to turn to the photo-
graphs that my companions took to see the
landscapes that were spread out before me, and I
doubt not but that in years to come, when wan-
dering about the fields at home, I will have their
familiar birds and plants bring vividly before me
incident after incident that at the time made but
the faintest impression upon me. It has proved
so heretofore, and I look for its repetition in the
future. We learn much, if we but desire to learn,
without making further effort. It adds a bright
leaf to memory’s volume to walk over a mountain.
The day is well advanced, and what of the
landscape that I have so frequently mentioned?
Who shall dare describe it? If it needs a lifetime
to fathom the secrets of a single hill, what can be
said, after a few hours, of scores of mountains
An Arizonan Hill-side. 177
clustered about you? It is well to be passive
rather than active when among them, and accept
what they offer rather than be importunate. One
can seldom anticipate their lesson of the day, but
it is never one not worth the learning. When I
gazed at their wrinkled fronts, deaf to the birds and
blind to the flowers about me, the initial thought
was that of their unchangeableness. Nature is
here at rest, if anywhere. Peak after peak, ridge
beyond ridge, valley after valley ; a troubled ocean,
motionless. But such a thought was scarcely
crystallized before it dissolved. A cloud passed
betwixt the sun and the hills, and every one was
set in motion. What mighty magic lurked in that
single shadow! As well, now, try to catch the
contour of a troubled wave as single out one of
the hundred hills before me. What but the mo-
ment before typified eternal rest was now the
embodiment of the poetry of motion. Such mas-
sive clouds, hung in so blue a sky, and casting
such shadows, are common to few places, and
here their glory is supreme. It is little wonder,
then, that the mountains were thrilled by that
shadow’s gentle touch.
m
In a Sea-side Forest.
IT too often happens in these latter days that a
suggestive name proves sadly disappointing. We
look in vain for the attractive features the mind
pictured, and have good cause to criticise the un-
bridled imagination of forerunning visitors. For-
tunately, a recent ramble had no such painful
ending. I had heard of a wild-wood, and since
have found it. *
Clustered trees, though there be many, do not
of themselves make a forest. Many a woodland
tract is as uniform as a cornfield, or, at best, but
indefinite duplication of the trees along a village
street. If the rambler merely seeks the shade,
then one tree is sufficient, and perhaps an um-
brella is even an improvement, seeing we can plant
it where we choose. But now I had found a wild-
wood in the fullest sense of that suggestive phrase.
178
In a Sea-side Forest. 179
Here variety ruled, and only the choicest of Na-
ture’s handiwork had foothold. Think of it!
Century after century Nature had had full sway,
and turned out a finished piece of work. Every
sense is charmed; eye, ear, and nose are alike
regaled; the sense of touch delighted. Perfect
trees to look upon; the birds’ songs and the moan-
ing of the sea to hear; the bloom of a thousand
roses to smell; the carpeted sand to lie upon.
Yet, where all was nearing perfection, there stood
out one grand feature overtopping all else,—scores
of magnificent hollies. I had seen many of these
trees before, but never where they gave a distinct
character to the woods. Elsewhere they occur in
clumps of three or four, or perhaps a dozen, but
here, on an island by the sea, there are hundreds.
One that I measured was sixty-eight inches in
circumference and forty feet high. The pale-gray
trunk was well mottled with curious black lichen,
and among the branches drooped long tresses of
beard-like lichen. The pathless wood about it
was a most fit surrounding, the abundant birds its
appropriate comrades, the murmur of the sea the
music. to which its branches gently swayed. To
180 In Touch with Nature.
be able to throw oneself on a moss-carpeted sand
dune and gaze upward at such a tree is abundant
recompense for miles of weary walking.
But this little nook was not the whole wild-
wood, and every tree was worthy of description.
I would that I could write the history of a tree:
the stories of these hollies would pass for fairy
tales.
