UC-NRI

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

PRESENTED BY

PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND
MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID

mote0 of tbe

flotes of the

AND OTHER OUTDOOR SKETCHES

BY

CHARLES CONRAD ABBOTT, M. D.

AUTHOR OF "A NATURALIST'S RAMBLES ABOUT HOME," "OUTINGS AT

ODD TIMES," "TRAVELS IN A TREE-TOP," "A COLONIAL

WOOING," ETC., ETC., ETC.

LONDON

ffrefcerfcfe Marne anfc Co.

BEDFORD STREET, STRAND
1896

Copyright, 1895, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT Co.

Copyright, 1896, by
THE CENTURY Co.

THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK, U. 8. A.

Bloloqw

preface

I TRUST the following pages need no explana-
tion ; and the necessity of a preface would be
done away with, much to the author's relief, were
it not that here, if anywhere, acknowledgments
may be made. Three of the following essays
have appeared in Lippincotfs Magazine, and are
here reproduced by kind permission of the pub-
lishers of that periodical. Here and there through-
out the volume are paragraphs that have seen the
light before, but these preliminary items were
but the nuclei about which have since clustered
what I hope will prove to be profitable reflections
readably expressed. C. C. A.

TRENTON, N. J., April 12, 1896.

Contents

NOTES OF THE NIGHT i

WHEN GRASS is GREEN 79

OUT OF THE BEATEN PATH 147

AN OLD BARN 155

A ROCKY ROADSIDE 165

UP PEARSON'S LANE 181

A YULE-TIDE RAMBLE 194

LANDMARKS ; 206

THOREAU 215

INDEX 227

IRotes of tbe IFUgbt

motes of tbe

IT is the purpose of Nature that man shall labor
while it is day, and then rest ; but the contrary
is true of many millions of living creatures. These
nocturnal toilers are not curious, in a human sense,
as to man's doings, though influenced by them;
but some of us are curious as to their ways, and
so it is not strange that the question is often asked :
What of the night ?

Let us first ask : What is night ? As treated in
the following pages, it is that portion of every
twenty-four hours when we are without direct sun-
light. Its birth is the gloaming or twilight; its
maturity, darkness; its death, the dawn.

In the city these conditions are not so well
marked, but beyond the town's limits, Nature still
rules, and he who is curious in such matters finds
the twilight the beginning of a day of new activ-
ities, in which he may take no part, but of which
he may be a spectator.

To the novice, it is a trying experience to dis-
tinguish objects in the twilight. The more or less
i i

motes of tbe IFUgbt

indefinite outline of everything makes the observer
painfully uncertain, and, strange to say, fixed ob-
jects frequently appear to move, and even to ap-
proach the beholder. Hence a deal of this world's
superstition. If cedar-trees would but cease to
dance in the gloaming, and vine-clad fence-posts
remain where they belong, the number of ghosts
would be materially lessened. Often have I waited
for a small juniper or slender cedar to come up to
me; and while I stood in this uncertain mood
the thought arose, What manner of man may this
prove to be ? — which is no pleasant train of
thought when alone in the wilderness.

Twilight magnifies; and the low bushes that
sparsely dot a neglected pasture spread out and out
until the open country becomes a forest. How very
quickly, too, every such scene changes when the
wind carries with it a veil of cloud. The dusky
landscape passes out of sight. With the fading light
temporarily shut out, near objects withdraw, leav-
ing a lengthening void. This tricky feature of
twilight is most pronounced when clouds obscure
the moon, and suddenly pass by. The wave of
darkness and flood of pallid light in quick succes-
sion put the world in motion, and nothing, even
to the hills themselves, is fixed. Often, too, a
brief, weird change comes without any intimation
of its approach, when the dim light is fast fading,
and we are on the threshold of night. A pyramid
of pale light flickers in the northwest. Its apex

motes of tbe Iftfgbt

may be low down, and the base spread well along
the horizon ; or it may be narrow, with the apex
nearly overhead, and so quite like an aurora. This
is the zodiacal light, a glow, it is said, "from
clouds of meteoric matter revolving around the
sun." It is, whatever its true character, a matter
of uncertainty as a twilight phenomenon, and sel-
dom does it re-light the landscape except for a
brief moment. The world again dimly stands
out, while it lasts, and then — the darkness of the
night.

These are matters of the universe and our little
world plays a pitifully small part in them ; but, if
our learned men are not wrong, a strictly local
disturbance may affect the twilights of regions
thousands of miles away. It is a miserable plan
to cry "coincidence" because an explanation
seems to us improbable, and a great deal of igno-
rance is due to our obstinacy. In August, 1883,
there was a terrible volcanic outburst at Krakatua;
an island was destroyed and great local disturb-
ance caused. Here, in the valley of the Delaware,
two months later, and from that time until the
early spring of 1884, we were favored with from
three to seven beautiful rosy twilights every week,
and an afterglow that lingered for hours, with a
ruddy tinge over the western sky and a bright
green eastern horizon. There would be some
variation from this, at times, but not often, if we
except sudden flashes of ruddy light, that sug-
3

motee of tbe IKfgbt

gested a nearby conflagration. The entire autumn
was thus signalized; but not until the first week
in January, more than four months after the dis-
aster in the South Pacific, was the climax reached.
Often the night was more beautiful, if less brilliant,
than the sunny day. We had no red snow, but
rosy fields and great, white, staring stars, that in
the green sky had a frightened look.

These strange twilights and pale nights were
due, it is said, to the dust thrown into space and
floating around the earth. There is no reason to
doubt this, and while we want no volcanoes to
blot out islands and sweep men by thousands into
eternity, we will welcome the dust they raise, if
raised beyond our atmosphere. This part of the
world is not particularly blessed ; it needs all the
rosy tints that it can get.

My best remembered walk, those winter nights,
was early in January, 1884. The blackness of
night was overhead, but its gloom was dispelled
by the brightness of many stars. In the west, all
was rosy, and the east claimed equal splendor,
with its brilliant green. The fringe of the black
curtain did not reach the earth, but moved with
me as I walked, ever directly above, always threat-
ening to enwrap the world, but held back until
after midnight by the glowing glories of the hori-
zon. It was indeed a most strange time ; and it
bewildered every bird of the day as greatly as it
did the night- wandering owls. Wild life was all
4

Betes of tbe IFUgbt

awake. The drowsy tree-sparrows gathered in
the dark cedars of the old worm-fence twittered
as if in doubt whether or not they should again
be stirring, and from the distant wood rose the
sleepy cries of many birds, disturbed but not
awake. The brittle skeletons of the dead summer
grass trembled as mice hurried by them, and the
lispy squeaking of these little travelers, when I
blocked their paths, sounded clear and full as the
cry of their arch-enemy, the hawk. I know not
why it is, but every sound heard during a still,
cold winter night has far greater volume than the
same sound heard by day. That you are guided
as much by hearing as by sight may be reason
for this; for how often we can hear approaching
footsteps, crunching the crisp snow, long before
we see the person approaching. So, too, in the
fields, by placing the ear close to the surface of
the snow, or even on the bare ground, we can de-
tect sounds that could not be heard at mid-day.
By a little training our sense of hearing can be
taught to locate life that is hidden from us, as the
woodpecker hears the grub that nestles beneath
the bark of a tree. The sounds at night, in mid-
winter, may not be many, but not one is lost to
us. The untaxed air gives every utterance full
play, and what at other times would be unnoticed
comes to us in full measure. Unfortunately, com-
ing sometimes without knowledge of its origin, the
imagination is wrought to such a pitch that curi-
r" 5

motes of tbe IFUgbt

osity often gives place to fear. Then the night-
wanderer wishes himself at home. The timid
naturalist has not chosen his vocation wisely.

This night I kept to the highway, with a cat-
owl almost at my elbow. It was excellent com-
pany, though it laughed, I fancied, when I stumbled
over the frozen ground, for the path was in shadow
and my eyes kept only the painted skies in view.
Whether it so happened that we both were eastward
bound, or the owl sought me out as an ultimate
victim, I do not know, but the association was
too marked to pass unnoticed. The bird kept
an even pace, flying almost as slowly as I walked,
and resting on each wayside cedar until I came
up, never a matter of more than a dozen paces.
Would it turn down the lane, I thought, as I
neared the gate. The big red oak there might
stay its progress, and a mouse in the field call
it off; but no, the lane was no bar to its pupose,
and I saw the owl constantly before me un-
til I reached the house. A petrel will follow a
ship for days together, and with good reason for
this ; but why should an owl follow a man ? Could
the fur gloves that I wore have been the attrac-
tion ? I can think of nothing else. Later I was
told my owl meant good luck, but how soon af-
ter— ten years have now slipped by in this case
— my informant could not say. "It 's sure
though," he insisted, as if he had often been a re-
cipient of owl-presaged good fortune. I was led,

motes of tbe mtcibt

this same evening, to see how far this bird of the
night figured in local folk-lore, but the old gray-
beard that I interviewed could tell me nothing
more than I have mentioned. Ignorant and
superstitious as he was, he told me a rambling
story of how an owl might have been the ghost of
an old farm-house, but was not. It ran thus:
Many years ago, there was a cold rain-storm in
June, and for comfort a fire was built on the open
hearth instead of in the air-tight stove that stood
before it. All went well until the night was well
advanced, when a struggle was heard and sup-
pressed cries, and after a brief silence, a shuffling
of feet, as if at the doorstep. The men went out
with a lantern, but no one was to be seen. The
windows were then searched, but there was no-
body near them. The older folks were becom-
ing unsettled. The matter was discussed in whis-
pers. Again and again the noises were heard,
and, at last, when everybody was roused to a high
pitch of excitement, the long stovepipe, heated by
the flames upon the hearth, parted at a joint, and
out flew a sooty and bedraggled little owl. No
one was superstitious then j but suppose the owl
had made its way back to the chimney, and by
that way escaped ; would not every person present
have had vague, uncanny feelings ? Would not
the house from that time have been haunted ?
" Folks may be right, but when I hear o' ghosts
and such like, somehow I call up always that little
7

motes of tbe IRigbt

screech-owl, and wonder if they could n't 'a' found
one somewhere, if they 'd 'a' looked a little further."
This sounded strangely, coming from the lips of
an old man who honestly believed in luck and
the asserted signs thereof; but then, ignorant or
educated, who among us is consistent ?

But not all winter nights are tinted with volcanic
dust, and what of those of more commonplace
character — of those, for instance, when the full
moon is shining on miles of snow-clad fields ? It
is not always attractive. There is a ghostliness
about it suggesting the pallid remains of a sun-
shiny day. This is the more true when we can
see but the bare landscape and hear nothing; but
the whim vanishes when some night-prowling ani-
mal passes by, or we see the shadow of a wander-
ing owl. If there are trees near by, we may be
startled by the flying squirrel; and look more
closely about us if we hear the crisp rattle of the
yielding snow-crust, and see half-a-dozen white-
footed vesper mice go scampering across the wide
expanse. These creatures look twice their size at
such a time, and with what a thrill do we watch
the race if a weasel is in pursuit of them. Re-
member, too, that moonlight keeps many a bird
awake, and so we should be on the lookout for
such birds as are probably to be seen in the same
place by day. I have known a whole colony of
white-throated sparrows to twitter at midnight,
and even to fly out from the green-brier thicket
8

motes ot tbe

that all the season had been their home, making
short journeys into the open country as if curious
to know whether or not it was really day, and could
not determine. The horned larks, that keep so
closely to the weedy fields before snow comes,
are not driven off when their feeding grounds are
covered, but go seed-hunting where the tall weeds
stand above the snow, and trip gaily over the
smooth-backed drifts or level reaches, where noth-
ing they can eat is found. Can it be they can
dine upon snow-fleas? These same larks will
sometimes be active at night when the moon is
full, and, for some reason unknown to me, look
black as crows. Indeed, all creatures, whatever
their colors, show no variation in this respect
unless you are very near them, which seldom
happens.

I remember walking over a snow-clad meadow
late at night when the only light to guide me
came from the innumerable stars. These were all
imaged in the glassy surface upon which I trod,
but not an object was plainly seen. The bushes
were vague in outline, and every tree appeared
much taller than by day — so much taller, indeed,
that I could realize the fabulous dimensions of the
Pacific coast pines that John Muir so graphically
describes. The long line of sassafras trees that
skirted a marshy meadow, the scattered shell-
bark hickories, arrd one lone liquidambar are but
fifty or sixty feet high at most ; but then, in the
9

motes of tbe

starlight, and what I may call the snow-light, they
towered a full two hundred. I had been reading that
day Muir's volume, and the mountains of California
seemed to have settled on the Jersey meadows.

Fortunately we do not need the eyes of an owl
to see in comparative darkness. The image may
be obscured, but our senses are so alert that sight
is aided, and we have a lively appreciation of
what happens. This, at least, is true when we
deliberately set out to study the night-side of na-
ture, but not so true when the element of fear
enters into the question. If it is not overcome,
the world after dark must remain a terra incog-
nita, and accepted at second-hand. I am not
sure that it is ever completely overcome, and so
thoroughly cool and collected study of the nat-
ural history of night may be impracticable. Peo-
ple, of course, resent being called cowards, but
when, walking alone on an unfrequented meadow,
and at dead of night, the wind happens to gather
up a hundred dead leaves and sends them after
you with a great noise, you are not disposed to
observe them hurry by without wishing you were
sure of their identity as dead leaves. Every in-
animate object seems more than ordinarily alive
and charged with some uncanny message. Draw
a distinction between being startled and fright-
ened if you will, but, whichever it may be, in
every case it robs night rambling of some portion
of its charm.

10

•fflotee of tbe IRfgbt

The attempt to banish timidity by having a
companion is never a success. We may see no
reason why wild life should resent the presence
of two and not object to that of one person, but
this, in my experience, seems to be true. Cer-
tainly there is twice the noise; an overpowering
desire to talk; a doubling in fact of every pos-
sible objection. To my mind a successful stroll
must be taken alone. Fewer night-prowling ani-
mals will crouch in the darker corners while you
pass by, if they have but yourself to watch and
guard against.

But to my walk: I had not proceeded far
when an animal as large as a domestic cat ap-
peared to cross my path. I stopped for a mo-
ment, and then another came in view. Not seeing
distinctly the direction from which they came, I
moved slowly forward, and saw still another of
these black creatures cross the road. Were they
dogs on a still hunt? I did not dare admit to
myself that I wished myself away; and, taking a
few steps forward, I saw that there was a long
procession of these supposed animals, not mov-
ing, but fixed as the hills beyond them. They
were the tops of fence-posts projecting above the
snow. Had I turned back, which was my first
impulse, I could have sworn I had seen several
animals moving over the snow. So much for the
tricks darkness plays with half-timid humanity.

It occasionally happens that suddenly, without

motes of tbc flfgbt

a shadow of warning, the darkness is dissipated
by waves of colored light, the stars grow pale,
and day, without daylight, returns. This is the
aurora — a meteoric phenomenon of such magni-
tude that we can not only see it but hear it.
We are told that now the magnetic needle is
disturbed, and we have noticed how the bright
flashes and strange rustling like a silken garment
have twisted weak minds out of sane paths. I
have witnessed hundreds of auroras and noted
their peculiarities, but not one, for general in-
terest, equaled, that of March 30, 1894. It would
be mere folly to attempt a description. There
was much color, some crackling noise, and a
flickering light on the earth's surface about equal
to that of the moon when full. The center of
illumination continually shifted, and once my
companion remarked : " See, Orion is taking an
electric bath." Curious to ascertain what, if any,
impression such an occurrence would have upon
animal life, I hurried to the nearest available
point, a long reach of the river shore, where the
stream was wide and the banks well wooded.
The birds were all awake, and I heard one song
sparrow sing its full song, while a whole host of
small birds twittered excitedly in the evergreens.
Fortunately there was no moon, and as the au-
rora came and went with startling abruptness, the
agitation was more marked among these roosting
birds than would have been caused by a steady

motes of tbe

light. It was really affecting to hear the faint
chirping as darkness spread over the scene and
the birds settled again to rest, only to be again
disturbed and frightened by darting and rattling
tongues of colored light, yellow, blue, pink, and
green. It was to me a curious rather than beau-
tiful sight. It was unnatural, disturbing, and out
of place: the clatter and clash of machinery
when some important part is broken. The effect
of alternating light and darkness upon the river
was more marked than upon the land, and one
brief interval was so wild and weird that I shall
never forget it. I stood upon a broad stone that
the incoming tide was slowly covering, and heard
in the darkness the sobbing of little waves that
broke at my feet, and when some larger ripple,
tipped with starlight, broke over the stone, it
seemed as charged with the auroral light as the
cloud-flecked sky had been but a moment before.
Then followed silence and darkness, out of which
came strange cries that I did not recognize, so
great was my surprise. As I listened, the aurora
returned with all its vividness and illuminating
power. The river, and even the opposite shore,
could be seen, and directly in front of me three
great blue herons were slowly flying up-stream,
and the air all about them was filled with bewil-
dered killdees. The long dark bodies of the
herons and silvery glisten of the plover stood
out with marvelous distinctness while they re-
13

motes ot tbe

mained in sight, and the clear call of the smaller
birds, when again plunged in darkness they wan-
dered they knew not where, sounded as strangely,
as un-birdlike and despairing as the whispering
of the hollow wind. As it neared midnight, the
aurora lost its brilliancy, and the chilly air, for it
was March and the sting of winter not yet
drawn, suggested shelter. Mere repetition would
not have proved more suggestive. It is possible
to look too long at one object. We can cloy the
brain as readily as the palate.

Much might be said of night-flying birds. We
know that migration occurs largely between sun-
set and sunrise ; but I refer to the effect of such
an occurrence as this aurora and, to a much more
limited extent, the effect of local fires. No barn
or haystack ever burned at night but it brought
the roosting birds about it ; and hundreds, be-
wildered by the flames and heat, plunged head-
long to destruction. I recall one instance where
a flock of redwinged blackbirds rose as one body
from a neighboring meadow and, after approach-
ing the fire, endeavored to pass over it. They
did not rise far enough, and, when directly over
the burning building, rained down upon it. It
was the most complete work of destruction that
I ever saw. It is well known how fatal to migra-
ting birds are the lighthouses along our coast, but
not even here is as much life destroyed as during
the great forest fires that sweep over hundreds of

motes ot tbe

acres of woodland. Bird life has certainly a
hard time of it these latter days. But there is
a pleasant phase of this subject wherein death
plays no part. It is something to be serenaded
when sitting at your camp-fire, after supper, while
smoking a contemplative pipe. But let me go
back a few hours. All day long, my companion
and I had tramped over

Meadows trim, with daisies pied ;
Shallow brooks and rivers wide ;

or, to be more exact, had tramped until we reached
the river. Just before sunset, we walked to the
headquarters of the farm upon which we had been
squatting. It was well we did. Not that we had
any unlooked-for score to settle, but because we
had a delightful opportunity to indulge in anti-
quarian research. Prehistoric archaeology had
been the serious business of the day, but now we
were playing. What we are so little apt to find
in most localities occurred here in abundance —
the original house with its original furnishings:
a quaint house, built of hewn logs and chinked
with stone and snow-white mortar ; or shall I not
say, a huge fireplace with a small house surround-
ing it ? This fireplace measured six feet in width,
five feet to the base of the mantel-shelf, and was
three feet deep. The chimney-throat was two
and one-half feet by one and a half, and the chim-
15

motes ot tbe

ney itself twenty-five feet high. It is useless for
architects to tell us a big fireplace will not fit a
small room. Let those who think so come here
and see this glorious structure.

Since the day of the settling of this farm, just
two centuries ago, the changes of ownership have
been only from father to son, and such a strange
accumulation of personal effects as we found scat-
tered about ! New tools had gradually replaced
old ones, but the latter had been preserved, so
that the evolution of many a utensil could have
been traced. Then, too, there were domestic fos-
sils, as the spinning-wheel and many a tool for
the preparation of flax. Here was a colonial
museum and a dwelling combined. A sewing-
machine and grandfather's clock, side by side, and
a "rocker" that was the comfort of the great-
grandmother still a comfort to child of the fourth
or fifth generation.

We passed from such pleasant surroundings to
the site of an old Indian village on the river bank.
Possibly to many such a spot may be a soul-
sickening solitude, and, indeed, a wilderness of
Jamestown weed, thistles, and nettles scarcely
commands our admiration; but the Indians had
been here, and the river remained as in the days
of their glory, and this meant much to us. Be-
times the camp-fire was alight, and the single
sound that we heard was the ripple of the river
but a few yards away. The sobering silence of
16

of tbe mtgbt

the night was the subject of our conversation at
the time; when suddenly a sad, sweet song broke
the very stillness that we deplored. A vesper
sparrow — most appropriate bird — roused by the
light our fire shed about it, came even nearer to
us than it had been, joined the fireside circle as
it were, and sang in a most exquisite manner —
sang as if dreaming another happy day had come.

It is not strange that we slept well afterwards; it is
something to have "good-night" said to us in such
a manner. Nor was it strange we awoke at sun-
rise with senses all alert. Earth and the sun coun-
seled to picnic on the river, and we were fortunate
to be guests on such an occasion. There is wealth
in every moment of such a time. Nothing was
missed. No imperfection blighted objects at hand
or marred the landscape that hemmed us in. A
smoke-gray mist followed the river as it hurried
by ; the outermost hills were veiled in filmy cloud.
The near-shore pebbles were black, shining, and
dew-coated ; others dull-gray and making a curi-
ous line that puzzled us until we noticed that the
dry ones were protected by the overhanging trees.

For a time — never satisfied — I missed the sing-
ing of the early summer birds — it was now Sep-
tember— but the early hours are fittest for silence.
The impression of peace, of rest after labor per-
formed, was that which made me congratulate
myself that I had happened here.

Perhaps it was that the cunning birds were only

2 17

motes of tbe

waiting until this whim of mine might have fair
play, for when the sun rose well above the hill and
flooded with cheering but not fiery light the river,
the hill-slopes, and the mountains far beyond,
then the birds welcomed the glorious autumn
morning in no uncertain tones. Jays, woodpeck-
ers, king-fisher, heron, hawk, and crow. " What
a chorus ! " I hear shouted derisively. But, de-
luded summer-day mortals, there was that in the
united voices of these birds that alone could meet
the requirements the conditions demanded. It
was sound that excited the heart to stronger beat-
ing ; sound that thrilled us ; that raised us above
the level of low-lying clods ; that transported us
to the mountain's top; even lifted us above the
clouds and made us one with nature in her exalted
mood. Mere sound, if you will, but with well-
nigh every merit music can claim ; and, happily,
sound that comes back at call, so that for a brief
space, even in the stuffy town, we may live over
again life's choicest moments.

The thrush and summer's dream-life are closely
linked ; the scream of the falcon and an autumn
sunrise are the battle-cry and banner of more ac-
tive days. Melody and meditation — these fit well
with summer-tide and restful night, and, as such,
count for much ; but the daybreak, with its defiant
shout and irrepressible energy, — it is well for
the world they count for more.

We naturally associate the owls with night, and
18

notes of tbe

to a far greater extent than the facts allow. Some
of them are strictly diurnal, and not one but re-
quires more light than is common to an ordinary
starlit evening ; on the other hand, while the birds
of the day generally go to their roosts soon after
sunset, some of them are quite active during and
even after the gloaming. Opportunity favoring,
I carefully watched the birds of an orchard and
wooded hillside during an entire summer, and was
surprised at the number that were active after the
light had so far faded that I could only distinguish
the species when they were clearly outlined upon
the western sky. Though the robins kept chirp-
ing long after they had settled for the night, they
did not appear to move about voluntarily, and the
last bird to give up food-hunting was the wood-
peewee. How it could detect insects in the dim
light is a puzzle to me ; yet it darted from its perch,
flew with the same confidence, and snapped its
beak as suggestively when I could scarcely see the
bird as it did in the blazing noontide of a mid-
summer day. Night after night I watched this
same bird, and in no instance found it outstayed
by any other. To my surprise the red-start and
Maryland yellow-throat were close seconds. A
red-start had its nest in a cedar-tree in my yard.
I found the birds when the nest was first begun,
and saw them daily until the young had left it.
These active little fly-catchers did not cease hunt-
ing until the last glimmer of rosy light had faded
19

IRotes of tbe

from the sky. Although early risers, as all birds
are, the yellow-billed cuckoos were no advocates
of the maxim "Early to bed." I could detect
them flying across an open space over a brook
when it was quite dark, and the pair that had a
nest with eggs, which I found on August 28,
frequently left the orchard for more open ground
at quite a late hour. There seemed too little light
over the fields for successful hunting, and the
orchard itself was very dark ; too dark, it would
seem, for them ever to find their way home.

