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Cornell University Library

FISKE ENDOWMENT FUND

THE BEQUEST OF

Willard Fiske

LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY 1868-1883

1905

Cornell University Library
QL 676.A13 1894

is in a tree-to;

wun | iii

mann

Cornell University

Library

The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http:/Awww.archive.org/details/cu31924001124399

TRAVELS IN
A TREE-TOP

RAVELS IN

|| /By CHARLES
‘dil € CONRAD
ABBOTT

PHILADELPHIA & LON-
DON: J.B.LIPPINCOTT

COMPANY.

Copyricut, 1894,
BY
J. B. Liprincorr Company.

Printeo ey J. & Lippincott Company, PHILADELPHIA.

ConTENTS

Travels in a Tree-top . 2... 1 6s
A Hunt for the Pyxie . 2.
The Coming of the Birds... 1...
The Building of the Nest... ...
Corn-stalk Fiddles... . . Bip se tee

Op the Greek ges as a ee
4 Winter-Nights Outing. . 2... .
Wild Lifein Water... 1. ws.
An Old-fashioned Garden... ...
An Indian Trail 2... ee wee

AA Day's Digg sho ge ae ee ww
DINE a a a
Footprints... ew ae ad ie! ete
Bees and Buckwheat... 2...
Dead Leaves. 2... 2. we ee we

ILLUSTRATIONS

Page
4n Old-fashioned Garden . . Frontispiece

The Chesapeake Oak. . . . «. «22

The Old Drawbridge, Crosswick's Creek 116
The Campfire . . « « «© « . 187

CHAPTER FIRST

TRAVELS IN A TREE-TOP

OWA PEARLY mist shut out the river,
\ Al the meadows, and every field for
hZ2X2D9|| miles. I could not deteét the ripple
of the outgoing tide, and the heartiest songster
sent no cheerful cry above the wide-spreading
and low-lying cloud ; but above all this silent,
desolate, and seemingly deserted outlook there
was a wealth of sunshine and a canopy of
deep-blue sky. Here and there, as islands in
a boundless sea, were the leafy tops of a few
tall trees, and these, I fancied, were tempting
regions to explore. Travels in a tree-top—
surely, here we have a bit of novelty in this
worn-out world.

Unless wholly wedded to the town, it is not
cheering to think of the surrounding country
as worn out. It is but little more than two
centuries since the home-seeking folk of other
lands came here to trick or trade with the
9

10 Travels in a Tree-top

Indians, wild as the untamed world wherein
they dwelt ; and now we look almost in vain
for country as Nature fashioned it. Man may
make of a desert a pleasant place, but he also
unmakes the forest and bares the wooded hills
until as naked and desolate as the fire-swept
ruins of his own construction. It is but a
matter of a few thousand cart-loads of the hill
moved to one side, and the swamp that the
farmer dreads because it yields no dollars is ob-
literated. He has never considered its wealth
of suggestiveness. ‘<A fig for the flowers and
vermin. I must plant more corn.”

But here and there the tall trees are still
standing, and their tops are an untravelled
country. I climbed an oak this cool mid-
summer morning; clambered beyond the
mists, which were rolling away as I seated
myself far above the ground, safe from intru-
sion, and resting trustfully on yielding branches
that moved so gently in the passing breeze that
I scarcely perceived their motion.

How much depends upon our point of view!
The woodland path may not be charming if
the undergrowth too closely shuts us in. In
all we do, we seek a wider vision than our
arm’s length. There may be nothing better

Travels ina Tree-top 11

beyond than at our feet, but we never believe
it. It is as natural to ask of the distant as
of the future. They are closely akin. Here
in the tree-top my wants were supplied. I
was only in the least important sense cribbed,
cabined, and confined.

Wild life, as we call it, is very discrimi-
nating, and that part of it which notices him
at all looks upon man as a land animal; one
that gropes about the ground, and awkwardly
at that, often stumbling and ever making more
noise than his progress calls for; but when
perched in a tree, as an arboreal creature, he
is to be studied anew. So, at least, thought
the crows that very soon discovered my lofty
quarters. How they chattered and scolded!
They dashed near, as if with their ebon wings
to cast a spell upon me, and, craning their glossy
necks, spoke words of warning. My indif-
ference was exasperating at first, and then, as
I did not move, they concluded I was asleep,
dead, or a dummy, like those in the corn-
fields. ‘The loud expostulations gave place
to subdued chatterings, and they were about
to leave without further investigation, when,
by the pressure of my foot, I snapped a dead
twig. I will not attempt description. Per-

12 Travels in a Tree-top

haps to this day the circumstance is discussed
in corvine circles.

It is difficult to realize the freedom of flight.
Twisting and turning with perfeét ease, adapt-
ing their bodies to every change of the fitful
wind, these crows did not use their wings
with that incessant motion that we need in
using our limbs to walk, but floated, rose and
fell, as if shadows rather than ponderable
bodies. Until we can fly, or, rather, ride
in flying-machines, we cannot hope to know
much of this flight-life of birds, and it is the
better part of their lives. But it was some-
thing to-day to be with even these crows in
the air. Following their erratic flight from
such a point of view, I seemed to be flying.
We are given at times to wonder a great deal
about birds, and they have equal reason to
constantly consider us. Who can say what
these crows thought of me? All I can offer
to him who would solve the problem is that
their curiosity was unbounded, and this is
much if their curiosity and ours are akin. Of
course they talked. Garner need not have
gone to Africa to prove that monkeys talk,
and no one can question that crows utter more
than mere alarm-cries.

Travels ina Tree-top 13

Aword more concerning crows. What so
absurd, apparently, as this ?

“* A single crow betokens sorrow,
Two betoken mirth,
Three predi@ a funeral,
And four a birth.”

Yet it is a very common saying, being re-
peated whenever a few, or less than five, fly
over. It is repeated mechanically, of course,
and then forgotten, for no one seems to worry
over one or three crows as they do when a
looking-glass breaks or the dropped fork sticks
up in the oor. Seems to worry, and yet I
strongly suspect a trace of superstition lingers
in the mind of many awoman. Those who
will not sit as one of thirteen at a table are
not dead yet. Can it be that all this weak-
ness is only more concealed than formerly,
but none the less existent?

I watched the departing crows until they
were but mere specks in the sky, and heard,
or fancied I heard, their cawing when half a
mile away. It is ever a sweet sound to me.
It means so much, recalls a long round of jolly
years; and what matters the quality of a sound
if a merry heart prompts its utterance ?

2

14 Travels in a Tree-top

I was not the only occupant of the tree ;
there were hundreds of other and more active
travellers, who often stopped to think or con-
verse with their fellows and then hurried on.
I refer to the great, shining, black ants that
have such a variety of meaningless nicknames.
Its English cousin is asserted to be ill-tem-
pered, if not venomous, and both Chaucer
and Shakespeare refer to them as often mad
and always treacherous. I saw nothing of
this to-day. ‘They were ever on the go and
always inahurry. They seemed not to dis-
sociate me from the tree; perhaps thought
me an odd excrescence and of no importance.
No one thinks of himself as such, and I forced
myself upon the attention of some of the hur-
tying throng. It was easy to intercept them,
and they grew quickly frantic; but their fel-
lows paid no attention to such as I held cap-
tive for the moment. I had a small paper
box with me, and this I stuck full of pin-holes
on every side and then put half a dozen of
the ants in it. Holding it in the line of the
insets’ march, it immediately became a source
of wonderment, and every ant that came by
stopped and parleyed with the prisoners. A
few returned earthward, and then a number

Travels ina Tree-top 15

came together, but beyond this I could see
nothing in the way of concerted aétion on the
part of the ants at large looking towards suc-
coring their captive fellows. Releasing them,
these detained ants at once scattered in all di-
rections, and the incident was quickly forgot-
ten. Where were these ants going, and what
was their purpose? I wondered. I was as
near the tree’s top as I dared to go, but the
ants went on, apparently to the very tips of
the tiniest twigs, and not one that I saw came
down laden or passed up with any burden.
It is not to be supposed they had no purpose
in so doing, but what? There is scarcely an
hour when we are not called upon to witness
just such aimless activity,—that is, aimless so
far as we can determine.

Nothing molested these huge black ants,
although inseét-eating birds came and went
continually. One lordly, great-crested fly-
catcher eyed them meditatively for some sec-
onds, and then my identity suddenly dawned
upon him. His harsh voice, affected by fear,
was more out of tune than ever, and, coupled
with his precipitant flight, was very amusing.
The bird fell off the tree, but quickly caught
himself, and then, as usual, curiosity overcame

16 Travels in a Tree-top

fear. Students of bird-ways should never for-
get this. The fly-catcher soon took a stand
wherefrom to observe me, and, if intently
staring at me for thirty seconds was not curi-
osity, what shall we call it? Is it fair to
explain away everything by calling it mere
coincidence? It is a common pra¢tice, and
about as logical as the old cry of * instinét”
whenI went toschool. To have said, when
I was a boy, that a bird could think and could
communicate ideas to another of its kind,
would have brought down ridicule upon my
head out of school, and brought down some-
thing more weighty if the idea had been ex-
pressed in a ‘“‘composition.” I speak from
experience.

To return to the cheerier subject of curi-
osity in birds: our large hawks have it to a
marked degree, and advantage can be taken of
this fa€&t if you wish to trap them. I have
found this particularly true in winter, when
there is a general covering of the ground with
snow. Food, of course, is not then quite so
plenty, but this does not explain the matter.
An empty steel trap on the top of a hay-stack
is quite as likely to be tampered with as when
baited with a mouse. The hawk will walk

Travels ina Tree-top 17

all around it, and then put out one foot and
touch it here and there. If we can judge from
the bird’s aétions, the question, What is it,
anyway ? isrunning through itsmind. I once
played a trick upon a splendid black hawk that
had been mousing over the fields for half the
winter. It often perched upon a stack of
straw instead of the lone hickory near by.
Early one morning I placed a plump meadow-
mouse on the very top of the stack, to which
I had attached a dozen long strands of bright-
red woollen yarn and a bladder that I had in-
flated. This was secured to the mouse by a
silk cord, and all were so concealed by the
snow and straw that the hawk noticed the
mouse only, The bird was suspicious at first:
it was too unusual for a mouse not to move
when a hawk hovered above it. Then the
bird alighted on the stack and walked about
the mouse, pecking at it once, but not touch-
ing it. Then putting out one foot, he seized
it with a firm grip, the talons passing through
the carcass, and at the same time spread his
wings and moved slowly towards the lone
hickory that towered near by. I was near
enough to see every movement. It was evi-
dent that the hawk did not look down at first,
b 2*

18 Travels in a Tree-top

and saw nothing of the streaming threads and
bobbing bladder; but it did a moment later,
and then what a quickening of wings and
hasty mounting upward! The hawk was
frightened, and gave a violent jerk with one
foot, as if to disengage the mouse, but it was
ineffectual. The sharp claws had too strong
a hold, and the effect was only to more vio-
lently bob the bladder. Then the hawk
screamed and dashed into the trees near by,
and was out of sight.

A curious and disappointing occurrence,
while sitting aloft, was the frequent dis-
covery of my presence by birds and their
sudden right-about movement and departure.
Occasionally I could see them coming as if di-
rectly towards me, but their keen eyes noticed
the unusual objeét, and they would dart off
with a promptness that showed how com-
pletely at home they were while on the wing.
Even the bluebirds, usually so tame, had
their misgivings, and came to rest in other
trees. But if the birds were not always about
and above me, there were many below, and the
sweet song of the wood-robin from the tangled
underbrush seemed clearer and purer thap
when sifted through a wilderness of leaves.

Travels ina Tree-top 1g

It was not until noon that the wood and
open fields became silent or nearly so, for the
red-eye came continually, and, whether inseét-
hunting in the tree or on the wing, it seemed
never to cease its singing, or querulous cry,
which more aptly describes its utterance. To
hear this sound throughout a long summer day
is depressing, particularly if you hear nothing
else, for the steady hum of inseét-life hardly
passes for sound. It was only when I lis-
tened for it that I was aware that millions of
tiny creatures were filling the air with a hum-
ming that varied only as the light breeze car-
ried it away or brought it nearer and clearer
than before. There is a vast difference be-
tween absolute and comparative or apparent
silence. ‘The former is scarcely ever a con-
dition of the open country unless during a
still, cold winter night, and never of one of
our ordinary woodland traéts. We do find it,
however, in the cedar swamps and pine-land,
even during summer. I have often stood in
«the pines” of Southern New Jersey and
tried to deteét some sound other than that
of my own breathing, but in vain. Not
a twig stirred. The dark waters of the pools
were motionless; even the scattered clouds

20 Travels in a Tree-top

above were at rest. It was to be absolutely
alone, as if the only living creature upon
earth. But ere long a gentle breeze would
spring up, there was a light and airy trem-
bling of the pines, and the monotone of a
whispered sigh filled the forest. Even this
wasa relief, and what a joy if some lonely bird
passed by and even lisped of its presence!
The dee-dee of a titmouse at such a time was
sweeter music than the choral service that
heralds the coming of a bright June morning.

At noon, the day being torrid, there was
comparative silence, and yet as I looked about
me I saw ceaseless a¢tivity in a small way.
The ants were still journeying, and red ad-
miral and yellow swallow-tailed butterflies
came near, and the latter even passed high
overhead and mingled with the chimney-
swifts. Had I been on the ground, walking
instead of waiting, I should have sought some
sheltered spot and rested, taking a hint from
much of the wild life I was watching.

AT NOONTIDE.
Where cluster oaks and runs the rapid brook,
Repose the jutting rocks beneath the ferns;
Here seeks the thrush his hidden leafy nook,
And wandering squirrel to his hole returns.

Travels ina Tree-top 21

Afar the steaming river slowly wends
Its tortuous way to mingle with the sea;
No cheerful voice its languid course attends ;
The blight of silence rests upon the lea.

Where the wide meadow spreads its wealth of weeds,
Where the rank harvest waves above the field,
The testy hornet in his anger speeds,
And stolid beetle bears his brazen shield.

Give them the glowing, fiery world they love,
Give me the cool retreat beside the stream ;

While sweeps the sun the noontide sky above,
Here would I linger with the birds and dream.

And now what of the tree itself? Here
I have been the better part of a long fore-
noon, and scarcely given this fine young oak
a thought. A young oak, yet a good deal
older than its burden; an oak that was an
acorn when the century was new, and now
a sturdy growth full sixty feet high, straight
of stem to its undermost branches and shapely
everywhere. Such trees are not remarkable
of themselves, though things of beauty, but
at times how suggestive! ‘Think of pre-
Columbian America ; then there were oaks to
make men marvel. ‘There were giants in
those days.” Occasionally we meet with

22 Travels in a Tree-top

them even now. A year ago I camped on
the shore of Chesapeake Bay near an oak
that measured eighteen feet six inches in
circumference four feet from the ground, and
in St. Paul’s church-yard, not a great way
off, are five big oaks, one of which is twenty
feet around shoulder high from the roots.
Such trees are very old. The church-yard
was enclosed two centuries ago, and these
were big trees then, and so older by far than
any monument of white men on the continent,
except possible traces of the Norsemen. If
a tree such as this in which I have been sit-
ting is full to overflowing with suggestiveness,
how much more so a noble patriarch like that
upon the bay shore! It is usually not easy to
realize the dimensions of a huge tree by
merely looking at it, but this mammoth im-
pressed one at first sight. The branches were
themselves great trees, and together cast a cir-
cular patch of shade, at noon, three paces
more than one hundred feet across. As a
tree in which to ramble none could have
been better shaped. The lowest branches
were less than twenty feet from the ground,
and after reaching horizontally a long way,
curved upward and again outward, dividing

Travels ina Tree-top 23

finally into the leaf-bearing twigs. Course
after course continued in this way, the size
decreasing gradually, and the whole forming,
as seen from a distance, a magnificent dome-
shaped mass. Comparisons with the tree’s
surroundings were full of suggestiveness.
The ground immediately about was densely
covered with rank ferns and the acorn sprouts
of one or two years’ growth. Yet, where they
were, it seemed but a smoothly-shaven lawn,
so insignificant were they when seen with the
tree; and the sproutland beyond, which
would otherwise have been a wood, was ab-
solutely insignificant. Yet, in truth, every-
thing here was on a grand scale. ‘The ferns
were tall, and to prove it I sat upon the
ground among them and so shut out all view
of the great tree and its surroundings. I
spent many hours seated upon different
branches of this oak, and every one had feat-
ures all its own. From those nearest the
ground J surveyed the bird-life in the thicket
beneath, and was entertained by a pair of
nesting cardinal red-birds that came and went
as freely as if quite alone, and whistled cheer-
fully morning, noon, and night. I fancied I
made friends with these birds, for early one

24 Travels in a Tree-top

morning the male bird came to camp, as if
to inspe&t my nest, thinking I was not up,
and he expressed his favorable opinion in
most glowing terms. A pair of doves, too,
had a nest in sight, and their melancholy coo-
ing seemed out of tune here, where Nature
had done her work so well. Once, at least,
while I was there, the bald eagle came for a
few moments, and, big bird as he is, was not
conspicuous, and had not a flash of sunlight
fallen upon his yellow beak and white head,
I should not have been aware of his presence,
as he certainly was not of mine. What I
took to be a duck-hawk, a few days later, in-
terested me much more. He was a splendid
bird, and tarried but a short time. The
leaves so concealed him that I was not sure,
having no field-glass at the time, but do not
think I was mistaken. The eagle did not
appear to disturb the fish-hawk’s temper in
the least, but the great hawk did, and he
was much excited until the bird disappeared
in the steam and smoke that as a great cloud
rested above Baltimore.

The birds of this retired spot may be
divided into two classes,—those of the oak
and of the sproutland growths about it, and

Travels ina Tree-top 25

the birds of the air, principally swallows,
which hung over the tree as a trembling
cloud. Never were swallows more numer-
ous, except when flocked prior to migration.
In the tree and bushes were always many
birds, yet often they were far from each
other. This gave me an excellent idea of
what a great oak really is. Birds quite out of
sight and hearing of each other were resting
on branches from the same trunk. Although
the middle of July, there was no lack of
song, and second nesting of many familiar
birds is, I judge, more common in Maryland
than in New Jersey. Of all the birds that
came, the little green herons were the most
amusing. A pair doubtless had a nest near
by, or young that were not yet on the
wing. They walked sedately along the level
branches, as a man might pace up and down
his study, buried in deep thought. I listened
carefully for some expression of content, but
they made no sound except when they were
startled and flew off. I was much surprised
to find the beach-birds occasionally darting
among the branches, and once a spotted sand-
piper rested a moment near me. These birds
we associate with water and the open country,
B 3

26 Travels in a Tree-top

although this species is less aquatic than its
fellows. They were always in sight from
the door of my tent, and always an earlier
bird than I. I recall now standing upon the
beach long before sunrise, marking the prom-
ises of the coming day, as I interpreted them.
The fish-hawks were ahead of me; so, too,
the little sand-pipers. Their piping at this
time was very clear and musical. It was a
delightful accompaniment to the rippling
water. The dear old song-sparrows were
quiet, and I was very glad; but with the
first flooding of the sea with sunlight they
all sang out, and the Chesapeake was afar
off and I in the home meadows on the Dela-
ware. I prefer novelty when away. It is
well to utterly forget, at times, that which
we most prize. What boots it to stand on
the hill-top, if your thoughts are forever in
the lowlands? Twice, from the branches
of the old oak, I saw a splendid sunset, but
nothing equal to the sunrise of to-day. With
many a matter of this life the beginning is
better than the end. We had a superb sun-
set last night. ‘The color was gorgeous, but
it was plain and commonplace compared to
the sunrise of to-day. Perhaps no tint was

Travels ina Tree-top 27

really brighter in one case than in the other,
but my mind was. The sunset was too
closely linked with the death of the day ; there
was the idea of a grand finale before the
curtain drops, and this tends to dull enthu-
siasm. It is not so with sunrise. It is all
freshness,—a matter of birth, of beginning,
of a new trial of life,—and with so happy an
entrance, the exit should be one of gladness
only ; but there is no trace of pity in Nature.
In awful certainty the night cometh.

I was not surprised at every visit to this
tree to find some new form of life resting on
its branches. A beautiful garter-snake had
reached a low branch by climbing to it from
a sapling that reached a little above it. There
was no break in the highway that led to
its very summit. The grass leaned upon
ferns, these upon shrubs, these again upon
saplings, and so the tree was reached. Any
creeping thing could have climbed just eighty
feet above the earth with far less danger than
men encounter clambering over hills.

And not only a zoological garden was this
and is every other old tree, but the oak had
its botanic garden as well. When we con-
sider that many of the branches were so wide

28 Travels in a Tree-top

and level that one could walk upon them, it is
not strange that earth, dead leaves, and water
should lodge in many places. Indeed, besides
the two gardens I have mentioned, the oak
had also an aquarium. But I cannot go
into particulars. The parasitic plant-life—
not truly such, like the mistletoe—was a
striking feature. Maple seeds had lodged and
sprouted, and in a saucer-shaped depression
where dust and water had lodged a starved
hawkweed had got so far towards maturity
as to be in bud.

It may appear as utter foolishness to others,
but I believe that trees might in time become
tiresome. Whether in leaf or bare of foli-
age, there is a fixedness that palls at last.
We are given to looking from the tree to
the world beyond; to hurrying from beneath
their branches to the open country. To live
in a dense forest is akin to living in a great
city. There is a sense of confinement against
which, sooner or later, we are sure to rebel.
We long for change. The man who is per-
feétly satisfied has no knowledge of what satis-
fa€tion really is. Logical or not, I turned

Travels ina Tree-top 29

my attention from the tree at last, and thought,
What of the outlook? Direétly north, in
the shallow basin, hemmed in by low hills,
lies the town. A cloud of smoke and steam
rests over it, and barely above it reach the
church-spires and tall faétory chimneys, as if
the place was struggling to be free, but only
had its finger-tips out of the mire of the
town, of which I know but.little. My won-
der is that so many people stay there, and,
stranger still, wild life not only crowds its
outskirts, but ventures into its very midst.
In one town, not far away, I found the
nests of seventeen species of birds, but then
there was a large old cemetery and a mill-
pond within its boundaries. Time was when
through the town before me there flowed a
creek, and a pretty wood flourished along its
south bank. The creek is now a sewer, and
an open one at that, and yet the musk-rat
cannot quite make up his mind to leave it.
Stranger than this was seeing recently, in a
smal] creek discolored by a dyeing establish-
ment, a little brown diver. How it could
bring itself to swim in such filth must re-
main a mystery. A queer old charaéter that
had lived all his life in the country once said
3*

30 ~=36 Travels in a Tree-top

of the nearest town, “It is a good place
to dump what we don’t want on the farm.”
This old fellow would always drive me
out of his orchard when apples were ripe,
but I liked him for the sentiment I have
quoted.