Irregularities in tree-growth are nowhere un-
usual features of a forest, but here the hollies
are, or have been, on the lookout to break away
from all restraint and become as wayward as pos-
sible. Here is one that has twirled about until
now the trunk is a gigantic corkscrew; and not
far off, another and larger tree has branched some
ten feet from the ground, and then the two main
divisions of the trunk have been reunited. A
modification of this, where a stout limb has re-
turned to the parent stem and re-entered, making
“ jug-handles,” is a common occurrence, and, more
marvellous still, a venerable cedar has some of its
outreaching branches passing not merely into, but
entirely through huge hollies that stand near by.
Evidently the cedar here is the older tree and the
In a Sea-side Forest. 181
hollies have grown around the now imprisoned
branches. And, as if not content with such
irregularities as these, other hollies have assumed
even animal-like shapes; the resemblance in one
instance to an elephant’s head and trunk being
very marked, Even the stately and proper-grown
hollies have their trunks incased in strangely
wrinkled barks, suggestive of a plastic mass that
has suddenly hardened.
Why all this irregularity I leave to others.
There was no patent explanation for him who ran
to read, and I was puzzled at the outset to know
in what direction to commence guessing. This is
an entertainment, when idling in the woods, the
rambler should not despise. Our best outings are
when we wear other head-gear than a thinking-cap.
So far as the crooked hollies are concerned, it will
be time enough next winter to muse over the
conclusions of the botanist.
Equally startling in such wonderland is it to see
a thrifty blueberry bush growing from the trunk
of a tree, so high in the air that you need a ladder
to reach it. This bush annually bears a full crop
of excellent fruit. That I am at last in a bit of
16
182 In Touch with Nature.
Jersey’s primeval forest there is little doubt. Had
an elk darted by, or a mastodon screamed, it would
hardly have been surprising. This not seriously,
of course; but how promptly the present vanishes
in such a wood; how vividly the past is pictured
before us! Everywhere towering trees bearing’
evidence of age, and early in the day I found my-
self face to face with a huge cedar, dating back at
least to the Norsemen, who it is thought reached
America, if not the New England coast. Here
was a tree that for centuries the Indians had known
as a landmark.
It is a mistake to suppose that old trees do not
remain in almost every neighborhood, for an old
tree is not of necessity a big one. —at the woful change. What
now of the birds? I asked, and later found them
merry, active, and every one afield. It was dull
enough to dampen the ardor of an English spar-
row, yet not one of them was snugly housed in its
winter-quarters,
The Dutch on the Delaware.
ZIGZAG journeys are not to my taste, either as
matters of personal experience or as the subject-
matter of books; but I have taken several of late,
passing in the most abrupt manner from an island
in the river to the college book-stack.
Buried inches deep in gradually-accumulated
soil rest the ruins of an ancient house: buried
fathoms deep in the mouldy pages of forgotten
books are the records of stirring times, before
Philadelphia was, when there were Dutch on the
Delaware.
Where I have been paddling in my canoe for
many months there is a large island. I have been
paddling around this, not over it. Like all the
others in the river, this little body of fast land is
fighting against two great odds, and slowly wast-
ing away. An occasional freshet dumps a mass of
312
The Dutch on the Delaware. 313
rubbish now and then, but far oftener carries away
a goodly slice of some fair field or woodland strip.
Certain it is that the tide covers many an acre now
of what, even within historic time, was cultivable
ground. Huge trees, that within the century
crowned a bold headland, have been undermined
and swept seaward by the floods. This steady
destruction has not in all cases been an entire
sweeping away of the island shore, but often of so
much earth only as to leave exposed the long-
hidden traces of other days. In brief, the island
has for ages been a closed cabinet, and now time
has rusted its hinges and the floods carried off the *
door, leaving to the aimless prowler of to-day to
rifle the rotten shelves of such treasure as remains.
This is how it came about. During a recent
ramble I found a yellow brick upon the sand;
and, looking farther, another, and curious old red
bricks, and bits of roofing tiles, and pipe-stems ;
scattered everywhere odds and ends that could
only have come from some old house near by.