How late the chimney-swifts are abroad I can-
not determine. Long after I failed to detect any
in the air, I could hear them in my chimney. It
was the same rustling sound heard by day when
I could see them coming and going, and I know
that these birds were leaving and returning when
the night was very dark. I think they can be
classed among the nocturnal species.

The dim light of early evening plays havoc
with one's patience, at times. Often, as I roam
the open fields when night is closing in, I can
distinctly hear the herons, plover, and, sometimes,
a flock of red-wings. I know that they are flying
overhead, and yet it is only on the rarest occa-
sions that I can catch a glimpse of them. It
would seem as if so large a bird as the night-
heron could be made out even against a star-lit
sky, but such is not the case. It is not difficult
to locate the sound ; you hear it as the bird ap-

20

•ftotes of tbe Ittuibt

proaches, when it is directly overhead, and as it
passes away from you. You strain your eyes in
the proper direction, as you believe, yet there is
nothing to be seen, or not in one case in, per-
haps, a hundred. Has the damp night air to do
with the traveling of sound ? Is the bird some-
where else? Or is it at so great an altitude that
even by day it would be inconspicuous ?

There are two common birds with us that occa-
sionally fly at night, and in such a manner as to
fairly frighten the unthinking rambler. These are
the dove and quail. I have usually noticed them
at such times in pairs. The rapidity of their
flight is incredible. In one instance, I was stoop-
ing over a large moth that I had caught with my
hat, and just as I was about to rise, a sound like
the hiss of a bullet sent me back to my knees,
but not before I saw the doves dart by me. I
plainly felt the wind of their wings, and had they
struck me, I believe I should have been injured
by the blow. Quails, in the same mad way, go
rushing by ; and if, at such speed, they can deflect
from a straight course and avoid obstacles, it is
one of the great wonders of the flight of birds.
Occasionally fatal collisions do occur. I have
found dead birds with their heads crushed to a
shapeless mass, and have known even the active
swallow to be injured by a telegraph wire.

Birds sleep lightly. It needs but the slightest
.noise or movement to rouse them, and their
2* 21

motes of tbe IFUgbt

senses are at once alert. Danger from their night-
prowling enemies is the reason for this, and yet
they are really quite helpless if the night be dark.
Lightly as slumber rests upon them, many are
given to dreaming, and those that sing by day
repeat their songs at intervals after dark, but in a
drowsy, half-hearted way. This singing was a
very noticeable feature of a recent stroll over
weedy meadows to the creek-side. The last heron
had passed to the thicket where many were
nesting, unless they were going and coming all
night, and even the ghostly chat had quit mut-
tering, when suddenly a Carolina wren startled
the still night by a ringing song that usually is
heard at daybreak or later, and it was now
midnight. The crested tit took up the cry, and
sounded an alarm from his perch in a tall tulip
tree; then the rose-breasted grosbeaks sang as
they only can, and sparrows in the briers trilled
dreamily.

There was no day-time vigor in all this, but a
drowsy languor that fitted the time if not the
place. And yet, for the moment, I forgot that it
was night. Hearing these dulled voices, my own
senses were made more alert than before. The
doubt that is so prominent when one rambles in
the dark turned to confidence, and I seemed fitted
for any activity. I looked about for owls and
listened for their hooting, but not one put in an
appearance. The meadow mice might have held
22

motes of tbe

high carnival in perfect safety. And this recalls a
little tragedy that occurred at the time. Mice, at
that moment, were moving in the grass, and
presently I heard the faint patter of little feet
where a windrow of dead leaves had gathered.
I stood perfectly still. There was nothing life-
like to be seen, but the sound was distinct, and
then how promptly imagination provides all the
rest ! I waited for perhaps a minute — it seemed
many — and then a moving figure came nearer
and nearer, until I recognized that dainty creature,
a white-footed deer mouse. Intent upon its own
quest, it paid no attention to me, until within
reach, when I slowly extended one hand, when it
sat up like a little kangaroo, gave a shrill squeak,
and was off in an instant. I could not hear its
retreating footsteps, but a moment later there was
a cry of despair, followed by a death-like silence.
It was the ever-recurring tragedy re-enacted. The
mouse had run into the clutches of a weasel, and
its little life was snuffed out. The question rose,
would the weasel appear ? Not a bit of it. That
creature has had too long experience not to know
a man, even without seeing him.

But how did I know it was a weasel that
caught the wood-mouse ? I do not know it, and
yet feel confident that I am right. I do know
that the weasel is one of their principal enemies,
and that is a justification for speaking without
special reserve. It might be a skunk — which is
23

motes of tbe

a species of weasel — or a mink, another of the
same family ; but bother the particulars !

Passing on to the bank of Poaetquissings Creek
I had an opportunity for more positive observa-
tions. There was more light. Every star was
doubled in the broad expanse of quiet water, and
the noses of fishes pushed just above the surface
could be plainly followed. 1 sat down on the
dewy grass, and watched the water and the out-
lines of the overhanging elms that were sharply
drawn against the western sky. I wondered that
the daylight should linger so long, when I sud-
denly recalled the time, and the cause too came
to me. There was an aurora. Shifting pillars of
pale green light shot upward, and rosy-tinted
clouds were directly overhead — as suddenly it
became dark. It was one of my lucky moments
to be here at such a time. This strange phenom-
enon had its effect upon the birds. With every
flash of light many were suddenly aroused and
sang as they started from their sleep. With the
return to darkness came silence.

Incidents like these, with far less of adventure
than the usual occurrences of the day, are sure to
be remembered. Because they happen at night
they make deeper impressions. This is explained
by the fact that our attention is concentrated
upon fewer objects and a more limited area;
moreover, the experience smacks of novelty.
This night the aurora continued to increase in
24

•Wotes of tbe

brilliancy and steadiness, and the day seemed to
have returned. I could distinguish the different
forms of leaves in the trees about me, and peered
among the branches for the owls that belong to
night. It was all in vain, and I took it as a warn-
ing when a huge bull frog at my feet muttered
GO-O HO-OME. I started while I could plainly see
my path, but in a moment it was dark as Egypt,
and in the silence of night I groped my way to the
garden gate, while my neighbors were yet resting.
There is little to be said of absolute darkness.
It is one of the rarest conditions of night, and I
have only known it as one of short duration.
A densely clouded sky and the absence of the
moon are the requirements of this condition.
When abroad at such a time, I have usually no-
ticed a faint wave of light, as if from reflected
lightning. It comes and goes with marked un-
certainty, but never is stationary. I have fancied
that it might be the ghost of that ghostly phenom-
enon, a will-o'-the-wisp, an ignis fatuus dissolved
in the damp air of night. This wave of light rarely
does more than faintly outline the tree-tops, and
so does not reach to the ground. It is a time
when our path must be felt ; but the sense of
touch becomes very acute, and as the outstretched
hands come in contact with familiar objects, it is
remarkable what pictures are before the mind.
We touch a fence-rail, and immediately the fence
and all its surroundings are distinctly before us.
25

IKotes of tbc IFUgbt

The foot mechanically recognizes a slight sloping
of the ground, but the brain interprets the full
meaning of the conditions, and we know that the
brook is not far away, and we listen for the sound
of flowing water. Of course, we must be in some
familiar locality. It is madness to ramble in a
strange place in absolute darkness. When such a
necessity occurs, the realization of danger is so
intense that the senses are paralyzed rather than
quickened. But mistakes sometimes happen —
even when we know the ground. The most
trivial incident at the outset may set at fault our
orientation, and with great confidence we move
along in a direction opposite to that which we
proposed to take. The result is readily foreseen.
When we expect to find ourselves at a given
point, as at the margin of an open meadow, we
suddenly find ourselves in collision with a tree.
Then a condition of bewilderment ensues that
nothing but light can remove. Striking a match,
it is probable that we can discover our position,
and, with regained confidence, retrace our steps.
It is very seldom so dark, however, that such ex-
peditions are practicable, and under the most
favorable circumstances there is too little to be
gained to warrant running the unavoidable risks
incident to positive absence of light. We are
groping in the dark much of our lives, but in an-
other sense, and let this suffice for the literal one
to which I have referred.
26

IRotes ot tbe 1Fli0bt

But the blacker the night, the more favorable to
witness that strangest of all nocturnal phenomena,
the will-o'-the-wisp. I have seen it but seldom,
and possibly some records thereof in my note-
books may be erroneous, the glimpse of flickering
light being attributable to other causes. But in
one instance there was no mistake. The day had
been extremely warm and sultry, the hygrometer
registering 88°. As the night promised to be fa-
vorable, I started for a swampy thicket that I might
" sugar " moths. Provided with a lantern, to be
hung on a tree, and the various engines of destruc-
tion required to capture the huge night-flying
moths, I was equipped for business rather than
pleasure, and gave attention only to the foot-path,
seeing nothing beyond its boundaries and hearing
nothing but the din of frogs. The over-arching
trees shut out the sky, and I knew nothing of the
storm that was rapidly approaching. Mere dark-
ness has no influence on batrachian life, but the
rising wind and electrical conditions that I did not
notice were evident to them, and soon every one
was silent. Then I found myself enveloped in
absolute darkness, except where the few feeble rays
from the lantern fell at my feet. I hesitated whether
to proceed, and stood for a moment by a giant
tulip tree to consider the matter. As I did so, a
great gust of wind and misty rain passed over me,
and a toad at my feet gave a loud despairing cry, as
if it were the last living creature on earth, and cre-
27

motes of tbe IFUgbt

ation were on the verge of chaos. Here, at last,
I had found superlative wildness. I could not
have imagined anything more unlike the living
day, and yet there was something more in store
for me. Just beyond me, where a spring strug-
gled with little success to break through the sphag-
num and form a little pool where skunk-cabbage
grew rank as a tropical jungle, and all was hedged
in by briers that nothing larger than a weasel could
penetrate — here, suddenly, a shapeless, flickering
flame appeared, disappeared, and reappeared, fit-
full as an auroral light, but far more weird, un-
earthly, and repellent. The motion was, in a way,
lifelike, and the light itself shed no radiance upon
the surrounding objects. It did not retire as I ap-
proached, but faded quite away and only came
again into view as I backed from the spot to
my original position. How my presence could
affect it puzzled me, and I forced my way
again as near as the briers would permit, and
waited for the reappearance of the light. It
seemed a long time, as I was standing in an
uncomfortable position and of course impatient ;
but at last I could faintly detect a trace of lu-
minosity near the ground, but no outlined area,
like a sunlit cloud. By my mere presence I
seemed to hold it down; to keep this wild
dancing imp of the dismal swamp under control.
But a moment ago, free as the air and active
as the wind, and now groveling on the weedy
28

motes of tbe mtgbt

ground. How completely all sense of loneli-
ness disappeared. Here was excellent company.
Will-o'-the-wisp, though rather abject at present,
was really a good fellow, as it proved. Tired of
playing the tyrant, I withdrew and, resuming my
stand under the tulip-tree, awaited developments.
At this distance I could exert no influence, and
again the light appeared. Not a tangible, measur-
able light, but merely a fragment of the darkness
made visible. Darkness quickened and so over-
joyed with its life that it danced. Then the
gathering storm broke over me, and Will-o'-the-
wisp disappeared.

I can trace no forms of light intermediate be-
tween this and that which is emitted by the masses
of dead wood that are more frequently found
charged with phosphorescence. The effect is very
different. The latter shows at once what it is, and
while interesting and likely to command attention,
is as prosy and commonplace as the ignis fatuus
is poetical. It frequently happens, when there is a
high summer freshet in the river, that phosphores-
cent wood comes floating down stream, and, if the
night be dark, it appears to set the water on fire.
It certainly comes much nearer to it than do any
of the inhabitants that dwell along shore. When
floating, phosphorescent wood gives out a brighter
glow than when, as decaying wood, we come
across it in a swamp ; but in this latter position it
may present an appearance that is positively star-
29

motes of tbe

tling. I once found the trunk of a tree that had
been prone for half a century, and it was not only
all aglow, when the night was dark, but the out-
lines of a burrowing beetle and grubs could be
plainly seen. The glimmer had no impression on
the outside world. All was dark even at the very
edge of the wood. It was like looking in at a
window of an illuminated house. I saw this same
decaying tree-trunk many times afterward, but
there was no trace of phosphorescence.

Very different are such local illuminings of the
solitary swamps from that sparkle and momentary
glow that we first see during the last week in May.
Here and there a single flash, and then darkness
deeper than before. As the weeks roll by, more
and more, until thousands of the light-bearing imps
are abroad, and the low-lying marshes fairly dazzle
with their efforts to replace the sun. Conditions
must be favorable for large gatherings of these in-
sects; but when they are collected in some limited
area, and no disturbing wind breaks their ranks,
the pyrotechnic display is simply marvelous. Com-
paratively few people, it would appear, have seen
the fire-flies at their best, although familiar with
them all their lives. They have seen a dozen or
more flash at once, it may be, and chased, when
children, single flies, to place under a tumbler, but
know nothing of secluded corners in brush-grown
meadows where a thousand are flashing together
and, by their united efforts, casting light over all
30

Wotes ot tbe H*f0bt

their surroundings. The bushes appear tipped
with fire, but it is not fire nor even a heat-giving
light. The purport of this strange phenomenon is
not altogether clear to us. Every entomology has
much to say, but it is a glittering generality, much
like the light itself, and when done reading we are
about as much in the dark as when the flash of a
fire-fly is suddenly snuffed out. I know these in-
sects as fire-flies, and nothing more. " Lightning-
bugs " in boyhood days, and it is a better name, if
not quite so elegant. We are well favored here at
home with these beetles, for there is the yellow
flash-light on the upland fields, and a blue light on
the meadows, the latter appearing to leave a long
thread of light behind it as it flies. I have occa-
sionally seen them, single ones, above trees that
were sixty to seventy feet high, and timed the du-
ration of their light at one and three-fourths sec-
onds. Bats, it may be remarked, swallow them
greedily, but I do not think the wood-peewee
ventures to molest them ; at least not after sunset,
when the light is distinct. Would a bat, whip-
poorwill or chimney-swift become phosphorescent
after an exclusive meal of lightning-bugs ? The
light, when rubbed upon the fingers, leaves a glow
that remains for a short time.

I have seldom noticed " glow-worms," or fire-
fly larva, near home, although I have searched the
meadows carefully; but about Princeton, some
ten miles away, they are not uncommon. They

motes of tbe

cast but little light as they crawled through the
grass, and might readily be overlooked by the un-
observant pedestrian. Placed under a tumbler, the
same number of glow-worms gave about half the
amount of light thrown out by the common flash-
light fire-fly. The toad ate them, I noticed, but
did not illuminate his viscera by so doing.

Night would indeed be a season of darkness
did it depend upon insects for illumination. Even
the stars, with not a cloud to veil their glory, give
little light, and so the moon is its real depend-
ence; and what more can be said of moonlight?
It figures in all poetry, and is prominent in all
prose. It has been sung until our ears are weary ;
it is the burden of many a bright essay and learned
dissertation. It is the most familiar of all condi-
tions of nature, except sunlight and rain. It is so
thoroughly known from every point of view that
he is overbold who more than incidentally refers to
it. And yet so full has been many a midnight
ramble when the moon shone at its best, and so
suggestive many an hour when floating on pond or
river, guided solely by its light, that I cannot pass
by these times in silence. Very different is this
same moonlight on the land and on water; and to
realize this, it is well to walk for miles over the
meadows or fields and then, coming suddenly to
the water's edge, take a boat and float aimlessly
about. Though you may have been familiar with
the locality by day for all your life, it is another
32

motes ot tbe 1FU0bt

world now. Go out into the night with no dis-
turbing thoughts. Gaze awhile at the stars and
lose in a measure your earthiness, and the song of
a dreaming bird will arouse you to a quicker sym-
pathy with the creatures to which it is now day.
And, above all else, do not go out into the night if
you have been abroad all day, and so, from sheer
exhaustion, are not in a receptive frame of mind.
Few things in this world are more marked than
the limits of our endurance. Varied as are the
aspects of any landscape during the four seasons,
it does not make material difference when you go.
There will be far more open to you than will be
seen, and even in the dead of winter it will not be
a case of "silence for all sound." Though the
world at such a time may seem asleep, some crea-
ture other than yourself will surely be astir. It
remains with you whether or not you see and hear
it. I have often taken such a walk as this, both
during the harvest-moon at the end of summer and
when the same moon flooded the landscape in
January, with snow and ice for withered weeds
and open water.

Under the old oaks, whose leaves, because of
the drought, were now tough, leathery, and limp
upon their stems, the moonlight failed to light the
well-worn path, but as I looked upward, the tree-
tops stood out upon a blue-black sky, and the
twist of every sturdy bough was plain as day.
But how much larger ! This is one of the charms
3 33

•notes of tbe

of moonlight. We see the world as through a
magnifying glass; and the end of the path, whereat
we pass into an open field, it, too, was very far away.
Shorten your steps now, and a long journey is be-
fore you, though the real distance is as nothing.
What strange figures we see where the groups of
leaves are edged by the silvery light! There is
scarcely a familiar face but you see here the pro-
file; and many the moping owls, crouching cats,
listening squirrels, and roosting buzzards we detect
as we pass from under one tree to another. It is
little wonder that savage men are superstitious;
for not only, in imagination, is every known crea-
ture sporting in the moonlight, but those that are
fancy's creation also lurk in the leafy branches.
At times these appearances are so real that no
arguing with one's self will prevent our pausing
and waiting until the passing breeze rearranges
the leaves and the monster disappears. This may
not seem an enjoyable experience ; perhaps it is
not; but surely such a thorn in our side should
not deter us from a moonlight ramble. As the
time passes, confidence returns, curiosity is aroused,
and we forget the fear, if it was really such, that
at first possessed us. Unless too noisy, and silly
enough to whistle that our courage may not be
lacking, real life will soon assert itself; for there
is an abundance of it in every woodland tract. It
may be a squirrel that stirs upon some branch, or
the owl that shifts his position that it may better
34

flotes of tbe 1FU0bt

watch you; but whatever the creature, the sur-
roundings set it in a new light to you. If only
day-time acquaintances before, they are strangers
now. Unless constantly on guard, you will very
fancifully interpret everything you see.

When the moon is higher in the heavens, and
the shadows short and crisp, the woods are more
real to you, and the distorted images lurk only in
the underbrush. Then look for startling effects,
when the dusty cobwebs float before you. It is
fortunate if you have not anticipated these, for there
is much in store for you, and an hour will slip by
before you suspect how late it is growing, while
you try to determine what this is that blocks your
way, or stands guard to seize you if you dare to
pass it. One dew-spangled web, glittering, and
moving to and fro in bright moonlight, I finally
determined was my neighbor's cow, and so drew
near. How glad I was to be alone when I made the
discovery that awaited me. It is never pleasant to
be called a fool, yet how frequently we deserve it !

In all such places, where the animal life is shy
from long persecution, and you may not see a
mouse or hear the squeak of a chipmunk, there
will be insect-life without stint ; and this, at night,
is superlatively noisy. Leaf crickets and katydids
may drown all other sounds, but besides these
there are the buzzing and humming of moths and
beetles captured in cobwebs, and such sounds are
not always interpreted at once. Hearing such a
35

motes ot tbe

sound as this, I crept cautiously for some distance,
not long ago, certain some preying mammal had
its still living victim in the trees overhead. Mov-
ing almost noiselessly along, watching the trem-
bling leaves of every branch above me, and locat-
ing the sound, first here, then there, and when at
last sure that I had come upon a raccoon in the
birches just ahead, my face came in contact with
a dense web in which a beetle was entangled.
Its buzzing, now low, now loud, a veritable wail
of despair, could have been heard, I think, in the
still night, twenty or thirty rods away.

At last, I left the woodland path and entered a
clearing, an open space, with grassy sod softer
than velvet. The winds, whichever way they
came, swept it carefully. Near the center was a
low mound, with a few low bushes near it. Longer
ago than any one now living can remember, John
Watson had his cottage here, living alone, and,
when not dreaming, playing on his flute. At the
door of his cabin, so runs the story, he would sit
when the moon shone, and charm the wild life of
the woods about him. The fox and the hare, the
raccoon, the opossum, and all the smaller crea-
tures came and circled about him as he played.
This is, of course, an exaggeration ; but that music,
or any strange and long continued sound, will rouse
the curiosity and banish the fear of many animals
is incontestable. I thought of this when I reached
the mound and sat down upon the one projecting
36

"ttotes of tbe 1FU0bt

foundation-stone of the old cabin, and, thinking,
began to whistle. It is an accomplishment that I
never mastered, and not a creature was charmed.
My lips became dry and my cheeks painful, but
all in vain. Not even " Auld Lang Syne " could
tempt so much as a meadow-mouse, and I gave it
up for a far more pleasing pastime. At least I
could fancy myself John Watson, and the same
old oaks and silent moon gave every opportunity
for rebuilding the past. But suddenly all this
was stopped by the sound of approaching foot-
steps. Last year's leaves were rudely tossed aside,
and small twigs were snapped. It was an excit-
ing if not anxious moment, and then a dog came
trotting into view, more astonished to find me
here than I was relieved to have suspense ended.
He stopped, he stared, and then, not venturing to
pass by, turned as suddenly as he had appeared
and bounded into the dark woods.

Such commonplace conclusions to what prom-
ises at the beginning to be an exciting episode do
not commend moonlight outings in a long-settled
locality. I was somewhat disappointed, and came
down to the level of sober fact with the ever
present regret that the place was so devoid of ad-
venturous features; a regret that was quickly dis-
sipated by a shrill whistling, as if its owner were
calling the wandering hound that I had just seen.
It was not so ordinary a matter, but a long-
drawn line of ducks that were speeding toward
3* 37

motes of tbe

the river. I recognized the sound, but where were
the ducks. The sky was clear as crystal, and I
had seen the bats occasionally cross the face of
the moon; but no dark streaks were seen even
where the light shone brightest. There were many
of them, judging by the sound, and they flew but
a short distance above the tree-tops ; yet I failed
to see even a single one.

The woods were very dark when I reentered
them ; and because a mist was gathering, I sup-
pose, the light that straggled through the inter-
twined branches of the trees was not diffused but
solid like pillars, and I thought of the ghosts of
those trees that once stood here : ghosts of oaks
and beeches and stately liquidambars, compared
with which the present trees were pygmies. Stand-
ing in these pillars of misty light, the forest was
very dark beyond their boundary, and passing into
the unlit woods these same lights seemed not to
cast any shadows, but to illuminate themselves
alone. It was a cold, cheerless condition that I
had not found before ; one that made the darkness
visible but could not dissipate it. I was glad to
reach the wide, open meadows and to know that
the river was not far off. The moonlit meadows !
There 's music in the very name! Mist, as I
stepped upon them, was rising from all the damper
portions and rolling its filmy waves over the pas-
tures. Not an outline was distinct ; yet there was
light enough to dispel all doubt. The brilliant
38

motes of tbc 1Kf0bt

golden bloom, sunflowers of several kinds, and the
yellow tick that grows on every bank of ditch or
brook, were now in mourning. The blossoms ap-
peared almost black in the hazy atmosphere, but
this was the only uncheerful feature. Everywhere
the air trembled with the songs of insect life, yet
loud as was the sound made by these busy millions,
it did not drown the coarse cry of the herons that
flew by me. I startled two that had no expecta-
tion of being disturbed. I could see where they
settled by a deep ditch, and walked more care-
fully, that I might watch them feeding. These
birds have acute hearing as well as excellent vision,
and it required some care to reach a commanding
outlook, and not be discovered. This I did, how-
ever, and was well repaid. What a superb bird in
these commonplace corners of the country is the
great blue heron. I supposed that they were all
quietly at home at this time of the night, but this
pair were wide awake and seemed as much at
ease in the moonlight as when, at noon, they stalk
like sentinels the muddy banks of the creek or
skulk among the reeds and wild rice on the river
shore. The birds before me were feeding, but
what they captured I could not tell. Their stately
figures cast grotesque shadows on the still water,
and their actual movements were ludicrous as I
saw them, the birds being inky black, and the nar-
row necks not always discernible, though the
head and back were.