I am out of town now, and what of the
world in another dire€tion? ‘Turning to the
east, I have farm after farm before me; all
different, yet with a strong family likeness.
This region was taken up by English Quakers
about 1670 and a little later, and the houses
they built were as much alike as are these
people in their apparel. The second set of
buildings were larger only and no less severely
plain; but immediately preceding the Revo-
lution there were some very substantial man-
sions erected. From my perch in the tree-
top I cannot see any of the houses distin@ly,
but locate them all by the group of Weymouth
pines in front and sometimes both before and
behind them. The old-time Lombardy pop-
lar was the tree of the door-yards at first, but
these, in this neighborhood, have well-nigh
all died out, and the pines replace them.
One farm-house is vividly pi€tured before me,
although quite out of sight. The owner

Travels ina Tree-top 31

made it a home for such birds as might choose
to come, as well as for himself, and what royal
days have been spent there! There was
no one feature to attraét instant attention as
you approached the house. The trees were
thrifty, the shrubbery healthy, the roses vig-
orous, and the flowering plants judiciously se-
le€ted ; but what did strike the visitor was
the wealth of bird-life. For once let me cat-
alogue what I have seen in and about one
door-yard and what should be about every
one in the land. At the end of the house,
and very near the corner of the long portico,
stood a martin-box, occupied by the birds for
which it was intended. In the porch, so that
you could reach it with your hand, was a
wren’s nest, and what a strange house it had!
It was a huge plaster cast of a lion’s head, and
between the grim teeth the bird passed and re-
passed continually. It promenaded at times
on the lion’s tongue, and sang triumphantly
while perched upon aneyebrow. That wren
certainly saw nothing animal-like in the plas-
ter cast as it was, and I have wondered if it
would have been equally free with a stuffed
head of the animal. My many experiments
with animals, as to their recognition of ani-

32 Travels in a Tree-top

mals as pictured, have demonstrated every-
thing, and so, I am afraid I must admit, noth-
ing. In the woodbine on the portico were
two nests,—a robin’s and a chipping-spar-
row’s. These were close to each other, and
once, when sitting in arocking-chair, I swayed
the woodbine to and fro without disturbing
either bird. In the garden were a mocking-
bird, cat-bird, thistle-finch, song-sparrow,
brown thrush, yellow-breasted chat, and red-
eyed vireo. In the trees I sawa great-crested
fly-catcher, purple grakle, a redstart, spotted
warbler, and another I failed to identify. In
the field beyond the garden were red-winged
blackbirds and quail, and beyond, crows, fish-
hawks, and turkey-buzzards were in the air;
and, as the day closed and the pleasant sights
were shut out, I heard the clear call of the
kill-deer plover as they passed overhead, heard
it until it mingled with my dreams. <¢ Provi-
dence Farm” is indeed well named, for the
birdy blessing of Providence rests upon it;
but were men more given to considering the
ways and wants of wild life, we might find
such pleasant places on every hand. Farms
appear to be growing less farm-like. The
sweet simplicity of colonial days has been

Travels in a Tree-top 33

well-nigh obliterated, and nothing really bet-
ter has replaced it. On the other hand, a
modern * country place,” where Nature is
pared down until nothing but the foundation-
rocks remain, is, to say the least, an eyesore.
There is more pleasure and profit in an Indian
trail than in an asphaltum driveway.
Westward lie the meadows, and beyond
them the river. Seen as a whole, they are
beautiful and, like all of Nature’s work, will
bear close inspection. The bird’s-eye view
to-day was too comprehensive to be alto-
gether enjoyable : it was bewildering. How
completely such a tract epitomizes a conti-
nent! The little creek is a river; the hil-
lock, a mountain; the brushland, a forest ;
the plowed tract, adesert. If this fact were
not so generally forgotten we would be better
content with what is immediately about us.
Mere bigness is not everything. So, too,
with animal life. We spend time and money
to see the creatures caged in a menagerie, and
never see the uncaged ones in the thicket be-
hind the house. Every lion must roar, or we
have not seen the show; a lion rampant is
everything, a lion couchant, nothing. T'here
was no visible violence in the meadows to-
¢

34 Travels in a Tree-top

day; Nature was couchant, and I was thankful.
When the tempest drives over the land I want
my snug harbor by the chimney-throat. The
sparks can fly upward to join the storm if they
will. Thestorms I enjoy are matters of hearsay.

Take up a ponderous government quarto
of the geological survey and glance over the
splendid plates of remarkable rocks, cafions,
and high hills, and then look out of your
window at the fields and meadow. What a
contrast! Yes, a decided one, and yet if
you take an open-eyed walk you will find a
good deal of the same thing, but on a smaller
scale. You have not thought of it before ;
that is all. I put this matter to a praétical
test not long ago, and was satisfied with the
result. The last plate had been looked at
and the book was closed with a sigh, and a
restless youth, looking over the wide range
of fields before him, was thinking of the
grand mountains, strange deserts, and deep
cafions pictured in the volume on his lap, and
comparing such a country with the monoto-
nous surroundings of his home.

«What a stupid place this part of the
world is!” he said at last. ‘I wish I could
go out West.”

Travels in a Tree-top 35

«Perhaps it is not so stupid as it looks,”
T replied. <«« Let’s take a walk.”

I knew what the book described at which
the lad had been looking, and had guessed
his thoughts. We started for a ramble.

«Let us follow this little brook as far as
we can,” I suggested, ‘¢and see what a stupid
country can teach us,” purposely quoting my
companion’s words, with a little emphasis.

Not fifty rods from beautiful old trees the
colleéted waters, as a little brook, flowed
over an outcropping of stiff clay, and here
we voluntarily paused, for what one of us
had seen a hundred times before was now
invested with new interest. There was here
not merely a smooth scooping out of a mass
of the clay, to allow the waters to pass swiftly
by; the least resisting veins or strata, those
containing the largest percentage of sand, had
yielded quickly and been deeply gullied,
while elsewhere the stiff, black ridges, often
almost perpendicular, still withstood the cur-
rent, and, confining the waters to narrow
limits, produced a series of miniature rapids
and one whirlpool that recalled the head-
waters of many a river.

Near by, where, when swollen by heavy

36 Travels in a Tree-top

rains, the brook had filled the little valley,
temporary rivulets had rushed with fury over
the clay, and cut in many places deep and
narrow transverse channels. From their steep
sides projected many a pebble that gave us
«overhanging rocks,” and one small bowlder
bridged a crevice in the clay, and was in use
at the time as a highway for a colony of ants.
Near it stood slender, conical pillars of
slightly cemented sand, some six inches in
height, and every one capped with a pebble
of greater diameter than the apex of the sup-
porting sand. These were indeed beautiful.

«©JT have never seen them before,” re-
marked the boy.

“© Very likely,” I replied, « but you have
crushed them under foot by the dozens.”
They were not to be overlooked now,
though, and in them he saw perfeét repro-
duétions of wonderful “monument rocks”
which he had so lately seen pictured in the
ponderous government geological report.

Withdrawing to the field beyond, where a
bird’s-eye view of the brook’s course could
be obtained, we had spread out before us a
miniature, in most of its essentials, of a cation
country. The various tints of the clay gave

Travels in a Tree-top 37

the many-colored rocks; the different densi-
ties of the several strata resulted in deep or
shallow ravines, fantastic arches, caverns, and
beetling precipices. On’a ridiculously small
scale, you may say. ‘True, but not too small
for the eyes of him who is anxious to learn.

A few rods farther down the stream we
came to a small sandy island which divided
the brook and made a pleasant variety after a
monotonous course through nearly level
fields. A handful of the sand told the story.
Here, meeting with so slight an obstruétion
as a projecting root, the sandy clays from
above had been deposited in part, and year
after year, as the island grew, the crowded
waters had encroached upon the yielding
banks on either side, and made here quite a
wide and shallow stream. Small as it was,
this little sand-bar had the charaéteristic feat-
ures of all islands. The water rippled along
its sides and gave it a pretty beach of sloping,
snow-white sand, while scarcely more than
half a foot inland the seeds of many plants
had sprouted, and along the central ridge or
backbone the sod was thick set, and several
acorns, a year before, had sprouted through
it. We found snails, spiders, and insets

4

38 Travels in a Tree-top

abundant, and faint footprints showed that
it was not overlooked by the pretty teetering
sand-piper. e

Now camea total change. Abruptly turn-
ing from its former straightforward course,
the brook entered a low-lying swamp,
crowded to the utmost with dense growths
of tangled vines and stunted trees. The
water was no longer sparkling and colorless,
but amber-tinted, and in many a shallow pool
looked more like ink. Life here appeared
in many forms. Smal] mud-minnows, turtles,
and snakes were found in the gloomy, weed-
hidden pools, and numberless inseéts crowded
the rank growths above as well as the waters
beneath. The mutual dependence of vege-
tation and animal life was here very striking.
Previously we had found comparatively little
either in the brook or about it, but now our
eyes were gladdened not only with what I
have mentioned, but birds, too, were in abun-
dance.

Bent upon freeing my native county from
the charge of stupidity, I led the way through
this «‘dismal swamp.” It was no easy task.
Nowhere were we sure of our footing, and
it required constant leaping from root to root

Travels in a Tree-top 39

of the larger trees. There was at times no
well-defined channel, and often we could hear
the gurgling waters hurrying beneath our feet,
yet catch no glimpse of them.

Here, too, other springs welled to the sur-
face, and the augmented volume of waters
finally left the swamp a stream of considerable
size, which, after a tortuous course through
many fields, entered a deep and narrow ravine.
After untold centuries the brook has worn
away the surface soil over which it originally
flowed, then the gravel beneath, and so down
to the clay, thirty feet below. Upon this
now rest the bowlders and such coarser mate-
rial as the waters could not transport.

Clinging to the trees growing upon the
sides of the ravine, we closely followed the
course of the troubled, bubbling, foamy
waters, stopping ever and anon to look at
the exposed sections of sand and gravel here
shown in curious alternate layers. The
meaning of the word “deposits,” so fre-
quently met with in descriptive geology,
was made plain, and when we noticed of
how mixed a character was the coarse gravel,
it was easy to comprehend what had been
read of that most interesting phase of the

40 Travels in a Tree-top

world’s past history, the glacial epoch, or
great ice age. The gravel was no longer an
unsuggestive accumulation of pebbles, but
associated rolled and water-worn fragments
of a hundred different rocks that by the
mighty forces of ice and water had been
brought to their present position from re-
gions far away.

The ravine ended at the meadows, through
which the waters passed with unobstructed
flow “to join the brimming river.” As we
stood upon the bank of the mighty stream I
remarked, “This is a stupid country, per-
haps, but it has some merits.” I think the
boy thought so, too.

The meadows are such a comprehensive
place that no one knows where to begin, if
the attempt is made to enumerate their feat-
ures. ‘There is such a blending of dry land
and wet, open and thicket-grown, hedge and
brook and scattered trees, that it is bewilder-
ing if you do not choose some one point
for close inspection. From the tree-top I
overlook it all, and try in vain to determine
whether the azure strip of flowering iris or
the flaunting crimson of the Turk’s cap lilies

Travels ina Tree-top 41

is the prettier. Beyond, in damper soil, the
glistening yellow of the sunflowers is really
too bright to be beautiful ; but not so where
the water is hidden by the huge circular leaves
of the lotus. ‘They are majestic as well as
pretty, and the sparse bloom, yellow and
rosy pink, is even the more conspicuous by
reason of its background. How well the
birds know the wild meadow traéts! They
have not forsaken my tree and its surround-
ings, but for one here I see a dozen there.
Mere inky specks, as seen from my point of
view, but I know them as marsh-wrens and
swamp-sparrows, kingbirds and red-wings,
that will soon form those enormous flocks
that add so marked a feature to the autumn
landscape. It needs no field-glass to mark
down the passing herons that, coming from
the river-shore, take a noontide rest in the
overgrown marsh.

I had once, on the very spot at which I
was now looking, an unlooked-for adventure.
For want of something better to do, I pushed
my way into the weedy marsh until I reached
a prostrate tree-trunk that during the last
freshet had stranded there. It was a wild
place. The tall rose-mallow and wavy cat-

4*

42 Travels in a Tree-top

tail were far above my head, and every trace
of civilization was effeCtually shut out. It
was as much a wilderness as any jungle in
the tropics. Nor was I alone. Not a
minute elapsed before a faint squeak told me
that there were meadow-mice in the hollow
log on which I sat, Then the rank grass
moved and a least bittern came into view and
as quickly disappeared. I heard continually
the cackle of the king-rail, and the liquid twit-
tering of the marsh-wrens wasa delight. The
huge globular nests of these birds were every-
where about me; but the birds did not think
of me as having any evil designs upon them,
so they came and went as freely as if alone.
This is bird-viewing that one too seldom
enjoys nowadays. Often, and very suddenly,
all sound ceased and every bird disappeared.
I did not recognize the cause at first, but was
enlightened a moment later. A large bird
passed over, and its very shadow frightened
the little marsh-dwellers. If not, the shadow
and fright were a coincidence several times
that morning. The day, for me, ended with
the unusual chance of a close encounter with
a great blue heron. I saw the bird hover for
a moment direétly overhead, and then, let-

Travels ina Tree-top 43

ting its legs drop, it descended with lead-like
rapidity. I leaned backward to avoid it, and
could have touched the bird when it reached
the ground, it was so near. I shall never
know which was the more astonished. Cer-
tainly, had it chosen, it could have stabbed
me through and through.

I was glad to be again on drier land and in
open country. There had been adventure
enough; and yet, as seen from a distance,
this bit of marsh was but weeds and water.

Southward there stands the remnant of a
forest: second- and third-growth woodland
usually ; for trees of really great age are now
generally alone. I can see from where I sit
three primeval beeches that are known to
be over two centuries old, and not far away
towered one giant tulip-tree that since the
country’s earliest settlement had stood like a
faithful sentinel, guarding the south bank of
a nameless spring brook. Ever a thing of
beauty, it shone with added splendor at night,
when the rising full moon rested in its arms,
as if weary at the very outset of her journey.
My grandfather told me that in his boyhood
it was known as the “ Indian tree,”’ because
a basket-maker and his squaw had a wigwam

44 ‘Travels ina Tree-top

there. That was a century ago, and often,
of late years, I have hunted on the spot
for some trace of these redskins, but found
nothing, although all about, in every field,
were old Indian relics, even their cherished
tobacco-pipes. Small, recent growths of
timber, even where they have succeeded an
ancient forest, are not, as a rule, attractive.
Their newness is too evident, and, except
for a few passing birds, they are not apt to
harbor much wild life. As I look at the
mingled foliage of oaks and elms, beeches,
hickories, and wild cherry, I give little heed
to that before me and recall forests worthy
of the name, doing precisely what I have
declared unwise. A naturalist could find
more material in these few acres of wood-
land than he could “work up” in a lifetime.
I have underrated them. From the little
thicket of blackberry vines I see a rabbit
slowly loping, as if in search of food. It is
a full-grown fellow, and suggests the round
of the traps in late autumn and the woods in
winter.

I never knew a boy brought up in the
country who was not at one time an enthu-
silastic trapper. Just as mankind in the in-

Travels ina Tree-top 465

fancy of the world were forced to pit their
energy and skill against the cunning of the
animals needed for food or of such that by
reason of their fierceness endangered human
life, so the country boy of to-day puts his
intelligence to work to circumvent the supe-
riority of such animal life as by fleetness of
foot or stroke of wing can avoid the pursuer.
It is a question largely of brain against ana-
tomical stru€ture. No Indian, even, ever
outran a deer, nor savage anywhere by mere
bodily exertion stopped the flight of a bird.
Men were all sportsmen, in a sense, when
sport, as we call it, was necessary to human
existence. As centuries rolled by, such
animals and birds as came in daily contaét
with man necessarily had their sleepy wits
aroused, and now it is a case of cunning
against cunning. We are all familiar with
such phrases as “* wild as a hawk” and “ shy
asadeer.” In the morning of man’s career
on earth there were no such words as “ shy”
and “wild.” They came into use, as words
are constantly coming into our language, be-
cause circumstances make them a necessity ;
and as men were trappers before they were
traders or tillers of the field, so the words

46 Travels in a Tree-top

are old, and while animal life lasts they will
be retained.

Nowadays we generally outgrow this love
of trapping, or it remains in the love of sport
with gun orrod. But, old Izaak Walton and
Frank Forrester to the contrary notwithstand-
ing, I hold that nothing in fishing or shooting
has that freshness, that thrilling excitement,
that close touch with nature, that clings to
our early days, when, in autumn and winter,
we went the round of the traps. How
through the long night we had visions of the
rabbit cautiously approaching the box-trap
on the edge of the swamp! How clearly we
saw in the corner of the weedy old worm-
fence the stupid opossum bungling along, and
awoke with a start as the clumsy creature
sprang the trap from the outside! I pity the
boy who has not had such a distressing dream.

No boy ever turned out before sunrise with
a smiling countenance to milk or help in any
way with farm work ; but how different when
it was a matter of the traps he had set the
night before! The anticipation of success is
an all-sufficient incentive, and neither bitter
cold nor driving storm deters him. Of a
winter dawn much might be said. No boy

Travels ina Tree-top 47

ever was abroad so early that the squirrels
were not before him, and in the fading light
of the stars he will hear the crows cawing
and the blue-jays chattering in the woods.
To the naturalist, of course, such time of
day is full of suggestiveness ; but the general
belief that it is a proper time to sleep will
never be given up. Indeed, judging others
by myself, as the boy gets well on in his teens
there is a growing disposition to let the traps
go until broad daylight and even until after
breakfast. This is unfortunate in two ways:
there is a likelihood of seeing animal life in
the full flush of a€tivity in the pre-sunlit hours
that is unknown as the day advances; the
night-prowlers are all gone to their dens, and
the birds that roost in colonies have dispersed
for the day. One seldom overtakes a raccoon
or a weasel at or near noontide, and in the
woods where a thousand robins have roosted
there may now not be one. Then, again,
your visit to the traps may be anticipated
if you are too deliberate in starting on your
rounds. ‘This is an experience that no boy
of spirit can calmly undergo, and no wonder.
The rude box-trap was not easy to make, con-
sidering the usual condition of tools upon a

48 ‘Travels in a Tree-top

farm. ‘The hunt for likely places whereat to
set it had been real labor. The long tramp
in the gloaming when tired out from a day
at school; the early tramp, before sunrise
perhaps, for he must be on time at school that
morning,—all this is to be considered; but
if success crowns the effort, all is well. On
the other hand, to find that some rascal has
been ahead of you and your labor has gone
for nothing I never knew 4 boy to be
a saint at such a time.

I can recall a well-marked rabbit-path I
once found, half a mile from home, and with
great secrecy carried one of my traps to the
place. It was on the next farm, and so I had
to be more than usually careful. Nothing
could be done in daylight for fear the boys
living on that farm would find me out, and
this sort of poaching was not tolerated. At
first I was successful, catching two fine rab-
bits, and then, alas! was so elated that, boy-
like, I said too much. Some one must have
tracked me, for I caught no more, although it
was evident that the trap had been disturbed.
Straightway I suspected treachery, and pre-
pared for revenge.

Now, auntie had a fur tippet, or “boa,”

Travels ina Tree-top 49

as she called it, which was just six feet long.
The moths one summer had ruined it, and for
some time it had been lying around uncared
for and a plaything for the younger children.
This I appropriated, and fastened to one end
of it a rabbit’s head, with the ears wired up
and with huge painted marbles bulging from
the sockets for eyes. It was a startling if not
life-like creature.

Armed with this, I started after dark to the
trap, and soon had all in readiness for my vic-
tim. I coiled the ** boa” into the rear of the
box and placed the head near the opening of
the trap. The “ figure-of-four” triggers were
laid outside in such a way as to suggest that
the trap had been sprung by ananimal. Then
I went home.

The next morning I went to school with-
out visiting the spot, fearing I might meet
with the supposed offender. All day long I
wondered. No boy had any marvellous tale
to tell and no one looked atall guilty. There
soon came over me a feeling that perhaps I
had played a trick upon myself, and by sun-
down I was rather reluctant to determine if
anything had happened; but goI did. The
trap had evidently been disturbed. The

c d 5

so Travels in a Tree-top

“* boa” with the rabbit’s head was lying at full
length outside and the bushes were broken as
if a bull had rushed through them. But who
or what had been there?

Two days of most distressing doubt passed,
and then came Saturday. I wasill at ease and
took no pleasure in my holiday ; but about
noon our neighbor came over, and I heard
him tell grandfather how, on Fifth-day, while
the family were at breakfast, Bill, the bound
boy, came rushing into the room and ex-
claimed, excitedly, ‘“‘Something from the
menagerie’s broke loose and got in the rab-
bit-trap !”

I had had my revenge.

A wood, to be at its best, should be located
on the shore of a lake or river, or, perhaps
better still, a river should run through it.
Here are my impressions of such a wood, from
my note-book of 1892, under date of May 1:

Nothing could have been more fitting than
to take a May-day outing at such a place.
The swift current of the Great Egg Harbor
River rolled resistlessly along, its waters black
as night, save where, over the pebbly shal-
lows, it gleamed like polished amber. The
wind that swayed the tall crowns of the tow-

Travels ina Tree-top 51

ering pines made fitting music, according well
with the rippling laugh of the fretted river,
while heard above all were the joyous songs
of innumerable warblers.

We had placed our boat upon a wagon six
miles below our point of departure, and partly
realized on our way what this pine region
really was. The cedar swamp, the oak
openings, the arbutus that gave color to the
narrow wagon-track, the absence of man’s
interference,—all tended to give us the full
significance of that most suggestive word, wil-
derness. We needed but to catch a glimpse
of an Indian to see this part of creation pre-
cisely as it was in pre-Columbian days. I
sat for some time in the boat before taking up
the anchor. ‘This was but the entrance, I
was told, to spots more beautiful, but it was
hard to believe. Here was a river hidden in
a forest, and what more could one wish?
The warblers well knew that May-day had
come again, and every one of the mighty
host greeted the brilliant sunshine. ‘There
seemed literally to be hundreds of them.
Flashing like gems were redstarts, light as
swallows upon the wing. Bright-spotted
warblers, and others sombre gray, laughed

$2 Travels in a Tree-top

as they tarried on the trembling twigs ; then,
mounting into the sunlight, sang loudly as
they flew, or darted into gloomy nooks so
hidden that not even a sunbeam could follow
them.

The river with its attendant birds could
not claim all the merit; the land was no less
beautiful. The oaks were not yet in leaf,
but there was no lack of green. The holly’s
foliage was bright as May, the polished
leaves of the tea-berry shone as a midsummer
growth, the ink-berry had defied the winter’s
storms, and the maples glowed as a great ruddy
flame. Really distinét as was every object,
yet, as a whole, the outlook was dreary, hazy,
half obscure, as we looked direétly into the
wood, where the drooping moss festooned
the branches of the smaller oaks.

No voyager ever set forth from so fair a
port.

My companion knew the route, and with
an oar he took his place astern to guide the
boat safely down the swift stream. It was
al] right as it proved, but at times I forgot
that I had come to see the forest. Instead,
an element of doubt as to the guide’s ability
came painfully to the front. With devilish

Travels ina Tree-top 53

malignancy, as I thought, trees had prostrated
themselves and rested just beneath the water’s
surface, or stood up, with outreached arms,
as if defying us. How we passed many a
crook and turn I cannot now remember. I
was too much occupied with desperately
clutching at anything within reach to notice
the «* when” or “‘ how,” but there still re-
mains the delicious sensation of suddenly
shooting into smooth water and feeling—
brave as a lion.

For several miles on either side of the
stream we had a typical mixed forest. The
willow-oak predominated at times, and the
delicate foliage, so unlike other oaks, was very
beautiful. The leaves appeared translucent in
the bright sunlight, fairly sparkled, and once
made asplendid background to scarlet tanagers
that flashed through them. In this long reach
of dense woods there were fewer birds than at
our starting-point, or perhaps they held back
as we passed. But other life was not want-
ing. From many a projecting stump there slid
many a turtle into the dark waters, and a mink
or musk-rat crossed our bow. Careful search
would no doubt have revealed numerous creat-
ures, for here was a safe retreat for all the

ig®

54 ‘Travels in a Tree-top

fauna of the State. The deer are not yet quite
gone, possibly a few bears remain. Certainly
the raccoon and otter must be abundant. I
was constantly on the lookout for minks, for
the river abounds in fish. This animal is
sometimes mistaken for a huge snake, as it
rises several inches above the water at times,
and has then a rather startling appearance.
An old fisherman on Chesapeake Bay told me
that he had seen a mink with a huge eel in its
mouth come to the surface, and then the
wriggling fish and long, lithe body of the
mink together looked like two serpents fight-
ing. I can readily imagine it. Birches,
liquidambars, and pines in clusters would
next command attention, and usually there
was a dense undergrowth. Holding the boat,
at times, we could hear the water rushing
through the roots of this tangled mass, and
found that what we had supposed was firm
land afforded no certain footing, and a bluff
of firm earth was very welcome when we
thought of landing for a hasty lunch. This
Jrm earth did indeed support us, but in re-
ality it was the most unstable of shifting sands,
being held in place by reindeer-moss, par-
tridge-berry, and other pine-barren growths.

Travels in a Tree-top 55

Nothing was in sight but the scrubby pines,
and we had to be very careful that our fire
did not get among the “needles” and dash
through the woods. I found here absolutely
no birds. They seem all to prefer the traéts
covered by deciduous trees ; but inseét-feeders
could have flourished here. The steam of
our dinner-pot brought more substantial forms
than mosquitoes, one house-fly being deter-
mined to share my Frankfurter and success-
fully defying all attempts at capture.

Again afloat, we soon came to the mouth
of an inflowing stream called Dead River,
said to be very deep. This point was per-
haps the wildest of all. The open water
here was very wide, and a forest of projecting
stumps of various heights showed plainly that
we were on the edge of an area of drowned
land. In the distance was an unbroken back-
ground of pines, which now looked black. At
wide intervals could be seen huge pines
that had escaped the charcoal-burner or lum-
berman. The stems and lower branches
were, of course, concealed, but in the hazy
atmosphere the tops were as floating islands
of darkest green, standing boldly out against
the pearly sky behind them.