But where? It needed but to ask the question to
change from aimless rambler to explorer, and then
my troubles began. It was not enough to search
° 27
314 In Touch with Nature.
for the spot whereon had stood the house, for this
was soon found; but who lived here; when did
he build; when and why did he leave? A hun-
dred questions plagued me at once, and I took
refuge in the book-stack.
As far back as 1668, we learn that Peter Jegou
purchased a tract of land including this island, and
for his own use built a house, which, by the way,
was an inn, and the first house of entertainment, or
tavern, built on the Delaware. It stood near the
mouth of a large creek, and on what is now the
main-land, the Jersey shore; while within sight,
on the end of the island, was another house, and
one most advantageously situated, for it com-
manded a perfect outlook down the river, which
is here fully a mile wide. We will not speculate
as to the guests of Jegou’s tavern, nor as to who
were his neighbors. The whole matter would
probably have been irrecoverably lost to history
had Peter not gone to law, and left on record that,
of this island and the Jersey shore hard by, he
was “in Lawfull possession until ye Jeare 1670;
att w™ tyme yo’ Plt. was plundered by the Indians
& by them utterly ruined as is wel knowne to all
The Dutch on the Delaware. 315
ye world.” This is pleasant reading. Think of
being “utterly ruined” for nine years, and then
bobbing up serenely in a lawsuit and winning it!
But better news awaited me. About the same
time the two men living in the island house were
murdered. I was delighted, and hurried back to
the island. To think of murder and a state of
siege and all the wild tumult of midnight sur-
prises having happened so near home! Hereto-
fore the Delaware Indian, except among the
mountains and in far later times, has seemed a
commonplace creature, that gave way to Dutch,
Swedes, and Englishmen without amurmur. Now
I know better, and every arrow-point and stone
axe is of added interest.
Having gathered the relics that the floods had
scattered, I commenced to dig, and soon brought
it all to light. But let me not anticipate. I would
that some one had written a learned essay on the
art of digging. It is something more than mere
shovelling of dirt, pitching aside with a spade sand,
gravel, and clay. It may mean important dis-
covery at any moment and the bringing again to
light of day of long-buried treasure. This is a
~
316 In Touch with Nature.
powerful incentive to dig. The world has had a
host of Captain Kidds, and no one will question
our right to search for whatsoever they have hid-
den. Then, too, let it be whispered, there is a
supreme delight in digging out of bounds. Of
course an archzologist, historian, or curiosity
crank looks upon himself as not amenable to
common law, and in his case trespass is not tres-
pass. I speak from experience, governed in all
such cases by a juvenile phrase as faulty in gram-
mar as in morals, but very convenient,—finding is
keeping.
I stood now on the bank of the river, looking
landward. Stood where sturdy Dutch pioneers
had passed and repassed many times, and I almost
worked myself to the pitch of seeing the well-
worn path leading from the dwelling on the high
ground to the little wharf. There is almost nothing
left now for the imagination to build upon. Here
is the same island, but how changed! The same
river, but lacking many a feature of its prehistoric
days. Here, happily, all trace of human industry
is shut out, and we have to do only with what
Nature in her varying moods has fashioned. Tall
The Dutch on the Delaware. 317
trees, dense underbrush, and that melancholy array
of dead summer fruit, blighted leaves, grass, and
seed-pods stranded upon the beach. History has it
that the Dutch called more than one lonely reach
of river shore Verdietige-hoeck,—Doleful Corner.
To-day, at least, this was such a one; veritable
waste-land and wasting land, too, for the tide is
27*
318 In Touch with Nature.
wearing the whole island slowly but surely away.
A word here about waste-land. Such is not neces-
sarily barren tracts, cold, gray sand dunes, or
forbidding rocks. Nature is often most active
where man finds no foothold. This is the waste-
land that I have in mind ; land that makes it pos-
sible for a man to be a naturalist; land where he
who loves Nature loves best to linger.