39

motes of tbe Uttgbt

At irregular intervals one and sometimes both
would thrust their heads into the water, and I
could see the silvery -tipped ripples on the surface
when they withdrew. At times, miniature clouds
rose up and, floating by, obscured the birds wholly
or in part, and then, as the white mist disappeared,
the herons would raise their wings as if to fly, and
look thrice their real size. It was as if they shook
the moisture from them ; but I doubt if this were
true. Then, as I too had an errand, not at but
over the ditch, I walked leisurely forward, and the
birds again rose, but high in air, and after circling
over me for some time, flew toward the woods.
I trust they had had their suppers before I last
disturbed them. I hoped while near this spot to
hear the bittern boom, but it was too late in the
season, and the birds have been gone for some
time. During the early summer a single bird took
up its quarters much nearer my home, and I could
not only see it often, but was daily entertained by
its strange utterances. Why the bird had no
mate was a constant source of wondering, but none
came hither, and not until late in summer did my
bachelor bittern vacate his lonely quarters. I
saw no other herons this night, but it must not
be supposed that only the true night-herons are
likely to be met with after dark. The whole col-
ony that nested in a sink-hole in an upland field
were often very late in leaving the meadows for
the last time, even when there was no moon.
40

•Rotes of tbe 1FU0bt

Crossing through bushes that have grown
breast-high on a neglected tract, I still heard the
rattling squeak of the night-hawk, and saw sev-
eral, or the same bird many times. They are
crepuscular rather than nocturnal, as a general
thing, but the warm air to-night, although so
late, kept insect-life on the wing, and so the mos-
quito-hawk remained abroad. Here, as usual,
the habits and food-supply are closely linked,
and as the latter varies continually and in differ-
ent localities, it is not strange that observers
differ a good deal.

As there were no cattle grazing here to-night,
I was the most conspicuous moving object on
the meadows, and I wondered if I was watched
as I had been watching. Whether so or not,
it was with no real pleasure that dark objects
before me would suddenly disappear, as if
crouching in the weeds, and no more show
themselves. It was in every case probably a
trick of the shadows, but, then, how can one be
certain of this ? To be shoulder deep in a dense
jungle of stout weeds and thinking, at the same
time, even of impossible danger, is not calculated
to increase one's interest in moonlight; but it was
then as bad to retrace my steps as to go forward,
and at last, with a feeling akin to relief, if not
actually that, I stood on the shining, sandy,
pebbly beach of the river. I reached the stream
near where Peter Kahn, the Swedish naturalist,
41

motes of tbe 1FU0bt

one hundred and forty-six years ago, was be-
calmed, and lay awake all night because of the
whippoorwills and frogs. Neither were noisy now,
and the ripple of the tide, where a few pebbles
checked its flow, was the single sound that I
heard. It was apparent that my coming had dis-
turbed all lurking life that happened to be near,
and I stood quite still until confidence was re-
stored. The unanticipated occurred. The first
sound was that of a dog growling uncomfortably
near, and then the voice of an old acquaintance,
Bill Pullen, the hermit fisherman. Nothing can
please me better than such a meeting by day.
But if he should prove talkative to-night, I was
indeed unfortunate.

"Well, Bill," I remarked, when he had called
his dog away, " I 'm sorry to disturb your fish-
ing?"

" You can't disturb me, as you call it, if I don't
want to be. The world 's big enough for both,
I guess, and if you can keep on your own legs,
I can keep on mine."

It would be hard to say if this was a welcome
or not, but it did not disconcert me. I knew my
man, and stood for a moment watching the play
of moonlight on the water, and then said — how
commonplace we are at times! — "This is a pretty
night for a walk, if you like Nature."

" Well, is there anything better to like ? I Ve
been livin' in my cabin on the island for more
42

•Notes of tbe

than a year, and don't want better company than
what I find. There 's only two things to bother
me: men and lightnin', and which is worst ain't
easy to say."

" I '11 take the hint and move on," I said and
stepped to one side.

" Oh, no, there 's room for both," Bill replied
with a suggestive change of tone and manner.

" Then you contradict yourself," and I made a
second move to one side, as if to continue my
walk.

" Did you ever see the man who did n't ?
It 's this everlastin' sayin' one thing and meanin'
another that made me take to a house-boat for
a change, and then to a cabin on shore. I sell
my fish or game and get what I want out o' the
town, and that 's all the use I have for it. This
livin' alone, as you call it, is livin' with more
company than you can pay respects to, and you
know who you 're talkin' to, which is more than
you can say about town gatherin's. When I see
a snappin'-turtle and his eyes flash fire, he means
all he looks, and you 're a fool to mistake him.
We keep clear, or it 's an open fight, if I 'm after
his carcass. There 's no underhand work, like
your town snappers."

I knew he was right, but was not disposed to
lose my chance of studying the night by idle dis-
cussion about savagery and civilization. I am as
strong a champion of the former as he, but prefer
43

motes of tbe IFUgbt

action to argument. Bill, of course, had been, or
fancied he had been, badly used, but what good
could come of expressing sympathy ? I kept my
face turned away, for the moonlight was growing
brighter and the river more sparkling, hoping he
would soon be talked out. No one heeds the whim-
pering of the under-dog, and I hinted at this, but he
was not to be diverted from his chance to growl.

Not seeing, or pretending not to see, what I
wished, he continued: " You 're right, it 's my own
business, but I can't always keep quiet. Let us
take a look at what 's about us and maybe you
can learn something, just as I 've done by bein'
alone here. Talkin' to your own self is only bein'
in bad company, when you 've got yourself to
blame. If you 're square with yourself, sometimes
it 's talkin' worth hearin'. The river and these
trees and bushes don't hint at things, as you done
just now, and leave you wonderin'. They speak
out, and it 's your own fault if you don't under-
stand 'em."

"What have you learned," I asked incredu-
lously, " by being here alone, that 's worth know-
ing?"

" I 've learned nothin' but what 's worth know-
in'. There 's more out o' books than in 'em, as
there 's more in the ground than out of it. If
what you get by keepin' eyes and ears open is n't
trimmed down and spruced up to suit your town
folks, you know it 's the genuine article, and you Ve
44

motes of tbe IRfgbt

run no risks o' bein' swindled. What you see
from the excursion boats that go snortin' up the
river is all on the outside o' things, though the
folks don't seem to know it and go home talkin'
like the parson ; and that 'minds me I was guide
once for a man who thought buyin' a gun made
him a hunter; but when the rub came, there
was n't a rag left to cover the feller. Of course,
he shot every duck he took home, and never
heard o' Bill Pullen. You can't cheat Natur' by
puttin' on airs. It don't always happen that a
man 's left money and brains too, more 's the pity.
He can't buy one with t'other, and it 's t'other
that tells in the long run."

" Did you come here, Bill, just for the satisfac-
tion of getting at Nature at first hand, or only to
get a harvest to carry to town ? " I asked, trying
to bring his wordy discourse to a close.

" If I 've got to live, what in thunder 's the rea-
son I can't live in my own way, and think ac-
cordin' to my light ? I ain't treadin' on my neigh-
bor's toes or gettin' my elbow into his ribs; so,
no offense; but what brought you here, if you
don't like it, and at dead o' night, too ?

"Oh, I came out of curiosity. The world
looked so strange from my windows that I wanted
to see what it was really like," I replied.

" You came out o' curiosity, and I guess you 'd
better go back to it. Stay in town, and when the
sun goes down, stick close to a lamp-post."
45

motes of tbe

I laughed at his suggestion, as it might readily
be misconstrued, and then interrupted him by say-
ing, " I live in the country, Bill, as you know very
well."

"Yes, live in the country, but the country
does n't live in you," Bill retorted with a chuckle,
and he had said a good thing.

It was humiliating to find that I could learn so
much from this unlettered aristocrat of the marshes.
Here was cranky Bill Pullen, as my neighbors
called him, telling me wholesome truths; for his
words, though a bit wild at times, were weightier
with wisdom than with nonsense. He was, in
fact, not merely a hunter and fisherman but a
" natural " philosopher, and showed how true it is
that freedom of action is freedom of thought, that
freedom of thought is freedom of expression, and
what is this but the very best of our literature ?

Bill, at last, had had his say, and seeing that I
looked about for a seat, he gathered an armful of
rushes and twigs, which he wound about his arms
until they were interlaced, and then handed me a
cushion soft as the patriarchal mosses of old woods.

" The river ain't the same all the year round, in
the moonlight or daytime. It 's somethin' more
than the water in its channel," remarked Bill, after
some ten minutes of silence.

" So I was thinking when you spoke, and I wish
I knew just what the difference is between now
and last winter, for instance. It 's something
46

flotes of tbe

more than ice and snow instead of water and green
leaves."

" Think it out for yourself, while I go look after
my traps, and get ready for bed, too, for I don't
sit up all night like an owl," and Bill left me to my
meditations, without further ado.

Perhaps it may be that I was growing sleepy
and did not realize it. It was late now, and
would be nearly dawn by the time I reached
home, and these thoughts doubtless dulled my
observing power. The river was not strange to
look upon. The sparkle was losing its dulness,
and my mind wandered to what had been, an ex-
cellent evidence of decaying strength. The in-
creasing indistinctness of the waterscape led me to
recall the brightness of every object seen in the
springtide light ; and a word here concerning this
light of the new year. During the closing days
of February it may be very cold or an ethereal
mildness may prevail, but whether it be the one ex-
treme or the other, there is a marked difference in
the sunshine. There is greater actinism now, if I
understand the physicist, and this means the chem-
ical force of the sun's rays is more pronounced.
But if this were the sum and substance of the mat-
ter, what comfort would the rambler get ? Naked
facts are thrust upon the world from the labora-
tory, but nature drapes them daintily before pre-
sentation. What concerns me is that a little cedar
on the other side of the river stands out to-day as
47

motes of tbe

it never did in January or June, and for me it is a
sign that spring is coming. Does the chickadee
know about actinism, but by another name ? To-
day there was no midwinter cheer, delightful as
this is, in the wee bird's call, but a suggestive, an-
ticipatory ring that brought up a vision of the first
flowers of spring. The season may be weeks upon
the way, snow-bound and all that, but the sign of
the cedar will remain. The horizon will remain
as clearly outlined as does the tree that towers
above me. I have faith in this springtide light
that knows no wavering; this kindly light of a
promise that has never failed.

And so, too, has the life about me like confi-
dence. Even now, sheltered by last year's leaves,
are swelling buds, and frogs are astir in the warm
waters of the throbbing springs. This clear, white
light is a happy medium for sound, and the whistle
of the red-bird has the ring of a silver bell. The
gentle hint of bud and bird to enjoy in anticipa-
tion should never be disregarded. Not that, in
nature, realization falls short of expectation, as is
almost the usual course of human affairs, but why
not get a double measure of blessing, if we can ?
There will be many storms and much snow and
ice, it may be, before we see a green leaf, but these
cannot dim the magic light or blot out the cedar
that stands upon the river shore, signaling that
the world awaits the coming season.

This light is no fancy of a fevered brain, to
48

flotes of tbe 1Ki0bt

which our eyes are really blind, nor is it a feature
of but a part of each day. It is present at day-
break and as the mists roll away ; for they do roll
over and over until out of sight. The earth has a
strange look. The surface of both land and water
follow the mist, or at least move slightly upward
and come more distinctly into view. Fancy some
huge creature turning over on his couch and toss-
ing away his blankets. The world is wide awake
at daybreak, and though the robin was not here
to-day, there was no lack of announcement. The
song-sparrows that so gallantly defied the winter,
and sang even before the coming of the spring-
tide light, sing now with greater joyousness. Other
birds, sturdy songsters that came last autumn from
Canadian forests, still keep to their roosts or only
peep out to scan the promises of a sunny day. At
last, the sun rises, changing the pearly dewdrops
to brighter gems, adding a little to their glory be-
fore destroying them. This magic light is not
destroyed but intensified at sunrise. The level
rays of the sun have a fashion all their own, and
how few have marked the strange shadows that
are cast. That of a tall tree-trunk before me is
now moving its way toward the western horizon,
while the branches are yet in unsunned light. A
quickly passing phase, this, of the many-sided day,
and likely to escape notice, but not so the light-
tipped buds of the maple. Ruddy, though the
day be dark; but now, how each dull bud becomes
4 49

motes ot tbe

a ruby ! Through the night, the syrupy sap has
been oozing, and the frost has crystallized it. What
confectionery ! I have eaten frozen maple buds,
and they are sweet.

The ravine, thick-set with rhododendrons and a
squatty hemlock growth, vainly resists the rising
sun's attack. I can see now a long alley of light
that leads to some dripping spring cave in the
colored clay, and for a brief moment its secrets are
laid bare. But the sun is no laggard. He travels
faster now than at noontide, and is up and ready
to peer down upon us before we realize his journey
has begun. Time flies, but the sun goes bounding
from a catapult, and this first act of the diurnal
drama is little more than a quick scene-shifting;
and few are the actors, and fewer still the words
they speak. There is matchless quality, though ;
and songs at sunrise, when birds are the artists,
linger longest in our minds. It is the magic
springtide light that quickens our every sense, and
for once at least brings us in full sympathy with
the fresh new world.

The month passes, and all that we have confi-
dently predicted will be found to have been made
good. March accomplished more than merely
blowing out the old and in the new ; and in this
same light, now heavy with overcrowding of sights,
odors, and sounds, we have, in April, fulfilment.
The buds are now blossoms, white as the driven
snow, ruddy as the blushing rose, fragrant beyond

of tbe

compare, and all bathed in the clear springtide
light, that trembles with the melody of merry-
throated birds.

But although all through April there was the
hum and buzz of activity, yet few comparatively
were the visible workers. The prying sunshine
found its way to the innermost nooks of every dark
ravine, and flooded with a pale shimmer the
thickets, even where the greenbrier was tangled
until almost a solid mass. There was everywhere
evidence of the progress of some mighty work, yet
had some forlorn mortal from a barren land
chanced upon the scene, he could not have told
you what was under way. To me it was an old
story that I have heard and seen played for many
a year, yet the novelty is as pronounced to-day as
when I first stood and wondered if the opening
buds heard the rejoicings that greeted sunrise when
the year was new.

To be able, in age, to greet with the delight of
childhood the cycling of the seasons should be
sufficient to keep alive the spark of juvenility, even
when the years bear heavily upon us. Who would
willingly lapse into such a state as that which
prompted this outcry ?

Tedious, when Winter roars athwart the main,
To see the same sad tracts of endless snow ;

Tedious to see, when Spring returns again,

The self-same hawthorn bush and cowslips blow.

motes of tbe Uttgbt

All through April the work has been in progress,
and now what of its completion ? Winter's car-
pet of sered leaves is no longer that broad and
brown expanse, suggesting the dead past only.
Where the wild March winds have worn it away
the arbutus glows, pearly and pink, and the linger-
ing snowdrifts have given place to long lines of
bloom as purely white as they. The rank green
grass has pushed aside the black mold winter left in
its path, and the ascending sap, that silently coursed
the maze of the shrubs' tangled branches, has bid-
den every twig to fling out a greeting banner; for
May, the young queen of the coming year, demands
all honor. Even the gnarly oaks, the stately beeches,
and low-bending elms, that stood, bare-armed, re-
sisting winter, yield to the all-pervading magic in
the air and renew their allegiance to the dainty
queen. I would there were one word that fitly
described May and her magic : the word is not
yet coined. But is this all? Have we but the
change from a dead brown to a living green, from
bare twigs to rosy blossoms, over which to grow
enthusiastic ? Are we to grow young again be-
cause the tree-tops are again in leaf and the gray
meadows bright as a summer's sunset ? Is it not
enough — this day-long feasting of long-hungry
eyes, and scented air to breathe ? But May magic
works yet another marvel : sweet sounds succeed
to silence — not absolute silence, but comparative;
for the touch that awakened even the old oaks has,
52

motes of tbe 1FU0bt

thrilled the springtide warblers' throats, and what
a concourse of sweet sounds ! The long avenue,
hemmed in by stately pines, has ever a power to
hold us, though the coldest blasts of winter rush
headlong through it. It is a bit of nature's master-
piece in mere woodland scenery; but when the
south wind breathes upon it, and urges, too, the
early thrushes to return, they are straightway
moved to sing in the marvelous light beneath these
mighty trees, and we know then the fulness of
bird-melody ; and this is but the opening chorus
of the young summer's merrymaking — the second
and greater performance of May magic.

But, wander where we will, we find no partial-
ity shown. There is no neglected spot, whether
in the upland fields or in the meadow, the
gloomy marshes or the river's lonely shore. I
have said the " gloomy " marshes ; they are not
so now. The fairy, with her life-giving wand,
has threaded their hidden paths and awakened
golden bloom of wondrous brilliancy. Not a
recess in any marsh is too remote, and hither
have been led whole hosts of merry warblers, as
bright of plumage as the flowers are gaily tinted.
How well they blend! It is no caprice of a
madcap that brings them together. May's magic
is well considered; and, for the day at least, the
" gloomy " marsh rings with the happiness of
thanks-giving throats.

It is probable that without birds, and indeed
4* 53

motes of tbe 1FU0bt

all animal life, the magical influence of May
would be quite lost upon us. Birds and blos-
soms— they are ever so intimately associated
that either suffers when the other is wanting.
The winter songsters, of which we have so many,
are, in fact, not overmuch given to singing until
well after the holidays, and it is in early Feb-
ruary when they ring out those wild choruses
that sound so strangely in the naked woods.
Is it too much to say that they are but prac-
tising in anticipation of the coming season ?
Whether this or not, it is now that the spring-
tide light fills the landscape, but with less dis-
tinctive brilliancy, it may be. As compared with
all the coming summer, there is, as coldly stated,
greater actinism now; but does the chickadee
recognize it, but under another name ? In bird-
language, it is May's search-light sent far ahead of
her coming, and it sweeps the rubbish of last year
from the air. It stimulates the birds as it does the
rambler, for vision is clearer now, and sounds come
from greater distances, and nothing of them is lost.

Bill's dog cut short my meditations. A low
but most expressive growl brought me back to
the present, and there was little left of the moon-
light to make clear my homeward path.

" Have you been a-dreamin' ? " asked the old
fisherman, coming up to me. " It 's nearer morn-
in' than midnight, and you 'd better be on the
move, unless you got cats' eyes."
54

motes of tbe

" Good-night," I said, in reply, and with but
the one purpose urging me, I hurried homeward.

Bill Pullen may have thought he had seen the
last of me, and, in fact, he said as much, inquir-
ing of a neighbor if I was " roamin' round with
a fever " ; but I was not so far astray, mentally
or physically, as he supposed. I found him, but
two days later, as the sun went down, and bar-
gained for a boat ride. I wished to sit quietly in
the boat, and be rowed hither and yon as fancy
dictated. He considered awhile and assented,
but I had to pay a good round price. " Nat'ral
fools ain't to blame; but if you play fool, you Ve
got to pay," he put it, and I was engaged there-
fore, as he held it, to play fool by moonlight.

Bill drew the boat upon the muddy beach, at the
end of the island, and there we waited for the moon
to rise. The most intense darkness filled every
thicket on the island-shore, and the tree-tops
blended so nearly with the blue-black sky that
their outlines could not be traced. A slight
breeze swayed them, and, hiding and revealing
the myriad stars, gave the sky a lively motion
that even moved my companion to remark that
the stars were peepin' at us round the corners.
The hum of insects that made the meadows fairly
tremble came softened to a muffled sound, like
the distant thunder of midsummer. After some
minutes spent in idle waiting, nearby sounds came
from every direction, and I would, if alone, have
55

IRotes of tbe

been confused on attempting to identify them.
Here was opportunity to test Pullen's water-
craft, and I put it to the proof. "Tell me, as
you hear them," I said, "what makes these
sounds, croaks, grunts, and whistles."

" So you don't know a duck's whistle, eh ? " he
replied contemptuously. " Well, there's more than
one that can whistle clear as a fife; and then
there's fish that come to the top o' the water and
sort o' splutter. Noises ! why, man, except in the
dead o' winter, you '11 always have noises along
the river."

The rippling of the water under the boat's
stern was music, and what wild imaginings when
some more sturdy matter than a wave struck the
boat's bottom. I did not exclaim " What 's that ? "
at every new sensation, for Bill was sick of his
bargain and sullen. I left him to the enjoyment
of his pipe and private thoughts, for the moon
was now shining above the tree-tops. What ques-
tions I asked, I asked of myself; and if wrongly
answered, there is no one to blame. There's
always satisfaction in that.

For some distance beyond the boat the water
was black as ink ; then a fitful pearly tint showed
where the waves were crested, and beyond the
first real silvering of the water was seen — a mere
shining thread that sank and rose like floating
phosphorescent twigs. Steadily, as the moon
reached nearer overhead, the lights grew brighter,
56

•notes of tbe

and every ripple, save those within arm's reach, was
fire-tipped. Torches innumerable, but no visible
torch-bearers. And now the weedy shores and
scattered trees came creeping into view. Timid,
I fancied, as if wanting to see and yet remain un-
seen, but the moonlight caught them all at last
and pushed them to the front. Now, as never
before, could I see the river by moonlight, and
my half-asleep companion was right, there were
noises on every side, below, and above me. Not
a single sound, save that of the ripples beating
against the boat — each ripple rang some fairy
golden bell — was peculiarly distinct, and in the
midnight air all were strange. Even the notes of
some familiar birds are changed by such sur-
roundings, as the cry of a catbird which enlarges
to the wail of some feline monster. The night-
song of the rose-breasted grosbeak, however, is
even more magnificent than the same utterance
by day. This bird is a poet that appreciates
moonlight, and is doubly inspired when the world
is wrapped in silence. Heard, as I have heard
it, when on a wide expanse of water, every note
is freed from its harsh elements, few though they
be, as it travels toward you, a spirit's voice rather
than one from any material source. And now
came the great surprise of the night — and every
outing to be successful should have at least one
unexpected incident — great schools of fish went
by the boat, and many a shining head with va-
57

motes of tbe 1FU0bt

cant stare peeped at us from the curly crests of
the ripples. Long lines of glittering bubbles were
left behind them, and then these were scattered
by other fish that, following in the same track,
went through the same performance, a greeting
of glassy stares and beady bubbles. These fish,
old Pullen said, were mullet, and I knew by that
name he meant a small sucker — a catostomoid
of the ichthyologists — that was found in all our
waters, even to the meadow ditches.

I have spoken of the bubbles of air left in their
wake as they passed by the boat. It was easy to
detect a faint, sibilant, tinkling sound made by
the mullet as these bubbles were left upon the
surface, but it was a peculiarly mechanical and
accidental sound of no significance. A distinctly
vocal note is made at another time of year, not
unlike this, but undoubtedly an utterance, and
not an accident. Made in the same manner,
perhaps, but I think not, but certainly made for
a given purpose, and in all essentials an inten-
tional call to others of its kind, the movements
of the fish indicating this quite conclusively.
Such traces of voice in fishes are nothing new to
naturalists, and I roused Pullen to discuss the
subject from his point of view.