56 ‘Travels in a Tree-top

Here, at the mouth of Dead River, we be-
held a pretty sight. A wood-duck with her
brood rushed over the water in a most lively
manner, flecking the black expanse with
patches of white foam. Such incidents add
much to sucha journey. An empty forest
is as forbidding as an empty house.

In the coves there were changes from the
surrounding scenery that were not to be over-
looked. A rank growth of golden-club rest-
ing on the dark waters was very striking.
The picture was such as we see on a Claude
Lorrain glass. Near by fresh sphagnum in
a shallow pool was bronze and green: a place
for frogs to squat unseen, but I could find none.
How often this happens! At the very places
where we think animal life will be in abun-
dance we can find no trace of it. Then, look-
ing up, we see but trees. No break in the
line that hems us in. Trees old and young,
trees living and dead, great and small ; nothing
but trees.

The wind freshened as the day grew old,
and doubly troubled were the waters. There
was no rest for them now, even in sheltered
nooks, and it was only by sturdy strokes of
the oars that we made headway atall. There

Travels ina Tree-top 57

was no perceptible current to bear us along as
before. The waves dashing against the bare
trunks of trees long dead and now bent by the
wind added much to the wild scene. Novel
as it all was, I could not quite enjoy it. It
was something to be contemplated from the
shore, I thought. I know I was laughed at,
but the many “blind” stumps, or those just
beneath the surface, of which my companion
spoke so unconcernedly came too promi-
nently to mind when I least expected them,
and added much significance to the fat that
I cannot swim.

As we neared home the scene abruptly
changed, and the river was lost in a wide ex-
panse that might be called a lake if the fact
was not so evident that it is a mill-pond.
This, however, did not detra&t from the
beauty of the surroundings, and before our
final landing we drew up to a bold bit of
shore and searched, while it was yet day, for
pyxie. There was an abundance of bloom-
ing andromeda, too, and arbutus, with club-
moss of richest green. I almost placed my
hand on a centipede that glowed like an em-
erald. It was resting on ruddy sphagnum,
and made a splendid piéture. I could not

58 Travels in a Tree-top

capture the creature. An attempt to do so
on my part was followed by its disappearance
with a suddenness that could be likened only
to the flashes of light that played upon its
back. Here I heard many frogs, but could
find none. The rattle and peep were not
like the voices of those in the meadows at
home, and I wondered about Cope’s new
tiger-frog and the little green hyla that is so
rare here in Jersey. Possibly I heard them
both; probably not.

We returned to prosy life when the boat
was lifted over the dam, and the incidents
were few and commonplace in the short drift
that carried us to an old wharf, a relic of the
last century.

What a difference between such a forest
and a few hundred oaks and ashes at home!
and yet these are far better than treeless fields.
It is these few trees that hold many of our
migratory birds, and through them, in spring,
troop the north-bound warblers. In the
gloaming a small traét of woodland widens
out, and, seeing no open country beyond,
what does it matter, if we walk in a circle,
whether it be one acre or one thousand?

Travels in a Tree-top 59

There is good philosophy in “ Small favors
thankfully received.” Here in this little wood
are beautiful white-footed mice, a shy, noc-
turnal jerboa, flying-squirrels, and, if I mis-
take not, a whole family of opossums. Here,
until autumn, are wood-robins that never
weary us by overmuch singing, and cat-birds,
chewinks, and the rose-breasted grosbeak. 1
do not complain, but as the summer passes I
regret that these birds have their appointed
time and will soon be gone. Why so soon?
I often wonder, for their haunts do not lose
their loveliness for weeks after they have dis-
appeared.

No wall of green above, about,
They silently steal away ;

With but a carpet of withered leaves,
The minstrel will not stay.

But the spot is no “ banquet-hall deserted,”
for all that; the departure of the summer
birds is but to make way for those who have
gladdened Canadian woods for many weeks.
The purple finch will soon be here, and tree-
sparrows in great companies, and the gentle
white-throat; and these, with our stately
cardinal for a leader, will hold forth melodi-

60 Travels in a Tree-top

ously, though the north winds blow and the
angry east wind brings the snow upon its
wings.

In the smile of winter sunshine there will
be enaéted another drama, but now it is
comedy rather than tragedy. There are no
conflicting interests now, no serious quarrels,
no carking cares—the world is really in good
humor and our days of early darkness are
misunderstood.

Let him who doubts—and there are but
few who do not—turn from the worn lines
of travel, go well out of the beaten path,
and find, in the way-side nooks his neighbors
have neglected, most excellent company:
birds of brave heart that can sing in the teeth
of a storm ; and many a creature, wrapped in
his furry coat, laughs at the earnest efforts of
winter to keep him from his outings.

Did I dare sit in this same oak when the
leaves have fallen, I should have strange tales
to tell,—tales so strange that the summertide
would be commonplace in comparison.

CHAPTER SECOND

4A HUNT FOR THE PYXIE

N° storm raged to defeat a long-cherished

plan, and we must laugh at threaten-
ing clouds or miss many an outing. In
dreams the pyxie had been blooming for
weeks, and to prove that not all dreams go
by contraries, I started on a flower-hunt.
This is not always so tame and adventure-
less a matter asone might think. There are
wood-blooms that scorn even a trace of man’s
interference, and the pyxie is one of them.
Nature alone can provide its wants, and only
where Nature holds undisputed sway can it
be found. To find this beautiful flower we
must plunge into the wilderness.

It was a long tramp, but never wanting a
purpose for every step taken. Each turn
in the path offered something new, and if
ever for a moment a trace of weariness was

felt, it was because even to our hungry eyes
6 61

62 A Hunt for the Pyxie

the wilderness was overfull. Bewildering
multitudes are more to be feared than possi-
ble dangers. There is no escape from the
former. Nota tree or bush, not a bird or
blossom, but to-day offered excellent reason
why with them we should spend our time;
and how often they all spoke at once!

Except the ceaseless rattle of small frogs,
there was no sound, for that sad sighing of the
tall pines seems but the rhythmic breathing
of silence ; or, passing from the wet grounds
to the higher, drier, and more barren traéts,
we heard only the crisp crackling of the
reindeer-moss we crushed at every step.
Although

‘Tt is the bright day that brings forth the adder,
And that craves wary walking,’’

we gave no thought to possible danger,—for
rattlesnakes are still to be found. Not even
when we stooped to pick the bright berries
of winter-green did we think of a coiled ser-
pent buried in dead leaves ; and what oppor-
tunity for murder the serpent had as we
buried our faces in pillows of pink and pearly
arbutus !

At last we reached South River (in South-

A Hunt for the Pyxie 63

ern New Jersey), and just here was no place
to tarry, unless to court melancholy. It was
not required that my companion should enu-
merate the reasons why the one-time farm
along the river-bank had been abandoned.
A glance at the surrounding fields told the
whole story. There was, indeed, barren-
ness,—and very different, this, from what. ob-
tains in localities near by to which the same
term isapplied. Inthe so-called pine barrens
there is a luxuriant vegetation ; but here about
the deserted house and out-building there
was nothing but glistening sand, moss, and
those pallid grasses that suggest death rather
than life, however feeble. And how widely
different is it to be surrounded by ruin
wrought by man, and to be in a forest where
man has never been! Could I not have
turned my back upon the scene and looked
out only upon the river, the day’s pleasure
would have vanished. But we were soon
away, and a naturalist’s paradise was spread
before us. What constitutes such a place?
Not necessarily one where man has never
been: it will suffice if Nature has withstood
his interference; and this is true of these
pine barrens, this weedy wilderness, this

64 A Hunt for the Pyxie

silent battle-field where the struggle for ex-
istence never ceases, and yet, as we see it,
peaceful as the fleecy clouds that fleck an
April sky.

Though the wind that swept the wide
reach of waters close at hand still smacked
of wintry weather, there was a welcome
warmth on shore. The oaks even hinted of
the coming leaf. ‘Their buds were so far
swollen that the sharp outlines of bare twigs
against the sky were rounded off. The ruddy
stems of the blueberry bushes gave to the
river-bank a fire-like glow, and yet more
telling was the wealth of bright golden glow
where the tall Indian grass waved in all its
glory. The repellent desolation of mid-
winter, so common to our cold-soil upland
fields, was wholly wanting here; for, while
nothing strongly suggested life as we think
of it, even in early spring, yet nothing re-
called death, the familiar feature of a mid-
winter landscape.

The scattered cedars were not gloomy to-
day. Their green-black foliage stood out in
bold relief, a fitting background to the pidture
of Spring’s promises. ‘That the sea was not
far off is evident, for even here, a dozen miles

A Hunt for the Pyxie 65

from the ocean, many of these trees were bent
and squatty at the top, as are all those that
face the fury of storms along the coast.
Every one harbored north-bound migrating
birds; restless, warbling kinglets principally.
No other tree seemed to attract these pretty
birds, many a flock passing by scores of oaks
to the next cedar in their line of march.
The clustered pines were not similarly fa-
vored, not a bird of any kind appearing about
them, and life of all kinds was wholly absent
in the long aisles between their stately trunks.
Our path led us through one great grove
where every tree grew straight and tall as a
ship’s mast. The light that filled this wood
was strangely beautiful. Nothing stood out
distinétly. To have passed here in the gloam-
ing would have tried weak nerves. Even in
the glare of noonday my imagination was ab-
normally aétive, every stunted shrub and
prostrate log assuming some startling shape.
Think of such a place after sunset! Let an
owl whoop in your ears when hedged in by
thick-set trees! Philosophize as one will in
daylight, it goes for little now, and the days
of Indians, cougars, and all ill-natured beasts

come trooping back. Thhis distrust of dark-
e 6*

66 A Hunt for the Pyxie

ness is not mere cowardice, and I would
accept no one’s statement that he is wholly
free of it. Every sound becomes unduly
significant when we are alone in a wilderness ;
often unpleasantly so, even during the day,
and
‘in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear !’”

Out of the pines and into the oak woods:
the change was very abrupt, and as complete
as possible. Every feature of the surround-
ings was bathed in light now, and the emer-
gence from the pine forest’s gloom restored
our spirits. We are ever craving variety, and
there was positive beauty in every stunted
oak’s ugliness, and from them we needed but
to turn our heads to see thrifty magnolias
near the river-bank. These have no special
enemy, now that the beavers are gone, and
thrive in the black mud by the water’s edge;
better, by far, than the gum-trees near them,
for these were heavy laden with pallid mis-
tletoe,—to me a most repugnant growth.

We reached open country at last, and here
were birds without number. How quickly
all else fades at such a time! The whole

A Hunt for the Pyxie 67

valley trembled with the ringing whistle of
a thousand red-wings. A few swallows—the
first of their kind to return—darted over the
wide waters and rested on projecting branches
of trees that floods had stranded on the
islands. The sprightly kill-deers ran with
such dainty steps over the sand that I could
not find their footprints. They, too, were
pioneer birds, but none the less light-hearted
because alone. They sang with all their last
year’s earnestness, scattering music among
the marshes where frogs were now holding
high carnival. They were very tame, at
least so far as we were concerned, but a little
in doubt as to what a stray hawk might be
about. But they left us only to make room
for others, and whether we looked riverward
or landward mattered not: it was birds, birds,
birds! Here a hundred sparrows in an oak,
there a troop of snow-birds in the bushes, a
whistling titmouse sounding his piercing
notes, the plaintive bluebird floating over-
head, the laugh of the loon at the bend
of the river, and buzzards searching for
stranded herring where the seine had been
drawn.

A flock of herons, too, passed overhead,

68 A Hunt for the Pyxie

and, had they not seen us, might have stopped
here on the river-shore. What an addition
to a landscape! and yet now so seldom seen.
No birds can be more harmless than they,
yet not even the hawks are subject to greater
persecution. Not long since these birds
were abundant, and a ‘* heronry” was one of
the “sights” of many a neighborhood; but
people now scarcely know whata “ heronry”
is. The very word suggests how rapidly our
large birds are disappearing, and their roost-
ing-places, where hundreds gathered and
nested, too, in season, are matters of ‘* ancient
history.” In fear and trembling, the herons
that linger about our watercourses singly
seek secluded trees wherein to rest, and, I
fear, even then sleep with one eye open. A
fancy, on the part of women, for heron
plumes has wrought a deal of mischief.

But where is the pyxie? We knew it
must be near at hand, but why make haste
to find it? All else was so beautiful here,
why not wait even until another day? The
river-bank was itself a study. At the top,
sand of snowy whiteness; then a ribbon of
clay over which water trickled carrying iron
in solution, that was slowly cementing a sand

A Hunt for the Pyxie 69

stratum beneath, where every degree of den-
sity could be found, from solid rock to a
paste-like mass that we took pleasure in
moulding into fantastic shapes, thereby re-
newing our dirt-pie days.

A little later in the year, this bluff, now
streaked and spotted, will be green with the
broad-leaved sundews, curious carnivorous
plants that here take the place of grasses.
There is a filiform sundew that grows near
by, where the ground is high, if not dry ; but
it, too, waits for warmer days. Not so the
pyxie. Almost at first glance, as we left the
bluff, we saw it, sparkling white, nestled
among the gray mats of reindeer-moss, or
fringed by shining winter-green still laden
with its crimson fruit.

Here the earth was strangely carpeted.
Sphagnum, beautiful by reason of rich color,
gray-green moss, and the object of our long
tramp,—pyxie. No botany does it justice,
passing it by with the mere mention of its
barbarous name, Pyxidanthera barbulata, It
might be thought the meanest of all weeds,
but is, in truth, the chiefest glory of this
wonderful region.

Is it strange we regretted that Time would

70 A Hunt for the Pyxie

not slacken his pace? I know not where
else, in these northern regions, so much is to
be seen, and so soon. Spring, elsewhere, is
the round year’s strangest child, often too
forward, and too often backward; but her
accomplishments here and now are beyond
criticism. Such perfect work, and yet she
is not out of her teens. The day was
April 1.

CHAPTER THIRD

THE COMING OF THE BIRDS

T moon in April is an important fac-
tor in the progress of that event—the
coming of the birds—which makes every
spring memorable. While not disposed to
wait upon it too long, still, there is little doubt
but that the birds that have been wintering
afar south travel very largely by its light, and
when it happens that the moon fulls between
the middle and the twenty-fifth of the month,
the flights of thrushes, orioles, wrens, and
other migrants reach us a week earlier than
when the nights are dark during the same
period. ‘Temperature, storms, and general
backwardness of the season do not seem to
have a like importance in bird economy.

Of course, by the coming of the birds I
do not refer to the pioneers that are in ad-
vance of every company. Indeed, I have
seldom announced the first of the season, but

7t

72 The Coming of the Birds

I have been met by the man who was at least
one day ahead of me; so firstlings are not
favorites.

There is every year the one memorable
morning when we can say, in broad terms,
«The birds are here.” When the oriole
whistles from the tallest tree in the lawn;
when the wren chatters from the portal of
his old-time home; when the indigo-finch
sings in the weedy pasture; when lisping
warblers throng every tree and shrub; while
over all, high in air, the twittering swallows
dart in ecstasy ; and at last, the day-long con-
cert over, whippoorwills in the woods pipe
their monotonous refrain. The Indians were
right: when there came such days as this,
they had no further fear of frost, and we need
have but little. Our climate certainly has
changed slightly since their time, but we have
in such a bird-full day an assurance that the
clinging finger-tips of Winter have at last re-
laxed and his hold upon our fields and forests
is lost.

A word again of the advance guard. The
brown thrush came on the seventeenth of the
month (April, 1892), when there were no
leafy thickets and the maples only were in

The Coming of the Birds 73

bloom. What a glorfous herald he proved!
and so he always provés. Before the sun was
up I heard him in my dreams, and later the
fancy proved a faét. Perched at the very top
of an old walnut-tree, where the wintry world
was spread before him, he sang that song
peculiarly his own.

No hint of blushing roses on the hill,
The buds are sleeping yet upon the plain,
The blight of dreary winter clingeth still,
The forest weeps where falls the chilly rain.

Scarce hopeful leaf-buds shrink—death’s solemn hush
Rests on the field, the meadow brook along,

Till breaks the day, O happy day! the thrush
Foretells the coming summer in a song.

Two days later it was almost summer, and
tripping along the river’s pebbly beach were
spotted sand-pipers, They were ahead of
time this year, I thought, but none the less
happy because the trees were bare and the
water cold; but, stranger still, in the sheltered
coves of the mill-pond, that now reflected
the gold of the spice-wood and the crimson
of the overhanging maples, there were war-
blers, merry as in midsummer, and a pair, at
least, of small thrushes. A bittern, too, stood

D 7

74 The Coming of the Birds

in the weedy marsh. ‘There they had
gathered on that sunny, summery day, as if
warm weather was an established fact; but
how differerit the next morning, when a cold
north-east storm prevailed! How well it
showed that one such sunny day does not
make a season! How clearly it proved that
birds have no prophetic insight! They were
caught and suffered and disappeared. Did
they fly above the clouds and go to some
distant point, free of chilling rain, or did
they hide in the cedar swamps? This prob-
lem I did not essay to solve. In the few
cedars along the river-shore I found nothing
but winter residents, but I made no careful
search. A few days later and spring-like
conditions again prevailed and every day some
new bird was seen, but not until May 1
could we say, ‘* The birds have come.”
These uncertain April days are not dis-
appointing. We are not warranted in ex-
pecting much of them, and whatsoever we
do meet with is just so much more than we
had reason to look for,—an added bit of good
luck that increases our love for the year’s
fourth month ; but if no migrant came, there
is little likelihood that the pastures and river-

The Coming of the Birds 75

shore would be silent. There never was an
April that had not its full complement of
robins and blithe meadow-larks, of glori-
ous crested tits and gay cardinals, of restless
red-wings and stately grakles, and these are
quite equal to driving dull care away, and
keeping it away, if the migrants did not
come at all. Even in March, and early in
the month, we often have a foretaste of abun-
dant bird-life ; an intimation of what a few
weeks will bring us. A bright March morn-
ing in 1893 was an instance of this. I walked
for miles along the river-bank with a learned
German who was enthusiastic about every-
thing but what interested me. This may
not seem to be a promising outlook, but we
undertook to convert each other. I was to
give up my frivolity, he determined. My
effort was to get his dry-as-dust whimsies out
of him. The great ice-gorge of the past
winter was now a torrent of muddy waters
and huge cakes of crystal that rushed and
roared not only through the river’s channel,
but over half the meadow-land that bordered
it. It was, I admit, an excellent opportunity
to study the effeéts of such occurrences, for
to them is due the shaping of the valley,

76 The Coming of the Birds

and gravel transportation, and all that; but
then there was the effect of light and shade
upon the wonderful scene, and beauty like
this crowded out my taste for geology. The
sky was darkly blue, flecked with great
masses of snow white-cloud that drifted
between the sun and earth, casting shadows
that blackened the ice and brought winter
back again; but a moment later a flood of
sunshine as promptly changed all, and the
bluebirds hinted of spring. Then, too, the
gulls and crows screamed above the roar and
crunching of the ice as it struck the scattered
trees, while in every sheltered nook was a
full complement of song-sparrows. Why any
one should bother about geology at such a
time I could not see; but my companion
was intent upon problems of the ice age, and
continually remarked, ** Now, if” or * Don’t
you see?” but I always cut him short with
«« See that crow ?” or “* Hear that sparrow ?””
No, he had not seen or heard the birds, and
neither had I his particular impressions.
At last the sunshine broke upon him, and
he laughed aloud when he saw the crows
trying to steal a ride on ice-rafts that con-
tinually upset. I was hopeful now, and he

The Coming of the Birds 77

soon heard the birds that sang, and whistled
after a long line of kill-deer plover that hur-
ried by, every one calling to his fellows. It
was something to know that the coming of
the birds can rouse a German out of his
everlasting problems. He had more to say
of the springtide so near at hand than had I,
and, nosing over the ground, found nine
vigorous plants in active growth, and spoke
so learnedly of Cyperus, Galium, Allium, and
Saponaria that I as glibly thought, in jealous
mood, “‘Confound him!” for now he was
taking possession of my province and show-
ing me my littleness ; but then I had dragged
him out of his problems.

The truth is, I was in something like
despair when we started out, for I feared a
le€ture on physical geography, and, indeed,
did not quite escape ; but the bitter was well
mixed with the sweet, and he in time listened
with all my ardor to the birds that braved the
boisterous wind and were not afraid of a river
wilder than they had ever seen before. The
day proved to be of more significance than as
regards mere glacial geology. It was a fore-
taste of what was coming in April. I drew
a glowing pidture of what our April meant,

7*

78 The Coming of the Birds

and pictured a peaceful river and violets
and meadow blossoms as bright as they were
fragrant. My learned friend smiled, then
grew enthusiastic; must come again to see
the birds as they arrived, and—must I say
it?—-spoke of beer. Alas! it was Sunday.
There are two reasons why April birds are
particularly attraétive. One is, there are
fewer of them, and again, there is practically
no foliage to conceal them. Better one bird
in full view than a dozen half hidden. Their
songs, too, have a flavor of novelty, and ring
so assuringly through the leafless woods. The
ear forever bends graciously to promises, even
though we know they will be broken; but
birds, unlike men, are not given to lying.
When they promise May flowers and green
leaves they mean it, and, so far as history re-
cords, there has never been a May without
them, not even the cold May of 1816, when
there was ice and snow. But aside from their
singing, April birds offer the opportunity of
studying their manners, which is better to
know than the number of their tail-feathers
or the color of their eggs. The brown
thrush that sings so glibly from the bare
branch of a lonely tree shows now, by his

The Coming of the Birds 79

way of holding himself and pointing his tail,
that he is closely akin to the little wrens and
their big cousin, the Carolina mocker, so
called, which does not mock at all. Of all
our April birds, I believe I love best the
chewink, or swamp-robin. To be sure, he
is no more a feature of April than of June, and
many are here al] winter; but when he scat-
ters the dead leaves and whistles his bi-syllabic
refrain with a vim that rouses an echo, or
mounts a bush and sings his few notes of real
music, we forget that summer is only on the
way, but not yet here. Of all our birds, I
always fancied this one was most set in his
singing, as he surely is in his ways; but
Cheney tells us that “this bird, tike many
others, can extemporize finely when the spirit
moves him. For several successive days one
season a chewink gave me very interesting
exhibitions of the kind. He fairly revelled
in the new song, repeating it times without
number. Whether he stole it from the first
strain of ‘ Rock of Ages’ or it was stolen from
him or some of his family, is a question yet
to be decided.” Now, the chewink is a bird
of charaéter, and, above all things, dislikes
interference, and he sings “for his own

80 The Coming of the Birds

pleasure, for he frequently lets himself out
lustily when he knows he is all alone,” as
Dr. Placzeck has said of birds in general. I
shall never forget a little incident I once wit-
nessed, in which a chewink and a cardinal
grosbeak figured. They reached the same
bush at the same moment, and both started
their songs. The loud whistle of the red-
bird quite smothered the notes of the che-
wink, which stopped suddenly before it was
through and, with a squeak of impatience,
made a dash at the intruder and nearly knocked
him off his perch. Such haps and mishaps
as these—and they are continually occurring
—can only be seen in April or earlier, when
we can see through the woods, and not merely
the outer branches of the trees when in leaf.
In April we can deteét, too, the earliest
flowers, and they fit well with the songs of
the forerunning birds. There is more, I
think, for all of us in an April violet than in
a June rose; ina sheltered bit of turf with
sprouting grass than in the wide pastures a
month later. We do not hurry in-doors at
the sudden coming of an April shower.
The rain-drops that cling to the opening
leaf-buds are too near real gems not to be

The Coming of the Birds 81

fancied a veritable gift to us, and we toy
with the baubles for the brief moment that
they are ours. The sunshine that follows
such a shower has greater magic in its touch
than it possesses later in the year; the buds of
the morning now are blossoms in the after-
noon, so quickening is the warmth of the first
few days of spring. The stain of winter is
washed away by an April shower, and the
freshest green of the pasture is ever that
which is newest. There is at times a subtle
element in the atmosphere that the chemist
calls ** ozone,” but a better name is “ snap.”
It dwells in April sunshine and is the invet-
erate foe of inertia. It moves us, whether we
will or not, and we are now in a hurry even
when there is no need of haste. The
“spring fever” that we hear of as a malady
in town never counts as its victim the lover
of an April outing. ‘The beauty of novelty
is greater than the beauty of abundance. Our
recollection of a whole summer is but dim at
best, but who forgets the beginnings thereof?
We passed by unheeding many a sweet song
before the season was over, but can recall,
I venture to say, our first glimpse of the
returning spring. Though the sky may be
f

82 The Coming of the Birds

gray, the earth brown, and the wind out of
the north, let a thrush sing, a kinglet lisp,
a crested tit whistle, and a tree-sparrow chirp
among the swelling leaf-buds, and you have
seen and heard that which is not only a de-
light in itself, but the more pleasing that it
is the prelude announcing the general coming
of the birds.