Sitting upon the damp sand, dotted with bits of
the old house and pipe-stems, I burrowed into the
low bank with a garden-trowel, making little hori-
zontal holes that would have pleased the swallows,
saving them half the labor of nest-building. But
at last the steel struck a resisting object that was
not a stone, but a curious, long, thin brick. This
was the outlier of the treasure beyond, and the
digging henceforth was a pleasure, notwithstanding
the many tree-roots that had enviously wrapped
about the one-time belongings of the defunct
Dutchman. A part of a wall was finally exposed,
and many small, pale-yellow bricks. The larger
red ones were generally perfect, but every yellow
one was broken. Next came a part of the roof,
still intact, three large curved tiles, and beneath
The Dutch on the Delaware. 319
them portions of what I took to be a charred beam.
Hand-wrought iron spikes were found, all twisted
out of shape, the effect of heating when the house
was burned. One little fragment of glazed earthen-
ware, being slightly curved, I fancied a bit of a
beer-mug; but there was no question about the
pipes. Either this old Dutchman was the most
inveterate of smokers or he had on hand a stock
for trading. Who knows but he had a shop here,
just as there was a tavern across the narrow creek,
and this pioneer settler bartered not only with the
Indians but as well with his fellow-countrymen ;
for the island was in the then line of travel be-
tween the west shore settlements on Delaware Bay
and Manhattan Island. There is authority for
this, inasmuch as somewhere about 1621 an effort
was made by the Dutch “to truck and trade with
the natives” living on the shores of the river, and
in 1623 an attempt was made to settle on the part
of Europeans. This island house is a matter of
more than forty years later.
I have said the occupants were murdered.
These crimes “ were owing to Tashiowycan, who,
having a sister dying, expressed great grief for it,
320 In Touch with Nature.
and said, ‘The Mannetta hath killed my sister, and
I will go kill the Christians ;’ and, taking another
with him, they together executed the barbarous
facts.” Then was the island abandoned, and it
returned to waste-land. How soon all traces of
the ruined house disappeared can scarcely be con-
jectured, but, doubtless, the Indians took every-
thing of value, and the destruction was complete.
But the history of the troublous time was safe.
All the world knew about the tragedy, and, with-
out details, George Fox refers to the incident:
“On the roth of 7th month,” he wrote, “at night,
finding an old house, which the Indians had forced
the people to leave, we made a fire and lay there,
at the head of Delaware Bay. The next day we
swam our horses over a river about a mile wide,
at twice, first to an island called Upper Dinidock
and then to the main land, having hired Indians to
help us over in their canoes.” This is a reference
to Peter Jegou’s tavern which stood within sight
of the island house. Perhaps Fox paused to con-
template these ruins. They offered him a text for
preaching to the dusky ferry-men that helped him
over to the “main” or Pennsylvania shore. It
The Dutch on the Delaware. 321
may be the ruins were weed-grown and hidden
then; if so, the greater interest to me, for, neg-
lected by Fox, the opportunity comes more than
two centuries later to revive the history of a river
tragedy.
Whether his countrymen ventured back, or some
Indian had the courage to do so, is not on record ;
but one of the murdered men was buried. His
bones—a headless skeleton, indeed—were found
near by, so near that he can be said to have been
buried in the ruins of his house. Certainly the
bones had not been exposed to fire; but where
was the head? We know of war-clubs and toma-
hawks. They are common to all the farm-lands
along the Delaware even yet: and was the poor
Dutchman’s head crushed by the assassin? Gath-
ering up the bones—for what purpose I do not
know—and whatsoever I could move of bricks
and tiles, I sat down, at last, to rest at the foot of
an old tree, fancying it, of course, one of the
Dutchman’s shade-trees, and took in those fare-
well glances that are ever fullest of meaning.
The day was well spent, and that soft south wind,
which, according to Roger Williams, was held to
Dv
322 In Touch with Nature.
be the giver of every good and perfect gift to the
Narragansetts, was blessing now the Delaware, as
in good old Indian days.