" Have you ever heard that fish make noises ? "
I asked.

" Sturgeon can grunt and big catfish squeak,'*
he replied.

58

notes ot tbe

" But do they make these noises of their own
accord," I asked, " or only when they 're caught ?

" Both," Pullen said, very positively, " but they
ain't just alike. Any critter will squeal when you
hurt it, even a fish sometimes, but what I 've
heard when the fish was n't meddled with was
clear squeakin' 'cause they wanted to." And then,
after a pause, he continued, " You can often hear
a run o' fish, when there ain't any other noise,
makin' a sound that ain't just splashin' the top o'
the water. I ' ve heard big fish, out in the meadows,
makin' a hummin' sound."

" How do you know it was fish and not frogs?"
I asked.

" 'Cause I know what sounds other things make,
and when I 'm in my boat and hear what nothin'
else makes, it 's fish. What else could it be ? "

"Perhaps somebody was asleep on the bank
and snoring," I suggested.

Pullen was fairly roused by this skeptical ques-
tioning on my part, and exclaimed impatiently !

I will not repeat his monosyllabic reply. The
old man was right. I knew this; but careful
questioning is very necessary sometimes to get at
the facts you wish, held in the grip of these un-
scientific naturalists. There is a tendency to over-
statement that may mislead, or of understatement
that leaves you in the dark. At least a consider-
able number of our fishes have what we may
rightly call voices, and may it not be that if we
59

notes ot tbe

had more sensitive ears we could detect the
utterances of the small fry that crowd the shallow
waters literally by the millions ?

Fish of several kinds passed by, and occasion-
ally a silvery perch or rockfish leaped into the
upper air, shone brilliantly as a meteor for an in-
stant, and was gone. This sudden disappearance
into the black depths brought many a thought to
the foreground. What of these depths ? This long
river bed for centuries has been before our doors,
and for thousands of years before our homes were
built, yet no man can be said to have seen it.
What strange processions pass to and fro, from
the broad sea to the narrow mountain brooks and
return. The highway of another world than ours,
that we pass over and plough through, that we
choke and defile, and yet never see in its entirety,
never learn one tithe of the secrets it holds. We
may pass a lifetime on the banks of a river and
meet with as many novelties during our last days
as we did at the beginning. Because, years ago,
I had found every fish down in the books, I as-
sumed to know all about the Delaware, but now
I find little flatfish, a marine flounder, common
away up in the freshest water, and sometimes
they wander beyond the reach of tides. There is
nothing of this in any book that I have seen, and
one of those closet pests, a book-naturalist, says I
am mistaken. Let the fool slide. And what may
not be true of other forms of life from the deep
60

ot tbe IRigbt

sea ? I can imagine smaller fish wandering miles
from the bay and yet escape detection ; and we
know how large creatures like the porpoise and
seal often come, and I am assured that a shark
has been seen more than one hundred miles from
salt water. Here in our river valleys and the
river's bed is opportunity for field work that will
change the complexion of more than one hand-
book of zoology.

River-beds are not our only unexplored terri-
tories. Who has ever covered even so much
as the ground of his own door-yard ? Never a
day but we are compelled to ask questions, or
would ask them were we not content with our
ignorance. I have sometimes questioned whether
the widespread indifference to nature is not
telling evidence of an enfeebled intellect. Not
that with this indifference man or woman may
not fulfil all of life's requirements, but the fulfil-
ment would have shown out with greater bright-
ness if, coupled with strict attention to duty, there
had been an enthusiastic love of what, besides
ourselves, constitutes the world. A few hundreds
of men and women huddled in a city, breathing
foul air and the sweat and smoke of a thousand
chimneys, may hold as nothing all that lies be-
yond the limits of their daily lives ; but that out-
lying " all " has greater reason to hold them in
indifference. What a contradiction, when we hear
a man or woman extravagantly admire a land-
61

Betes of tbe

scape that has been cunningly put upon canvas,
and yet express a distaste for the very country
that the canvas reproduces. Such people, it
seems, hold it an insult to be told that they are
silly, perhaps with reason; but they are silly,
nevertheless, and I fling the assertion in their teeth
here, as I have done, time after time, to their
astonished faces. Let them disprove it if they
can, and then will be time, and time enough, to
reconsider my decision that indifference to na-
ture indicates a mind lacking an all-important
feature. Love of the out-door world is as es-
sential to a perfectly rounded-out character as
strict adherence to the commands of the Deca-
logue. It is an eleventh commandment; not
least though last, and, though the one most pleas-
ant to obey, the one most generally disregarded.
In spite of the facts, we are even told by these
indifferent folk that man should have higher aims
than a love of nature. As if we could climb a higher
mountain and look down on heaven. Not all the
strange stories get into the newspapers. A woman
recently remarked to a friend of mine that she
was surprised at her giving so much attention to
birds, and flowers, and nature generally, regretting
she had not higher aims in life. When I heard it,
I wondered what manner of woman it was who
could make such a remark, and was a little curi-
ous to meet her — at a distance, for this would
lend enchantment to the view ; but when I learned,
62

motes of tbe

indirectly, that she had said there was a lurking
danger of atheism in the study of natural history, I
gave her no further thought, for such a creature
deserves consideration only from the missionaries.
If men or women of this sort abound, what are
our teachers about, for these unfortunates were
children once and went to school to be instructed.
I have never met with nature-hating people and
speak from hearsay only, but how to be pitied are
those who daily meet them ! I can scarcely im-
agine such phases of humanity — distorted, if not
diseased — but in comparison to those I do meet,
such creatures must be very like caged canaries, a
pitifully poor apology for our native song-birds.

The most exciting effect seen on the river this
night was the wake left by some creature that held
its head well above the water. I thought at once
of snakes and the muskrat, and finally, to satisfy
myself, roused Pullen for a decision, and he sug-
gested an otter. This was so improbable that I
ventured the opinion it might be a mink. It was
beyond our vision's range before we had quit dis-
cussing the animal's identity, and while gazing
after it regretfully, I detected the creature heading
toward us. It was a thrilling moment. The black
dot came rapidly nearer, and the widening wake,
like diverging lines of silver chain, reached out un-
til lost in the outer darkness. I almost held my
breath as the unknown swimmer came within an
oar's length, and then Pullen and I, at the same
63

motes of tbe

moment, exclaimed "Snake! " I was terribly dis-
appointed, as I had hoped for an adventure, and
asked my companion if we were right. " That or
an eel," he replied, " and snake most likely." I
accepted the decision and was about to say some-
thing of the large water-snake of our river valley,
when Pullen exclaimed, " Look out there ! " and
pointed to the other side of the boat, which lay in
shadow. There on the oar was the snake, resting,
and in the dim light I could just make out that it
was one of the largest.

" How big do they grow, Pullen," I asked; "as
long as the oar ? "

" They 're only that long when they get in the
papers," he replied, and I could hear him chuckle
deep down in his throat.

" Are you afraid of them ? " I then asked, in a
tone suggestive that I was, though I am not.

" No, man, they 're all right. What have you
been doin' all your life not to know that ? Seems
to me you don't pan out much when you 're out
o' your house. What 's the matter ? "

There was no use in explaining, and I was
greatly relieved when a sudden puff of wind came
from off shore, which roused my sluggish com-
panion so that he shook the oar and drove off the
snake. I did not venture on further questions, but
breathed in the rich odor of the ripened leaves —
treasured sunshine of long summer days — brought
to us by the breeze, and with it came, I am sure,
64

•Note* of tbe 1Rtr»bt

a few sweet notes of a wood-thrush, some migrat-
ing minstrel dreaming of the dead summer. I
forgot the moonlit river when I heard this song. I
made a cushion of whatever was available, and, ly-
ing on my back, looked up at the moon and the
fleecy clouds that passed by and over it, and
thought of wood-thrushes as I had known them in
the days gone by. I could picture every nook and
corner of the farm where I was a boy, and again I
went after the cows at sunset, passing along the
narrow path among the hillside oaks, along the
greenbrier thicket that few birds even could pene-
trate, and then out into the open meadows to the
lone hickories where the cattle congregated at
noontide. There was not a bird of all that country
that I did not know. The chewinks scolded as I
neared their nests, the song-sparrows chirped an
alarm as I approached, the peewees rose to the
higher branches in the tall trees, and how the cat-
birds fretted ! I was not their enemy. I had never
robbed their nests, and yet they were all sore afraid
for the simple reason that I was a boy, and they
had cause, they thought, to mistrust me on general
principles. A little later, when I came trudging
back, loitering long after the last cow had passed,
there was one bird that had confidence, and young
as I was, it held me by its marvelous song, — the
wood-thrush, tn the gloaming, when the woods
and every field were deserted by man , when the
tireless songsters of the sunny day were all wearied
5 65

notes of tbe

and worn out, then the thrush filled every lone
pathway with its sweetest notes ; sweet yet sad, a
song of one who had loved and lost rather than
happy with its listening mate. Loitering still, I
would watch the songster until it was too tired
even of such music as its own, and dived into the
tangled thicket for the night.

I recalled the breaking of many a dewy spring
morning, when, while the unfolding leaves were
dripping and scarcely a swallow had ventured
into the murky air, this same thrush had already
shaken the moisture from his nut-brown wings and
sang as if sadness were a thing unknown. And
how I lingered at the meadow gate, those juicy
spring mornings, listening and wondering with
wide-eyed surprise that the world should hear so
little of all this woodside melody. Could it be
possible that this bird was singing only for my
pleasure ?

I remembered the first of the nests of these
birds that I had seen, in the old apple tree near
the kitchen door, and with what excitement I saw
the four blue eggs in their rude cradle of dead
grass. I could still feel my grandfather's finger
clasped in my hand, as when he led me to the
spot and lifted me well up that I might see ; and
how still we stood when the bird began to sing !

Never a year since then butj have watched
for the coming of the first thrush in spring ; never
an autumn that I have not marked their departure
66

motes ot tbe IFUgbt

with regret. We read with feelings akin to envy
of the nightingale ; but let us be thankful that the
music of a wood-thrush has been vouchsafed to us.

My pleasant thoughts were interrupted by old
Pullen calling out, " Ain't you never goin' home ? "
I had not thought of such a thing, and on exam-
ination could not discover that I was sleepy. In-
deed, the thought of a rather long walk over lonely
meadows at such a time was not pleasant to dwell
upon, and I asked, " Can't you stay a little
longer ? " " Got to, I s'pose," he growled, and
sank into his corner like a surly dog.

A moment later, a kingfisher passed over us.
There was no mistaking the bird's flight, and there
was no need for the bird to announce its coming
by springing a rattle, as it does in broad daylight.
Do they often fly at night, even when light as it
then was? I could learn nothing from Pullen.
This bird, it would seem, entered as much into
Indian folk-lore as its cousins have figured in
European legend. Its strong beak has been found
in graves, with other trinkets, and there are songs
and stories about it in the Lenape tongue. I
have since had opportunity to inquire as to the
kingfisher's habits, and find a difference of opin-
ion. One miller was positive the birds at his
pond were active on moonlight nights; another
said he never had seen evidence of this. My
suggestion that he never particularly noticed them
or any birds was met with an indignant denial, and
67

Wotee of tbe IRuibt

I found Mm well posted as to all the birds of his
pond-side. Be it as it may, the kingfisher I had
seen came again over our boat, and, startled by
my shouting, uttered its characteristic rattling
cry. As schools of minnows continually rippled
the surface and then spread out in every direction
when frightened, it seems quite probable that a
kingfisher could see to seize one by the light of a
full moon. But I did n't see my kingfisher do
anything of the kind.

Pullen now insisted, and with reason, that we
return, and seating himself at the oars, he rowed
me to the point of our embarking and bade me
" Good-morning " with a tone full of unexpressed
meaning, adding something about " the toughest
job he 'd ever tackled." I was glad to be rid of
him, and yet the walk before me was not pleasing
to anticipate. It was long after midnight ; every
cricket even was quiet, and my own footsteps were
all that I heard. It was growing dark, too.
Clouds were gathering from all points and threat-
ened to soon enwrap the moon. I quickened my
pace, and, familiar with the ground, made good
progress until the weedy, tangled meadows were
reached. Then my steps were stayed. I stumbled
at times and was well nigh out of patience when
a marsh-hawk flew up directly in front of me. I
could see its long tail, white rump, and stretch
of wings ; and I watched it for a moment, wish-
ing then, if ever, that I had the power of flight.
68

of tbe 1FU0bt

When the bird was gone, I continued to think of
it and hawks in general, rather than my uncom-
fortable journey, and the path was smoothed by
so doing. In short, I let my legs and instinct find
their way home, while I busied myself with other
matters.

It is not until the end of August that the
hawks become noticeable. Even the little spar-
row-hawk that nests in hollow-trees and, if
looked for, is to be found all summer, is not
conspicuous when the trees are in full leaf
and acre after acre of idle fields is breast-high
with weeds. In June, and later, I see many
more of them along the river shore than inland;
but now, when there is a hint of autumn in the
passing breeze, I see the swallow-like blue-gray
hawks, three kinds of them, darting over the
wilderness of wild rice, a terror to the gathering
reed-birds and huge flocks of redwings. Later,
the great marsh-harrier sails majestically over the
mucky meadow, and sweeps the tapering points
of the wild grasses and dull-gold growths of the
heavy sedges. The sparrows rush madly about,
and seem too terrified even to chirp. Still later,
on the dead limbs that project above the sur-
rounding tree-tops, the black hawk and broad-
winged buzzard appear, ever on the watch, and
usually very difficult to approach. Many a per-
son, strangely enough, will pass by and see no-
thing of all this; but why so blind as not to
5* 69

motes ot tbe

mark the stately red-tailed buzzards, when they
come in force, and all day long sail in the upper
air of bright October days ? These are not all
our hawks; but are they not quite enough?
One great merit of these larger species is that
they localize themselves. They select their out-
looks, their roosting-trees and their hunting-
grounds, and become so far a fixture of the
landscape that I sorely miss them if disturbed,
as I would miss the old oaks, the hillside, and
the meadows that they haunt. With such wild
life about us, we do not miss, as we might other-
wise, the so-called sad change from summer to
autumn. It is a change, not from activity to
quiet, from expanding blossoms to matured frui-
tion, but rather a change from one form of ac-
tivity to another. From the songs of nesting
birds, we have passed, not to silence, but to the
exultant screams of wilder life that is not harsh
and out of tune, but chords with the sterner
aspects of a year rapidly maturing, a change
from merry childhood to the realities of adult
life. For one, I welcome every hawk I see.
They represent a thrilling phase of life that none
but a sluggard shuns.

And when the wide landscape is as a sheeted
ghost; when the bare trees bend to the north
wind's bitter blast, and the river rolls its still,
resistless tide beneath an icy fetter that it fails to
break; then, with what joy to mark the wary
7P

motes of tbe

eagle in its flight, to see it swoop resistlessly
upon the quarry it has marked! We feel our
limitations at such a time, and the regal bird's
demoniac laugh is, for us, a veritable cry of defi-
ance. Brag as we may, man has yet great
strides to make before he can claim the perfect
freedom of such birds as these.

I am glad that a petulant little red owl greeted
me as I reached the hill-foot. It was perched on
a low limb of a small ash sapling, and wheu-u-u-
u-ed at me as a little dog might bark when I rang
a door-bell. It was perhaps a complaint at my
intrusion, possibly a welcome ; but protest or as-
surance of its gratification at my arrival, I paused
to reply by lamely imitating its notes. My good
intentions were not appreciated, or else were
misinterpreted, for the owl sank into the depths
of the wood's thick darkness, and I was again
alone. I was now so near home that the feel-
ing of loneliness was gone. Although there was
yet a dense wood to pass through, I thought no-
thing of this, it was all so familiar, and I rather
rejoiced at an opportunity to test the pathfinding
faculties of my hands and feet. I could see no-
thing now. While I loitered with the owl, the
clouds completed the sky's veiling, and it was not
comparatively but absolutely dark. No cunning
vision of owl or cat would have availed now.
I readily found the end of the path and shuffled
along ; but every pebble proved an obstacle, and

motes of tbe U*f0bt

while sure of my footing, I was continually col-
liding with branches that should not have been
across the path. I soon gave it up, although I
had but a few rods to go. I struck a match, and
directing the feeble light about me, found I had
taken the opposite direction and was going to-
ward my neighbor's, not my own home. A few
wax tapers soon set me aright, and without acci-
dent or incident I reached the garden gate.

At this hour, before dawn and long after mid-
night, how very silent was all the outdoor world !
Every insect was quiet, and not a creature of
higher grade, I fancy, was astir. Had I placed
my ear against some rotting log, I might perhaps
have heard some blind grub toiling where light
never comes. Elsewhere the world was at rest.

Thou art a grand artificer betimes,

O hearty Winter, in thy sterner moods ;

Guide me to building of as worthy rhymes

As thou hast wrought in these wild solitudes —

The rugged landscape, where the bleak ice piled

Fills the lone vale where summer sweetly smiled.

Read " lines " instead of " rhymes," and we have
a fitting prayer, for who can aptly describe the
frozen river, or even the tamer ice-clad meadows ?
What the latter are, under a covering of snow,
we have seen, but there is a great difference be-
tween this and acres of smooth ice in like position.
The absence of repelling whiteness is a relief. The
72

motes of tbe 1FU0bt

one-time flowery pastures under a snow-bank are
too suggestive of the marble at the grave of a
friend. Now, it sometimes happens that these
familiar meadows, over which I could pass and
re-pass forever, are first submerged by the waters
of a January thaw, and then winter, reasserting
itself, checks the return of the flood by trans-
forming it into ice, crystal-clear and bright blue
by day and black as ebony by night. In the
light of the full moon of February, I have walked
over this polished floor for several miles, know-
ing the locality only by the protruding trees
and bushes. Then, if ever, we have a new world
wherein to wander. The sky, except immediately
about the moon, is intensely blue, not black, and
the stars are golden ; but as we see them repeated
beneath our feet, the reflected sky is black, and
stars silvery. No floor of marble or mosaic was
ever half so beautiful, and the play of light and
shade when the wind blows is very striking. The
long black line reaching from the root of a tree
outward indefinitely across the ice bends and
straightens, twists and turns, and with such un-
certain, jerky motion that you get the impression
that the ice is itself in motion. At first, as we
observe the trees and bushes that reach above
the ice-plain, we have a feeling of pity for their
apparent helplessness, but I think it more sugges-
tive really of rest. The wind moves their branches
a little, but not in the lively way of leafy days,
73

motes of tbe

and you think of a person turning about when
asleep, or moving an arm in response to some
impression due to dreaming. An ice-incased tree
is like the uplifted trap-rock that, not far away,
towers up from a level meadow several feet above
the surrounding plain. Their rest implies silence,
and this is true of them, save one. The shagbark
hickory has not one tongue within, but a hundred,
that girdle it about, and they are never idle
tongues. If they do not repeat, they at least
sound the notice that something has transpired.
Not a breeze can steal on tip-toe by, but one or a
dozen tongues will rattle the secret, and when the
wind sweeps down from the uplands, charged
with a chilly message to the low-lying plain, the
hickory tongues "ring out their delight in the
startled ear of night." Often have I been misled
by this strange sound of the pendant strips of
bark as they clashed with each other and struck
the sturdy tree-trunk. Is it the frozen sap in
the wood, or the empty vessels only, that makes
trees in winter so musical ? There is a ring to
many of them, in intensely cold weather, that is
almost metallic. Trees vary in this respect. I
know a tall ash without a branch lower than forty
feet from the ground that rings like a bell when it
is struck suddenly ; while an oak near-by, gnarly
from the roots up and all branches, tied with
a scrap of bark, gives forth no resonance. I
am speaking of trees that are frozen — so very
74

IRotes ot tbe 1FU0bt

frozen indeed that they often crack open with a
report like a rifle shot.

When intensely cold, however bright the moon
may be, wild life does not care to ramble over
the wide expanse. There is the good reason for
this that no pursuing animal has a chance to con-
ceal itself, and the creatures liable to be attacked
can see every suspicious object. I have often
wished that a fox might chase a rabbit while I
looked on, or even a weasel amble after a terror-
stricken mouse. All this is common enough else-
where, but not on the ice. As the water recedes,
there are left huge cakes of ice resting against the
trees and along the top rail or wire of the fences.
Warm houses are made by the uptilted masses,
though usually very dangerous ones for men to
enter. Here life finds shelter, and by accident
I discovered that in a thicket of greenbrier quite
roofed over by ice cakes hundreds of snow-birds
and tree-sparrows roosted. Some preying animal,
too, made the same discovery, and there was
soon a great mass of feathers and small bones
scattered about the dead grass. Meadow mice
nibbled the bones, and I suppose a weasel killed
the birds. We can imagine a great deal of inter-
est transpiring under the ice, now that the water
has gone, but it is difficult to witness any of it.
If by day, when the sun shines, you look through
the ice, you can see where animals have been,
but not where they are ; and at night, if you put
75

motes of tbe

a lantern under the ice, you frighten everything
off.

Occasionally, if not extremely careful, you are
treated to an experience, at night, that may have
a ludicrous or a painful termination. The sloping
of an area of ice may be considerable, yet the ap-
pearance is that of a dead level. You step with
confidence and suddenly you find yourself sliding.
Any struggle will surely throw you off your feet,
and if you steadily slide down, down, you find
yourself moving with increasing speed and have
no idea of where you will bring up. This fright-
ens you, or did me, when I slipped into a crack
about two feet wide, but finding my feet touching
the meadow, I felt that I was safe. In many a way
in this life it is easier to slip in than to creep out,
and so I found that wide crack very ready to ac-
cept all comers but not willing to assist at their de-
parture. I had nothing to clutch at that I might
draw myself upward, and my struggling tended
rather to deepen my footmarks in the yielding
mud. At first I was disposed to laugh; then
growing weary, I began to look more seriously at
the situation, seeing no way out of my predica-
ment. Why for so long a time it never occurred
to me to walk along the crack to some other
point, I do not know, but the idea came at last,
and a friendly stick upon which I managed to get
a foothold enabled me to lean far forward on the
ice, and gradually I crawled out.
76

motes of tbe

Such conditions, lacking adventure — and wild
life is rarely seen here at such a time — soon be-
come tiresome. We lose ourselves in our own
thoughts and forget where we are. The fantastic
finger- work of frost is not detected as we pass by,
or very rarely.

On my return I found the satiny seed-vessels
of dioscorea resting upon the ice. Feathery frost
was adhering to their angles, and these, catching
the moonbeams, glistened like jewels. It was a
pretty sight, but not so charming as these same
objects resting on the frozen crust of snow, for at
times, like the crimson and black fruits of autumn,
they hold on until winter is well nigh spent.

The imperious north wind speaks with pre-
cision. You obey or suffer, and no time is left for
hesitation. I heard the shrill threat of yet greater
cold, and hurried homeward, careless of what came
after I was beyond call. After ! There are some
small words so full of meaning that they forever
overflow, and you never see them, but they are
dripping with suggestion. " After " is one of them.

After the seed-time, the harvest ; after winter,
spring ; after summer, autumn. After the day, the
night, and now, reversing the order, after the
night — these long nights out of doors, nights
of moonlight and of darkness, of heat and cold,
of sound and silence — what of the busy day ?
Much or little, as you choose to make of it.
And at last, what time " Night lets her sable
77

motes of tbe

curtain down and pins it with a star," when we
turn our backs upon, not half the world, but upon
the whole earth, is it into the blackness of this
night or into the brightness of the star that we
enter ?

There is none to answer for us. It is the fore-
most problem of our lives, and one that we alone
can solve.