CHAPTER FOURTH

THE BUILDING OF THE
NEST

@ Micros are probably very few children
who are not more or less familiar
with birds’ nests, for they are not by any
means confined to the country, but are to be
found in the shade trees of every village
street, to say nothing of the old-time lilac
hedges, gooseberry bushes, and homely shrub-
bery of fifty years ago. Even in our large
cities there are some few birds brave enough
to make their homes in or very near the
busiest thoroughfares. As an instance, it
was not so long ago that a yellow-breasted
chat—a shy bird—nested in the yard of the
Pennsylvania Hospital, at the corner of Eighth
and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia, and soon
learned to mimic many a familiar street sound.
Such instances as these were more common
83

84 The Building of the Nest

before the unfortunate blunder of introducing
the English sparrow. But it is in the country
only that we find boys really posted in the
matter of nests, and I wish I could add that
they always adopt the rules of ‘hands
off” when these nests come under their
notice. It means far more mischief than
most people think to disturb a nest, and so
let every boy decide that he will not be
guilty of such wanton cruelty. This, how-
ever, does not shut off every boy and girl in
the land from studying these nests, and a
more delightful subje€&t can never come under
youthful investigation.

What is a bird’s nest? Every one knows,
after a fashion, and yet few have ever con-
sidered how much that bunch of twigs, hol-
low in a tree, or hole in the ground really
means. Like so much that is familiar, we
glance at it in a careless way and never stop
to consider its full significance. Except ina
very few instances, a bird’s nest is never the
result of a single individual’s labor. Even
if but one bird does all the work, there has
previously been a decision reached by two
birds as to where the nest shall be placed, and
how much this means! At once we are

The Building of the Nest 85

brought to consider that an interchange of
thought has taken place. The pair have
discussed, literally, the merits and drawbacks
of the situation, and have had in mind not
only their own safety, but that of their off-
spring. ‘The faét that they make mistakes
at times proves this. Were this not the
case, or if nests were placed hap-hazard in
any tree or bush or anywhere on the ground,
bird enemies would have a happy time for a
short season, and then birds, like many of the
world’s, huge beasts, would become extinét.
On the contrary, birds have long since
learned to be very careful, and their ingenu-
ity in this apparently simple matter of choos-
ing anest site is really astonishing. This,
too, has resulted in quickening their wits in
all direétions, and the bird that is really a
booby is scarcely to be found.

Birds suffer at times from their misjudg-
ment or over-confidence, and this, it must be
added, refle€ts upon us. The instances are
numberless where birds have quickly learned
that certain people love them, and they lose
all fear. Again, naturally very timid birds
soon learn when they are free from persecu-
tion. The writer frequently passes in the

8

86 The Building of the Nest

cars by a zoological garden on the bank of
a river, and has been impressed with the
abundant illustration of birds’ intelligence to
be noticed there. The crows have learned
that fire-arms are not allowed to be used any-
where near, and so they fearlessly hop about
not only the enclosure of the garden, but the
many tracks of the railroad just outside,
showing no timidity even when the locomo-
tives rush by. Stranger still, wild ducks
gather in the river almost directly under the
railroad bridge, and do not always dive out
of sight as the trains pass by, and I have
never seen them take wing, even when the
whistle blew the quick, short, penetrating
danger signal.

To come back to their nests: birds have
other enemies than man to guard against, and
so are never ina hurry in the matter of deter-
mining where to build. Timeand again a loca-
tion has been discovered to be unsuitable after
a nest has been commenced, and the struéture
abandoned. I have observed this many times.
Indeed, my own curiosity has led the birds
to move, they not quite approving my con-
stant watching of what was going on. I well
remember seating myself once in a shady

The Building of the Nest 87

nook to eat my lunch, and being almost
attacked by a pair of black-and-white tree-
creeping warblers. Their actions were plainly
a protest against my staying where I was,
and on looking about, I found that I had
almost sat upon their nest, which was then
just completed, but contained no eggs. I
visited the spot the next day and found a
single egg; but my coming was a mistake,
for the birds now believed I had sinister de-
signs, and abandoned their new-made home.

The method of building, of course, varies
as much as the patterns of nests. Even
when the same materials are used, they are
differently treated, and a nest of sticks only
may in one case be merely thrown together,
as it were, while in another they are so care-
fully interlaced that the stru€ture is a basket,
and holds together if held by the rim only.
Another, the same in general appearance,
would immediately fall to pieces if similarly
treated. A reason for this is discoverable in
some cases, but not in all. If we examine a
great many nests, the rule will hold good, I
think, that where they are very loosely put to-
gether, the locality is such that no natural dis-
turbing causes, as high winds, are likely to

88 The Building of the Nest

bring disaster. Until I studied this point the
occurrence of exceedingly frail nests was evera
matter of surprise, for it is to be remembered
that the same species, as a cat-bird or cardinal
red-bird, does not build after a uniform
fashion, but adapts its work to the spot
chosen for the nest. It would be very haz-
ardous to say that a nest was built by this or
that bird, unless the builder was seen in
possession.

So difficult is it to watch a pair of birds
while building, that the method of their work-
ing is largely to be guessed at from the work
itself, but by means of a field-glass a good
deal can be learned. It would appear as if
a great many twigs were brought for the
foundation of a nest, such as a cat-bird’s or
song-sparrow’s, that were unsuitable. I have
occasionally seen a twig tossed aside with a
flirt of the head very suggestive of disap-
pointment. The builders do not always
carry with them a distinét idea of what they
want when hunting for material, and so labor
more than would be necessary if a little wiser.
Very funny disputes, too, often arise, and these
are most frequent when wrens are finishing
their huge struétures in a box or some corner

The Building of the Nest 89

of an out-building. A feather, or a bit of
thread, or a small rag will be carried in by
one bird and tossed out by the other with a
deal of scolding and ‘loud words” that is
positively startling. But when the frame-
work of any ordinary open or cup-shaped
nest is finally completed, the lining is not so
difficult a matter. Soft or yielding materials
are used that to a greater or less extent have
a “ felting property,” and by the bird’s weight
alone assume the shape desired. This is
facilitated by the bird in two ways: the
builder sits down, as if the eggs were already
laid, and with its beak pushes the loose ma-
terial between it and the framework, and
tucks odd bits into any too open crevices.
While doing this, it slowly moves around
until it has described a complete circle. This
brings to light any defeéts in the outer struc-
ture, and the bird can often be seen tugging
away at some projecting end, or its mate, out-
side of the nest, rearranging a twig here and
there, while the other bird—shall I say >—
is giving direétions.

Surprise has often been expressed that the
common chipping sparrow can so neatly
curl a long horse-hair into the lining of its

g*

go The Building of the Nest

little nest. It cannot be explained, perhaps,
but we have at least a clue to it. One end of
the hair is snugly tucked in among stouter
materials, and then,—I ask the question only,
—as the bird coils it about the sides of the
nest with its beak, does it break or dent it, or
is there some chemical effect produced by
the bird’s saliva? ‘The hairs do not appear
to be merely dry-curled, for in that case
they would unrol]l when taken from the nest,
and such as I have tried, when just placed in
position, retained the coiled condition when
removed, But old hair, curled by long ex-
posure to the air and moisture, is often used,
and this is far more traétable. When we
come to examine woven nests, such as the
Baltimore oriole and the red-eyed vireo, as
well as some other small birds, build, there is
offered a great deal more to study, for how
they accomplish what they do, with their
only tools their feet and beak, is not wholly
known. That the tropical tailor-bird should
run a thread through a leaf and so bring the
edges together and make a conical-shaped bag,
is not so very strange. It is little more than
the piercing of the leaf and then putting the
thread through the hole. This is ingenious

The Building of the Nest 91

but not wonderful, because not difficult; but
let us consider a Baltimore oriole and his
nest. The latter is often suspended from a
very slender elm or willow twig, and the bird
has a hard time to hold on while at work.
One experienced old oriole has for years built
in the elm near my door, and occasionally I
have caught a glimpse of him. I will not be
positive, but believe that his first move is to
find a good stout string, and this he ties to the
twig. J use the word “tie” because I have
found in many cases a capitally-tied knot, but
how the bird, or birds, could accomplish
this I cannot imagine. Both feet and beak,
I suppose, are brought into play, but how?
To get some insight into the matter, I once
tied a very long string to the end of a thread
that the oriole had secured at one end and
left dangling. This interference caused some
commotion, but the bird was not outwitted.
It caught the long string by its loose end and
wrapped it over and over various twigs, and
soon had a curious open-work bag that served
its purpose admirably. The lining of soft,
fluffy stuffs was soon added. This brought up
the question as to whether the bird ever ties
short pieces together and so makes a more

g2 The Building of the Nest

secure cable that gives strength to the fin-
ished nest. In examining nests, I have seen
such knots as might have been tied by the
birds, but there was no way to prove it.
That they do wrap a string several times
about a twig and then tie it, just as a boy ties
his fishing-line to a pole, is certain. With
my field-glass I have followed the bird far
enough to be sure of this. When at work,
the bird, from necessity, is in a reversed po-
sition,—that is, tail up and headdown. This
has an obvious advantage, in that the builder
can see what is going on beneath him, and
shows, too, how near the ground the nest will
come when finished; but it sometimes hap-
pens that he gets so absorbed in his work
that a person can approach quite near, but I
never knew him to become entangled in the
loose ends that hang about him.

The oriole at times offers us a wonder-
ful example of ingenuity. It occasionally
happens that too slight a twig is selected,
and when the nest is finished, or, later, when
the young are nearly grown, the struéture
hangs down too low for safety or sways too
violently when the parent birds alight on it.
This isa difficulty the bird has to contend with,

The Building of the Nest 93

and he has been known to remedy it by attach-
ing a cord to the sustaining twigs and tying
them to a higher limb of the tree, thus
securing the necessary stability.

Amore familiar evidence of the intelligence
of birds is when the vireos are disturbed by
the presence of a cow-bird’s egg in their
nest. To get rid of it, they often build a
new floor to the nest, and so leave the offend-
ing egg to spoil. But there is displayed here
an error of judgment that I am surprised to
find. .The birds that take this trouble cer-
tainly could throw the egg out, and, I should
think, preserve their own eggs, which in-
variably are left to decay when a new struat-
ure is reared above the old. I believe even
three-storied vireos’ nests have been found.

There is one common swallow that is
found well-nigh everywhere, which burrows
into the sand; and when we think of it, it
seems strange that so aerial a bird should
build so gloomy an abode for the nesting
season. This bank swallow, as it is called,
seleéts a suitable bluff, facing water, and,
with closed beak, turns round and round
with its head to the ground, thus boring
a hole big enough to crawl into. It turns

94 The Building of the Nest

into a gimlet for the time, and uses its beak
as the point of the tool. This is odd work
for a bird that almost lives in the air; and
then think, too, of sitting in a dark cave,
sometimes six feet long, until the eggs are
hatched. On the other hand, the barn swal-
low makes a nest where there is plenty of
light and air, and is a mason rather than a
carpenter or miner. The mud he uses is
not mere earth and water, but is made more
adherent by a trace of secretion from the
bird’s mouth ; at least, my experiments lead
me to think so. To build such a nest would
be slow work did not the two birds work
together and carry their little loads of mortar
with great rapidity. They waste no time,
and use only good materials, for I have
noticed them, when building, go to a quite
distant spot for the mud when a pool was
direétly outside of the barn in which they
were building. To all appearance the nest
is of sun-dried mud, but the material has cer-
tainly undergone a kind of puddling first that
makes it more adherent, bit to bit, and the
whole to the rafter or side of the building.
Again, these swallows have the knack of
carrying a little water on the feathers of

The Building of the Nest 95

their breasts, I think, and give the structure
a shower-like wetting from time to time.
At last the structure “sets” and is practically
permanent.

There are birds that build no nests, like
the kill-deer plover and the woodcock, and
yet they exercise a faculty of equal value in-
telle€tually ; for to be able to locate a spot
that will be in the least degree exposed to
danger is a power of no mean grade. The
kill-deer will place its eggs on sloping ground,
but somehow the heaviest dashes of rain do
not wash out that particular spot. There
are sand-pipers that lay their eggs on a bit
of dead grass, just out of reach of the highest
tides. As we look at such ests, we con-
clude that the birds trust a great deal to good
luck ; but, as a matter of faét, the destruction
of eggs when in no nests, or next to none, is
very small, Why, on the other hand, wood
peckers should go to such an infinity of trouble
to whittle a nest in the firm tissue of a living
tree, when a natural hollow would serve as
well, is a problem past finding out. I have
even seen a woodpecker make a new nest in
a tree which already contained one in every
respect as good.

g6 The Building of the Nest

Going back to the fields and thickets, it
will be seen that birds, as a rule, desire that
their nests should be inconspicuous, and their
efforts are always largely in this direction in
the construction. The foliage of the tree or
bush is considered, and when not direétly
concealed by this, the nest is made to look
marvellously like a natural produétion of the
vegetable world, as the beautiful nest of our
wood pee-wee or the humming-bird shows.
These nests are then not merely the homes
of young birds, but are places of defence
against a host of enemies. The parent birds
have no simple task set before them that can
be gone through with mechanically year after
year. Every season new problems arise, if
their favorite haunts suffer change, and every
year the birds prove equal to their solution.

CHAPTER FIFTH

CORN-STALK FIDDLES

T is a merit of our climate that at no time
of the year are we, as children, shut out
from healthy out-door pleasure. There are
shady nooks along our creeks and rivers and
delightful old mill-ponds wherein we may
bathe in midsummer, and there are acres of
glassy ice over which to skate in midwinter.
Spring and autumn are too full of fun to par-
ticularize, the average day being available for
scores of methods whereby to make life a
treasure beyond compare, spending it, to the
mind of a boy, in that most rational way,
having sport. Ido not know why we always
played marbles at one time of the year and
flew our kites at another: this is for the
folk-lore clubs to fathom. Suffice it, that
there has been for centuries a time for every
out-door amusement as fixed as the phases of
the moon. So much for the sport common
z g 9 97

98 Corn-stalk Fiddles

to all boys. And now a word concerning an
old-time musical instrument that may be now
quite out of date,—the corn-stalk fiddle.

This very primitive musical instrument is
associated with the dreamy Indian-summer
days of late November. Then it discoursed
delicious music, but at other times it would
have been “¢ out of tune and harsh.” Did the
Indians give the secret to the children of our
colonial forefathers? It would be a pleasing
thought whenever the toy comes to mind, as
the mere suggestion is a pleasant fancy.

The husking over, the corn-stalks carted
and stored in a huge rick by the barn-yard,
the apples gathered, the winter wood cut, and
then the long quiet, with almost nothing to do.
Such was the routine when I was a boy, and
if the uncertain, dreamy days would only
come, there was sure to be a short round of
pleasure wherein the fiddle figured more
prominently than all else.

Tt was no small part of the fun to see Billy
make a fiddle ; it was such a curious combi-
nation of mummery and skill. Having whet-
ted his keen, old-fashioned Barlow knife on
the toe of his boot, he would flourish it above
his head with a whoop as though he was

Corn-stalk Fiddles 99

looking for an enemy instead of a corn-stalk.
Finding one that was glossy and long enough
between the joints, he would press it gently
between his lips, trying the several se¢tions,
and then selecting the longest and most glossy
one. So much of the proceeding was for our
benefit, as the cunning old fellow well knew
that it added to his importance in our eyes.

What followed was skill. Having cut off
the stalk above and below the ring-like joints,
he had now a convenient piece about eight or
ten inches in length. ‘This he warmed by
rubbing it violently with the palm of his
hand, and then placing the point of the knife
as near the joint as pratticable, he drew it
quickly down to the next joint or lower end.
It must be a straight incision, and Billy sel-
dom failed to make it so. A parallel one
was then made, not more than one-sixteenth
of an inch distant. A space of twice this
width was left, and two or three more strings
were made in the same manner. These were
freed of the pith adhering to their under sides,
and held up by little wooden « bridges,” one
at each end. The bow was similarly fash-
ioned, but was made of a more slender seétion
of corn-stalk and had but two strings.

100 Corn-stalk Fiddles

It was indeed surprising how available this
crude production proved as a musical instru-
ment. Youth and the environment counted
for a great deal, of course, and my Quaker
surroundings forbidding music, it wasa sweeter
joy because a stolen one.

I can picture days of forty years ago as
distinétly as though a matter of the present.
My cousin and myself, with Black Billy,
would often steal away and carry with us
one of the smaller barn doors. This we
would place in a sunny nook on the south
side of the stalk-rick, and while the fiddle
was being made, would part with our jackets
that we might dance the better. Billy was
soon ready, and with what a joyful grin,
rolling of his huge black eyes, and vigorous
contortion of the whole body would our
faithful friend draw from the corn-stalk every
note of many a quaint old tune! And how
we danced! For many a year after the old
door showed the nail-marks of our heavily-
heeled shoes where we had brought them
down with avigor that often roused the energy
of old Billy, until he, too, would stand up and
execute a marvellous pas seu/, Then, tired
out, we would rest in niches in the stalk-rick,

Corn-stalk Fiddles 101

and Billy would play such familiar airs as had
penetrated even into the quiet of Quaker-
dom. It was no mere imitation of the music,
but the thing itself; and it would be an hour
or more before the fiddle’s strings had lost
their tension, the silicious covering had worn
away, and the sweet sounds ceased.

Almost the last of my November after-
noons passed in this way had a somewhat
dramatic ending. The fiddle was one of
more than ordinary excellence. In the
height of our fun I spied the brim of my
grandfather’s hat extending an inch or two
around the corner. I gave no sign, but
danced more vigorously than ever, and as
the music and dancing became more fast and
furious the crown of his stiff hat appeared,
and then my grandfather’s face. His coun-
tenance was a study. Whether to give the
alarm and run or to remain was the decision
of an instant. I gave no sign, but kept one
eyeonhim. “Faster !”’ I cried to Billy, and,
to my complete astonishment, the hat moved
rapidly up and down. Grandfather was
keeping time! <¢ Faster!” I cried again, and
the music was now a shrieking medley, and
the broad-brimmed hat vibrated wonderfully

g*

102 Corn-stalk Fiddles

fast. It was too much. I gave a wild yell
and darted off. Circling the barn and stalk-
rick, I entered the front yard with a flushed
but innocent face, and met grandpa. He,
too, had an innocent, far-away look, but his
hat was resting on the back of his head and
his cheeks were streaming with perspiration,
and, best of all, he did not seem to know it.

«« Grandpa,” I asked at the supper-table
that evening, ‘‘does thee know why it is that
savage races are so given to dancing ?”

«« Charles,” he replied, gravely, and noth-
ing more was said.

CHAPTER SIXTH

THE OLD KITCHEN DOOR

Ts white porch, with its high roof and

two severely plain pillars to support it;
the heavy door, with its ponderous knocker ;
the straggling sweetbrier at one side; the
forlorn yellow rose between the parlor win-
dows; the grass that was too cold to wel-
come a dandelion; the low box hedge, and
one huge box bush that never sheltered a
bird’s nest; all these were in front to
solemnly greet that terror of my early days,
—company.

To me these front-door features all meant,
and still mean, restraint; but how different
the world that lingered about the old farm-
house kitchen door! There was no cold
formality there, but freedom,—the healthy
freedom of old clothes, an old hat; ay,
even the luxury of an open-throated shirt
was allowed.

103

104 The Old Kitchen Door

After a tramp over the meadows, after a
day’s fishing, after the round of the rabbit-
traps in winter, what joy to enter the kitchen
door. and breathe in the deleétable odor of
hot gingerbread! There were appetites in
those days.

I do not understand the mechanism of a
modern kitchen: it looks to me like a small
machine-shop ; but the old farm kitchen was
a simple affair, and the intricacies and mys-
tery lay wholly in the dishes evolved. It
is said of my grandmother that a whiff of
her sponge-cake brought the humming-birds
about. I do know there was a crackly crust
upon it which it is useless now to try to imi-
tate.

But the door itself—we have none such
now. It was a double door in two ways.
Tt was made of narrow strips of oak, oblique
on one side and straight on the other, and
so studded with nails that the whole affair
was almost half metal. It was cut in two,
having an upper and a lower seftion. The
huge wooden latch was hard and smooth as
ivory. At night the door was fastened by
a hickory bar, which, when I grew strong
enough to lift it, was my favorite hobby-horse.

The Old Kitchen Door 105

The heavy oak sill was worn in the mid-
dle until its upper surface was beautifully
curved, and to keep the rain out, when the
wind was south, a canvas sand-bag was rolled
against it. A stormy-day amusement was to
pull this away on the sly, and sail tiny paper
boats in the puddle that soon formed on the
kitchen floor. There was mischief in those
days.

Kitchens and food are of course insepara-
bly conneéted, and what hunting-ground for
boys equal to the closets where the cakes
were kept? Ido not know that the matter
was ever openly discussed, but as I look back
it seems as if it was an understood thing
that, when our cunning succeeded in outwit-
ting auntie, we could help ourselves to jum-
bles. Once I became a hero in this line of
discovery, and we had a picnic behind the
lilacs; but, alas! only too soon we were
pleading for essence of peppermint. Over-
eating is possible, even in our teens.

Recent raids in modern kitchen precinéts
are never successful. Of late I always put
my hand in the wrong crock, and find pickles
where I sought preserves. I never fail,
now, to take a slice of a reserved cake, or

106 The Old Kitchen Door

to quarter the pie intended for the next
meal, Age brings no experience in such
matters. It is a case where we advance back-
ward,

Of the almost endless phases of life cen-
tring about the kitchen door there is one
which stands out so prominently that it is
hard to realize the older a€tor is now dead
and that of the young on-lookers few are
left. Soon after the dinner-horn was sounded
the farm hands gathered at the pump, which
stood just outside the door, and then in solemn
procession filed into the kitchen for the noon-
day meal. All this was prosy enough, but
the hour’s nooning after it,—then there was
fun indeed.

Scipio—* Zip,” for short—was not ill-
natured, but then who loves too much teas-
ing? An old chestnut burr in the grass
where he was apt to lie had made him sus-
picious of me, and I had to be extra cautious.
Once I nearly oversteppéd the mark. Zip
had his own place for a quiet nap, and, when
stretched upon the grass under the big linden,
preferred not to be disturbed. Now it oc-
curred to me to be very funny. I whittled
a cork to the shape of a spider, added mon-

The Old Kitchen Door 107

strous legs, and with glue fastened a dense
coating of chicken-down over all.

It was a fearful spider.

I suspended the sham inseét from a limb
of the tree so that it would hang direétly over
Zip’s face as he lay on the ground, and by
a black thread that could not be seen I could
draw it up or let it down at pleasure. It
was well out of sight when Zip fell asleep,
and then I slowly lowered the monster until
it tickled his nose. It was promptly brushed
aside. ‘This was repeated several times, and
then the old man awoke. The huge spider
was just touching his nose, and one glance
was enough. Witha bound and a yell he was
up and off, in his headlong flight overturn-
ing the thoughtless cause of his terror. I
was the more injured of the two, but never
dared in after-years to ask Zip if he was
afraid of spiders.

And all these years the front door never
changed. It may have been opened daily
for aught I know, but I can remember noth-
ing of its history.

Stay! As befitting such an occurrence, it
was open once, as I remember, when there
was a wedding at the house; but of that

108 The Old Kitchen Door

wedding I recall only the preparations in the
kitchen for the feast that followed; and,
alas! it has been opened again and again for
funerals.

Why, indeed, should the front door be
remembered? It added no sunshine to the
child’s short summer; but around the corner,
whether dreary winter’s storm or the fiercest
heat of August fell upon it, the kitchen door
was the entrance to a veritable elysium.