When (Brass 10 (Breen

THE great storm of the igth, 2oth, and 2ist
of May, 1894, was a source of immense de-
light. It did me no damage, and it was scarcely
over before I saw a great volume of water creep-
ing up the creek, and crowding over its banks.
This was an old but ever new story ; we were to
have a freshet on the meadows. Spade-foot
toads and all the varieties and commonplaces of
the uplands were straightway forgotten, and to be
afloat where but the day before I walked was,
as ever, the acme of enjoyment. Now there were
no inaccessible places, and I grinned spitefully at
the quicksands that have so often dared me to
approach them. They were effectually bound
now, and I was their superior. It is so easy to
be brave when there is no danger. And now,
what of the country after the storm ?

It is always necessary to know what has been,
to appreciate what is. The present and the past
are linked, though we may find no trace of the
79

liiaben (Brass is (Sreen

connecting chain. Nature, after the storm, is not
always to be likened to Venus rising from the sea;
May, sometimes, with her dripping locks, is not
fresh, but bedraggled, and there is a shudder in
the landscape, as there is in us on rising from a
plunge in cold water. It was so to-day until the
fitful sunshine warmed the birds and trees, and
then never was the world so beautiful. While
freshets cover a good deal of ground, they un-
cover many a secret of the earth and air.

I found purple martins in abundance in one
wooded corner of the marsh, now a lake;
knowing of no martin box very near, I looked
for their home, and, while not quite sure, believe
they were nesting in a great gum-tree, in which
I know are many hollows. Perhaps I may fol-
low this up and make sure later in the season.
But I did find the beautiful white-bellied swal-
lows and their nests. Single pairs were occu-
pying old, downy woodpeckers' nests in dead
birches which grew in a swampy meadow that is
impassable when the water is at its lowest stage.
How tame they were! My boat touched the
tree, while the birds clung to the entrance to
the nest, or perched upon the top of the dead
and limbless tree- trunk. The light, as reflected
from their glossy backs, was very brilliant, and the
birds, tree, and water made a beautiful picture.

There is a wide-spread impression in my own
neighborhood that the white-bellied swallows
80

TWlben Grass is Green

were discarding their tree-nesting habits and
associating with the bank-swallows. I was not
surprised when I first heard the suggestion, but
do not now incline to think it correct; but cer-
tainly the two species are often most intimately
associated.

The marsh-wrens were all excitement and mirth.
The storm could not disturb them, and their sing-
ing was as incessant as the lapping of the little
waves upon the sides of the boat. They, too,
were tame, and it is one of the charms of bird-
music when we feel that birds are welcoming us,
and not scolding because we intrude. A tame
wild-bird is one of Nature's masterpieces. No-
thing else that I have ever met has given so
much pleasure, and proved so suggestive.

Floating to other points, I came by chance
upon a favorite corner, where birds are always
found. The redstarts — miniature orioles — were
there in abundance. Being so small, when half
hidden in the leafy woods we may overlook
them, but they showed to excellent advantage
as seen in the waterscape. The land is too
often a sober background with which they blend
too closely; but every one of the redstarts, with
the glittering sheet of water behind it, was to-day
as brilliant as an oriole.

A word, before it is forgotten, of an oriole in
the uplands. In full view of my front door, a
splendid full-plumaged male has been busy build-
6 81

TRUben Grass Is <3reen

ing for several days. He is a bird of faith, for
I have seen no mate near him; and a bird of
energy, for the wind gives him a deal of trouble.
The unfinished nest is at the end of a long
branch of a sycamore, fully forty feet from the
ground, and so slender are the supporting twigs
that the slightest breath of air sways them vio-
lently; yet with all this hindrance, for such it
must be, the bird is tying threads and weaving
strings, and at the same time, to balance him-
self, has to spread both wings and tail when a
puff of wind threatens to turn the structure inside
out. Once at least the bird has lost its temper.
In stamping down the bottom of the nest — for
so I interpreted the movements — one or more
long strings caught in the bird's claws, and he
could not shake them loose. I thought the nest
would be torn to pieces, and it certainly was
rather ragged and woebegone when finally the
oriole was free. How he scolded! The chirps
had a twang of profanity about them, and when
at last he darted off, it was to a cool thicket on
the hillside, where the provokingness of inani-
mate nature was probably the subject of his
meditations. I saw the bird no more that day,
but "time at last sets all things even," and the
next morning the damage was cheerfully repaired.
Suddenly the scene changed, and the black
clouds gathering overhead made even the open
.country dark ; but it is no great misfortune to be
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TWlben <3tas0 is <5reen

caught in the rain. I sought shelter under a tall
tulip-tree, and while toying with its beautiful bloom
listened to the patter of rain drops on the tree's
large leaves. Much has been written of the rain
upon the roof, but finer music is that of the pat-
ter of rain-drops upon the leaves, and they af-
forded all necessary shelter, too. The wooded
hillside was behind me, and a lake of a thousand
acres before. Whether I looked landward or
waterward, there was an embarrassment of riches,
but I found the rain itself of peculiar interest. The
surface of the water was unchanged. No trace of
a dimple could be detected, .and yet the big round
drops fell with force and a steady rattle upon the
foliage. Over the meadow there was but a fine
mist that had to be felt to be realized.

It was at this time I noticed the drowned-out
life that was floating about in most disconsolate
manner. Beetles and spiders were fellow travel-
ers on many a twig, and one poor toad was the
picture of despair. Just as we associate frogs with
water, so the toad belongs to dry upland, with its
hot highways, where the dust is seldom laid even
by the dew. But toads can swim well, if they
need, and have no dread of water, but they draw
the line at an in voluntary bath. People have curious
ideas concerning toads. They do not come down
from the clouds ; never believe the statement that
they do, even if the narrator says he saw it. Such
people see without reasoning, and what appears to
83

TKHben (Brass is <3rccn

happen is not that which does occur in the toad-
world any more than in human affairs. Then we
hear much of toads that have been hundreds of
years in rocks and come out alive when released.
Look the other way and laugh when you hear
this. It might be dangerous to laugh in the nar-
rator's face. I speak from experience. " Do you
mean to call me a liar ? " the man asked excitedly.
"No," I replied. " Well, you look as if you were
doin' a mighty sight o' thinkin' in that direction."
And the man was right.

Our common toad is a very quiet and most
useful creature, and if not to be commended for
looks, has the undoubted merit of a good voice,
for I have never heard any one decry the " song "
of the toad as it rings out over the meadows and
along our creeks, during the evening, and often,
when the days .are cloudy, from morning until
night. I will not attempt to describe it; let this
be the reader's work during the coming summer,
for work it will prove, to accurately put in print
what the toad, or any frog, or even the peeping
hyla says or sings. Animal voices are to be stud-
ied when the animals utter them, and there is no
field work better adapted to test all our faculties
than what may be called " voice-hunting," or fol-
lowing some one sound to its source and positive-
ly identifying the creature. Toads vary their voices
somewhat, and have a knack, too, of ventrilo-
quizing, and you may find the animal a hundred
84

IUJlbcn (Brass is Green

yards or more away from where you located it
when you started on your hunt.

This is what Professor Cope says of them, and
all to the contrary may be set down as false :

Dwellers in the country are familiar with the voice
of this species in the early spring, which is the season of
the deposit of eggs. These are laid inclosed in a long,
thick-walled tube of transparent albumen, secreted by the
walls of the oviducts. These tubes lie in long spiral
strings in the bottoms of the ponds where they are depos-
ited. The young hatch out early, and are of a darker color
than those of others of our Salientia (frogs and toads).
They retain the dark color till near the time of the comple-
tion of the metamorphosis. This takes place at an earlier
date than that of the Ranse (frogs), and the completed
young are scarcely as large as those of the Hylae (tree-
toads) or of the Scaphiopus (spade-foot toad). The voice of
this species may be heard well into the summer. It is a
sonorous ur-r-r-r-r-r, which may be readily imitated by
whistling while one utters a deep-toned vocal sound ex-
pressed in the above letters. Individuals differ in the
pitch of their notes, but a chorus of them has a weird
sound well befitting the generally remote spots where they
congregate, and the darkness of the hour. When not thus
engaged, they often take up their abode beneath the door-
step of the farmer's house, and'issue in the evening to se-
cure their insect food. They progress by hops, and only
walk on very rare occasions.

So far, my friend, Professor Cope; but toads
are quite as abundant in villages and towns as
in the country. I have seen them in the open
"squares " of Philadelphia more than once,
and they are not unknown in the yards of resi-
6* 85

Wben (Braes 10 0reen

dences in all our large cities. I have found them,
too, very far from any human habitation. They
are quite indifferent to the nearness or remoteness
of man, and ask only for food and shelter. To me,
their cry, when a number simultaneously utter it,
is inexpressibly melancholy. It reminds one of
the Ah me ! and Heigh ho ! of very old people,
who are indulging in unpleasant retrospection.

I put the forlorn toad in my boat and after-
ward placed him on the remains of a muskrat
house. This had been intact until very recently,
but now the freshet was working its destruction.
Placing the toad in a dry spot, I circled about the
house, recalling a day last winter when I came
here on foot.

The day was perfect. It has been said that the
darkest hour of night is just before the dawn, and
so, too, the brightest days forerun the storm. This
is where weather folk-lore has kept within reason.
The day was beautiful, and as the mucky meadows
were smoothly covered with thick ice, I rambled
all over them, forgetting the possibility of air-holes
and the course of the swiftly running brook, that
keeps fairly open in mid-summer, although rose-
mallow, pickerel weed, and lotus crowd its banks
and extend into its channel. Now, as I looked
across the wide expanse, there was no green thing
save the dark cedars on the high ground beyond :
but here and there as I looked down through the
ice I could see the waving masses of utricularia or
86

Wben Grass id Green

bladderwort, but with no tiny fishes, tadpoles, or
mosquito larvae in the utricles. I did see a poor
turtle that some infra-crystic disaster had ousted
from his winter quarters, and a few slowly moving
fishes. Here was indeed enough to have kept me
all day abroad, but I had a settled purpose when
I started, and that was to visit the huge domed
muskrat house, a miniature haystack, that pro-
jected nearly four feet above the ice. The occu-
pants built it as long ago as last November, but
until now I could not get very near it. It was
made of short sticks and masses of frost-bitten
vegetation taken directly from the marsh, and as
nearly as I could determine was some ten feet in
diameter at the base and about five feet high.
There were no signs of the muskrats, of course,
and I did not let my idle curiosity go so far as to
break open the roof to catch a glimpse possibly of
its tenants. Not far off were three others of these
houses, but none so large.

Muskrat houses figure in folk-lore, and I have
been told again and again that when they are
built it means a hard winter, and vice versa. My
own experience, to date, leads me to conclude
that a very wet autumn and high water leads to
their construction, and they are not made when the
weather is warm and the marshes comparatively
dry ; but I doubt if there is any rule in the matter,
and others who have made continued observations
may have reached quite different conclusions.
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TKHben Grass is (3reen

As this over-full May-day wore on, I began to
wonder what was to be its prominent incident, for
as yet I had been but pleasantly entertained, and
nothing that smacked of adventure had occurred.
I had not long to wait. Soon there was a violent
agitation of the water in a distant meadow, and I
knew that some strange creature had at last ap-
peared upon the scene. What could it be to
lash the water into a foam ? Even if the sea-ser-
pent or a giant octopus from the Atlantic, I was
willing to meet it, and made my little boat fairly
fly over the flooded meadows. How I fancied
strange creatures and strange adventures ! What
wonders I was to accomplish, and yet armed only
with my oars ! What a fever of excitement I
worked myself into — to find a dozen or more
stranded carp !

It was a melancholy ending to my anticipated
victory over something worthy of capture. They
were sluggish and frightened fish, and of course
could be readily picked up. It would be well to
take one home, to show the family ; but my views
of the matter and those entertained by the carp
seemed to differ. They neither permitted my
picking them up nor offered any opportunity to be
knocked senseless by an oar. They were not fools,
but I felt like one. How much easier it is to
measure your neighbors than to correctly estimate
yourself.

Daylight ended, as usual, all too soon, but there
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(Brass is <3reen

was a wealth of beauty in the brief gloaming.
The dimmed light gave the meadows the appear-
ance of a misty mirror ; for the muddy waters were
now at rest, except in the wake of my boat. Rest-
ing, I thought, after a tumultuous trip from the
mountains, and regaining strength before journey-
ing to the sea. So much for fancy, but there was
a fact that I recalled. The quiet waters were
slowly depositing the soil they had brought from
the hills ; lowering them and building up the tracts
of pasture lands that skirt the Delaware for many
miles.

II

UNDER no other circumstances can the outdoor
naturalist see so much and so satisfactorily as when
in a boat ; not some puffing, crowded public affair,
that plies up and down the river, but when alone
in a row-boat of his own. I say " little," for the
smaller the better, as the best things in the matter
of wild-life are so apt to be in the half-hidden in-
flowing brooks and vine-embowered bays that have
scarcely any inlet from the main stream. These
inland creeks are all treasure houses to the natu-
ralist, though barren wastes to those unfortunate
people who have no taste for the scattered rem-
nants of the world still left as nature designed
them.

Those who have ever reversed a spy-glass, and
made near-by objects look as if a mile distant,
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Grass is Green

have much these same conditions when standing
on the creek's bank and looking over the water.
Then, all the world 's out of reach ; but in a boat
every object is close at hand, and there is very little
that escapes us. Another important fact is that
wild life is less timid when we are sitting in a boat,
and permits nearer approach than when we attempt
to draw close by walking or creeping. A boat is
the naturalist's third hand, and better than all the
legs of a centipede.

I left the landing while the day was young, leav-
ing to chance what port I should make, trusting
any point at which I should touch would prove
a snug harbor. The tide was running out, so I
started up-stream, pulling against the current while
my arms were fresh, but before going many rods
it seemed all unnecessary, and I said : Why not
here ? Why hurry past this tree and that meadow
for those that are next to them ? Bottle the mud
on the Smith and Jones farms, and no one is the
wiser, if the labels are changed. If we measure a
mile by its objects of interest, few men have ever
traveled so far.

I stopped rowing and commenced looking.
There were long and narrow avenues up the weedy
marshes, and here and there a track of a meadow
mouse that had come down at low tide to the
creek's edge. Under the water, these tracks were
still plainly visible, and many were centered about
the half-decayed bloom stalks of the beautiful
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lilUbcn Grass id Green

goldenclub. This plant made a superb show
early in the spring, and, being one of those culti-
vated by the Indians, has for me an added interest.
There may have been in their day some method
of cooking the root that we white folks cannot
guess, but the goldenclub is a failure in modern
kitchens.

What an endless procession of strange living
forms pass by, when we gaze into the still waters
of a remote creek ! I say " remote," for the stream
that has a factory on its banks has too often no-
thing in its waters. Here, where I am afloat to-day,
manufacturing has not reached. There is a saw-
mill a mile or more away, but no saw-dust clogs
the current here, and the more distant grist-mill
only asks aid of the water, and does not repay its
kindness with a flood of filth. Indeed, about the
old saw-mill the fish love to congregate, and at the
foot of the race-way the troubled waters are often
glittering with the silvery fins of a minnow that
shines like metal. But here, with marshy mea-
dows and a swampy forest to hem me in, the
creek has greater attractions.

Here comes a mud-turtle. As we look upon
motion, this creature is clumsy, but it does not
find itself hampered by awkwardness when there
is reason for agility. Its paddle-like feet can do
excellent service when the animal desires to swim,
and how the mud flies when it sees fit to dig. To
be sure the mud is very soft in the bed of the creek,

Grass id <$reen

but the turtle often has occasion to suddenly dis-
appear; and, too, without roiling the water or
leaving much of a trace of its whereabouts. In all
this, it succeeds admirably j so completely, indeed,
that unsuspecting prey is often seized and given
just enough time to wonder what had captured it.
This particular turtle scattered a great host of little
minnows, not attempting to catch any of them,
but looking for what matter of food had at-
tracted them. So, at least, I interpreted its pur-
poses. Finding nothing, it started off and met
another, not of its kind, but a turtle that has the
merit of gay decoration, and so is known as the
painted one. These two creatures looked intently
at each other as if they questioned each other's
right to be there, and, human-like, I hoped for a
fight, and was disappointed. It is not always so.
The huge 'snappers occasionally get into a row^
and there is a grand commotion. I have known
battles commenced under water to be continued
on land.

The water turtles probably are not as long-lived
as the quaint box tortoise of the upland fields.
Some years ago I found one that I knew was over
sixty years old, and since then have had given me
the particulars of another instance where a turtle,
marked in 1812, was in the possession of a grand-
son of the man who marked it ; the animal being
alive and about as active as half a century ago.
The snapping turtle, of course, grows to be very
92

lUben Orass is Green

old, but we have no chance of determining its
rate of growth.

The turtle-bones in Indian refuse-heaps suggest,
however, that some of the smaller species of water
turtles were of larger growth some centuries ago
than we now find them. Probably they were less
persecuted, for the number of species that now do
duty as Baltimore terrapin, unknown to the pa-
trons of restaurants, is very considerable.

The aquatic chelonians, as the naturalists call
them, recalled a patriarchal box tortoise that I
recently came across. A close inspection proved
him to be no very slow coach, after all. I watched
every movement as he crawled by me, and he pro-
gressed, I found, at the rate of nine feet per min-
ute, stopping frequently to take observations. This
is at the rate of a mile in less than ten hours, and
what may not be seen in the most commonplace
mile ? How closely this tortoise scanned his sur-
roundings !

I followed in a very few minutes and found him
still traveling in a direct course, and was just in
time to witness a funny scene. The steep bank
of a deep ditch had been reached and the tortoise
was contemplating the outlook. It was too abrupt
a descent for ordinary crawling, and to go in search
of a more easy crossing seems not to have been
thought of. At last, leaning over the edge as far
as possible, the creature withdrew into his shell
and sent himself, by a sudden push with his hind
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©rasa is <3reen

feet, head over heels down the incline and landed
on his back. Recovering from the shock, if there
was one, there followed a struggle to place the
roof of his house skyward, and, this accomplished,
the tortoise carefully surveyed his new surround-
ings. I wondered if he had a sense of direction,
or would attempt to climb the bank he had just
tumbled over. There was some hesitation, or
what appeared such, as if the tortoise was study-
ing the matter, and then it began to climb the
bank, which was less precipitous, directly oppo-
site where he had fallen over. Was this acciden-
tal or intentional ? I think the latter. The whole
manner of the tortoise seemed to indicate it, and
it certainly had one guide, its own traces, where it
descended to the bottom of the ditch. We know
so little of the mind-power of the lower animals
that it is always difficult to demonstrate anything
conclusively, and, unfortunately for the good of
compararive psychology, the eager out-door nat-
uralist is only too apt to overestimate the men-
tal capabilities of wild life. I thought, too, at the
time, what a happy way to cross our lives' deep
ditches, if we could but put it in practice. Shut
ourselves within ourselves, roll over, and trust to
luck. But how few have sufficient confidence to
do this. Half our lives we tremble on the bank
of a dry ditch and then turn back in despair.

To lean over the side of the boat and peer into
the depths does not prove tiresome. There is al-
94

TDdben (Brass 10 <5reen

ways a changing scene, and when one form of life
passes on another is pretty sure to promptly take
its place. When the fishes do not flash by, per-
haps a mussel will come slowly creeping along,
and how very few people have ever seen this
"shell," as they call it, deliberately pick itself up
and take a walk. It leaves a well-defined track
behind it.

Something fierce enough in appearance to make
you draw back, if it rushed suddenly toward you,
is the giant water-bug. It is boat-shaped, some
three inches long and looks as fierce as it really is.
They feed not only upon other insects, but fasten
themselves to fishes of considerable size and liter-
ally worry their lives out: an animal of no im-
portance destroying one of value ; something we
see going on all the time, but I suppose giant
water-bugs have their right to live, even their
mean, tyrannical lives. We cannot but admire
their agility, however, and this is their single merit.
They have the knack, like some people, of gain-
ing the applause of the gaping crowd, of being ad-
mired by silliness, but, never heless, despised by
common sense.

But what of the land near-by ? My neck did
grow a little stiff looking in one direction so long,
and I glanced over the meadows for a change.
The blackberry thickets were all abloom, looking
like lingering snow-banks, and what a concert
among the birds ! I heard a dozen distinct spe-
'95

TKflben (Brass is Green

ties singing at once. Of course the trained musi-
cian would have shuddered and talked of discord,
but I am willing to take all such sounds as they
come, and extract their sweets when there is a
chance to recall them; but still I do wish the
great crested flycatcher were mute, and the rob-
ins a little less noisy. These latter are so like
tiresome people we meet, who are heard the more
the less they have to say. Conceited people never
admit that silence is golden.

The prominent birds of the landscape, just as I
looked up, were those beautiful little finches, the
indigo birds. There were five in full view, and
every one was singing. I recognized them entirely
by their voices, for look as I would, from this point
and that, I could detect no blue color. It often
happens that what we would say were conspicu-
ously colored birds, such as this one and the car-
dinal red-bird, are really plain and blend with their
surroundings. It is, I think, the yellow and white
or the jetty black birds that can never be mistaken.
Has the red or blue feather a trick of so turning in
the sunlight that its brilliancy is lost? I have
seen a redbird look black as ink, and the blue-
bird as dingy as a sparrow.

There is excellent opportunity for original work
in this study of animal coloration. Much has been
done, it is true, but then the authors who have
treated of the subject have not come to quite the
same conclusions. This is good reason for the
96

Wben (Brass is <5reen

young naturalist making his own observations and
reaching his own conclusions. I have long be-
lieved that fish and some batrachians have this
matter of their color under control, but careful
experiments by others contradict this; still I am
not convinced, and it is this room for suggestion
that gives such zest to natural history studies.

Ill

I HAVE sometimes wondered what Thoreau would
have had to say had barbed-wire fences been run
here and there through Walden woods. We know
what a picture is before us whenever he mentions,
however briefly, a New England stone fence.

This villainous invention is everywhere about
me, and probably nothing is so fatal to a ram-
bler's enthusiasm as to leave bits of his clothing
and an occasional drop of blood on a jagged
wire, when just starting out for the day, at four
o'clock in the morning. But why not wait
until broad daylight, when even the woods are no
longer dark ? I have been asked this silly ques-
tion scores of times, and my answer has been short
and sharp as the barbed wire — " fool." If the
dawn has features all its own, it is my business to
be astir that early, as I want to know the day's whole
history. In this case the whole loaf is eminently
to be preferred, desirable as half a loaf may be.

The principal reason why so few people see much
7 97

IKHben Grass is Oreen

that is going on about them is because they are
only present at the finish, and abed at the start.
Wild life is indifferent whether mankind sees it or
not ; or takes care that it shall not be seen. The
beast and bird have a preference for sunrise over
high noon, and for moonlight over sunshine, and
take no pains to inform their arch-enemy that such
is the fact. I learned the truth by accident, and
so mean to be abroad, whensoever I choose, as
early as the dawn ; and when I can I will cut the
wire fences whenever they cut me. More than
one man blames his bull, or some loafer, and I have
the added labor of keeping a straight face.

If too early, the most that you can do is to wait,
but too late can never be remedied. I was not too
early, though it was not light. The clouds in the
east shut off the rosy dawn that I had wished to
see, but near objects were not obscured. I have
mentioned an oriole who made for himself a nest
under many difficulties. His troubles have not
yet ceased. The storm beat his home so badly
that no mate would share it with him, and now a
pair of king-birds have located near by, and are
trying to steal the material of the oriole's nest for
one of their own. They do not succeed very
well. The materials are too closely interwoven,
and no amount of tugging at them seems to dam-
age the nest as a whole ; and then the oriole ob-
jects. In the dim light I saw a battle between the
king-birds and the owner of the abandoned nest.

IClbcn Grass is <3rccn

It was more than a "scrimmage." Much scream-
ing and shrill alarms, it is true, but blows were
freely dealt, and the king-birds were worsted.
Then what a song of victory on the oriole's part !
I thought I knew its vocal powers well. It has
often roused me from coveted sleep in the early
morning, but to-day it would have waked the
seven sleepers had they been in the township. This
before sunrise, and I hoped the battle had been a
decisive one, but it proved not, and many equally
voluble and sanguinary were fought throughout
the day. Perhaps not sanguinary, but feathers
flew, if no blood was spilt.

Troubles of this kind among nesting birds are
not usual. Widely different species are amicably
disposed, so far as my observation goes, while nest
building proceeds. In the lane, lined with old ap-
ple-trees and maples, there are now nesting the
great crested flycatcher, the robin, the house-wren,
the chipping sparrow, the cat-bird, the warbling
vireo, the purple grakle and English sparrow;
while in a brush-heap very near are a pair of brown
thrushes, and an indigo finch has located in a black-
berry brier. These birds are constantly associated,
and I have not seen the slightest evidence of a con-
flict of interests. Other birds, nesting in the near-
by woods, are continually coming and going, and
there is seldom a moment when some one, two, or
three are not singing, but none appear to scold or
even utter an alarm note.
99

Grass is (3rccn

And how very tame will some birds become,
that are not usually found near our houses. We
expect the wren and song-sparrow to show little
fear ; but during the present summer I was able to
make friends with a redstart and a wood pewee.
I have a settee placed on the very edge of the pla-
teau so that I can see all the meadows below, and
along the hillside at the same time. It is an ideal
spot for a seat and my favorite resting-place. Di-
rectly in front is a cedar, and to my right, as I face
the meadows, an oak. On the former there is a
redstart's nest, and the pewee's nest is on the
latter. At all times of day the birds are busy fly-
catching, and soon learned to regard me with per-
fect indifference. When the redstart began to
build, there was some fluffy material very near the
settee, and it had appropriated some of it when I
happened to commence my visits to the spot. It
was disconcerted by my presence at first, but as I
sat perfectly still, it made a trial trip, and finding
I did not move, gained confidence ; and all the
season through, this redstart (the female was more
shy) paid no more attention to me than to the
trees and bushes about me. It frequently went so
far as to alight on one end of the settee while I was
sitting at the other.

The nest of the wood pewee was rather farther
away, but the bird's favorite perch was directly op-
posite where I usually sat. As I did not drive away
the flies, the bird was not annoyed and soon ac-
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lillbcn (Brass is Green

cepted my presence as a matter of course. Many
a time it flew so near to my face and snapped
its beak so close to my ears that I involuntarily
drew back my head. I think it came to recognize
or distinguish me from other people. A word
more concerning this pewee. It detested tobacco
smoke, and moved to a more distant perch if the
wind carried the smoke from my pipe to where it
usually sat. While, for night after night, I watched
this bird, I kept track of the movements of others,
and found that the pewee stayed up later and sang
longer than even the robin. It continued fly-
catching when the gloaming was well nigh past,
and showed a power of sight approaching that of
an owl.

In the woods at sunrise ! How very different
the same spots appear at the different grand divi-
sions of the day — sunrise, noon, sunset, and mid-
night ! There are few people, comparatively, who
know anything of the first and last of these four
divisions, and yet there is more to be seen and
heard at sunrise than at any other hour. Gener-
ally so, I mean ; for the character of the weather
each day has much to do with it. A steady, all-
day rain makes the whole twenty-four hours pain-
fully monotonous, but not so of a typical June day,
with a misty sunrise; a clear, furnace-heated noon;
a red sunset, and a starry night. We had such
yesterday, and to-day tells the same story. Wild
life finds no drawbacks, and what happened when
7* 101

TIClben Grass is Orccn

the country was young and fresh happened again.
The sights and sounds that caught the Indian's
attention before Penn landed held me to-day, as
I stood under the intertwined branches of the old
oaks, through which the sunlight struggled almost
in vain. Song after song came from far and near,
and every trace of harshness was strained out by
the leaves, the dew-drops, and the flitting sun-
beams. Here is the great merit of the early morn-
ing — freshness ; and we too are well awake, and
every sense is receptive. The birds grew merrier
steadily, and I wondered what species uttered some
unfamiliar note, in more than one instance. I
could but guess, and fancied that there were early
morning notes that no one ever heard at noontide.
Until we reach the truth by accident it is better to
conjecture than to slaughter birds to ascertain a
fact without which we can survive and be happy.
I do not believe that ornithologist would be con-
tent who had fathomed every mystery of the bird-
world. Better to be forever wondering what this
and that signifies, and pass your days in hopes of
discovery. That something new may turn up adds
a zest to every morning walk, noontide meditation,
or evening stroll.

But it is raining ! My pleasant train of thought
was sadly shocked to hear the patter of rain-drops
on the broad oak leaves. Raining undoubtedly,
and yet there is sunshine in the open fields. How
prone we are to jump at conclusions. I was not
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<3ra00 10 (Sreen

standing under an oak but under a wild cherry-
tree, and it was raining down the immature fruit
that rattled wherever it struck like rain-drops upon
leaves. Had I been in my tent and half asleep,
how readily would I have insisted that we had a
shower in the night. The imagination makes sport
of us, at times, when we pose as interpreters of nature.
This may not please us, when its victims, but what
opportunity it affords to criticize our neighbors.

Birds, like men, give way to business as the
day waxes old, and now, although early, the chirp
of occupation took the place of the thanksgiving
song, and the cat-bird whined because the day was
already hot. One little white-eyed greenlet tried
to forget it was warm, and worked itself into a
fever with overmuch reiteration. So, too, the red-
starts felt that they must sing the death-song of
every fly they swallowed ; but the music proper
of the day was done.

It is Thoreau, I think, who, in " Walden," re-
cords :

The Harivansa says : "An abode without birds is like a
meat without seasoning." Such was not my abode, for I
found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds ; not by hav-
ing imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them.
I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly
frequent the garden and the orchard, but to those wilder
and more thrilling songsters of the forest which never, or
rarely, serenade a villager — the wood-thrush, the veery,
the scarlet tanager, the field sparrow, the whippoorwill, and
many others.

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(Brass is Green

Such, I am happy to say, is not my abode also.
. All the birds Thoreau mentions, except the
" veery," are my near neighbors, and others that
do not go to Massachusetts are here also, promi-
nently the crested tit and Carolina wren. Then,
too, I have three pairs of cardinal redbirds near,
and a little heronry within sight. What music
from dawn to dark ! I do not think five consecu-
tive minutes pass that at least one bird cannot be
heard, and far oftener three or four. Even the
little green herons that are nesting in the " pond-
hole," a sink-hole in an upland field, squawk as
they fly over, and such harsh sounds are pleasing,
coming from such a source. To those who have
long been familiar with birds, it is a merit of their
songs that, however humble, they bring up a pleas-
ing picture, recall a thrilling adventure, and bring
back days gone by that teemed with pleasure.
Doubtless a too frequent repetition of any bird's
song, if the creature were caged, would become
monotonous, but what of the association of song
and scene; of song-sparrows and the old garden;
of the wren's vehement twitter and the old bird-
house on the arbor ? These were the prominent
features of wild life that excited my wonder when
a child, and to hear them now is to renew one's
youth. Is it not strange so little attention is paid
to the modest wants of our native birds, and yet
we continually hear the regret that the birds are not
as abundant as formerly. I used to think so too,
but a little care in protecting them was all that
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IKHben Oraas is (3reen

was needed, and now the whole farm is an aviary.
If I have any fault to find it is that to listen to-
any one bird is difficult, so many are singing.

We hear the complaint now that there are no
bluebirds; and even the suggestion is made that
they may be becoming extinct. But what can we
expect ? The blizzards are blamed, but the fault
is largely at our own doors. Who takes the trouble
to kill the pestiferous sparrows and allow the blue-
birds undisturbed possession of available nesting-
places ? And how seldom is the child reproved
who climbs to the hollow in the old apple-tree
"just to look in," as he says. The birds are
frightened and perhaps make no other attempt at
nesting. Blue-birds are not extinct, although I
have not seen one during the present summer.
There is a colony of them on an island in the
river, where they are not worried by imported
pests. What is needed is a vigorous enforcement
of existing laws, and additional penalties upon
those who go about seeking what they may de-
stroy, as " collectors." The landowners are now
at a great disadvantage. If they shoot " collec-
tors " as they would mad dogs and destructive ver-
min, it is sure to give rise to no end of trouble, to
avoid which, the farmer must give up the useful
as well as ornamental birds upon his place. The
law is rotten, through and through.

The chirp of crickets in the weeds by the old
worm-fence was now the prevailing sound, and the
rustling of the dead leaves where a snapping-turtle
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Grass (0 (Sreen

was making her way to the plowed field close at
hand commanded my attention.

How little this cross old dragon thought that her
eggs would make me an excellent meal ; for there
was scarcely a trace of anger in her eyes as she
passed by. Later I found her nest, and the twen-
ty-one fresh eggs neatly tucked away, a foot deep
in the earth, were confiscated.

How strangely and yet not unwelcome sounds a
breakfast bell in the woods ; for I was " in the
woods," and could see no trace of habitation or civ-
ilization from where I stood. But sound has many
a highway not even a bird can travel. The bell
brought many a prosy thought to mind, and trees
and birds and flowers and stones made up a strange
world that I was willing to forget, that I might have
my breakfast. There is a limit to one's enthusiasm,
after all ; and strawberry short-cake is not an alto-
gether poor exchange for the world from which
the berries and the flour came.

Out at four and back by eight o'clock! My la-
bors, if I so elect, are over for the day, and I may
rest, if I will, while others bear the heat and bur-
den of the later hours.

IV

SOMEWHERE in Thoreau's " Maine Woods " will be

found the following sentence: "He who rides and

keeps the beaten track studies the fences chiefly."

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Wben (Braes is (3reen

And how desperately forlorn, forsaken and re-
pelling are the great majority of our country roads.
We hear much, of late, of making them better for
wagon traffic; but how little has been said of beau-
tifying the highways ? and never a word for the
foot passenger, as if he who has no horse is beneath
consideration.

There is so generally nothing to see on a high-
way, as Thoreau intimates, it is necessary to jump
over the fence, trusting you will not be held for
trespass. I leaped a fence recently into an un-
known field and alighted on a snake. Fortunately
the astonished reptile was not injured, and I took
it up carefully, much to its disgust ; but it was pac-
ified at last, and we had great fun. Of course kbit
me several times, but then got tired in both neck
and jaws, and it was my turn. I puffed tobacco
smoke in its face, and how it struggled to get free.
Then I put it down and ran after it, when it would
coil quickly and "play" mad, but it soon saw I
was only in fun, and was really docile. It was a
striped garter-snake, twenty -nine inches long, and
being newly dressed, that is, having recently shed
its skin, was really handsome.

How utterly unreasonable it is to be afraid of
snakes. There is not one chance in a thousand of
encountering a rattlesnake or copperhead in our or-
dinary rambles, and there ought to be a reasonable
probability in every half-mile walk of seeing a green-
snake, gentle, harmless, and beautiful; a garter-
107

©raee is Green

snake, that will run away, if it has a chance, or a
puffing-snake, that will make a great show of fight-
ing, but like many people is a mere blusterer. It
is one of the entertaining sights in nature to see a
huge black-snake glide like lightning through a
thicket of greenbrier.

A word more of this same black-snake. It is a
harmless creature. Do not believe one syllable of
the newspaper stories about their attacking chil-
dren. They are falsehoods as black as the creature
of which I write. We should remember that the
so-called balance of nature is necessarily disturbed
by men's interference. Clearing and cultivating
land is, in a sense, unnatural, and the more this in-
terference is carried on, the more difficult it becomes
to prevent an undue proportion of such forms of
life as are least affected by the changes wrought by
man. Now, the food of the larger snakes is very
largely mice, and that of the smaller ones grass-
hoppers and other large insects, and insect-larvae
or grubs. The farmer knows only too well the
destructiveness of mice and insects, and yet al-
lows the natural enemies of these to be destroyed
whenever found. Snakes should be encouraged.
They do nothing but good, except an occasional
bird's nest destroyed — and the silly nonsense
handed from parent to child concerning them
should be heard no more.

But having jumped the fence and found a snake,
I was not disposed to conclude therewith the day's
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TOben (Brass is <5teen

outing, but kept on my way, ready for new adven-
tures or a repetition of some old experience. I was
not disappointed. Crossing a field that was well
sprinkled with bits of Indian pottery, and so in old
times an Indian village site, I came to a pretty
brook, well lined with tall trees on each bank.

A babbling brook
In a shady nook,
With charm none may resist,
Where the prying sun,
Ere his course was run,
The rippling waters kissed.

I looked for little fishes, silvery minnows or
speckled darters, but found none. From under
one flat stone there darted something that might
have been a baby red-fin. I was disappointed, and
then recalled how foolish was such a feeling. As
if there were no other creatures but fishes in and
about a brook.

I once made, or undertook to make, an anno-
tated catalogue of a meadow ditch, but gave up in
despair. I never saw a brook, whether a moun-
tain stream or a lowland water course, that was
not a museum. There are turtles, snakes, frogs,
and generally the miscalled water lizards, that is,
salamanders. Perhaps no one of these forms is
quite as attractive as a lively fish ; but it is a great
mistake to withhold attention because our first im-
pressions are not favorable. Seeing the creature,
stop always to determine what it is about, whether
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TiXHben (Brass is Green

it is moving or still. Remember it has a purpose,
and it is the naturalist's business to determine what
it is.

Fish or no fish, teeming or empty waters, it was
a beautiful place, and I had scarcely taken a seat
in a cosy nook than a rose-breasted grosbeak be-
gan singing. It is an entrancing song, rivaling
any of our thrushes' best efforts; then a mourning
dove dolorously held forth. This was provoking,
but how like human experiences generally. Sad-
ness casts so great a shadow in the world, gaiety
forever trails her skirts within it. Then a blinking
frog popped his head above the water, and gave
one loud, deep-toned grunt and disappeared. Did
he too express his disapproval of the dove's com-
plaining. To me it seemed so, and I laughed
aloud. This broke the spell, and all the doves in
creation could not have given me the blues. The
grosbeak still sang at short intervals, and, when he
did not, that marvel of restless energy, the Caro-
lina wren, broke in with a shrill " keep it up, keep
it up, pitch in, jolly ! " Truly, of a bright May
day the dove is out of place. My merry-making
friends passed by, and that common scold, the
crested flycatcher, took their place. It was a ter-
rible come-down from the sublime to the ridicu-
lous. Why it should ever attempt to sing or even
to speak with such a voice is a hard problem to
solve. That such discordant utterance can be of
any use is hard to imagine. It sounds like a scoid-
110

(Braes (6 Green

ing or ill-natured fretting aimed at the world at
large, but no bird seems to pay any attention to it.

Where do these birds find the snake skins that
adorn their nests ? A shed skin is not a common
object, likely to be seen in our rambles. I have
found very few of them ; yet until recently I never
found the nest of this bird without one or more.
What sharp eyes the birds must have, or do they
know just where to look ? Then again, why do
they use them ? If we could only go back a few
thousands of years and see what bird-life was in
pre-glacial times, what a flood of light would be
thrown on the bird-mysteries of to-day. Probably
a good deal that we notice now is but survivals of
habits that had meaning when they originated;
just as there are many such survivals in human
customs.

Having dropped out of the procession and not
likely soon to rejoin it, now that I was so comfort-
ably fixed, I fell to wondering what was the most
interesting form of life that I had seen; and a
more unprofitable subject never engaged attention.
To him or her who knows how to ramble, how to
see, how to interpret, this making of distinctions
between one form and another, this having prefer-
ences which lead to prejudice, will not occur. The
insect that slowly crawls across your sleeve may
be to many but a mere speck, but look at it
through a good lens and what a marvel of beauty
and intricate anatomy it proves to be !
in

TKIlben (Brass is Green

Nothing to most of us can be more monoton-
ous than the ceaseless and seemingly senseless
whirling and twirling of the shining black scut-
tle-bugs or whirligig beetles that are as familiar
" as the gurgling brook or the flecks of foam on
its ' golden-braided center,' or the trailing ferns
and rustling rushes on its banks," but have you
ever caught one and noticed that it has two
sets of eyes, so as to look into the water and
out into the air? You have always seen them
skurrying on the surface ; did you ever see them
dive or fly to another brook or pond ? Do you
know they smell like rotten apples ? Do you know
there are twenty-seven kinds of whirligig beetles ?
Which one is yours ?

For half a day I was one with the wild life
about me, and when I returned to the haunts of
men the savage in me was not apparent to others,
but made them, to me, look less noble than they
appeared to themselves. There is many a lesson
that wild life can teach us, which, if we are willing
scholars, will prove greatly to our advantage.

V

LIQUEFY brass by heat and then reduce the
liquid to a yellow gas, and you will have what did
duty for atmosphere at high noon recently. It
was 95° in the shade, on the north porch, and
away above 100° out in the fields. For this reason

112

(Brass is <5reen

I took to the fields, and finding only crickets equal
to the occasion, kept on, and soon plunged into a
ferny thicket with three big oaks and a bubbling
spring. Here the thermometer showed but 88°,
so I had found a cool spot and concluded to tarry.
It was all very well to let enthusiasm suggest ex-
amining the animal life of a field at noon, but to
carry out such suggestions does not pay for the
danger involved. It was hot enough to melt your
brain, and I shall never forget the languid look of
one poor toad that by some cause had been ousted
from his day-time retreat and found it too hot to
go hunt up another. That toad would not hop,
but let me roll him over with the toe of my shoe.
The rattling creak of the crickets sounded pre-
cisely like the crisp crackling of dry twigs in a fire.
What is to be known of open fields at mid-day in
summer, let others tell me.

But the spring, oaks, green grass, and ferns:
these told a different story. Of course the birds
objected to my intrusion, but soon were reconciled.
I sat down and made no demonstrations that
would excite alarm. Curiosity, common to birds
as man, was soon the uppermost feeling, and I
was entertained from the start by a cat-bird, a
red-eyed vireo, a chewink, a yellow-breasted chat
and a pair of song-sparrows. Curiosity was upper-
most in them all, and it was quite evident they
were not accustomed to a permanent intruder. I
will not venture to say how near the cat-bird came,
8 113

Grass is <$reen

because the whole truth in bird stories is too
much for the average reader ; but I was interested
in testing their fearlessness and intelligence, so,
after sitting perfectly still, but watching them by
movements of the head, I changed my tactics and
pretended to be asleep, keeping an eye open.
The bird was puzzled at first, and seemed annoyed
not to be able to fathom the mystery. Nearer
and nearer it came, and when I thought it had
reached the extent of its daring, I gave a sudden
start. The cat-bird gave as sudden a squeak, and
I saw it no more.

Up to this time, the other birds I have men-
tioned were more concerned with their own affairs
than with me, but the cat-bird episode drew their
attention more closely to my presence, and I found
myself literally the observed of all observers. The
vireo, never ceasing to sing, and the sparrows kept
overhead, the chewink close to the ground, and
the chat darted hither and thither, ventriloquizing
splendidly, and so making itself appear every-
where but where it really was. The conditions
were interesting, but I could get nothing out of
it, I being the caged animal and the birds the
spectators. I changed my position and got near
enough the spring to lean over and drink from it
had I chosen. This changed the whole status of
affairs. I had almost sat upon the chewink's nest,
and what a racket was sounded. Never did birds
chirp more loudly, and the chewink now got
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TKHben Grass id <3reen

directly overhead and began a piteous appeal.
The birds from all about (except the cat-bird)
through sympathy joined in, and I was soundly
berated. I moved again, but the birds followed,
and promised me no peace while I remained un-
der the oaks. It was too hot to leave altogether,
and I prepared for a real nap, but this was im-
practicable. Over and above the loudest chirps
was heard an ominous humming as of swarming
bees, and looking upward I saw not bees, but a
cloud of mosquitoes. As a puff of smoke they
had suddenly appeared, and the branches of the
oaks had caught them.

Was I to run for dear life over those hot fields ?
I sat very still, but never took my eyes from the
cloud in the branches. There they seemed con-
tented to remain, and the birds flitted about be-
neath them, but not even the vireo disturbed
them. So long as they kept above I enjoyed their
presence. It was something novel ; but this was
not to be continued. I moved to get a drink;
the birds renewed their clatter, and down the cloud
came. I darted into the open, and used my hat
for a brush, escaping any harm ; but the warmth
of that mid-day run ! The grass was brittle ; the
ground, an oven floor ; and the breeze that passed
by, the breath of a furnace. When I did stop, to my
surprise, an indigo bird flew to the fence post and
sang as cheerfully as though it was after sunset.

It is not a pleasant thought that man, who
"5

"Cdben Grass is Green

prides himself as the head of creation, should be
so very weak and helpless in fact when attacked
by the lower forms of life. His wonderful powers
do not avail much when there are mosquitoes on
the inside of the window screen. Here I was, in a
hot field, in danger almost of sunstroke, with a
haven of rest in full view, and yet I dare not enter
it, because of a swarm of mosquitoes. It was very
provoking, to say the least, and I rather concluded
that man lives not because nature is favorable
to his needs, but really in spite of her. While
thus musing and about to take another start for
home, a little breeze sprang up, and I could see
the mosquito cloud again in the air, so I again ven-
tured to the three oaks and found the coast clear.
Drinking cautiously of the cool waters I was again
ready for the birds, but where were they? I waited
and waited, but there was no sound, except that of
the trickling waters, and the creaking of the field
crickets in the open. I tried an old plan, that of
squeaking like a young bird, and this succeeded.
One by one the birds came back, and looked at
me as before; looked and scolded. It was very
tiresome, but it was too hot to plan new adven-
tures. If I stayed, I must put up with it. But why
had the birds absented themselves at my second
coming ? Was it a plan on their part to deceive
me, thinking I would go away if they were not
present.

This implies that birds have language, and birds
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tKHben (Srass 10 Green

of different species can interchange thought. That
a sparrow should communicate by sound or sign
to another of its kind is nothing strange, but there
are some difficulties in the way when we suppose
a cat-bird talking to chat or chewink; but this
seems to be the truth, at all events. A few birds
in a quiet nook, having no conflicting interests,
might readily develop a simple sign language that
would meet their needs. I looked for the che-
wink's nest, but could not find it ; but the bird in-
terpreted my actions and so too did the others who
were not personally interested, and every one of
four species came, as best they could, to the res-
cue. I respected their feelings and withdrew, but
where was the cat-bird, bravest of all at the out-
set. I could not see him, but just as I was leaving
for home I heard a faint feline cry, and thought it
must mean an explanation to the other birds, it
was so pitiful and apologetic.

But why should we be forever on the lookout for
bird-life in some form, when out of doors ? Is there
no merit in a mammal, or charm in insect life ? I
can recall a pleasant day, not long ago, when I
was entertained wholly by plant life.

Crossing a wide meadow at noon-tide, I was
glad to reach a huge hickory tree that stood quite
alone, yet within sight of a little forest, and on the
other side, the broad, shallow channel of the river.
It was early in May, and the leaves were young,
but the grass was green, the flowers bright, and no-
8* 117

TKRben Grass is Green

where in the wide landscape was there evidence of
anything but youthful, active life. For the new
leaves upon the wooded hillside make the old hills
and gnarly oaks new again. Why, I cannot tell,
but as I rested in the hickories, I heard no birds
and saw no butterflies ; and for a brief moment
was alone with plant-life. I sat upon the mossy
root of the tree, and noticed, by mere chance, that
the bark far above the ground was green ; clothed
with a growth that would have needed a microscope
to detect it, had it not been present in untold mill-
ions of individual plants. A single one is little
more than a single cell, with an infinitely small trace
of the green that nature is so lavish with when she
carpets the meadow and clothes the mountain-
side. All the chlorophyl in a handful of these cells
on the tree's bark would not color more than one
blade of grass ; and yet the insignificant growth is
a plant as well as the hickory that towers just
eighty-two feet above me. What a world of va-
riety between the mould on damp bricks and the
trees! But wide apart as they are, there is no
break in the chain from the one to the other. The
meadow was very uniform in appearance as I care-
lessly glanced over it, wondering what had become
of the birds ; but how common it is to get an er-
roneous impression by contenting ourselves with
careless glances. Nature never rewards a languid
interest in her.