CHAPTER SEVENTH

UP THE CREEK

PCHERE is greater merit in the little word

“up” than in “down.” If, when in
a place new to me, I am asked to go “ up the
creek,” my heart leaps, but there is less en-
thusiasm when it is suggested to go down the
stream. One seems to mean going into the
country, the other into the town. All this
is illogical, of course, but what of that?
The facts of a case like this have not the
value of my idle fancies. After all, there is
a peculiar merit in going up-stream. It is
something to be going c-eper and deeper into
the heart of the country. It is akin to get-
ting at the foundations of things.

In the case of smal] inland streams, gen-
erally, the mouth is a commonplace affair.
The features that charm shrink from the
fateful spot, and we are put in a condition

of anticipation at the start which, happily,
10 109

110 Up the Creek

proves one of abundant realization at the
finish.

A certain midsummer Saturday was not
an idea} one tor an outing, but with most ex-
cellent company I ventured up the creek. It
was my friend’s suggestion, so I was free from
responsibility. Having promised nothing, I
could in no wise be justly held accountable.
Vain thought! Direétly I suffered in their
estimation because, at mere beck and nod,
polliwogs were not forthcoming and fishes
refused to swim into my hand. What strange
things we fancy of our neighbors! Because
I love the wild life about me, one young
friend thought me a magician who could
command the whole creek’s fauna by mere
word of mouth. It proved an empty day
in one respect, animal life scarcely showing
itself. To offer explanations was of no avail,
and one of the little company recast her
opinions. Perhaps she even entertains some
doubt as to my having ever seen a bird or
fish or the coveted polliwog.

It is one thing to be able to give the name
and touch upon the habits of some captured
creature, and quite another to command its
immediate presence when we enter its haunts.

Up the Creek 111

This always should, and probably never
will, be remembered.

But what of the creek, the one-time Big-
Bird Creek of the Delaware Indians? With
ill-timed strokes we pulled our languid oars,
and passed many a tree, jutting meadow, or
abandoned wharf worthy of more than a
moment’s contemplation. But, lured by the
treasure still beyond our reach, we went on
and on, until the trickling waters of a hill-
side spring proved too much for us, and, turn-
ing our prow landward, we stopped to rest.

Among old trees that afforded grateful
shade, a spring that bubbled from an aged
chestnut’s wrinkled roots, a bit of babbling
brook that too soon reached the creek and
was lost, and, beyond all, wide-spreading
meadows, boundless from our point of view
—what more need one ask? ‘To our credit,
be it said, we were satisfied, except, perhaps,
that here, as all along our course, polliwogs
were perverse. Birds, however, consider-
ately came and went, and even the shy cuckoo
deigned to reply when we imitated his dolo-
rous clucking. A cardinal grosbeak, too,
drew near and whistled a welcome, and once
eyed us with much interest as we sat lunching

112 Up the Creek

onthe grass. Whatdid hethink of us? Eat-
ing, with him, is so different a matter, and per-
haps he could give usa few useful hints. The
trite remark, ‘‘ Fingers came before forks,”
has a significance in the woods, if not in the
town. While eating we listened, and I heard
the voices of nine different birds. Some
merely chirped in passing, it is true, but the
marsh-wrens in the cat-tail thicket just across
the creek were not silent for a moment.
Here in the valley of the Delaware, as I re-
cently found them on the shores of Chesa-
peake Bay, the wrens are quite noéturnal, and
I would have been glad to have heard them
sing in the moonlight again; for our enthu-
siasm would have been strengthened by a few
such glimpses of the night side of Nature.
No bird is so welcome to a mid-day camp
as the white-eyed vireo, and we were fortu-
nate in having one with us while we tarried
at the spring. Not even ninety degrees in
the shade has any effect upon him, and this
unflagging energy reacts upon the listener.
We could at least be so far alive as to give
him our attention. Mid-day heat, however,
does affe€t many a song-bird, and now that
nesting is well-nigh over, the open woods

Up the Creek 113

are deserted for hidden cool retreats, where
the songster takes its ease, as we, far from
town, are taking ours. There is much in
common between birds and men.

How, as we lingered over our glasses,
counting the lemon-seeds embedded in sugar,
we would have enjoyed a wood-thrush’s
splendid song or a rose-breasted grosbeak’s
matchless melody! but the ¢o-whee of the
pipilo scratching among dead leaves, the
plaint of an inquisitive cat-bird threading
the briers, the whir of a humming-bird
vainly seeking flowers,—these did not pass
for nothing; and yet there was comparative
silence that suggested a sleeping rather than
a wakeful, active world.

Here let me give him who loves an outing
a useful hint: be not so anxious for what may
be that you overlook that which is spread be-
fore you. More than once to-day our dis-
cussion of the “silence” of a midsummer
noontide drowned the voices of singing-birds
near by.

How often it has been intimated to us that
“€two’s company and three’s a crowd”! but
to really see and hear what transpires in the

haunts of wild life, ove is company and two’s
A 10%

114 Up the Creek

acrowd. We cannot heed Nature and fel-
low-man at the same moment; and as to the
comparative value of their communications,
each must judge for himself.

Certainly the human voice is a sound which
animals are slow to appreciate. How often
have I stood in silence before birds and small
animals and they have shown no fear! A
movement of my arms would put them on
guard, perhaps ; but a word spoken, and away
they sped. Not a bird, I have noticed, is
startled by the bellow of a bull or the neigh
of a horse, and yet my own voice filled them
with fear. Even snakes that knew me well
and paid no attention to my movements were
startled at words loudly spoken. It is a bit
humiliating to think that in the estimation of
many a wild animal our bark is worse than
our bite.

A midsummer noontide has surely some
merit, and when I failed to find fish, frog, or
salamander for my young friend, it became
necessary to point to some feature of the spot
that made it worth a visit. To my discom-
fiture, I could find nothing. Trees have been
talked of overmuch, and there were no wild
flowers. The August bloom gave, as yet, only

Up the Creek 115

a hint of what was coming. I had hit upon
a most unlucky interim during which no man
should go upon a picnic. In despair and
empty-handed, we took to our boat and started
up the creek. It was a fortunate move, for
straightway the waters offered that which I
had vainly sought for on shore. Here were
flowers in abundance. The pickerel-weed
was in bloom, the dull-yellow blossoms of the
spatterdock dotted the muddy shores, bind-
weed here and there offered a single flower as
we passed by, and never was golden-dodder
more luxuriant. Still, it is always a little dis-
appointing when Flora has the world to her-
self, and while we were afloat it was left to
a few crows and a single heron to prove that
she had not quite undisputed sway.

Up the creek with many a turn and twist,
and now on a grassy knoll we land again,
where a wonderful spring pours a great
volume of sparkling water into the creek.
Here at last we have an objeét lesson that
should bear fruit when we recall the day.
Not a cupful of this clear cold water could
we catch but contained a few grains of sand,
and for so many centuries has this carrying of
sand grains been in progress that now a great

116 Up the Creek

ridge has choked the channel where once
rode ships at anchor. An obscure back-
country creek now, but less than two cen-
turies ago the scene of busy industry. Per-
haps no one is now living who saw the last sail
that whitened the landscape. Pages of old
ledgers, a bit of diary, and old deeds tell us
something of the place; but the grassy knoll
itself gives no hint of the fact that upon it
once stood awarehouse. Yet a busy place it
was in early colonial times, and now utterly
neglected.

It is difficult to realize how very unsub-
stantial is much of man’s work. As we sat
upon the grassy slope, watching the out-
going tide as it rippled and broke in a long
line of sparkling bubbles, I rebuilt, for the
moment, the projecting wharf, of which but
a single log remains, and had the quaint
shallops of pre-Revolutionary time riding at
anchor. ‘There were heard, in faét, the cry
of a heron and the wild scream of a hawk ;
but these, in fancy, were the hum of human
voices and the tramp of busy feet.

The scattered stones that just peeped above
the grass were not chance bowlders rolled
from the hill near by, but the door-step and

Up the Creek 117

foundation of the one-time warehouse. ‘The
days of buying, selling, and getting gain came
back, in fancy, and I was more the sturdy
colonist than the effeminate descendant. But
has the present no merit? We had the,
summer breeze that came freighted with the
odors gathered from the forest and the stream,
and there were thrushes rejoicing in our hear-
ing that the hill-sides were again as Nature
made them. It meant much to us to tarry
in the shade of venerable trees spared by
the merchants that once collected here,
whose names are now utterly forgotten.
Stay! there are two reminders of ancient
glory. A beech that overhangs the brook
has its bark well scarred, and, now beyond
decipherment, there are initials of many
prominent naturalists of Philadelphia. A
few rods up-stream is another beech that has
remained unchanged. On it can be seen the
initials T. A. C., 1819; those of the cele-
brated paleontologist, Conrad, born near here
in 1803.

The shadows lengthen; the cooler hours
of eventide draw on; the languid thrushes
are again abroad; music fills the air. We are
homeward bound and hurrying down-stream.

118 Up the Creek

Our minds are not so receptive as when we
started. How shrunken to a few rods is
every mile! Trees, flowers, and birds are
scarcely heeded; but the good gathered as
we went up the creek we bring away, and,
once again in the dusty village street, we
realize that we have but to turn our back
upon the town to find the world a piéture.

CHAPTER EIGHTH

4A WINTER-NIGHT’S
OUTING

OT long since I was asked—and not

for the first time—if I could date the

beginning of my taste for natural history pur.

suits or give any incident that appeared to
mark a turning-point in my career.

It did not seem possible to do this, on first
consideration; but a recent living over of days
gone by recalled an incident which happened
before I was eleven years old, and, as it was
almost my first regular outing that smacked of
adventure, it is probable that it impressed me
more forcibly than any earlier or, indeed, later
events.

Heavy and long-continued rains had re-
sulted in a freshet, and then three bitter cold
days had converted a wide reach of mead-
ows into a frozen lake. Happier conditions

119

120 A Winter-Night’s Outing

could not have occurred in the small boy’s
estimation, and, with boundless anticipation,
we went skating.

After smooth ice, the foremost requirement
is abundant room, and this we had. There
was more than a square mile for each of us.
The day had been perfeét and the approach-
ing night was such as Lowell so aptly de-
scribes, ‘all silence and all glisten.””

As the sun was setting we started a roar-
ing fire in a sheltered nook, and securely
fastening our skates without getting at all
chilled, started off. Then the fun com-
menced. We often wandered more than a
mile away, and it was not until the fire was
reduced to a bed of glowing coals that we
returned to our starting-point.

Here a great surprise awaited us. The
heat had drawn from the wooded hill-side
near by many a meadow-mouse that, moved by
the warmth or by curiosity, ventured as near
as it dared. ‘These mice were equally sur-
prised at seeing us, and scampered off, but, it
seemed to me, with some show of reluétance,
as if a chance to warm themselves so thor-
oughly should not be missed.

We freshened the fire a little and fell back

A Winter-Night’s Outing 121

a few paces, but stood near enough to see if
the mice would return. This they did ina
few minutes, and, to our unbounded surprise
and amusement, more than one sat up on its
haunches like a squirrel, They seemed to
be so many diminutive human beings about a
camp-fire.

It was a sight to give rise to a pretty fairy
tale, and possibly our Indians built up theirs
on just such incidents. ‘These mice were, to
all appearances, there to enjoy the warmth.
There was little running to and fro, no squeak-
ing, not a trace of unusual excitement, and,
although it was so cold, we agreed to wait
as long as the mice saw fit to stay.

This resolution, however, could not hold.
We were getting chilled, and so had to draw
near. As we did this, there was a faint
squeaking which all noticed, and we concluded
that sentinels had been placed to warn the
congregated mice of our approach.

The spirit of adventure was now upon us,
and our skates were but the means to other
ends than mere sport. What, we thought,
of the gloomy nooks and corners where
thickets stood well above the ice? We had

shunned these heretofere, but without open
F Ir

122 A Winter-Night’s Outing

admission that we had any fear concerning
them. Then, too, the gloomy gullies in the
hill-side came to mind. Should we skate
into such darkness and startle the wild life
there?

The suggestion was made, and not one
dared say he was afraid.

We thought of the fun in chasing a coon
or skunk over the ice, and bravely we ven-
tured, feeling our way where we knew the
ice was thin and rough.

Ata bend in the little brook, where a large
cedar made the spot more dark and forbidding,
we paused a moment, not knowing just how
to proceed.

The next minute we had no time for
thought. A loud scream held us almost spell-
bound, and then, with one dash, we sought
the open meadows.

Once there, we breathed a little freer.
We could see the fast-fading light of the
fire, and at last could flee in a known direc-
tion if pursued. Should we hurry home?
We debated this for some time, but were
more fearful of being laughed at than of
facing any real danger, and therefore con-
cluded, with proper caution, to return.

A Winter-Night’s Outing 123

Keeping close together, we entered the
ravine again, stopped near the entrance and
kindled a fire, and then, by its light, pro-
ceeded farther. It was a familiar spot, but
not without strange features as we now
saw it.

Again we were startled by the same wild
cry, but for a moment only. A barn owl, I
think it was, sailed by, glaring at us, as we
imagined, and sought the open meadows.

We turned and followed, though why, it
would be hard to say. The owl flew slowly
and we skated furiously, trying to keep it di-
reétly overhead. Now we were brave even
to foolhardiness, and sped away over the ice,
indifferent to the direétion taken. To this
day I have credited that owl with a keen sense
of humor.

On we went, over the meadows to where
the swift but shallow creek flowed by,
and then, when too late, we knew where
we were. ‘The ice bent beneath us, then
cracked, and in an instant we were through
it, our feet well in the mud and the water
about our necks. Just how we got out I
never knew, but we did, and the one dry
match among us was a veritable treasure.

124 A Winter-Night’s Outing

It did not go out at the critical moment, but
started ablaze the few twigs we hastily
gathered, and so saved us from freezing. As
we dried our clothes and warmed our be-
numbed bodies, I, for one, vowed never
again to chase an owl on skates, but to go at
it more soberly. From that eventful night
the country has been attractive by reason of
its wild life. It was there I became—if
indeed I ever have become—a naturalist.

CHAPTER NINTH

WILD LIFE IN WATER

ae f lea antelope has less reason to fear the

lion than has the minnow to dread
the pike. We think of timid antelopes and
roaring lions, but the former has good use of
its limbs, and so a fighting chance for its life;
but the minnows have little advantage in the
struggle for existence, and none at all when
the predatory fishes are in pursuit of them.”

This was written in a note-book more than
thirty years ago, and I let it stand as evidence
of how easy it is to be in error in matters of
natural history.

When I went to school there was but one
teacher of the five that knew anything about
such matters, and he had the old-time views.
Then a fish was a mere machine so far as in-
telligence was concerned. We were told of
the cunning of foxes and the instinét of ants

and bees, but never a word of fishes.
11* 125

126 Wild Life in Water

The truth is, I might very properly speak
of wild «* wit” in the water instead of « life,”
for there can be not the shadow of a doubt
but that many of our fishes are really cunning.
We need but watch them carefully to be
readily convinced of this. How else could
they escape danger ?

The pretty peacock minnows throng the
grassy beach at high tide, playing with their
fellows in water just deep enough to cover
them, and are, when here, very tame and
careless. They even get stranded upon the
airy side of floating leaves, and enjoy the ex-
citement. They realize, it would seem, that
where they are no pike can rush down upon
them, no snake work its way unseen among
them, no turtle crawl into their playground ;
but as the tide goes out and these minnows
are forced nearer to the river’s channel, they
lose their carelessness and are suspicious of
all about them.

To call this instinétive fear and result of
heredity sounds well; but the naturalist is
brought nearer to the wild life about him
when he credits them simply with common
sense. ‘The charm of watching such ‘small
deer’ vanishes if we lean too much on the

Wild Life in Water 127

learned and scientific solutions of the com-
parative psychologist, and possibly, too, we
wander further from the truth. All I posi-
tively know is, that when danger really exists
the minnows are aware of it; when it is ab-
sent they throw off the burden of this care,
and life for a few hours is a matter of pure
enjoyment.

Brief mention should be made of the pro-
te€tive character of the coloring of certain
fishes. If such are fortunate enough to be
protectively colored, there is little to be said ;
but are they conscious of this? Does a fish
that is green or mottled green and gray keep
closely to the weeds, knowing that it is safer
there than when in open water or where the
bottom is covered with white sand and peb-
bles? This may bea rather startling question,
but there is warrant for the asking. Float
half a day over the shallows of any broad
pond or stream, study with care and without
preconception the fishes where they live, and
you will ask yourself not only this question,
but many a stranger one. If fish are fools,
how is it that the angler has so generally to
tax his ingenuity to outwitthem? Howclosely
Nature must be copied to deceive a trout!

128 Wild Life in Water

Having said so much of small fishes, what
now of the larger ones that prey upon them?
A pike, for instance? Probably many more
people have studied how to catch a pike than
have considered it scientifically. It is tire-
some, perhaps, but if a student of natural his-
tory really desires to know what a fish a€tually
is, he must watch it for hours, being himself
unseen,

At one time there were several large pike
in my lotus pond. Under the huge floating
leaves of this splendid plant they took refuge,
and it was difficult to catch even a glimpse
of them. At the same time the schools of
minnows seemed to enjoy the sunlight and
sported in the open water. More than once,
however, I saw a pike rush out from its
cover, and finally learned that it systematically
lay in wait for the minnows; and I believe
I am justified in adding that the minnows
knew that danger lurked under the lotus
leaves.

The situation was not so hap-hazard a one
as might appear at first glance, and hours of
patient watching convinced me that there was
a decided exercising of ingenuity on the part
of both the pike and the minnows; the for-

Wild Life in Water 129

mer ever on the lookout for a viétim, the
latter watchful of an ever-present danger.
Day long it was a tragedy where brute force
counted for little and cunning for a great
deal.

Another very common fish in my pond
was likewise very suggestive in connection
with the subje&t of animal intelligence. I
refer to the common “ sunny,” or “* pumpkin-
seed.” A shallow sand-nest had been scooped
near shore and the precious eggs deposited.
A school of silvery-finned minnows had dis-
covered them, and the parent fish was severely
taxed in her efforts to proteét them.

So long as this school of minnows re-
mained together, the sunfish, by fierce rushes,
kept them back; but soon the former—was
it accident or design ?—divided their forces,
and as the parent fish darted at one assaulting
party, the other behind it made a successful
raid upon the nest. This continued for some
time, and the sunfish was getting quite weary,
when, as if a sudden thought struck it, its
tactics changed, and it swam round and round
in a circle and sent a shower of sand out into
the space beyond the nest. This effe€tually

dazed the minnows.
i

130 «Wild Life in Water

Little incidents like this are forever oc-
curring and effectually set aside the once
prevalent idea that fish are mere living ma-
chines. Look a pike in the eye and you
will deteé&t something very different from
mere instin¢tive timidity.

But fish are not the only creatures that live
in the water ; there are one snake and several
species of turtles, and frogs, mollusks, and
inseéts innumerable. These are too apt to
be associated with the land, and, except the
two latter forms, are usually thought of as
taking to the water as a place of refuge, but
really living inthe openair. This is a great
mistake. There is a lively world beneath
the surface of the water, and the tragedy of
life is played to the very end, with here and
there a pretty comedy that wards off the
blues when we look too long and see nothing
but the destruction of one creature that an-
other may live.

Here is an example of cunning or wit in a
water-snake. A friend of mine was recently
sitting on the bank of a little brook, when
his attention was called to a commotion
almost at his feet. Looking down, he saw a
snake holding its head above the water, and

Wild Life in Water 131

in its mouth struggled a small sunfish. Now,
what was the snake’s purpose? It knew very
well that the fish would drown in the air, and
not until it was dead could it be swallowed
with that deliberation a snake loves. The
creature was cunning enough to kill by easy
means prey that would otherwise be diffi-
cult to overcome, for while crosswise in the
snake’s mouth it could not be swallowed,
and if put down for an instant the chances
of its recapture would be slight.

To suppose that a turtle, as you watch it
crawling over the mud, has any sense of
humor in its horny head seems absurd; yet
naturalists have recorded their being seen at
play, and certainly they can readily be tamed
toa remarkable degree. Their intelligence,
however, shows prominently only in the
degree of cunning exhibited when they are
in search of food. The huge snapper “ lies
in wait,” and truly this is a most sugges-
tive and comprehensive phrase. I believe,
too, that this fierce turtle buries surplus food,
and so gives further evidence of intelleétual
activity.

To realize what wild life in the water
really is it must be observed where Nature

132 Wild Life in Water

has placed it. It is perhaps not so much set
forth by exceptional incidents that the student
happens to witness as by that general appear-
ance of common sense which is so unmistaka-
bly stamped upon even the most common-
place movements. Writers upon animal
intelligence do not need to be constantly on
the lookout for special exhibitions of cunning
in order to substantiate the claims they make
in favor of life’s lower forms. It is plainly
enough to be seen if we will but patiently
watch whensoever these creatures come and
wheresoever they go and the manner of their
going and coming.

Do not be so intent upon watching for the
marvellous that ordinary incidents are not
seen. In studying wild life everywhere,
and perhaps more particularly in the water,
to be rightly informed we must see the aver-
age individual amid commonplace surround-
ings. Doing this, we are not misinformed
nor led to form too high an opinion. It is
as in the study of humanity. We must not
familiarize ourselves with the mountebank,
but with man.

CHAPTER TENTH

AN OLD-FASHIONED
GARDEN

lise world at large is a most intricate

machine, and parts viewed separately
give no hint of their importance to what
appear quite independent objects. Man may
dissociate without destroying, but, when he
does so, his constant attention must then take
the place of the aéts that Nature designed
other conditions of life should perform.
The isolated plant, for instance, is destroyed
by insects unless we protec it by a glass
covering or a poison-bath: Nature gave it to
the birds to protect the plant, and in so
doing find food for themselves. This law
of interdependence is made very plain in the
case of a modern garden or the trim lawns
of a large city, and in less degree applies
to towns and villages. The caterpillar

12 133

134 An Old-fashioned Garden

nuisance that requires the collaring of shade-
trees with cotton-wool to proteét their foli-
age illustrates this; and what an example is
a modern garden filled to overflowing with
exotic plants! An all-important feature is
wanting,—birds; for, except English spar-
rows, we have none, and these are worse
than useless.

It was not always so, and the cause of the
deplorable change is not hard to find. When-
ever we chance, in our wanderings, to come
upon some long-neglected corner of colonial
times, there we will find the bloom and birds
together. I have said “ neglected;” not
quite that, for there was bloom, and the
birds are excellent gardeners.

Let me particularize. My garden is a
commonplace affair, with the single innova-
tion of a tub sunk in the ground to accom-
modate a lotus,—so commonplace, indeed,
that no passer-by would notice it; and yet
during a single summer afternoon I have
seen within its boundaries fifteen species of
birds. At that hottest hour of the midsum-
mer day, two p.m., while looking at the
huge pink blossoms of the classic lotus, my
attention was called to a quick movement

An Old-fashioned Garden 135

on the ground, as ifa rat ran by. It proved
to be an oven-bird, that curious combination
of thrush and sand-piper, and yet neither,
but a true warbler. It peered into every
nook and corner of the shrubbery, poised on
the edge of the sunken lotus-tub, caught a
wriggling worm that came to the surface of
the water, then teetered along the fence and
was gone. Soon it returned, and came and
went until dark, as much at home as ever in
the deep recesses of unfrequented woods.
As the sun went down, the bird sang once
with all the spring-tide ardor, and brought
swiftly back to me-many a long summer’s
day ramble in the country. It is something
to be miles away from home while sitting on
your own door-step.

Twice a song-sparrow came, bathed in
the lotus-tub, and, when not foraging in the
weedy corners, sang its old-fashioned song,
now so seldom heard within town limits.
The bird gave me two valuable hints as to
garden management. Water is a necessity
to birds as well as to any other form of life,
and shelter is something more than a mere
attraction. Was it not because the birds
happened to be provided with them to-day

136 An Old-fashioned Garden

that I had, as I have had the summer long,
more birds than my neighbors ?