What I called a "grassy " meadow was in truth
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<3ras0 (0 (Sreen

a weedy wilderness. This was very plain when I
took the trouble to scan my surroundings a little
more closely. There were pale blue flowers in
great abundance, the Houstonia of the botanists,
and pale spring beauties, pink and white ; and just
beyond, nodding in the light breeze, dog-toothed
violets, a lily in fact, and over the hedge there is a
ruddy glow that I knew to be phlox. Here we have
half the colors of the rainbow, and yet talk glibly
of the green meadows, as if the red rose and white
lily were myths. But what of the growths between
the green stain upon the hickory's bark, the flow-
ers, and a perfect tree ? I do not know how many
distinct forms of plant-life there are in the world; it
is immaterial. I do know that there is a gratify-
ing variety in this essentially commonplace corner
of a monotonous region; a variety that gives us
blossoms, green leaves, and queer growths for nine
months of the year, and provides us in midwinter
with a series of plant skeletons that are as delicate,
intricate, symmetrical, and beautiful as the orchids,
of which strange plants, one, a huge purple affair,
is now in bloom in the little woods near by. If a
single tree and its surroundings become tiresome,
which I do not admit, what of the little woods just
mentioned ? Every tree in it is a grandchild. That
is, it is a third growth, or the second since the pri-
meval forest was felled by the first white settlers of
this region. An over-practical folk, they had no
ideas beyond dollars, and left no trace of the origi-
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Wben Grass 10 Green

nal grandeur that was convertible into cash, ex-
cepting, of course, the oaks in the meeting-house
yards, and those owe their existence to the fact
that they were almost if not quite a necessity. But
it is scarcely worth the while to scold about our
predecessors, when we are doing so little to pre-
serve what remains of our forests. But this, my
little woods, near by — it contains good examples
of nine species of deciduous trees and four ever-
greens. All are fairly thrifty, and yet one, the sour
gum, has a grievous burden to bear, in the unsight-
ly misletoe that crowds its outer branches. What
a strange freak is this ! A thrifty growth of itself,
it is unfitted for any condition but that of a para-
site, and must have the life-blood of another to
sustain its own existence. We associate in litera-
ture the misletoe and the oak, but here, except oc-
casionally, on an apple tree, I find it only on the
tupelo or sour gum. Why this preference, is a
problem past finding out.

At all times of the year, it is pleasant to be
among trees, whether few or many. It is such an
absolute change from the open country. The first
impression we get upon entering a forest is that of
its silence. The effect may be depressing at first,
but this quickly gives way to wonderment. The
moment we ask ourselves the reason of any condi-
tion we meet, we have taken the first step toward
rational enjoyment. Curiosity, that leads us into
many a scrape in town, is an excellent companion
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lUbcn (Brass is Green

when in the woods. Why are forests so apt to be
silent ? Primarily, because they are comparative-
ly uninhabited as compared with the more open
country. (I am speaking of the woodland tracts
of to-day. When the country was all forested,
the immediate banks of streams and lakes attracted
the greater portion of wild-life.) The few strictly
wood-birds are not noisy species, and open-coun-
try-birds, when in the woods, are not so given to
singing as when they can see in every direction
and have the sun shining directly upon them.
Mammals that lurk in the forest are usually silent
and sleep by day, and wander forth and out of the
woods by night. I have often walked a mile in a
dense woods, and heard only the hiss of a snake,
the hum of insects, or the rattle of loose bark over
which a lizard swiftly darted. A light breeze may
rustle the leaves, a sudden gust may cause touching
branches to creak, and in " the pines " we have
ever " that magic tone awakened by the wind
alone. " But all such sounds but intensify the si-
lence. We long for a sound from the throat of
a living creature, and at last we hear it. Then,
how alert is every sense! The possibly timid wan-
derer becomes an explorer, and we have reached
the flood tide of enjoyment in a forest. Some
strange bird or beast has uttered a cry, and we
would know what manner of creature it was. I
know of no greater pleasure than that of solving
such mysteries. To follow a sound through the

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woods is hunting par excellence, and the game we
bag, if we do bag it, has not yielded up its little life
to satisfy our whim. It is not unlikely the sound
heard was that of a bird, and of some very small
bird at that, but the distinctness of the utterance
suggests larger game. A song, for instance, that
if heard in the open fields would be scarcely no-
ticed, here in the woods fairly fills the air, and is
even echoed and re-echoed down the leafy aisles*
We are not alone after all, and with this pleasing
thought we go deeper and deeper into the forest.
Every sensation is intensified as we progress. Con-
stant expectation renders us more bold, and if we
turn a corner suddenly and find an owl staring us in
the face, or a grouse goes booming away from our
feet, we are not startled, but thrilled with a healthy
excitement.

There is a road through the woods, seldom used
and so should be grassy, but the ruts are lined
with sun-dews instead: grass-like, in a general
way, but with club-head or shepherd's crook end-
ings; but what mischief they are up to when
small insects come their way. The glistening
freshness is sweetened even that it may be more
tempting, and woe to the fly that stops to take a
sip. It is not only caught but eaten! Not all
plants are content with air and water for a food
supply. These sun-dews are carnivorous, and so
is their cousin, the fly-trap, that grows in North
Carolina; but we need not travel so far to find
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IKIlbcn (Brass is <5reen

these flesh-eating plants. The side-saddle flower,
that is a thrifty growth by the pond-side, has an
elaborate trap for flies, and even for the young
salamanders that have been found venturing up
their sides — or was it accidental? — and in the
water of many a brook and pond the bladder-
worts catch fish and eat them. Curious this may
all be, but it is a bit depressing after all, death
figures so prominently, and life is the keynote of
a bright May morning. Glancing about for yet
other forms of plant-life, I spy an enormous grape-
vine, one that has been figuring in all my life, for
I love just as much to swing in it now at fifty as
I ever did at five. Perhaps not quite so well, for
the old familiar faces of forty years ago are now
all gone, and not all retrospection is pleasant.

This grapevine where it leaves the ground, and
for many feet, is eleven inches in diameter, and
how long are the various branches can only be
estimated. I tried such measurement once, but
gave up in despair. I could only mark off one
thousand feet, and the end was not yet in sight.
How these vines climb to the tops of the highest
trees and swing clear of the ground, often for one
hundred feet between the tree and the root-hold
of the vine, is not quite clear, but then who has
traced the process from the beginning to the end?
This grapevine is very old. It was here when
the Indians were in possession ; so much is posi-
tively known ; but how much of a vine it was two
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Wben (Brass is <5reen

hundred years ago can only be conjectured. It is
said a flint arrowpoint was found sticking in it
years ago. Be this as it may, trees are cut down
now at times that have arrowpoints embedded in
their hearts. This is nothing strange. Arrows
flew thick and fast at times in the woods, and that
now and then a sapling should be struck is only
natural. The tree would soon cover the stone
point, and the shaft would be broken off.

One need not be a botanist to find infinite en-
tertainment in plant-life ; and it is not likely we
will ever wander for long where plant-life is want-
ing. Remember that red snow is a plant, and birds
carry seeds in the mud that sticks to their feet;
so, if at sea, a bird might bring you both a plant
and earth to grow it in. Then there are sea-
weeds, one that Bory St. Vincent says has branches
fifteen hundred feet long ; and even if we would
we cannot get away from plant-life, for the late Dr.
Leidy wrote a book entitled " A Fauna and Flora
within Living Animals." It may be a little startling,
but the microscopical anatomist can find out the
trees and bushes that we carry about with us, as
well as many a little animal. I say " we," for Leidy
included man among the animals he studied when
writing the book.

VI

THE heavy dew had not yet disappeared when,

two hours after sunrise, I started for my walk.

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Idben (Srass is <5reen

Every low cedar and spreading bush was glitter-
ing with bead-like dew, and although the summer
has just begun, the autumn cries of many crows
filled the air. The river shore had been much in
mind since the recent flood, but I was not pre-
pared for the changes wrought by it when at last,
after wading and walking alternately, I reached
the island. I had gone across lots, begged ferri-
age over the canal, and now for the first time in
years was at the island's up-river end, where the
elements are forever battling with Nature's effort
to have things done decently and in order. Where
had been grass, was now gravel ; where had been
a woodland tract, were now dead and prostrate
trees. Where had been land was now water.
How very marked is the instability of stable things!
Since the ice age there has been an island and a
river here, but perhaps our great-grandfathers
would not know them now.

Know it or not, I knew it then and there as a
good place for the forms of wild life I wished to
see — " critters only a crank could care for," as old
Silas Crabtree would say, giving me a significant
look.

In the tangle before me : a mass of raw ma-
terial for nature to make something new of, if she
did not unmake it after getting started. This is a
curious fate of many a nook even in this quiet
country.. They are always in a transition state,
the rank growth of poison-ivy, only a few weeks
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(Brass 10 ©teen

old, was the first marvel to attract attention. A
few strands of this dreaded vine had come down
the river, with trees or fence rails, and it was now
again as flourishing as the day it left its home on
the eternal hills. It does not poison me, nor the
birds, so we agreed independently to thread its
many tangles, and I to break it wheresoever I saw
fit. Scrambling is better physical than mental ex-
ercise, and when perched at last on the trunk of an
uprooted tulip tree, I was not in a receptive state
of mind; but fate decreed otherwise, and sluggish
senses were well aroused at catching a glimpse of
a skunk.

I remember once a school composition written
in a great hurry to prevent being "kept in." It
ran thus: "The skunk is a beautiful animal and
'distance lends enchantment to the view.'" My
teacher remarked I had said a great deal in a few
words and let me off. To-day there was no dis-
tance to speak of, and I put myself on my good be-
havior, but was not sure of my near neighbor. He
eyed me very critically for some seconds — hours,
they seemed — and then ran into his snuggery, which
was directly under where I was sitting. Affairs
were critical. I had not quietly walked to my seat
and could not noiselessly withdraw. Would the
dreaded animal resent my scrambling above him
and possibly falling down upon him. I admit I
was a good deal disturbed, and the more so when
the creature's mate came trotting along and, when
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lObcn Orass id Green

very near, similarly questioned why I was sitting
on the roof of their house.

I began the retreat with extreme caution, but
every twig snapped with the report of a pistol.
Quiet restored, I moved a few feet more, and fin-
ally reaching apparent safety, fled for dear life.
When at the river's shore and with bare sand to
run over, I ventured to look back, and the skunks
were just in sight, trotting in the opposite direc-
tion. The truth is they were more afraid of me
than I of them, and had run under the tree and
away as fast as they could. All that I had passed
through was the penalty of jumping at conclusions.
As I afterward learned, these animals had come
down the river during the flood, and were as anx-
ious to reach the main shore as I had been to es-
cape from them, but did not venture to swim a
hundred yards or more.

Breathing freely again and fearing nothing, I
ventured again to scramble over the tangle left by
the freshet, and found something finally greatly to
my liking, a pair of least bitterns. These beauti-
ful birds appeared to have a nest near by, but I
could not find it. They came and went continu-
ally, however, and when they perched on the tree
where I sat motionless, they made a pretty picture.
There was so much attention paid to each other,
and quiet utterance that I could scarcely hear, that
I was sure they were mated, and as these birds re-
main until autumn is well advanced, associated in
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Grass is <3reen

pairs, it is more than probable that they are given
to permanent marriage, like their distant European
cousins, the storks. It is quite certain that many
species of birds are mated for life rather than for a
season, and this obtains, too, among migratory
birds. Of course there has been a great deal of
ridicule heaped upon such a statement, but how-
ever glib the critic, he cannot alter facts ; and not
all the truth about birds is down in the profes-
sional bird-books.

By sitting very still, I was probably mistaken for
a branch of the prostrate tree; at any rate, once
the bitterns came within five feet of me, and I had
my one excellent chance to note them carefully.
They kept up a low chattering hum that seemed
uttered without any opening and shutting of the
beak. One of them had a snipe-like habit I had
not previously noticed. It arched its neck, curved
its back, and slowly elevated and half-spread its
wings. I have seen the yellow-legged tattlers do
this, and recently saw the same movement made
by a female pintail duck, and but for the broad
bill, the bird looked like one of our larger sand-
pipers, such as used to congregate in the salt
marshes of our seacoast. A slight movement on
my part startled the bitterns, and they flew off with
a harsh cry and awkward flapping of the wings,
very unlike their usual methodical flight.

The marsh-wrens next commanded my atten-
tion. They were not far off, and I had but to bring
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<5ra00 is (Breen

my field-glass into use to see them as if close at
hand. Their globular nests fastened to the tall
leaves of the cat-tail were not to be seen from where
I sat, but the birds appeared and re-appeared with
almost mathematical precision. They fluttered
straight up into the air, and while on the wing,
sang a few simple notes that have been very slight-
ingly spoken of. But place and circumstance have
much to do with bird music. Up in your garden
these wrens would be simply chattering; but
among the reeds, as I have said elsewhere, every
note seems a drop of water that the bird charges
with melody and then lets trickle back into the
marsh. As I watched the wrens and listened to
their songs, a larger bird even than the little bit-
tern filled the field of my glass, and so appeared
for an instant to be flying into my face. It was a
curious experience. It was a green heron, one of
the little company that have established a heronry
in a sink-hole in an upland field. I marked its
flight, and made sure of its going there, and then
marked that it was time to follow. I had reached
the island tangle at low tide, and now, where I
had walked, I must wade, and where I waded, I
must swim, or failing in this, must beg ferriage from
some of the patient fishermen near by. I say "pa-
tient," for the man that rowed me to the main
shore admitted that in five hours he had had four
nibbles and one bite, but no fish. He left me to
resume angling. What manner of man is this ?
9 129

Tim ben Grass is Green

VII

WITH a bewitching smile, and sweetly suggestive
tone, Beatrice, with sketch-book and a new outing
gown, looked toward the creek as she said, "I
wonder if it is n't cooler over there among the big
trees." Not even a graybeard could have re-
sisted, and I simply succumbed. What did it
matter if it was 90° in the shade, and I had to do
all the rowing ?

We were soon ready for the start, but I let the
tide carry us, and used the oars but little. While
Beatrice sketched, I looked about in a double
sense; for an excuse to go home and at the trees
along the creek bank. Some of these, may I say,
were wise in their day and generation, in grow-
ing so absurdly crooked that no man's ingenuity
has solved the problem of making use of them ;
and then there were others that have happily been
left by the landowners, until now they tower far
above the stream and may be seen for miles.
There is a shellbark hickory, eighty-two feet high;
an elm with a spread of branches over one hun-
dred feet, and a tulip-tree and ash that have been
side by side for over a century, and are racing still
to reach cloudland. But the smaller trees that
filled every interspace had here a tropical look.
The wild grape and Virginia creeper had climbed
to their very tops, and I spied one tall sapling
that was laden with bright red berries dangling on
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TIKlbcn Grass is Green

such slender stems that they were all a tremble, al-
though not a breath of air was stirring. This was
the Nemopanthes, and I was on the point of call-
ing attention to it, when Beatrice — how like a
girl! — screamed "Oo-oo-ooh!" that brought a
vision of a horned owl. I started at the sound,
and saw her pointing to a little pond by the creek-
side that was thick-grown with lotus. I did not
wonder at her wild antics. It was a beautiful
sight. Hundreds of huge circular leaves, like up-
raised umbrellas, covered the spot, and above them
were superb pink flowers. To think that here, in
a Jersey meadow, the sacred lotus of the East
should be flourishing without the care of man !
Of course we pulled in shore and examined the
flowers more closely. Some one doubtless had
planted a lotus tuber here, or it had stranded here
after some freshet. It matters not, but the musk-
rats had not found it out, and now in the bottom
of the pool was a network of roots that could defy
the destructive rodents.

Once upon a time the native lotus flourished
here, and even was cultivated by the Indians, for
both root and fruit are edible; but the plant has
long been extinct in the neighborhood.

While we were looking at the splendid flowers
a humming bird came near, and buried himself in
the golden heart of each flower, and emerging
shook from his wings a perfect cloud of yellow
dust. Then with a shrill squeak he passed to new

TlBlben (Brass te Green

fields, and soon came back, but at no time
squeaked such unmistakable disgust as when he
attempted to sample the sweets of Beatrice's flow-
er-topped hat. The poor fellow did n't know that
the sweet flower he was after was just under the
hat-brim.

With a boat-load of blossoms we were soon
afloat again, and how valuable engaging conver-
sation may be at times. I talked so rapidly about
what we had seen that Beatrice did not notice which
way the boat was heading until the bow gently
touched the wharf, and suggested by the sudden
arrest of progress that she look up. If I were
not old, I should not care to encounter often such
glances as hers at that moment; but then I am
old, an4 knew that it was 90° in the shade.

But the day was not over. We took the shady,
hillside path homeward, and gathered blackber-
ries as we passed clumps of thrifty briers, laden
with fruit. I began to meditate again about In-
dians and our wild fruit, when Beatrice gave an-
other scream, and I thought I heard the word
" snake." This meant rushing to the rescue where
there was danger, and I rushed manfully, on the
principle that every man 's a sailor when the sun
shines at sea. I found Beatrice, but where was
the snake ? I asked, and she timidly pointed to
the bushes before her. Scanning them closely,
I saw a pretty brown weasel looking directly at
us, and how bright were its beady, black eyes ! A
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Ulbcn Grass is Green

slight movement on my part caused it to dart
away, but we picked no more blackberries. A
weasel is not always so easily driven off. They
have been known to boldly attack men when the
latter were tangled up in bushes and briers. Do
they know that they have us at a disadvantage at
such a time? Their well-known cunning leads
me to think this. Two of them will act in con-
cert and circumvent a ground-squirrel or a jump-
ing-mouse, and so capture prey that would other-
wise escape in many an instance.

We were glad to reach an open glade, with a
huge, spreading chestnut. Here there was a
breeze, and many a bird came hither while we
rested. Though all were familiar to us, they were
none the less welcome, and we wondered why even
a song-sparrow never becomes tiresome. Have
not pleasing associations to do with this ? It is al-
ways nutty October and the painted woods when
I hear the crows cawing ; and if these birds are so
destructive as claimed, which I do not believe,
give me smaller crops and at least a few crows to
perfect the coming autumn days.

" What bird do you like best ? I 've heard you
say a dozen different ones at as many different
times," remarked Beatrice, who is never content
with asking a question simply.

"What bird do I like best? I wish I knew.
It is much like the case of the man who fell in
love with twins, and was all unhappy because he
9* 133

llBlben (Brass is (Breen

could not marry both. A good deal, I think, de-
pends upon the time of day, and your own state
of mind. The rose-breasted grosbeak suits the
early morning hours, the song is so full of life,
hope, and earnestness. It says " pitch in," and
with the song ringing in your ears the day's labor
seems lighter. For me, the wood-thrush is too
melancholy. It is too suggestive of sorrow, too
despondent, and yet we stand listening as if spell-
bound. Such is the contradictory nature of poor
mortal man. We realize this when the cardinals
come from some near-by thicket, and whistle as
they only can. It is * away with melancholy'
with them and with us too. How the woods ring,
and we might almost look for the old oaks to
dance.

" There is another splendid, inspiriting songster
that seems but little known. This is the Carolina
wren. They take to our outbuildings as readily
as the pewee or chimney-swallow to the chim-
neys, and what energy they have. Wren-like,
they are never at rest, and when they sing they
put forth all their strength. I have heard them
when fully half a mile distant, determining this
by actual measurement. This may seem an ex-
travagant assertion, but it is not. Cope says of
the bullfrog that ' it may be heard for a distance
of several miles.' Now sound, of course, travels
far over water, but the wren I heard sent its
voice ringing through a strip of woodland and
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Grass is Green

over a weedy meadow. When the day was still,
I have stood on the bank of the Delaware,
where the river was almost a mile wide, and
heard the cardinal redbird whistling on the op-
posite shore.

" This Carolina wren will be very cautious at
first, when building in any outbuilding, and will
dart off precipitately when approached, but if it is
not disturbed will rapidly gain confidence and be-
come as tame as a chipping sparrow. Our birds,
first, last, and always, ask to be let alone, and for
this granted to them they will repay a hundredfold.
While I write these lines there is an indigo-finch
perched on a locust-tree, not twenty feet from my
window. I can lean far out and listen without the
bird noticing me. Why ? Because it has been
coming to the old garden for several summers, and
no one has disturbed it in any way. It has nested
near by, and no one has even looked into the nest.
Like many another bird, they leave in autumn, say-
ing, t We have had such a good time this year,
we will come next summer.' And every year they
make good their promise."

" Do the birds about our houses bring wilder
birds near us, the former being unmolested ? " Bea-
trice asked, evincing some interest in the subject, or
pretending to.

" I am inclined to think so. There are a good
many species that, according to the older ornithol-
ogists and some more modern writers, are spoken
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TKHben Grass is Green

of as shy and retiring. Many of these I have not
found so. They appear to gain confidence from
what they see of the door-yard birds, but we should
remember that these ' backwoods ' birds have
their peculiar needs, and some of them should
be placed within their reach. I have touched upon
this important subject in detail, elsewhere, and
will only add, that the year that has elapsed since
that essay was written has only confirmed my
views of the matter as there expressed. It is our
own fault, whether we live in town or country, if we
do not have birds about us, and he who has them
not dwells in an abode which, as has been well
said, ' is like a meat without seasoning.' "

" Oh ! dear, I did n't bargain for a lecture," ex-
claimed Beatrice, with a most suggestive yawn, but
half concealed by her pretty hand ; and then she
asked, " What is that ? " pointing to patches of
old gold on the near-by meadows.

"Dodder," I replied, "the golden dodder's
tangled net. "

" Please don't repeat any of your own poetry ;
the weather is so warm ; " so I essayed to tell more
explicitly the plant's history, but was soon inter-
rupted. " Now you 're too prosy," she remarked ;
" let us go home."

How hard it is to please our neighbors. If we
describe what is everywhere to be seen in its true
colors, the chances are we are charged with ro-
mancing ; if we take these critics a-field they say
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tl&lben Grass is Green

we are tiresome and the wild woods are a bore. It
is a vast pity, and I went home occupied with my
own thoughts, as did Beatrice with hers.

A week has passed, and I have had a letter from
Beatrice, and thus runs one of its sentences : "The
rattle of the street-cars and rumble of the wagons
here in New York were never so tiresome. How
I wish I could again go with you on Crosswicks
Creek and listen to your lectures ! I 'd even face
a weasel without screaming."

Let the whole truth be told. Old as I am, I
have written for her to come again, and it will be
but a repetition of what occurred in the first place.
Puck was right : " What fools these mortals be ! "

VIII

WHEN you are entirely satisfied that you have ex-
hausted the subject, that there is nothing whatever
remaining to be said, thought or considered, then
remember it is time to go over it once more and
gather up the important matter you have over-
looked. I do not write this long sentence as a
nonsense saying, but as a sober truth, for I have
been taught the very important lesson that we are
never sure that " we know it all," as the popular
phrase runs.

I thought I knew the whole history of my home
as it has been handed down from father to son
since the original grant, but to-day I met an old
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Idben <3rass is <5reen

man of whom I had never heard, a man nearly
ninety, and what wonderful tales he told !

" Did you ever notice," he asked, " a streak of
black running from the lane-field down to the
brook?"

"Of course I have/' I replied, "what of it?"

" Well, a good deal of it to me, for while I never
knew it as anything but a strip of sour, wet land,
father did, and at the beginning of it was the little
house he was born in, in 1778."

"Well, that's mighty queer," I remarked, more
to myself than to him.