How seldom do we see the coral honey-
suckle, and how generally the trumpet-creeper
has given place to exotic vines of far more
striking bloom, but, as will appear, of less
utility! If the old-time vines that I have
mentioned bore less showy flowers, they had
at least the merit of attraéting humming-
birds, that so grandly rounded out our com-
plement of summer birds. These feathered
fairies are not difficult to see, even though so
small, and, if so inclined, we can always
study them to great advantage. They be-
come quite tame, and in the old-fashioned
gardens were always a prominent feature by
reason of their numbers. They are not
forever on the wing, and when preening
their feathers let the sunshine fall upon them,
and we have emeralds and rubies that cost
nothing, but are none the less valuable be-
cause of this. In changing the botanical
features of our yards we have had but one
thought, gorgeous flowers; but was it wise
to give no heed to the loss of birds as the
result? I fancy there are many who would
turn with delight from formal clusters of

An Old-fashioned Garden 137

unfamiliar shrubs, however showy, to a
gooseberry hedge or a lilac thicket with
song-sparrows and a cat-bird hidden in its
shade. We have been unwise in this too
radical change. We have abolished bird-
music in our eagerness for color, gaining a
little, but losing more. We have paid too
dear, not for a whistle, but for its loss. But
it is not too late. Carry a little of the home
forest to our yards, and birds will follow it.
And let me here wander to an allied matter,
that of the recently-established Arbor Day.
What I have just said recalls it.

To merely transplant a tree, move it from
one spot to another, where perhaps it is less
likely to remain for any length of time than
where it previously stood, is, it seems to me,
the very acme of folly. The chances are
many that the soil is less suitable, and so
growth will be retarded, and the world is
therefore not one whit the better off. There
is far too much tree-planting of this kind
on Arbor Day. In many an instance a plot
of ground has been replanted year after
year. I fancy we will have to reach more
nearly to the stage of tree appreciation before

Arbor Day will be a pre-eminent success.
12*

138 An Old-fashioned Garden

Can we not, indeed, accommodate ourselves
a little more to the trees growing where Na-
ture planted them? I know a village well,
where the houses are placed to accommodate
the trees that stood there when the spot was
a wilderness. The main street is a little
crooked, but what a noble street it is! I
recall, as I write these lines, many a Friends’
meeting-house, and one country school,
where splendid oaks are standing near by,
and to those who gather daily or weekly
here, whether children or grown people,
the trees are no less dear than the buildings
beside them. ‘The wanderer who revisits
the scenes of his childhood looks first at the
trees and then at the houses. Tree-wor-
ship, we are told, was once very prevalent,
and it is not to be regretted that in a modi-
fied form it still remains with us.

As a practical matter, let me here throw
out the suggestion that he will be doing most
excellent work who saves a tree each year.
This is a celebration that needs no special
day set forth by legislative enactment. How
often I have heard farmers remark, ‘‘ It was
a mistake to cut those trees down’! Of course
it was. In nine cases out of ten the value

An Old-fashioned Garden 139

of the trees felled proves less than was ex-
pected, and quickly follows the realization of
the fa&t that when standing their full value
was not appreciated. Think of cutting down
trees that stand singly or in little groups in
the middle of fields because it is a trouble to
plant around them, or for the reason that
they shade the crops too much! What of
the crop of comfort such trees yield to both
man and beast when these fields are past-
ures? ‘But there is no money in shade-
trees.” I cannot repress my disgust when
I hear this, and I have heard it often. Is
there genuine manhood in those who feel
this way towards the one great ornament of
our landscape?

It is not—more’s the pity—within the
power of every one to plant a tree, but those
who cannot need not stand idly by on Arbor
Day. Here is an instance where half a loaf
is better than no bread. Many a one can
plant a shrub. How often there is an un-
sightly corner, even in the smallest enclosure,
where a tall tree would be a serious obstruc-
tion, whereon can be grown a thrifty bush,
one that will be a constant source of pleasure
because of its symmetry and bright foliage,

140 An Old-fashioned Garden

and for atime doubly attractive because of
its splendid blossoming! We know too little
of the many beautiful flowering shrubs that
are scattered through every woodland, which
are greatly improved by a little care in culti-
vation, and which will bear transplanting.
We overlook them often, when seen grow-
ing in the forest, because they are small,
irregular, and often sparse of bloom, But
remember, in the woods there is a fierce
struggle for existence, and when this is over-
come the full beauty of the shrub’s stature
becomes an accomplished faét.

Here is a short list of common shrubs,
every one of which is hardy, beautiful in
itself, and can be had without other cost or
labor than a walk in the country, for I do
not suppose any land-owner would refuse a
‘** weed,” as they generally call these humble
plants. The spicewood (Lindera benzoin),
which bears bright golden flowers before the
leaves appear; the shad-bush (Amelanchier
canadensis), with a wealth of snowy blossoms,
which are increased in number and size by a
little attention, as judicious trimming; and
the ‘* bush” of the wild-wood can be made
to grow to a beautiful miniature tree. The

An Old-fashioned Garden 141

well-known pinxter flower (Azalea nudi-
caule) is improved by cultivation, and can be
made to grow “stocky” and thick-set, in-
stead of scragged, as we usually find it. Its
bright pink blossoms make a’ grand show-
ing in May. There is a little wild plum
(Prunus spinosa) which only asks to be
given a chance and then will rival the famous
deutzias in profusion of bloom, and after-
wards remains a sturdy tree-like shrub, with
dark-green foliage that is always attractive.
This, too, blooms before the foliage is de-
veloped, and hints of spring as surely as the
robin’s song. A larger but no less handsome
bush is the white flowering thorn (Crataegus
crus-galli), and there are wild spireas that
should not be overlooked, and two white flow-
ering shrubs that delight all who see them in
bloom, the deer-berry (Vaccinium stamineum),
and the “ false-teeth” (Leucothoe racemosa).
All these are spring flowers. And now a
word about an August bloomer, the sweet
pepper-bush (Clethra alnifolia). This is
easily grown and is a charming plant.

It happens, too, that a place can be found
for a hardy climber, and as beautiful as the
coral honeysuckles of our grandmother’s days

142 An Old-fashioned Garden

is the climbing bittersweet (Ce/astrus scan-
dens). The plant itself is attractive. Its
vigorous growth soon covers the support
provided for it, and in autumn and through-
out the winter its golden and crimson fruit
hangs in thick-set clusters upon every branch.

Considering how frequently near the house
there are unsightly objets, and how depress-
ing it is to be forever looking upon ugliness,
it is strange that the abundant means for
beautifying waste places are so persistently
neglected. With one or more of the plants
I have named, an eyesore may be changed to
a source of pleasure, and it was Beecher, I
think, who said, «* A piece of color is as use-
ful as a piece of bread.” He never spoke
more truly.

And what of the old-time arbors, with the
straggling grape-vine, and perhaps a rude
wren-box perched at the entrance? Is there
better shade than the grape-vine offers, a
sweeter odor than its bloom affords, or more
charming music than the song of the restless
house-wren? Certainly there have been no
improvements upon these features of the old-
time garden: yet how seldom do we see
them now! We must travel far, too, to

An Old-fashioned Garden 143

find a martin-box. As a matter of fact,
the bluebird, wren, and martin might, if we
chose, be restored to the very hearts of our
largest towns. People have no more terror
for them than for the English sparrow, and
they can all hold out against these piratical
aliens, if we would consider their few and
simple needs. The wrens need but nesting-
boxes with an entrance through which the
shoulders of a sparrow cannot pass; and the
~ bluebirds and martins require only that their
houses be closed during the winter and very
early spring, or until they have returned from
their winter-quarters. This is easily done,
and when the birds are ready to occupy the
accommodations provided for them they will
take possession and successfully hold the forts
against all intruders. This is not a fancy
merely, suggested as the basis of experimen-
tation, but is the result of the experience
of several people in widely-separated locali-
ties. I vividly recall visiting at a house in a
large town, where purple martins for more
than fifty years had occupied boxes placed
upon the eaves of a one-story kitchen.
While stress is laid upon the importance
of regaining the presence in town of these

144 An Old-fashioned Garden

birds, it must not be supposed that they are
all that are available. There are scores of
wild birds, known only to the ornithologist,
that can be “cultivated” as readily as the
wild shrubbery that under startling names
figures in many a florist’s catalogue. Give
them a foothold, and they will come to stay.
Orioles, thrushes, vireos, fly-catchers, are
not unreasonably afraid of man, and would
quickly acquire confidence if they were war-
ranted in so doing. How long would a
scarlet tanager or a cardinal grosbeak remain
unmolested if it appeared in any city street?
Here is the whole matter in a nutshell: the
birds are not averse to coming, but the people
will not letthem. This is the more strange,
when we remember that hundreds of dollars
were spent to accommodate the pestiferous
imported sparrow, that is and always must
be a positive curse. Hundreds for sparrows,
and not one cent for a bluebird! While the
mischief can never be undone, it can be held
in check, if we will but take the trouble,
and this is a mere matter of town-garden
rearrangement ; and why, indeed, not treat
our ears to music as well as our eyes to color
and our palates to sweetness? Plant here

An Old-fashioned Garden 145

and there a bush that will yield you a crop
of birds. That this may not be thought
merely a whim of my own, let me quote from
the weather record of Dr. John Conrad, who
for forty years was the apothecary of the
Pennsylvania Hospital, in Philadelphia. This
institution, bear in mind, is in the heart of
the city, not in its outskirts. Under date of
March 23, 1862, he records, ** Crocus and
show-drop came into bloom last week and
are now fully out.” Again, he says, “¢ Orioles
arrived on April 8, after the fruit-trees burst
into bloom.” Here we have a migratory
bird in the city three weeks earlie: than its
usual appearance in the country, but I do not
think the doctor was mistaken. I have posi-
tive knowledge of the fact that he was a good
local ornithologist. Under date of June,
1866, Conrad writes, “‘ A very pleasant June.
Fine bright weather, and only one week too
warm for comfort. The roses bloomed well
(except the moss-rose) and for the most part
opened better than usual. The garden full
of birds, and inseéts less abundant than usual.
Many blackbirds reared their young in our
trees, and as many as sixteen or twenty have
been counted on the lawn at one time. Cat-
G k 13

146 An Old-fashioned Garden

birds, orioles, thrushes, wrens, vireos, robins,
etc., abound and make our old hospital joyous
with their sweet songs.”

During the summer of 1892 I was twice
in the hospital grounds, with which I was
very familiar during my uncle’s—Dr. Con-
rad’s—lifetime, and I heard only English
sparrows, although I saw two or three native
birds. It was a sad change. Think of
being able to speak of your garden as * full
of birds,”—as ‘joyous with their sweet
songs.” This, not long ago, could truthfully
be done. Will it ever be possible to do so
again?

CHAPTER ELEVENTH

AN INDIAN TRAIL

[4 was a strange coincidence. A farmer

living near by employed an Indian from
the school at Carlisle, and now that the work
of the summer was over, this taciturn youth
walked daily over a hill to a school-house
more than a mile away, and the path leading
to it was an Indian trail.

Not long since I met the lad on this very
path returning from school, and when he
passed I stood by an old oak and watched
him until lost among the trees, walking where
centuries ago his people had walked when
going from the mountain village and rock
shelters along an inland creek to the distant
town by the river.

As you looked about from the old oak there
was no public road or house in sight; nothing
but trees and bushes, huge rocks, and one
curious jutting ledge that tradition holds is a

147

148 An Indian Trail

veritable relic of prehistoric time,—a place
where council fires were lit and midnight
meetings held.

Whether tradition is true or not, the place
was a fitting one whereat to tarry and fall
a-thinking. Happy, indeed, could the old
oak have spoken.

Many a public road of recent date has been
built on the line of an old trail, as many
a town and even city have replaced Indian
villages; but take the long-settled regions
generally, the ancient landmarks are all gone,
and a stray potsherd or flint arrow-point in
the fields is all that is left to recall the days
of the dusky aborigines.

Only in the rough, rocky, irreclaimable
hills are we likely now to be successful, if
such traces as a trail are sought for.

It was so here. Bald-top Hill is of little
use to the white man except for the firewood
that grows upon its sides and the scattered
game that still linger in its thickets. As
seen from the nearest road, not far off, there
is nothing now to suggest that an Indian ever
clambered about it. ‘The undergrowth hides
every trace of the surface ; but after the leaves
drop and a light snow has fallen, a curious

An Indian Trail 149

white line can be traced from the base of
the summit; this is the old trail.

It is a narrow path, but for so long a
time had it been used by the Indians that,
when once pointed out, it can still be fol-
lowed without difficulty. It leads now from
one little intervale to another: from farmer
A to farmer B; but originally it was part
of their long highway leading from Phila-
delphia to Easton, perhaps. It matters not.
Enough to know that then, as now, there
were towns almost wherever there was land
fit for dwellings, and paths that led from one
to the other. It is clear that the Indians
knew the whole country well. The routes
they finally chose resulted from long experi-
ence, and were as direé as the nature of the
ground made possible.

The study of trails opens up to us a broader
view of ancient Indian life than we are apt
to entertain.

We find the sites of villages on the banks
of the rivers’ and larger inflowing streams ;
travel by canoes was universal. No locality
was so favorable as the open valley, and here
the greater number of Indians doubtless
dwelt. But the river and its fertile shores

13*

150 An Indian Trail

could not yield all that this people needed:
they had to draw from the resources of the
hills behind them. They soon marked the
whole region with a net-work of trails leading
to the various points whence they drew the
necessities of life. The conditions of the
present day are laid down on essentially the
same lines as then.

An Indian town was not a temporary tent
site, or mere cluster of wigwams, here to-day
and miles away to-morrow; nor did these
people depend solely upon the chase. Be-
side the trail over which I recently passed
was a great clearing that had been an orchard.
We can yet find many a barren spot that is
rightly known to the people of to-day as
an Indian field. So persistently were their
cornfields cropped that at last the soil was
absolutely exhausted, and has not yet re-
covered its fertility.

There was systematic bartering, too, as the
red pipe-stone or catlinite from Minnesota
and obsidian from the more distant North-
west, found on the Atlantic coast, as well as
ocean shells picked up in the far interior, all
testify. There was also periodical journey-
ing in autumn from inland to the sea-coast to

An Indian Trail 15

gather supplies of oysters, clams, and other
‘sea food,” which were dried by smoking
and then “strung as beads and carried as
great coils of rope” back to the hills to be
consumed during the winter.

Many small colonies, too, passed the win-
ters on the coast in the shelter of the great
Pine forests that extended to the very ocean
beach. It was no hap-hazard threading of a
wilderness to reach these distant points. The
paths were well defined, well used. For how
long we can only conjecture, but the vast ac-
cumulations of shells on the coast, often now
beneath the water, point to a time so distant
that the country wore a different aspect from
what it now does ; a time when the land rose
far higher above the tide and extended sea-
ward where now the ocean rolls resistlessly.

Returning inland, let us trace another of
these old-time paths from the river-shore
whereon the Indians had long dwelt, over
hill and dale until we reach a valley hemmed
in by low, rolling hills.

It is a pretty spot still, although marred by
the white man’s work; but why was it the
goal of many a weary journey?

Here is found the coveted jasper, varied in

152 An Indian Trail

hue as autumn leaves or a summer sunset.
The quick eye of some wandering hunter, it
may be, found a chance fragment, and, look-
ing closer, saw that the ground on which he
stood was filled with it; or a freshet may
have washed the soil from an outcropping of
the mineral. Who can tell? It must suffice
to know that the discovery was made in
time, and a new industry arose. No other
material so admirably met the Indian’s need
for arrow-points, for the blades of spears, for
knives, drills, scrapers, and the whole range
of tools and weapons in daily use.

So it came that mining camps were estab-
lished. To this day, in these lonely hills,
we can trace out the great pits the Indians
dug, find the tools with which they toiled,
and even the ashes of their camp-fires, where
they slept by night. So deeply did the
Indian work the land wheresoever he toiled
that even the paths that led from the mines
to the distant village have not been wholly
blotted out.

The story of the jasper mines has yet to
be told, and it may be long before the full
details are learned concerning the various
processes through which the mineral passed

An Indian Trail 169

before it came into use as a finished produé.
Much vain speculation has been indulged in ;
the fancied method of reducing a thick blade
to a thin one has been elaborately described,
although never carried out by any human
being; in short, the impossible has been
boldly asserted as a fa€t beyond question.

The Indian’s history can be read but in
small part from the handiwork that he has
left behind.

One phase of it, in the valley of the Dela-
ware, is more clearly told than all else,—the
advance from a primitive to a more cultured
status. There were centuries during which
jasper was known only as river-pebbles, and
its discovery in abundance had an influence
upon Indians akin to that upon Europe’s
stone-age people when they discovered the
ase of metals. At least here in the valley of
the Delaware this is true.

It is vain to ask for the beginning of man’s
career in this region ; what we find but hints
at it. But he came when there were no
trails over the hills, no path but the icy river’s
edge; only as the centuries rolled by was the
country developed to the extent of knowing
every nook and corner of the land, and high-

154 An Indian Trail

ways and by-ways became common, like the
roads that now reach out in every direétion.

A “trail,” then, has a wealth of meaning,
and those who made it were no “ mere say-
ages,” as we so glibly speak of the Indians,
thanks to the average school-books.

The haughty Delawares had fields and or-
chards; they had permanent towns; they
mined such minerals as were valuable to
them ; they had weapons of many patterns ;
they were jewellers in a crude way, and fin-
ished many a stone ornament in a manner that
still excites admiration. They were travellers
and tradesmen as well as hunters and warriors.

Although my day’s search for relics of these
people had yielded but a few arrow-points,
potsherds, and a stone axe, when I saw the
Indian on his way from school, walking in the
very path his people had made long centuries
ago, the story of their ancient sojourn here
came vividly to mind in the dim light of an au-
tumn afternoon, when a golden mist wrapped
the hills and veiled the valleys beyond, and I
had a glimpse of pre-Columbian America.

CHAPTER TWELFTH

4A PRE-COLUMBIAN
DINNER

A PONDEROUS geologist, with weighty
tread and weightier manner, brought
his foot down upon the unoffending sod and
declared, ‘‘ These meadows are sinking at a
rapid rate; something over two feet a cen-
tury.” We all knew it, but Sir Oracle had
spoken, and we little dogs did not dare to bark.
Not long after I returned alone to these ill-
fated meadows and began a leisurely, all-day
ramble. They were very beautiful. There
was a wealth of purple and of white boneset
and iron-weed of royal dye. Sunflower and
primrose gilded the hidden brooks, and every
knoll was banked with rose-pink centaury.
Nor was this all. Feathery reeds towered
above the marsh, and every pond was em-
purpled with pontederia and starred with
155

156 A Pre-Columbian Dinner

lilies. Afar off, acres of nut-brown sedge
made fitting background for those meadow
tracts that were still green, while close at
hand, more beautiful than all, were struggling
growths held down by the golden-dodder’s
net that overspread them.

It does not need trees or rank shrubbery to
make a wilderness. This low-lying traét to-
day, with but a summer’s growth above it, is
as wild and lonely as are the Western plains.
Lonely, that is, as man thinks, but not for-
saken. The wily mink, the pert weasel, the
musk-rat, and the meadow-mouse ramble in
safety through it. The great blue heron, its
stately cousin, the snowy egret, and the dainty
least bittern find it a congenial home.

The fiery dragon-fly darts and lazy butter-
flies drift across the blooming waste; bees
buzz angrily as you approach ; basking snakes
bid you defiance. Verily, this is wild life’s
domain and man is out of place.

It was not always so. The land is sink-
ing, and what now of that older time when
it was far above its present level,—a high,
dry, upland traét, along which flowed a clear
and rapid stream? The tell-tale arrow-point
is our guide, and wherever the sod is broken

A Pre-Columbian Dinner 157

we have an inkling of Indian history. The
soil, as we dig a little deeper, is almost black
with charcoal-dust, and it is evident that
centuries ago the Indians were content to
dwell here, and well they might be. Even
in colonial days the place had merit, and es-
caped not the eager eyes of Penn’s grasping
followers. It was meadow then, and not
fitted for his house, but the white man built
his barn above the ruins of his dusky prede-
cessor’s home. All trace of human habita-
tion is now gone, but the words of the ge-
ologist kept ringing in my ears, and of late
I have been digging. It is a little strange
that so few traces of the white man are found
as compared with relics of the Indian. From
the barn that once stood here and was long
ago destroyed by a flood one might expect to
find at least a rusty nail.

The ground held nothing telling of a re-
cent past, but was eloquent of the long ago.
Dull indeed must be the imagination that
cannot recall what has been here brought
to light by the aid of such an implement
as the spade. Not only were the bow and
spear proved to be the common weapons
of the time, but there were in even greater

14

158 A Pre-Columbian Dinner

abundance, and of many patterns, knives to
flay the game. It is not enough to merely
glance at a trimmed flake of flint or care-
fully-chipped splinter of argillite, and say to
yourself, «A knife.” Their great variety
has a significance that should not be over-
looked. The same implement could not
be put to every use for which a knife was
needed ; hence the range in size from several
inches to tiny flakes that will likely remain a
puzzle as to their purpose.

Besides home produéts, articles are found
that have come from a long distance, and
no class of objeéts is more suggestive than
those that prove the widely-extended system
of barter that prevailed at one time among
the Indians of North America. There are
shells and shell ornaments found in Wis-
consin which must have been taken there
from the shores of the Gulf of Mexico;
catlinite’ or red pipe-stone ornaments and
pipes found in New Jersey that could only
have come from Minnesota. Shell beads are
often found in graves in the Mississippi Valley
that were brought from the Pacific coast, and
the late Dr. Leidy has described a shell bead,
concerning which he states that it is the Conus

A Pre-Columbian Dinner 159

ternatus, a shell which belongs to the west
coast of Central America. This was found,
with other Indian relics, in Hartman’s Cave,
near Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. ‘Two small
arrow-points found in New Jersey a year or
more ago proved to be made of obsidian.
These specimens could only have come from
the far South-west or from Oregon, and the
probabilities are in favor of the latter locality.
It is not unlikely that objects like the above
should find their way inland to the Great
Lakes, and so across the continent and down
the Atlantic coast. On the other hand,
arrow-points could have had so little intrinsic
value in the eyes of an Indian that we are
naturally surprised that they should have
been found so far from their place of origin.
Obsidian has occurred but very rarely east
of the Alleghanies, so far as I am aware.
In the Sharples collection, at West Chester,
Pennsylvania, is a single specimen, reported
to have been found near that place, and a few
traces have since been discovered in the up-
lands immediately adjoining these Delaware
meadows, and really there is no reason to
suppose that objects of value should not have
passed quite across the continent, or been

160 A Pre-Columbian Dinner

carried from Mexico to Canada. There were
no vast areas absolutely uninhabited and across
which no Indian ever ventured.

It has been suggested that, as iron was
manufactured in the valley of the Delaware
as early as 1728, the supposed obsidian
arrow-points are really made of slag from the
furnaces, but a close examination of the speci-
mens proves, it is claimed, this not to have
been the case, and at this comparatively late
date the making of stone arrow-points had
probably ceased. Just when, however, the
use of the bow as a weapon was discarded
has not been determined, but fire-arms were
certainly common in 1728 and earlier.

A careful study, too, of copper imple-
ments, which are comparatively rare, seems
to point to the conclusion that very few were
made of the native copper found in New
Jersey, Maryland, and elsewhere along the
Atlantic coast, but that they were made in
the Lake Superior region and thence grad-
ually dispersed over the Eastern States. The
large copper spear from Betterton, Maryland,
recently found, and another from New Jersey,
bear a striking resemblance to the spear-heads
from the North-west, where unquestionably

A Pre-Columbian Dinner 161

the most expert of aboriginal coppersmiths
lived. Of course, the many small beads of
this metal occasionally found in Indian graves
in the Delaware Valley might have been made
of copper found near by, but large masses are
very seldom met with.

Speaking of copper beads recalls the faét
that a necklace comprising more than one
hundred was recently found on the site of
an old Dutch trader’s house, on an island in
the Delaware. They were of Indian manu-
facture, and had been in the fur trader’s pos-
session, if we may judge from the faét that
they were found with hundreds of other
relics that betokened not merely European,
but Dutch occupation of the spot. This
trader got into trouble and doubtless de-
served his summary taking off.

It is not “‘a most absurd untruth,” as was
stated not long ago in the Critic in a review
of a New York history, that the Indians were
“a people of taste and industry, and in morals
quite the peers of their Dutch neighbors.”
They had just as keen a sense of right and
wrong. There never was a handful of colo-
nists in North America whose whole history
their descendants would care to have known.

14*

162 A Pre-Columbian Dinner

The truth is, we know very little of the
Indian prior to European contaét. Carpet-
knight archzologists and kid-gloved explorers
crowd the pages of periodical literature, it
is true, but we are little, if any, the wiser.
It is supposed, and is even asserted, that
the Indian knew nothing of forks; but that
he plunged his fingers into the boiling pot or
held in his bare hands the steaming joints of
bear or venison is quite improbable. Now,
the archzologist talks glibly of bone awls
whenever a sharpened splinter of bone is
presented him, as if such instruments were
only intended to perforate leather. They
doubtless had other uses, and I am sure that
more than one splitand sharpened bone which
has been found would have served excellently
well as a one-tined fork wherewith to lift from
the pot a bit of meat. Whether or not such
forks were in use, there were wooden spoons,
as a bit of the bowl and a mere splinter of the
handle serve to show. Kalm tells us that they
used the laurel for making this utensil, but I
fancied my fragment was hickory. Potsherds
everywhere spoke of the Indians’ feasting,
and it is now known that, besides bowls and
shallow dishes of ordinary sizes, they also

A Pre-Columbian Dinner 163

had vessels of several gallons’ capacity. All
these are broken now, but, happily, fragments
of the same dish are often found together,
and so we can reconstrué them.

But what did the Indians eat? Quaint old
Gabriel Thomas, writing about 1696, tells
us that “they live chiefly on Maze or Indian
Corn rosted in the Ashes, sometimes beaten
boyl’d with Water, called Homine. They
have cakes, not unpleasant; also Beans and
Pease, which nourish much, but the Woods
and Rivers afford them their provision ; they
eat morning and evening, their Seats and
Tables on the ground.”

In a great measure this same story of The
Indians’ food supply was told by the scattered
bits found mingled with the ashes of an ancient
hearth. Such fireplaces or cooking sites were
simple in construction, but none the less
readily recognized as to their purpose. A few
flat pebbles had been brought from the bed of
the river near by, and a small paved area some
two feet square was placed upon or very near
the surface of the ground. Upon this the
fire was built, and in time a thick bed of
ashes accumulated. Just how they cooked
can only be conjectured, but the discovery of

164 A Pre-Columbian Dinner

very thick clay vessels and great quantities
of fire-cracked quartzite pebbles leads to the
conclusion that water was brought to the
boiling-point by heating the stones to a red
heat and dropping them into the vessel hold-
ing the water. ‘Thomas, as we have seen,
says corn was “ boyl’d with Water.” Meat
also was, I think, prepared in the same man-
ner. Their pottery probably was poorly
able to stand this harsh treatment, which
would explain the presence of such vast quan-
tities of fragments of clay vessels. Traces of
vegetable food are now very rarely found. A
few burnt nuts, a grain or two of corn, and,
in one instance, what appeared to be a charred
crab-apple, complete the list of what, as yet,
have been picked from the mingled earth and
ashes. ‘This is not surprising, and what we
know of vegetable food in use among the
Delaware Indians is almost wholly derived
from those early writers who were present
at their feasts. Kalm mentions the roots of
the golden-club, arrow-leaf, and ground-nut,
besides various berries and nuts. It is well
known that extensive orchards were planted
by these people. It may be added that, in
all probability, the tubers of that noble plant,

A Pre-Columbian Dinner 165

the lotus, were used as food. Not about
these meadows, but elsewhere in New Jersey,
this plant has been growing luxuriantly since
Indian times.

Turning now to the consideration of what
animal food they consumed, one can speak
with absolute certainty. It is clear that the
Delawares were meat-eaters. It needs but
little digging on any village site to prove this,
and from a single fireplace deep down in the
stiff soil of this sinking meadow have been
taken bones of the elk, deer, bear, beaver,
raccoon, musk-rat, and gray squirrel. Of
these, the remains of deer were largely in ex-
cess, and as this holds good of every village
site I have examined, doubtless the Indians
depended more largely upon this animal than
upon all the others. Of the list, only the
elk is extinét in the Delaware Valley, and
it was probably rare even at the time of the
European settlement of the country, except
in the mountain regions. If individual tastes
varied as they do among us, we have certainly
sufficient variety here to have met every fancy.

With a food supply as varied as this, an
ordinary meal or an extraordinary feast can
readily be recalled, so far as its essential feat-

166 A Pre-Columbian Dinner

ures are concerned. It is now September,
and, save where the ground has been ruthlessly
uptorn, everywhere is a wealth of early au-
tumn bloom. A soothing quiet rests upon the
scene, bidding us to retrospective thought.
Not a bit of stone, of pottery, or of burned
and blackened fragment of bone but stands
out in the mellow sunshine as the feature of
a long-forgotten feast. As I dreamily gaze
upon the gatherings of half a day, I seem to
see the ancient folk that once dwelt in this
neglected spot; seem to be a guest at a pre-
Columbian dinner in New Jersey.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH

A DAY’S DIGGING

AS long ago as November, 1679, two

Dutchmen, Jasper Dankers and Peter
Sluyter, worked their way laboriously across
New Jersey from Manhattan Island, and
reached South River, as the Delaware was
then called, at least by the Hollanders. They
were all agog to see the falls at the head of
tide-water, and spent a miserable night in a
rickety shanty, which was cold as Greenland,
except in the fireplace, and there they roasted.
All this was not calculated to put them in ex-
cellent humor, and so the next day, when they
stood on the river-bank and saw only a trivial
rapid where they had expected a second Ni-
agara, their disgust knew no bounds. ‘These
travel-tired Dutchmen quickly departed, row-
ing a small boat down-stream, and growling
whenever the tide turned and they had to row
against it.

167

168 A Day’s Digging

When they reached Burlington, they re.
corded of an island nearly in front of the
village, that it “‘ formerly belonged to the
Dutch Governor, who had made it a pleasure
ground or garden, built good houses upon it,
and sowed and planted it. He also dyked
and cultivated a large piece of meadow or
marsh.” The English held it at the time of
their visit, and it was occupied by ‘some
Quakers,” as the authors quoted called them.

One of these Dutch houses, built in part
of yellow bricks, and with a red tiled roof,
I found traces of years ago, and ever since
have been poking about the spot, for the very
excellent reasons that it is a pretty one, a se-
cluded one, and as full of natural history
attraétions now as it was of human interest
when a Dutch beer-garden.

Had no one who saw the place in its palmy
days left a record concerning the beer, I
could, at this late day, have given testimony
that if there was no beer, there were beer
mugs, and schnapps bottles, and wineglasses,
for I have been digging again and found them
all; and then the pipes and pipe-stems! I
have a pile of over five hundred. The
Dutch travellers were correét as to the place

A Day’s Digging 169

having been a pleasure-garden. It certainly
was, and probably the very first on the Dela-
ware River. But there was “ pleasure,” too,
on the main shore, for the men who referred
to the island stayed one night in Burlington,
and, the next day being Sunday, attended
Quaker meeting, and wrote afterwards,
«« What they uttered was mostly in one tone
and the same thing, and so it continued until
we were tired out and went away.” Doubt-
less they were prejudiced, and so nothing
suited them, not even what they found to
drink, for they said, «* We tasted here, for the
first time, peach brandy or spirits, which was
very good, but would have been better if
more carefully made.” They did not like
the English, evidently, for the next day they
went to Takanij (Tacony), a village of Swedes
and Finns, and there drank their fill of * very
good beer” brewed by these people, and ex-
pressed themselves as much pleased to find
that, because they had come toa new country,
they had not left behind them their old
customs.

The house that once stood where now
is but a reach of abandoned and wasting
meadow was erected in 1668 or possibly

H 15

170 A Day’s Digging

alittle earlier. Its nearest neighbor was across
a narrow creek, and a portion of the old
building is said to be still standing. Armed
with the few faéts that are on record, it is easy
to picture the place as it was in the days of
the Dutch, and it was vastly prettier then than
itisnow. The public of to-day are not inter-
ested in a useless marsh, particularly when
there is better ground about it in abundance,
and whoever wanders to such uncanny places
is quite sure to be left severely alone. This
was my experience, and, being undisturbed, I
enjoyed the more my resurrective work. I
could enthuse, without being laughed at, over
what to others was but meaningless rubbish,
and I found very much that, to me, possessed
greater interest than usual, because of a min-
gling of late Indian and early European objects.
With a handful of glass, porcelain, and amber
beads were more than one hundred of cop-
per; the former from Venice, the latter the
handiwork of a Delaware Indian. With a
white clay pipe, made in Holland in the
seventeenth century, was found a rude brown
clay one, made here in the river valley.
Mingled with fragments of blue and white
Delft plates, bowls, and platters, were sun-

A Day’s Digging 171

dried mud dishes made by women hereabouts
during, who can say how many centuries?
How completely history and pre-history
here overlapped! We know pretty much
everything about Dutchmen, but how much
do we really know of the native American?
After nearly thirty years’ digging, he has been
traced from the days of the great glaciers to
the beginnings of American history ; but we
cannot say how long a time that comprises.
The winter of 1892-1893 was, so far as
appearances went, a return to glacial times.
Ice was piled up fifty feet in height, and
the water turned from the old channel of the
river. The cutting of another one opened
up new territory for the relic hunter when
the ice was gone and the stream had returned
to its old bed. Many an Indian wigwam
site that had been covered deep with soil
was again warmed by the springtide sun, and
those were rare days when, from the ashes of
forgotten camps, I raked the broken weapons
and rude dishes that the red men had dis-
carded. It was reading history at first hands,
without other commentary than your own.
The ice-scored gravel-beds told even an older
story; but no one day’s digging was so full

172 A Day’s Digging

of meaning, or brought me so closely in touch
with the past, as when I uncovered what
remained of the old Dutch trader’s house ;
traced the boundaries of the one-time pleas-
ure-garden, hearing in the songs of birds the
clinking of glasses, and then, in fancy, adding
to the now deserted landscape the fur-laden
canoes of the Indians who once gathered here
to exchange for the coveted gaudy beads the
skins of the many animals which at that time
roamed the forests.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH

DRIFTING

MA an early start if you wish an

eventful outing. Why know the world
only when the day is middle-aged or old?
A wise German has said, “‘ The morning
hour has gold in its mouth.” For many a
rod after leaving the wharf the river still
«« smoked,” and the scanty glimpses between
the rolling clouds of mist spurred the im-
agination. There was nothing certain be-
yond the gunwales. The pale-yellow color
of the water near at hand and the deep-green
and even black of that in the distance had
no daytime suggestiveness. It was not yet
the familiar river with its noonday glitter
of blue and silver.

It is not strange that the initial adventure to
which the above-mentioned conditions natu-
rally gave rise occurred while this state of un-
certainty continued. Very soon I ranupona

15* 173

174 Drifting

snag. To strike such an object in mid-river
was rather startling. Was I not in or near the
channel? Steamboats come puffing and plow-
ing here and sailing craft pass up and down,
so my only care had been to avoid them ; but
now there came in my path the twisted trunk
of an old forest tree and held me fast. All
the while the mist rose and fell, giving no
inkling of my whereabouts. In the dim,
misty light what a strange sea-monster this
resurrected tree-trunk seemed to be! Its
thick green coat of silky threads lay closely
as the shining fur of the otter, a mane of
eel-grass floated on the water, the gnarly
growths where branches once had been
glistened as huge eyes, and broken limbs
were horns that threatened quick destruction.
There was motion, too. Slowly it rose above
the water and then as slowly sunk from view.
Could it be possible that some long-necked
saurian of the Jersey marls had come to life?
Nonsense ; and yet so real did it seem that
I was ready for the river-horse to rise

‘« from the waves beneath,
And grin through the grate of his spiky teeth.”’

With such an uncanny keeper, I was held a

Drifting 175

prisoner. At last I struck it with an oar to
beat it back, and rocked the frail boat until
I feared plunging into the deep water and
deeper mud beneath. Deep water? It sud-
denly occurred to me to try its depth, and
the truth was plain. I was far from the
channel, and might with safety have waded
to the shore. As usual, I had rashly jumped
at conclusions. The mouth of an inflowing
creek was near at hand, and this sunken tree,
a relic of some forgotten freshet, had been
lying here in the mud for several years.
The tide lifted and let fall the trunk, but the
root-mass was still strongly embedded. I
knew the spot of old, and now, fearing
nothing, was rational again.

Such sunken trees, however, are well cal-
culated to alarm the unthinking. It is said
of one yet lying in the mud of Crosswicks
Creek, that it rose so quickly once as to over-
turn a boat. This is not improbable. That
occurrence, if true, happened a century ago,
and the same tree has since badly fright-
ened more than one old farmer. I am told
this of one of them who had anchored his
boat here one frosty Oftober morning and
commenced fishing. While half asleep, or

176 Drifting

but half sober, the tree slowly raised up and
tilted the boat so that its occupant felt com-
pelled to swim. His view of the offending
monster was much like my own fevered vision
of to-day. He not only swam ashore, but ran
a mile over a soft marsh. ‘To him the sea-
serpent was a reality, although he saw it in
the creek.

It is of interest to note that among the
early settlers of this region, for at least three
generations, the impression was prevalent
that there might be some monster lurking in
the deep holes of the creek or in the river.
The last of the old hunters and fishermen of
this region, who had spent all his life in a boat
or prowling along shore, was ever talking of a
‘king tortle” that for forty years had defied
all his efforts to capture it. ‘‘ Mostly, it
only shows its top shell, but I have seen it
fair and square, head and legs, and I don’t
know as I care to get very close, neither.”
This was his unvaried remark whenever I
broached the subjeét. To have suggested that
it was a sunken log, or in some other way
tried to explain the matter, would only
have brought about his ill will. I once at-
tempted it, very cautiously, but he effectually

Drifting 177

shut me up by remarking, «« When this here
creek runs dry and you can walk over its
bottom, you'll larn a thing or two that ain’t
down in your books yet, and ain’t goin’ to
be.” The old man was right. I do not
believe in ‘‘ king tortles,” but there certainly
is “¢a thing or two” not yet in the books,
Stay! How big do our snappers grow? Is
the father of them all still hiding in the
channel of Crosswicks Creek ?

A description in an old manuscript journal,
of the general aspect of the country as seen
from the river, bears upon this subject of
strange wild beasts and monsters of the deep,
as well as on that of sunken trees that en-
dangered passing shallops.

«« As we pass up the river,” this observant
writer records, ‘we are so shut in by the
great trees that grow even to the edge of the
water, that what may lye in the interior is
not to be known. ‘That there be fertile
land, the Indians tell us, but their narrow
paths are toilsome to travel and there are
none [of these people] now that seem will-
ing to guide us. As we approached ffarns-
worth’s the channel was often very close to
the shore, and at one time we were held by

178 Drifting

the great trees that overhung the bank and
by one that had been fallen a long time and
was now lodged in the water. As I looked
towards the shore, I exclaimed, ‘ Here we
are indeed in a great wilderness, What
strangeness is concealed in this boundless
wood? what wonder may at any time issue
from it, or fierce monster not be lurking in
the waters beneath us? Through the day
the cries of both birds and beasts were heard,
but not always. It was often so strangely
quiet that we were more affected thereby
than by the sounds that at times issued forth.
At night there was great howling, as we
were told, of wolves, and the hooting of
owls, and often there plunged into the stream
wild stags that swam near to our boat. But
greater than all else, to our discomfort, were
the great sunken trunks of trees that were
across the channel, where the water was of
no great depth.”

What a change! and would that this old
traveller could revisit the Delaware to-day.
My boat is free again and the mists are gone.
Through the trees are sifted the level sun-
beams. There is at least a chance now to
compare notes. The forest is now a field,

Drifting 179

the trackless marsh a meadow; wild life is
largely a thing of the past; silence, both dav
and night, replaces sound. No, not that;
but only the minor sounds are left. There
are still the cry of the fish-hawk and the sweet
song of the thrush. No stags now swim the
river, but there remain the mink and the
musk-rat. It has not been long since I saw
4 migration of meadow-mice, and at night, I
am sure, many an animal dares to breast the
stream, a mile wide though it be. Too
cunning to expose itself by day, it risks its
life at night ; and how tragic the result when,
early at the journey’s end, it is seized by a
lurking foe; dragged down, it may be, by a
snake or a turtle!

The world is just as full of tragedy as ever,
and, let us hope, as full of comedy. In a
bit of yonder marsh, above which bends the
tall wild rice, there is daily enaéted scene
after scene as full of import as those which
caused the very forest to tremble when the
wolf and panther quarrelled over the elk or
deer that had fallen.

It has been insisted upon that a goal-less
journey is necessarily a waste of time. If
on foot, we must keep forever on the go; if

180 Drifting

in a boat, we must keep bending to the oars.
It is this miserable fallacy that makes so many
an out-door man and woman lose more than
half of that for which they went into the
fields. Who cares if you did see a chippy at
every turn and flushed a bittern at the edge
of the marsh? If you had been there before
them, and these birds did the walking, you
would have gone home the wiser. It is not
the mere fact that there are birds that con-
cerns us, but what are they doing? why are
they doing it? This the town-pent people
are ever anxious to know, and the faéts cannot
be gathered if you are forever on the move.
Suppose I rush across the river and back,
what have I seen? The bottom of the boat.
I came to see the river and the sky above,
and if this is of no interest to the reader, let
him turn the leaf.

Does every storm follow the track of the
sun? As the sun rose there were clouds
in the east and south and a haziness over
the western sky. Had I asked a farmer as
to the weather probabilities, he would have
looked everywhere but due north. Why
does he always ignore that quarter? There
may be great banks of cloud there, but they

Drifting 181

gofornothing. <** Sou-east” and “ sou-west”’
are forever rung in your ears, but never a word
of the north. Sometimes I have thought it
may be for this reason that about half the
time the farmer is all wrong, and the heaviest
rains come when he is most sure that the day
will be clear.

Looking upward, for the sky was clear in
that dire€tion now, I saw that there were birds
so far above me that they appeared as mere
specks. Very black when first seen, but oc-
casionally they flashed as stars seen by day
from the bottom of a well. They could not
be followed, except one that swept swiftly
earthward, and the spreading tail and curve
of wings told me it was a fish-hawk. What
a glorious outlook from its ever-changing
point of view! From its height, it could
have seen the mountains and the ocean, and
the long reach of river valley as well. If the
mists obscure it all, why should a bird linger
in the upper air? The prosy matter of food-
getting has nothing to do with it. While in
camp on Chesapeake Bay, I noticed that the
fish-hawks were not always fishing, and often
the air rang with their strange cries while
soaring so far overhead as to be plainly seen

16

182 Drifting

only witha field-glass. Every movement sug-
gested freedom from care as they romped in
the fields of space. It is not strange that
they scream, or laugh, shall we say? when
speeding along at such rate and in no danger
of collision. If I mistake not, the cry of
exultation is coincident with the downward
swoop, and I thought of old-time yelling
when dashing down a snow-ciad hill-side ;
but how sober was the work of dragging the
sled up-hill! The hawks, I thought, were
silent when upward bound. If so, there is
something akin to humanity in the hawk
nature.

T have called the cry of the fish-hawk a
«‘ laugh,” but, from a human stand-point, do
birds laugh? It is extremely doubtful, though
I recall] a pet sparrow-hawk that was given
to playing tricks, as I called them, and the
whole family believed that this bird actually
laughed. Muggins, as we named him, had a
fancy for pouncing upon the top of my head
and, leaning forward, snapping his beak in my
face. Once an old uncle came into the room
and was treated in this fashion. Never having
seen the bird before, he was greatly aston-
ished, and indignant beyond measure when

Drifting 183

the hawk, being rudely brushed off, carried
away his wig. Now the bird was no less
astonished than the man, and when he saw
the wig dangling from his claws he gave a
loud cackle, unlike anything we had ever
heard before, and which was, I imagine,
more an expression of amusement than of
surprise. I think this, because afterwards I
often played the game of wig with him, to
the bird’s delight, and he always ‘ laughed”
as he carried off the prize. On the contrary,
the unsuccessful attempt to remove natural
hair elicited no such expression, but some-
times a squeal of disgust.

In the Speéator of October 1, 1892, page
444, I find a most thoughtful article, entitled
«© The Animal Sense of Humor,” and I quote
as follows: «« The power of laughter is pecu-
liar to man, and the sense of humor may be
said, generally speaking, to be also his special
property.” Again, “We never saw the
slightest approach to amusement in one animal
at the mistakes of another, though dogs, so far
as we can venture to interpret their thoughts,
do really feel amusement at the mistakes of
men.” Possibly the author is right, but do
not cats show a sense of humor at the rough-

184 Drifting

and-tumble gambols of their kittens? Is not
the sly cuff on the ear that sends a kitten
sprawling indicative of a sense of fun on the
part of tabby? Our author says, ‘so far as
we can venture to interpret their thoughts.”
«« Ay, there’s the rub.” No one can tell how
far it is safe to venture, but I go a great deal
beyond my neighbors. Our author con-
cludes, “*In animals, as in man, humor is
the result of civilization, and not as we under-
stand it, a natural and spontaneous develop-
ment.”’ I cannot subscribe to this. I know
little of domestic animals, but have got the
idea of an animal’s sense of humor from wild
life, and confirmed it by what I have seen
of cats and dogs.

While I have been drifting, and using my
eyes and ears instead of legs and arms, as is
advocated, the clouds, too, have been creep-
ing this way, and, while the morning is yet
fresh, it is certainly going to rain. Had I
consulted the barometer, I would have known
this; but then, knowing it, might I not have
stayed at home? Why not enjoy part of a
day? That the rain will soon be here does
not diminish one’s pleasure, unless there is a
fear of getting wet, and this is all too com-

Drifting 185

mon. I hope that it does not mean that you
have but one suit of clothes.

The approaching rain, the increasing
cloudiness, the shut-in appearance, made the
river exceedingly attractive. With the down-
dropping clouds dropped down the birds,
and the swallows now skimmed the water as
they had been skimming the sky. The fish-
hawks departed, but a host of land-birds
crossed the stream, as if comparing the shelter
afforded by the cedars on one side and pines
on the other. These birds chattered as they
flew by, and turned their heads up- and down-
stream, as if curious as to all that might be
going on. Suddenly the water ceased to be
rippled, and far down-stream a cloud appeared
to have reached the river. It was the rain.
It seemed to march very slowly, and every
drop made a dimple on the river’s breast.
Then I could hear the on-coming host, the
sound having a distinét bell-like tinkle as each
drop touched the surface and disappeared.
A curious effect, too, was produced by the
wind or the varying density of the cloud
above, in that the drops were very near to-
gether where I happened to be, and much
farther apart and larger some distance beyond

16*

186 Drifting

the boat. I could of course make no meas-
urements, but appearances suggested that in
the middle of the river the drops were less
numerous in the proportion of one to five.
Does it usually rain harder over land than
over water? Heretofore I had seen the rain
upon the river while on shore, and was now
very glad to have been caught adrift, so as to
observe it from a new point of view. It
was a beautiful sight, well worth the thorough
wetting that I got and which drove me home
soon after with pleasant thoughts of my goal-
less journey.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH

FOOTPRINTS

WHILE the camp-fire was smoking, for

the wood was green and I was willing
that my companion should worry over it, I
strolled up the long, sandy beach with no par-
ticular objeét in mind and quite ready to meet
and parley with any creature that I overtook.
I saw only evidences of what had been there,
or what I supposed had been. There were
tracks that I took to be those of herons, and
others that suggested a raccoon in search of
crayfish. Here and there a mouse had hur-
ried by. What lively times had been kept up
at low tide within sight of the tent door! and
yet we knew nothing of it. But these tracks
were not well defined, and therefore why
not misinterpreted? I have not suggested all
the possibilities of the case Here my
meditations were checked by the call to
breakfast, but I took up the subject again as I

187

188 Footprints

walked alone in the woods, for I was but
the companion of a worker, not one myself.

It occurred to me that when we read of
hunters, or perhaps have followed a trapper
in his rounds, we have been led to think that
footprints are animal autography that the
initiated can read without hesitation. To
distinguish the track of a rabbit from that of
a raccoon is readily done, and we can go
much further, and determine whether the
animal was walking or running, made a leap
here or squatted there ; but can we go to any
length, and decipher every impress an animal
may have made in passing over the sand or
mud? I think not. I have seen a twig sent
spinning a long distance up the beach at low
tide, making a line of equidistant marks that
were extremely life-like in appearance. A
cloud of dead leaves have so dotted an ex-
panse of mud that a gunner insisted there
had been a flock of plover there a few mo-
ments before he arrived. All depends, or
very much does, on the condition of the sur-
face marked. If very soft and yielding, the
plainest bird-tracks may be distorted, and a
mere dot, on the other hand, may have its
outline so broken as to appear as though made

Footprints 189

by a bird or mammal. Still, tracks are a
safe guide in the long run, and, whether
our opinion as to them be correct or not, the
rambler finds something worth seeing, and
he goes on anything but a wild-goose chase
who sometimes finds himself mistaken. It
is well to check our confidence occasionally
and realize the limits of our power.
Opportunity afforded while in camp, and
I made a short study of footprints. With
a field-glass I noted many birds, and then
going to the spot, examined the impressions
their feet had made. A night-heron did not
come down flatly upon its feet with outspread
toes, and so the tracks were quite different
from the impressions made when the bird
walked. Crows, I noticed, both hopped
and walked, and the marks were very dif-
ferent, the former being broad and ill-defined
in comparison with the traces of the same
bird’s stately tread. Had the bird not been
seen, any one would have supposed two creat-
ures had been keeping close company, or that
some one individual had passed by in the
very path of another. The purple grakle
and red-winged blackbird made tracks too
much alike to be distinguished, yet these

190 Footprints

birds have not the same size or shape of foot.
A water-snake came up over the mud and
left a line of marks upon the sand that could
not be recognized as that of any animal, ex-
cept it might bea faint resemblance to the trail
of a mussel, I chased a dozen crayfish over
a mud flat, and their backward and sidewise
leapings caused an old gunner to say there
had been plover about. A blue-winged teal
made a long double line of dents in the sand
before it rose clear of the beach, and these
were very like many a footprint I had pre-
viously seen. What, then, must we think of
the fossil footprints of which so much has
been written? As different species, a long
series of these impressions in the rock have
been described and given high-sounding titles.
I am not entitled to an opinion, but have
doubts, nevertheless, of the wisdom of con-
sidering every slightly different form as made
by a different creature. I have given my
reasons, and will only add another instance,
one of greater significance than all as bear-
ing upon the question. I startled a slum-
bering jumping-mouse last summer and it
bounded across the smooth sand bared by the
outgoing tide. Its track then was one made

Footprints Ig!

by its body rather than the extremities, and
a curious dent in the river-shore’s smooth
surface it was; but before taking again to the
woods it walked in its peculiar way, and the
little footprints were quite distinét and un-
mistakably those of a small mammal. Had
the two sets of markings been preserved in
a slab of sandstone, no ichnologist would
have recognized the truth, but probably would
have said, ‘* Here is a case where some leap-
ing creature has overtaken a small rodent and
devoured it.””

Difficult as fossil footprints may be to de-
cipher, they call up with wonderful distin@-
ness the long ago of other geologic ages. It
is hard to realize that the stone of which our
houses are built once formed the tide-washed
shore of a primeval river or the bed of a lake
or ocean gone long before man came upon
the scene.

But. the footprints of to-day concern me
more. Looking over the side of the boat, I
saw several mussels moving slowly along and
making a deep, crooked groove in the ripple-
marked sand, ‘ streaking the ground with
sinuous trace,” as Milton puts it; and the
school of blunt-headed minnows made little

192 Footprints

dents in the sand wherever the water was shal-
low, when they turned suddenly and darted
off-shore. ‘This sand seemed very unstable,
and a little agitation of the water caused
many a mark to be wiped out; and yet we
find great slabs of ripple-marked and foot-
marked sandstone. I picked up such a piece
not long ago on which were rain-drop marks.
This is the story of a million years ago; but
who ever found Indian moccasin-marks not
two centuries old? The footprints that
could tell us many a wonderful story are all
gone and the tale of a rain-drop remains.
This is a bit aggravating. Here where we
have pitched our camp, or very near it, was
a Swedish village in 1650 and later, and for
two days I have been hunting for evidence
of the faét,—some bit of broken crockery,
rusty nail, glass, pewter spoon, anything,—
but in vain. History records the village, and
correctly, without a doubt, but there are no
footprints here, nor other trace to show that
a white man ever saw the place until our tent
was pitched upon the beach.

Towards evening I had occasion to renew
my youth,—in other words, “run on an
errand,” as my mother put it,—and going half

Footprints 193

a mile through the woods, I came to a nar-
row but well-worn path. This was so akin
to my footprint thoughts of the morning that I
gladly followed it instead of making a short
cut. It was fortunate, for the path led di-
re€tly to where I wished to go, and our theo-
retical geography, as usual, was terribly out
of joint. As it was, on the edge of an old
village I found a very old man in a very old
house. His memory as to the earlier half of
the century was excellent, and he gave me
the desired information and more. I spoke
of the path through the woods, and he
chuckled to himself.

ce Through the woodses, eh? Well, when
I made the path, goin’ and comin’ through
the brush that wasn’t shoulder-high, there was
no trees then. ‘That was more’n forty years
ago.”

“©No, John, ’twa’n’t,” piped a weak voice
from the interior of the little cottage;
“twa’n’t mor’n ue

«* Laws, man, don’t mind her. She dis-
putes the almanac, and every winter gets in
New Year’s ahead of Christmas.”

I did not stop to argue the matter, but
hurried campward, glad that, if I could find

1 n 17

194 Footprints

no footprints of human interest and historic,
I at least had followed a path made forty
years ago,—a path that had been worn among
bushes and now led through a forest. It was
indeed suggestive. By the camp-fire that
night I vowed to plant a forest where now
there was but a thicket, and in my dreams
I walked through a noble wood.

Think how much might be done to beau-
tify the world, and how little is accom.
plished.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH

BEES AND BUCKWHEAT

6 Boe great storm of yesterday cleared the

air as well as cleaned the beaches, and
the river was fresh and sparkling as though
the tempest had added new life, so that the
listless midsummery water was now as cham-
pagne, “ with beaded bubbles winking at the
brim.” The air was heavy with sweetness
and with song, the fields and meadows painted
as the rose. The buckwheat was in bloom,
and a million bees were humming. The
pasture was gay with pink gerardia, or re-
flected the summer sky where the day-flower
blossomed. There was no commingling of
these late flowers. Each had its own acre,
exercised squatter sovereignty, and allowed
no trespassing. ‘The only evidence of man’s
interference, except the buckwheat-field, was
a dilapidated worm-fence, and this is one of
several instances where beauty increases hand

195

196 Bees and Buckwheat

in hand with decay. The older such a fence,
the better; when merely a support for Vir-
ginia creeper or the rank trumpet-vine, it is
worthy the rambler’s regard. Wild life long
ago learned what a safe snug-harbor such
ruined fences offer. It puzzles even a mink
to thread their mazes, and the shy rabbit that
has its ‘* form” in a brier-hidden hollow of
the crooked line feels that it is safe.

There are traces of these old fences of
which no record remains, placed perhaps by
the very earliest settler in a traét that he had
cleared and which has since gone back to an
almost primitive state. In an old woodland
I once traced a fence by the long line of cy-
pripediums in bloom, which were thriving in
the mould of decayed fence-rails, a pretty if
not permanent monument to departed worth.

A word more of these old fences in winter.
When the snow beats across the field, it stops
here and gracefully curves above it, arching
the rails and vines until all is hidden, unless
it be some lonely projeéting stake, by which
alone it communicates with the outside world.
I rashly attempted once to go across-lots over
a new country, and made a discovery. The
snow-bound fence was but a drift, I thought,

Bees and Buckwheat 197

but it proved to be far different. The thick
mat of hardy growths had kept back the snow,
which was but a roof and did not wholly ex-
clude the light. For some distance I could
dimly make out the various growths, and each
little cedar stood up as a sentinel. A loud
word sounded and resounded as if I had spo-
ken in an empty room or shouted in a long
tunnel. The coldest day in the year could
not inconvenience any creature that took
shelter here, and I found later that life, both
furred and feathered, knew the old fence far
better than I did.

But this is the last day but one of August,
and so nominally the end of summer. Only
nominally, for these flowery meadows and
sweet-scented fields contradi€t the almanac.
This quiet nook in the Delaware meadows
offers no intimation of autumn until October,
and late in the month at that. The bees and
buckwheat will see to this, or seem to, which
is just as much to the purpose. To-day along
the old worm-fence are many kingbirds, and,
although mute, they are not moping. There
is too much inseét life astir for that. With
them are orioles and bluebirds, the whole
making a loose flock of perhaps a hundred

17*

198 Bees and Buckwheat

birds. The bluebirds are singing, but in a
half-hearted, melancholy way, reminding me
of an old man who spent his time when over
ninety in humming “ Auld Lang Syne.” Be-
fore the buckwheat has lost its freshness these
birds will all be gone, but at what time the
bluebirds part company with the others I do
not know. ‘They certainly do not regularly
migrate, as do the others. There was a colony
of them that lived for years in and about my
barn, and one was as sure to see them in
January as in June. No English sparrows
could have been more permanently fixed.
When the buckwheat is ripe and the fields
and meadows are brown, there will be other
birds to take their place. Tree-sparrows from
Canada and white-throats from New England
will make these same fields merry with music,
and the tangle about the old fence will ring
with gladness. But it is August still, and why
anticipate? High overhead there are black
specks in the air, and we can mark their course,
as they pass, by the bell-like chink-chink that
comes floating earthward. It is one of the
sounds that recall the past rather than refer
tothe present. The reed-bird of to-day was
a bobolink last May. His roundelay that told

Bees and Buckwheat 199

then of a long summer to come is now but a
single note of regret that the promised summer
is a thing of the past. It is the Alpha and
Omega of the year’s song-tide. Not that we
have no other songs when the reed-bird has
flown to the Carolina rice-fields. While I
write, a song-sparrow is reciting reminis-
cences of last May, and there will be ringing
rounds of bird-rejoicing from November to
April. Still, the initial thought holds good :
bobolink in May, and only a reed-bird in
August; the beginning and the end; the her-
ald of Summer’s birth and her chief mourner ;
Alpha and Omega.

Where the brook that drains the meadow
finds its way, the little rail-birds have con-
gregated. Many spent their summer along
the Musketaquid, where Thoreau spent his
best days, but they bring no message from
New England. They very seldom speak
above a whisper. Not so the king-rail. He
chatters as he threads the marsh and dodges
the great blue harrier that sweeps above the
cat-tail grasses and has to be content with a
sparrow or a mouse.

These late August days are too often over-
full, arid one sees and hears too much,—so

200 ~=Bees and Buckwheat

very much that it is hard to give proper heed
to any one of the many sights and sounds.
But how much harder to turn your back upon
it! All too soon the sun sinks into the golden
clouds of the western sky.

That was a happy day when the buckwheat
was threshed in the field, on a cool, clear,
crisp Oétober morning. The thumping of
the flails on the temporary floor put the world
in good humor. No bird within hearing but
sang to its time-keeping. Even the crows
cawed more methodically, and squirrels
barked at the same instant that the flail sent
a shower of brown kernels dancing in the
air. ‘The quails came near, as if impatient
for the grains eyes less sharp than theirs would
fail to find. It was something at such a time
to lie in the gathering heap of straw and join
in the work so far as to look on. That isa
boy’s privilege which we seldom are anxious
to outgrow. A nooning at such a time meant
a fire to warm the dinner, and the scanty time
allowed was none too short for the threshers
to indulge in weather prognostications. This .
is as much a habit as eating, and to forego it *
would be as unnatural as to forego the taking
of food. As the threshers ate, they scanned

Bees and Buckwheat 201

the surroundings, and not a tree, bush, or
wilted weed .but was held to bear evidence
that thé coming winter would be “ open” or
“hard,” as the oldest man present saw fit to
prediét. No one disputed him, and no one
remembered a week later what he had said,
so the old man’s reputation was safe.

The buckwheat threshed, the rest is all a
matter of plain prose. Stay! In the coming
Indian summer there was always a bee-hunt.
The old man whom we saw in the buckwheat-
field in O€tober was our dependence for wild
honey, which we fancied was better than that
from the hives. He always went alone,
carrying a wooden pail and a long, slender
oaken staff. How he found the bee-trees so
readily was a question much discussed. ‘* He
smells it,” some one suggested ; ** He hears
’em a-buzzin’,” others remarked. Knowing
when he was going, I once followed on the
sly and solved the mystery. He went with-
out hesitation or turning of the head to a
hollow beech, and straightway commenced
operations. I did not stay to witness this, but
came away recalling many a Sunday after-
noon’s stroll with him in these same woods.
What he had seen in August he had remem-

202 Bees and Buckwheat

bered in December, and, wise man that he
was, said nothing meanwhile. Why, indeed,
should he throw aside the opportunity to pose
as one having superior knowledge, when
others were so persistent in asserting it of
him? There is that much vanity in all men.

But a year later his superior knowledge
failed him. I had found the same tree in my
solitary rambles, and was there ahead of him.
Still, I never enjoyed my triumph. I felt
very far from complimented when he re-
marked, as an excuse for his failure, that “<a
skunk had been at the only bee-tree in the
woods. He saw signs of the varmint all
about ;” and when he said this he looked
dire&tly at me, with his nose in the air.

It is winter now, and when in the early
morning I find cakes and honey upon the
breakfast-table, excellent as they are in their
way, they are the better that they call up the
wide landscape of those latter August days
and of frosty O€tober, for I see less of the
morning meal before me than of bees and
buckwheat. *

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH

DEAD LEAVES

I HAVE often wondered why the Indians
did not call November the month of
dead leaves. The out-of-town world is full
of them now. ‘They replace the daisies and
dandelions in the open fields, the violets and
azaleas in the shady woods. Theyare a promi-
nent feature of the village street. Many will
cling to the trees the winter long, but mil-
lions are scattered over the ground. Even
on the river I find them floating, borne slowly
by the tide or hurrying across the rippled
surface, chased by the passing breeze. ;
The pleasure—common to us all—we take
in crushing them beneath our feet savors of
heartlessness) Why should we not recall
their kindness when, as bright-green leaves,
each cast its mite of grateful shade, so dear
to the rambler, and now, when they have
fallen, let them rest in peace? We should
203

204 Dead Leaves

not be ugly and revengeful merely because it
is winter. There is nothing to fret us in
this change from shade to sunshine, from
green leaves to brown. The world is not
dead because of it. While the sun looks
down upon the woods to-day there arises a
sweet odor, pleasant as the breath of roses.
The world dead, indeed! What more vig-
orous and full of life than the mosses cover-
ing the rich wood-mould? Before me, too,
lies a long-fallen tree cloaked in moss greener
than the summer pastures. Not the sea alone
possesses transforming magic; there is also “a
wood-change into something rich and strange.””
Never does the thought of death and decay
centre about such a sight. The chickadee
drops from the bushes above, looks the moss-
clad log over carefully, and, when again poised
on an overhanging branch, loudly lisps its
praises. What if it is winter when you wit-
ness such things? One swallow may not
make a summer, but a single chickadee will
draw the sting from any winter morning.

I never sit by the clustered dead leaves and
listen to their faint rustling as the wind moves
among them but I fancy they are whispering
of the days gone by. What of the vanished

Dead Leaves 205

springtide, when they first timidiy looked
forth? They greeted the returning birds, the
whole merry host of north-bound warblers,
and what startling faéts of the bird-world
they might reveal! There is no eye-witness
equal to the leaf, and with them lives and
dies many a secret that even the most patient
ornithologist can never gain. How much
they overhear of what the birds are saying!
to how much entrancing music they listen
that falls not upon men’s ears! What a view
of the busy world above us has the fluttering
leaf that crowns the tall tree’s topmost twig !
Whether in storm or sunshine, veiled in
clouds or beneath a starlit sky, whatsoever
happens, there is the on-looking leaf, a nat-
uralist worth knowing could we but learn its
language.

A word here as to the individuality of living
leaves. Few persons are so blind as to have
never noticed how leaves differ. Of every
size and shape and density, they have varied
experiences, if not different functions, and
their effeét upon the rambler in his wander-
ings is by no means always the same. At
high noon, when the midsummer sun strives

to parch the world, let the rambler stand
18

206 Dead Leaves

first beneath an old oak and then pass to the
quivering aspen, or pause in the shade of a
way-side locust and then tarry beneath the
cedar, at whose roots the sunshine never
comes. It needs but to do this to realize
that there are leaves and leaves: those that
truly shelter and those that tease you by their
fitfulness.

It is winter now and the leaves are dead;
but, although blighted, they have not lost
their beauty. Heaped in the by-paths of
this ancient wood, they are closely associated
with the pranks of many birds, and for this
alone should be lovingly regarded. Even now
I hear an overstaying chewink—for this is a
warm wood the winter long—tossing them
in little clouds about him as he searches for
the abundant inseéts that vainly seek shelter
where they have fallen. The birds seem to
seek fua as well as food among the leaves. I
have often watched them literally dive from
the overhanging bushes into a heap of leaves,
and then with a flirt of the wings send dozens
flying into the air. It is hard to imagine any
other purpose than pure sport. When, as
often happens, two or three follow their
leader, I always think ofa string of boys diving

Dead Leaves 207

or playing leap-frog. «* Coincidence,” cries
old Prosy, with a wise shake of his head.
Perhaps; but I think old Prosy is a fool.
The strange, retiring winter wren is equally
a lover of dead leaves. He plays with them
in a less boisterous manner, but none the less
delights in tossing them to and fro. It is at
such a time that a few notes of his marvellous
summer song occasionally escape him. The
white-throated sparrows fairly dance among
or upon the heaped-up leaves, and play bo-
peep with the clouds of them they send
aloft; and in February the foxie sparrows
play the same pranks. Squirrels and mice
are equally at home, and abandon all prudence
when they frolic among the windrows. The
more clatter and cackle, the better they are
pleased. When freed from the restraint of
fear, wild life is fun-loving to the very brim.
Dead leaves are never deserted unless the
weather is extremely cold or a storm has
prevailed until they are a sodden mat. Even
from such a wetting they soon recover and
respond to the passing breeze’s gentlest touch.
Dead leaves are the matured fruit of summer,
and what an important part they really play
as the year closes! They are not now of the

208 Dead Leaves

air, airy, but of the earth, earthy. Dead, it
is true, yet living. Passive, yet how active!
They are whispering good cheer now to the
sleeping buds that await the coming of a new
year, and faithfully guard them when the
storm rages. For such deeds we owe them
our kindliest thoughts.

In the golden sunshine of this dreamy day
the leaves have yet another visitor that makes
merry with them. The little whirlwind,
without a herald, springs laughingly upon
them, even when the profoundest quiet reigns
throughout the wood. ‘Touched by this
fairy’s wand, the leaves rise in a whirling
pillar and dance down the narrow path into
some even more secluded nook. Dead leaves,
indeed! Never did the wildest madcap of a
courting bird play livelier pranks.

Time was when I would have searched
the woods for winter-green and worn it gayly.
I am content to-day to carry a withered leaf.

InDEX

Allium, 77.
Amelanchier, 140.
Andromeda, 57.
Ants, 14, 36.
Arbutus, §1, 57, 62.
Arrow-point, 156.
Azalea, 141.

Bear, 54.
Beaver, 66.
Beech, 43.
Birch, 54.
Bittern, 73, 180.
least, 42.
Bittersweet, 142.
Blackbird, 42, 41, 6,5 75, 189.
Blueberry, 64.
Bluebird, 18, 67, 143, 197-
Boneset, 155.
Butterflies, 20, 156.
Buzzards, 67.

Cardinal bird, 23, 595 75) 805 87) 111, 144.
Cat-bird, 32) §9, 87, 137, 146.
Caterpillar, 133.

18% 209

210 Index

Catlinite, 150, 158.
Cat-tail, 42.

Cedar, 64.

Celastrus, 142.
Centaury, 155
Centipede, 57.

Chat, 32, 83.

Cherry, wild, 43.
Chewink, 59, 80, 206.
Chickadee, 204.
Chimney-swift, 20..
Clay, 35.

Clethra, 141.

Cougars, 65.
Cow-bird, 93.
Crayfish, 187, 190.
Crocus, 145.

Crow, 11, 32, 47, 76, 86, 189, 200.
Cyperus, 77.

D. Day-flower, 195.
Deer, 545 179.
Deer-berry, 14%.
Deutzia, 141.
Diver, 29.
Dodder, 116, 156.
Dove, 24.
Dragon-fly, 156.
Ducks, wild, 86; wood-, 56.

E. Eagle, 24.
Eel, 54.

Index 211

Elk, 179.
Elm, 43.

S¢ False-teeth,’” 141.

Finch, indigo, 725 purple, 59; thistle, 32.
Fly-catcher, 15, 32, 144.

Frogs, 58, 67.

Galium, 77.

Gerardia, 195.
Golden-club, 56.

Grakle, 32, 75, 145, 189.
Grosbeak, rose-breasted, 59.
Gulls, 76.

Gum-tree, 66.

Harrier, 199.
Hawk, black, 17.
duck-, 24,
Jfish-, 26, 32, 179, 181.
sparrow-, 182.
Heron, blue, 423 green, 25; night-, 189.
Herons, 41, 67, 187.
Herring, 67.
Hickory, 17, 44.
Holly, 51.
Honeysuckle, 136.
Humming-bird, 136.
Hyla, 58.

Indian grass, 64.
relics, 148, 152, 157, 160.

212

Index

Ink-berry, 52.
Tris, 40.
Tron-weed, 155.

Fasper, 151.
Fay, blue-, 47.
Ferboa, 59.

Kill-deer plover, 32, 67, 775 95.
Kingbird, 41, 197.

Kinglet, 65, 82.

King-rail, 42, 199.

Leucothoe, 141.
Lindera, 140.
Liquidambar, 54.
Loon, 67.

Lotus, 41, 134.

Magnolia, 66.

Maple, 28, 52, 72.

Martin, 31, 143.

Mink, 53, 156, 179.

Minnow, mud-, 39.

Minnows, 126, 191.

Mistletoe, 28, 66.

Mocking-bird, 32.

Mass, club-, 57; reindeer, 54, 62.

Mouse, meadow-, 17, 42, 156, 179.
white-footed, 59.

Musk-rat, 29, §3, 156, 179.

Mussel, 191.

Index

Oak, 10, 21, 44, 64, 138.

willow-, 53.
Obsidian, 150, 159.
Opossum, 46, 59.

Orioles, 71, 90, 144, 197.
Oven-bird, 135.
Owl, barn, 123.

Panther, 179.
Partridge-berry, 54.
Pepper-bush, sweet, 141.
Pike, 125.

Pine, Weymouth, 30.
Pinxter flower, 141.
Pipilo, 113.

Plover, 188.

Plum, wild, 141.
Pontederia, 155.
Poplar, Lombardy, 30.
Primrose, 155.

Pyxie, 57, 61, 68.

Quail, 32, 200.

Rabbit, 44, 188, 196.
Raccoon, 47, 187.
Rail-bird, 199.
Raven, 146.

Red-eye, 19, 32.
Redstart, 32.
Reed-bird, 198.

213

214

Index

Reeds, 155.

Relics, Indian, 43.
Robin, 325 47, 75, 146.
Rose-mallow, 41.

Roses, 145.

Sand-piper, 25, 38.
Saponaria, 77.
Sedge, 156.
Shad-bush, 140.
Snake, garter-, 27.
water-, 130, 179, 190.
Snow-birds, 67.
Sparrow, chipping, 32, 180.
foxie, 207.
song-, 25, 32, 76, 88, 135.
swamp-, 41.
tree-, 59, 82, 198.

white-throated, 59, 198, 207.

Sphagnum, 56, 57, 69.
Spice-wood, 73, 140.

Spiders, 37.

Spirea, 141.

Squirrel, fiying-, 59.

Sundew, 69.

Sunfish, 129.

Sunflower, 41, 155.

Swallow, bank, 933; barn, 94.

Tanager, scarlet, 53, 144.
Tea-berry, 52.
Teal, blue-winged, 190.

Index 215

Thorn, white, 141.

Thrush, brown, 32, 72, 82.
Thrushes, 71, 144.

Titmouse, 20, 67, 75+

Trout, 127.
Trumpet-creeper, 136.
Tulip-tree, 43.
Turkey-buzzard, 32.

Turtle, snapping-, 132, 179.

Vireo, red-eyed, 32, 903 white-eyed, 112.

Warbler, spotted, 32, 51.
tree-creeping, 87.
Warblers, §1, 73, 205+

Weasel, 156.

Whippoorwill, 72.

Winter-green, 62, 69.

Wolf, 179.

W ood-robin, 18.

Wren, 31, 72 142.
Carolina, 79.
marsb-, 41.
winter, 207.