" He was a cripple, and moved away when only
a little boy. This was how it came about. The
war was n't over yet, you know, and whenever
there was a strange noise they always thought the
British were coming, and would run off with the
cow or pigs. One night, in summer, the folks
had gone up to your folks' house and left father
asleep. They reckoned on coming back very
soon, but got to talking, and the time rattled on,
as it does now, faster than you think. Father
woke up, and being sort of afraid, crept down to
the door and opened it. It was pitch dark, and
the lightning-bugs only made it seem darker, and
the owls a-hooting made it lonesomer than ever.
Well, father put on his clothes best he could and
started to go to your folks, but he took the wrong
path and went towards Watson's. It was more
woodsy then, you know, and getting real scared,
138

(Brass is (Sreen

he set up a yell that made things ring. Just as he
did that the old folks got home.

"Just then there came another yell, and the
folks thought of bears, British, and a panther out
of the backwoods. They did n't dare answer back,
not knowing what the trouble was, and my grand-
father said he would go on a still hunt. He took
his flintlock and pitchfork and followed the sound.
He heard the yell and started, saying to grand-
mother, ' You stay with the boy and keep the door
barred.' The frogs and owls and other night
things kept up the noise, so that what grandfather
heard did not come quite clear, but he followed
on, and pretty soon got a loud screech in his ear
that made him shake. He got his gun ready and
moved mighty slow, and when the scream came
again he fired right at the spot. The flash of the
old flintlock showed him his own boy, and he had
put a ball in one of his legs. That 's how father got
to be a cripple, and that is why the little marsh to
the east of your house is called the ' cripple,' or
was in my day."

I have played in this " cripple " many a day,
and walk through it often in these later years, but
all this was news to me. Still the old man was
mistaken about the name. It was with him a
mere coincidence, and had his father never been
hurt the little swamp would have been called a
" cripple " just the same. It was not necessary to
set him right on that matter, however. It is folly

<5rass is <5reen

to say it is never too old to learn. His ignorance,
considering his years, far better suited him than all
the knowledge crowded in a dictionary.

I was not done with the old man, and he told
me another story : " There used to stand an old
oak on the hilltop with a crotch in it quite low
down. Well, a deer was chased by two wolves
out of the backwoods, and running this way made
a leap for the meadows right through this crotched
oak and got fast. The wolves' howling waked the
folks up, and 'fore the deer was mangled the
wolves got a load of buckshot and grandfather got
the venison. They stuck a brick in the tree to
mark the place, and less than twenty years ago I
saw it in the stump where it lay at the foot of the
hill."

I, too, have often seen the huge stump and the
brick, and when I supposed every old resident
was gone, here comes one to bring back the past
and to tell me tales that even my own grandfather
had forgotten to relate.

It seems strange, now that the world about here
has grown so very artificial and tame, that such
things as bears, deer, and wolves were ever about,
and almost within the memory of a man still liv-
ing; but with no records or tradition, the truth
could have been reached in a rather curious way.
The Indians were familiar with all these wild ani-
mals, and left their bones in the ashes of their
long-abandoned camp-fires and in holes that they
140

lUbcu Grass id Green

dug for the sole purpose of receiving the refuse of
their villages. I saw such ashpits recently in near-
by meadows, and what a curious medley was taken
from them. Bones of bears and deer principally,
but some also of nearly every one of our smaller
animals, even to meadow-mice.

There was another story, too, that these dig-
gings told. Many a bit of bone had been cut
and ground down until it was a very effective awl
or piercer, and some of the teeth had been strung
for beads. With all these were hundreds of frag-
ments of pottery, some of which had been taste-
fully ornamented with incised lines, dots, and
cord-marks. One big piece had marks of a fish-
net on it, and we know from Peter Kalm, who
wrote a delightful book of travels about here in
1749, that the Indians had nets, and the knots
they tied were the same the fishermen tie to-day in
making their nets. I have seen an impression of
a knot made in wet clay which was so distinct that
I could tell how it was tied ; but when the Indian
woman made it she only thought of its being an
ornament to the bowl she had fashioned.

But to come back to the old man's stories. He
had invested an ordinary field with additional in-
terest, and I have looked up the spot where the
house stood. I can only guess at the site, but
where now is an under drain was a trickling brook
that led from the spring at which these people of
long ago got their water. How I would like to
141

(Brass is Green

open it again, and plant an oak by it; but my
matter-of-fact companion looked with scorn as I
timidly made the suggestion : " Make another
frog-pond, do; just to add to the noise that we
have now, every night."

Alas ! I fear that poetry and farming were not
intended to go hand in hand ; but I had my way
in a measure, and under pretense of cleaning the
drain dug down a bit, and found a little flat white
stone that I am sure was just in front, and over
which the cool waters trickled.

" Don't you see foot-prints on it ? " I was asked.
" And don't it smell of wet leather ? "

" They went barefoot in those days, except the
men," I ventured to remark.

" And they did n't go crazy over nothing, why
don't you add ? "

The under drain still does duty as such, and I
am content now to fancy that the fox-grape vine
that grows by the brookside was once on a trellis,
near the one-time cottage door, but this I kept to
myself; for if I spoke of the clusters of fruit now
clinging to it I would be sent in course of time to
pick it for jelly. Better leave this to younger folk,
and I will gather fruit from my neighbors, of
which they know nothing, for every farm has bits
of history that I love to bring to light, and then
as local historian one gets a mite of importance
in the eyes of others that tickles man's besetting
sin, vanity.

142

Tldben <5ra0s is <5reen

In natural history it is different. Too often it
happens that the practical hunters and fishermen
have the truth in hand, and what the naturalist
assumes as a fact is only a fancy. It is well to ap-
ply to your own neighborhood with some care what
is written in the books. It may not apply at all,
and so the safe plan is to get the opinion of the
people who are likely to know. Natural histories
deal in generalities, and as every bird and beast
has the problem of life to solve for itself, it will do
so differently in accordance with its surroundings.
It is not difficult to find many exceptions to the
ordinary rule.

IX

How often it happens when walking in the woods
in autumn, after all the summer birds have left,
or the over-staying ones have become silent, that
we hear a clear, bell-like peep pe-weep, just as
we heard from the cricket, frog, or rattler in early
spring or on some warm day in early March. It is
not uttered by the same frog by any means. The
sound often comes from the top of some tall tree
or from the bushes, and never from the ground.
You are apt to think of some belated warbler bound
south and bewailing his misfortune.

This autumn minstrel is not a true frog, but a
tree-toad, and is known to all naturalists as Picker-
ing's hyla. It differs from the frogs proper by hav-

Wben Grass is Green

ing disks on the ends of its toes, and so can hold
on safely to surfaces to which the little spring-tide
rattler could not adhere. Pickering's hyla is an
aquatic creature at the outset, but the water-
nursery is in time deserted and the hyla is not only
a land animal, but an arboreal one at that. At
times I have seen them on the ground among the
dead leaves, but my experience leads me to con-
clude they are generally in the bushes or on trees.
Certainly they are at home there, and you have but
to attempt to capture one with your hand to real-
ize what remarkable leaping power is theirs. This
little tree-toad, which is scarcely an inch long, yel-
low, and with a crooked cross upon his back, makes
a most interesting pet. It will live in a tumbler,
with a few drops of water to bathe in at times, and
asks no more elaborate rations than one house-fly a
day. Given that much attention they will sing
cheerily after their fashion and so loudly, perhaps,
as to become tiresome. As you look at this little
creature it impresses you by its general delicacy,
and suggests that it belongs to the warm nights
of summer and would succumb at the first touch
of frost. But it is really our hardiest species. It
often sings when basking in winter sunshine. I
have often heard them when the weather was
really cold, but the little hylas were not. They
had sheltered nooks where only the sunshine
could creep in, and when it did the hyla and the
.sunbeam made merry together.
144

IKHben (Brass Is <5reen

I HAVE been watching men, of late, who were
digging for relics of the Indians, and while the de-
lightful November sunshine warmed me where I
sat, I waited for the expected treasures continually
brought to light by the spade. There was scarcely
a shovelful of earth but contained traces of man's
former presence here. Charcoal darkened the
yellow sand, and although the potsherds were so
small as to be readily overlooked, still they were
traces of man just as much as the occasional com-
plete vessel that came to light. I was much
amused at a curiosity hunter that came by. He
taxed our patience with endless questions, and
forced me to be very rude at last. He had some-
where caught the phrase from one of those mu-
seum-lounging city archaeologists, of " the desira-
bility of additional evidence." This fool was not
convinced even that we were unearthing Indians,
and suggested that the charcoal might be from
forest fires, and not from the cooking-site of abo-
rigines. He felt insulted at last and passed on, to
our great relief.

On my way home I thought of this fellow and
it occurred to me that he was no worse than many
others who in a more polished manner talk as he
did, and are really far more of a curse to the
community, because their polish gives them en-
trance to unsuspecting circles, and the poison of
10 145

Wben Gra65 is Green

their ignorance and impudent assumptions warps
the minds of all who hear them. These polished
professors, without knowledge, with malice, and
moved by ulterior motives in all they say, have
concluded that the Indian is a recent comer to
the Delaware valley. The truth is, the red man
or his predecessor saw the glacial conditions that
once existed here; but, as one of this oily fraternity
remarked, " This must be determined by an expert."
No definition was added as to what makes an
expert. Not a fellow like himself, let us hope;
for his skill has been all his life to pose as the pol-
ished professor of glittering generalities stolen from
others, and with never a fact of his own gathering
in his possession.

The men who have been digging near by have
recently removed the soil over a considerable area,
and on the hard clay underneath were found abun-
dant traces of man, far ruder in all respects than
those of the Indian dotting the overlying earth.
It was evidence of that intermediate period, be-
tween the rude hunter of the glaciated river and
the people with whom William Penn treated.
The story of ancient man in America is told in all
its completeness in this one river valley, that would
boast of a clearer atmosphere were the doubting
Thomases gathered to their fathers.

146

©ut of tbe ffieaten patb

ESTENING to the creaking of a cricket is the
best recipe for day-dreams, and no day-
dreams in the country are so vivid as those of a
still August day, when the fields are flooded with
sunshine and not a leaf is stirring. Even the cows
quit grazing at hot high noon and gather in the
shade of wayside trees, or encircle the old oak
that stands amid-field, sole survivor, it may be, of
the woodland days, when fields were scattered
and the forests clothed the earth. All that goes
to make up the typical August day — and there
are many such features — was prominent as I
leaped the lane fence and wandered 'cross lots,
glad to get out of the beaten and dusty path,
from which the pedestrian is but too apt to be
waved aside into deeper dust by the omnipresent
wheelmen who appear of late to own all of such
one-time pleasant places. Pedestrianism bids fair
to become a lost art, more 's the pity. It is a mat-
ter of so many miles now, and not of so many
pleasant sights and sounds.
147

<S>ut of tbe beaten ftatb

I leaped the lane fence and plunged into a wil-
derness of weeds. The tangled growth was no
evidence of neglect or of poor farming, for the
heat and moisture of the early summer have proved
too much for the agriculturist, and many a spot I
passed was rank as a tropical jungle. There was
ragweed high above my head, and sensitive cassia
almost waist-deep. Mullein stood out like the
tree cacti of Arizona, and never boneset and cat-
nip quite so flourishing. Bees were busy, butter-
flies were gay, and angry, in appearance at least,
the myriad gorgeous dragon-flies that darted more
erratically than lightning. I heard the harvest-
fly everywhere but near at hand, and at my feet
the crickets creaked without ceasing. This con-
stant insect stridulation does not pass for sound.
It seems only to intensify the silence. We are
conscious of it, yet without listening, and it ceases,
or seems to, the moment an over-brave song-spar-
row, or the tireless and tiresome indigo-bird essay
to sing. Strange as it may seem, noontide song
in August is misplaced music. It is more fitting
to fill the void with the voices that fancy conjures
up. The birds thought otherwise and sang glee-
fully when I reached a shady nook where the
ground was moistened by a spring that scarcely
broke through the sod. A sprightly cardinal
whistled to its feathered friends to gather here, and
eyed me with a questioning look, wondering if I
had also accepted his invitation. I did not tarry
148

©ut of tbe JSeaten fl>atb

to disturb his peace, for, seeing the weather-stained
roof of an old mill in the distance, I made that
point my goal of what at the start had been an
aimless journey. Field after field, gorgeous in
its August array, I passed over, and reached in
time a commanding view of an almost hidden val-
ley. What can be more inviting than an old mill
and mill-pond ? It stands the test of a true friend,
it is never tiresome.

Nature has had ninety-two years in which to
repair the damages caused by building the high
dam that filled the deep ravine with water, and
now the pond is a fixed feature of the landscape.
The sloping banks have kindly adapted themselves
to the change, and a narrow beach-line of well-
washed sand slopes outward for a little way and
then disappears in deep, dark water. The whole
shore is tortuous, and every jutting point well
wooded; healthy oaks and vigorous hickories,
with scattered willows, birches, dogwood, and
flowering shrubs reaching so near the glassy sur-
face of the pond that the trees are as clearly pic-
tured beneath as they are darkly lined against the
unclouded sky. Nothing remains of the original
forest, and, following the lead of my fancy, I build
from the sunken stumps of long-gone trees the
forest monarchs that sheltered Indians in pre-
colonial days. The dark and dreamy light in the
narrow coves cast an eventide shadow over our
noontide thoughts, and surely, when night draws
10* 149

©ut of tbe JBeaten fcatb

near, these same coves would be excellent spots
wherein to meditate.

I have said that nothing of the old forest re-
mains, but forgot for the moment that the old
mill was built of it. Every one of the huge beams
remains, and in its present home is as venerable
as the lone wayside chestnut not far away, that
tempts the weary traveler by its ample shade. The
mill to-day seems more like a growth than an artifi-
cial structure. The huge foundation stones are
like uplifted rocks, over which the criss-crossed
beams have grown and still flourish. Then, too, to
further the resemblance, there are the wide weather-
boards, stained and streaky as the April skies; the
moss-clad eaves, and even the huge wheel, with
its dripping coolness, all of which have lost every
toolmark and suggest nature rather than man's
handiwork. The roar of the falling water at the
dam is as primeval a sound as the rustling of the
willows and broad-leaved catalpas that hedge it
in. There is not a trace of glaring newness to be
seen. Mill and pond, that once were scars upon
the fair valley's face, have been so kindly dealt
with by nature that the wound, long healed, has
no traces left of the violence to which, nearly a
century ago, it was subjected.

Pausing but for a moment at the door, I

plunged into the dusky darkness of the mill's

wide rooms, all a-tremble with the whirl and whiz

of revolving shafts, hoppers, wheels, and what-

150

©ut of tbe Beaten ipatb

soever goes to complete a mill's machinery. I
did not stop to notice what was about me, but
sought an upper floor, where there was more
quiet and a pretty outlook. Here was the dust
of ages and of a long series of harvests, corn and
wheat and rye, laid on in filmy sheets over walls
and ceiling, and changing the slender threads of
the spider to fabrics so delicate that a breath en-
dangered them. Here was Thoreau's "dream-
drapery " in grand luxuriance, and but little more
tangible than the mists that rest upon Walden
pond. In this unused room were the ghosts of
unnumbered harvests, but not one of harvesters.
How, for the time, I wished that human ghosts
were something more than figments of the imag-
ination. It was a fitting place to chat with the
sickle-armed reapers of ninety years ago. As it
was, I had nothing to build upon, for there was
no old man of the neighborhood near to tell
me strange stories of the place when he was
young. Tragedy and comedy I felt lingered
about the place, but who was there now to drag
the mill's history from the clutches of oblivion ?
I asked about a dark red stain upon the floor,
hoping to have a hint of dark doings in years
gone by, but was assured it was "where my
terrier Gyp killed rats one Sunday." Hearing
this, I took to the woods, if a long row in my
boat beneath the pond's overhanging trees can
be so described. It was not so abrupt a change

©ut ot tbe JSeaten jpatb

as one might think. The pond and mill are too
closely related to be dissociated in thought, and
where nature holds undisputed sway one cannot
weary. The head of the mill-pond, the most
distant point from the venerable building, was
as quiet as the mill itself when the water-gates
are closed. The shallow waters, gatherings of
many springs, teemed with life, and not a lily
upon the quiet surface of the spot had lost its
perfect purity. I was the sole invader, and how
apt are uninvited guests to be awkward? Of
course I brushed the wild roses where they were
thickest set, and broke the stoutest stems of
pickerel weed and arrow-leaf, placed where they
showed to excellent advantage and gave the
final touches to a perfect picture. Is our clumsi-
ness a hint that man should stay at home ? Near
by was a little heronry, and every little green
heron squawked its indignation. They looked at
me, while perched upon the scattered dead trees
that projected from the water, as if they had the
wish, but not the courage, to pierce me with their
sharp beaks. I sat quietly in my boat, hoping
that they would gain confidence and accept me
as a guest. I am glad now that I did this, for
there were other herons there, as it proved, little
blue ones, whose babies are white when they
leave the nest, but, finding the world not rose-
colored, get a fit of the blues and retain it all their
lives. The unlearned ornithologists of our learned
152

©ut of tbe Beaten ipatb

societies declare that this bird is not common
about this neighorhood, but the birds for years
have paid no attention to the slight put upon
them. There were but few other species, or was
it too late for them to sing ? I listened for the
wood- thrushes, for here was an ideal home for them,
but they were mute or absent ; but soon the air was
filled with an all-pervading twitter. Every nook
and corner seemed alive with little birds, but the
sound ceased as abruptly as it started — it was a
passing flock of redwings that I heard. This in-
timation of the coming autumn always has a sober-
ing influence, and the glitter of lilies and roses
was a thing of the past. Summer's freshness, that
I had not missed at the outset, I found was really
wanting. There was more seed than bloom ;
more fruit than blossom; more limp, leathery
leaves than the crisp growths of springtide. The
passing blackbirds told the old story of constant
changes :

What of the world, that we can claim

Is steadfast, year on year ?
The very rocks stay not the same,

However they appear.

As quickly as the seasons glide,

Poor mortals come and go;
Death, the dark shadow at their side,

They cannot overthrow.

The shadows reached nearly across the pond
when I rowed back to the mill, and, seen in the
153

©ut of tbe 3S8eaten fcatb

sunset light, the old building was even more ven-
erable than before. The hum of its machinery
had ceased, the last farm wagon had left the low,
sheltering shed, and the miller was asleep. It
seemed a pity to disturb him, and I moved upon
tiptoe as I locked my boat and put away the oars.
I even felt a little ghost-like as I passed into the
gloom of the mill's deserted rooms, nor wholly in
touch, later, with passing events as I reentered
the sunlit-world, retracing my steps toward home
again across lots and far as possible from the
beaten path.

154

Hn ©R> Barn

OHADOWS and sunlight were racing over the

0 fields, and why should I not run after them ?
It were no vainer quest than many that occupy
our time and attention, whether in youth or old
age. Then, too, though August, the day was cool,
and the flecked sky above and mottled fields be-
low were equally attractive. Whatever thy eyes
find to see, see it with all thy might. There are
hidden beauties that diligence may bring to light ;
and if the day's gathering is but a single pleasant
thought, that day has not been spent in vain.

Every footpath way that I recalled still had
novelty in store, and will have to the end of time.

1 had no fear of mere repetition of other days
when I set out. Such is never the wise pedes-
trian's fate. The most familiar sights and sounds
will prove new experiences if they suggest new
thoughts ; and this is always possible. Why should
we tire of a familiar tree more than of a familiar
face? It should be as pleasant to say "good-
morning " to-day as it was yesterday. I walked

Hn ©ID 3Barn

scarcely more than a mile before I reached the
old barn of a one-time farm, that now stood quite
alone. The land had been divided and sub-di-
vided until nearly every original feature of the ini-
tial settling of the place was obliterated. It was
but an old and empty barn ; a simple structure of
boards and beams that now trembled suggestively
when the winds of winter hurried by and through
it. Who built it I do not know ; who had labored
to gather the harvests that it had held, I never
heard ; but what a world of suggestiveness in the
moaning of the morning breeze as it struggled
through the wide cracks in the walls, and caused
to tremble many a loose board and mossy shingle.
I peeped through one wide space, and what a hol-
low echo repeated my words, as I shouted : "Who 's
there?" I was sure that no one was near, but
my voice called up a host of lurking spirits, or so it
seemed. Here, indeed, was a place where fancy
might run riot; but let us stick to the facts at
present.

Oaks were everywhere abundant in colonial
days, and the icy floods of glacial times had
brought a few fragments of rocks to this neigh-
borhood; enough for foundations, but never
enough for walls; and so it happened all our
barns are wooden, but they are little the less sub-
stantial. This one, in and about which I tarried,
was still strong of frame, and if stripped by the
storms of every trace of covering, could still brave
156

2ln ©ID

the elements, fighting for life, as it were, in its
bones. As it was to-day it had a dual interest,
an historical or human one, and a natural or
zoological one. Both merit some consideration.

I ventured across the one-time threshing floor,
all scarred and dented with the flail's fierce blows,
and then, with some misgiving, climbed the wide-
runged ladder to the mow above. There was
need to be careful, and I stepped cautiously to
the single square window that was but partly
closed by what remained of its shutter. From
here I looked down to get a bird's-eye view of
the whole interior, and looked above to the de-
caying roof, through which the sun-bright sky
peeped as so many stars. Thoughts came and
went too quickly to be imprisoned, until I found,
by chance, initials deeply cut upon the smooth
oak sill on which I sat.

Four letters only, and yet how much of human
interest centered about them ? J. B. and A. S. !
Some John and Anne of more than a century ago.
And how easy to picture the hopeful John as he
spent a leisure hour carving his own and her ini-
tials, building castles in the air as he did so ! It
was then, perhaps, that he cast away the last
doubt in his mind, and courtship, a wedding, and
home-coming followed. I vividly pictured, too,
those later years, when the barn was the center of
the farm activities; the oxen drawing the heavily-
laden wagon, with its load of grain. It was al-

an ©to Barn

ways rye in those early days, and happy was the
farmer who found that it threshed more than six
bushels to the hundred sheaves. Men were
gauged in those days by the rye standard, or by
their capacity to withstand the subtle, ultimate
outcome of the orchard. Occasionally there was
a giant among them. I remember one who, in
his prime, could in each hand lift by its throat
a bag containing two bushels of rye, and carry
them up a flight of stairs ; and once, at least, he
lifted a full barrel of cider by the chimes, and drank
from the bung.

I take it this old barn saw its merriest days, or
nights, when there were "husking bees," some-
thing unknown to the later generations, and, too,
the dances that followed, when the broad thresh-
ing floor was cleared. There may have been a
lack of grace and a heaviness of step that would
distract a modern parlor knight, but there was a
wholesome heartiness that made amends for such
little deficiencies as I have mentioned. Not a
phase of primitive farm-life but some feature of
the old barn recalled. Nor was this all. Nature
had taken possession, since all human care had
ceased, and to see how the old structure was util-
ized by varied forms of animal and plant life was,
to me, of even greater than its merely human or
historic interest. Scarcely a nook or corner but
was the home of at least spiders and those curious
mason wasps that build such strange nests and
158

Bit

imprison paralyzed spiders within to serve as food
for their young. The paper wasps, too, found
lodgment for their many-celled structures. Crick-
ets crawled and creaked among the loose boards,
and huge night-flying moths sought refuge here
by day, pressed so closely to the time-stained wood
that only the sharpest eyes could spy them out.
I have never seen better instances of protective
coloring.

Two forms of active winged life were here, and
what could more fittingly typify day and night
than the beautiful barn-swallows and the dull,
leathery bat ? Nesting time was long over, but
the curious mud structures, skillfully fastened to
the rafters, were yet there, and still the birds, both
old and young, continually came and went through
many of the many exits in the dilapidated weather
boards. On entering the barn they invariably
circled about for a few moments before resting
upon or near the empty nests, and often left the
building without alighting anywhere. While on
the wing the birds were comparatively silent, but
chattered incessantly when at rest. At this time
I could not positively distinguish between young
and old birds, but saw no individuals feeding
others. These swallows evidently retained a fond-
ness for the nests, that were not really abandoned,
for at night they roosted in and about them.
They were homes as well as nests.

At one time the less abundant cliff- swallow

Bn ©ID

had built under the eaves, but this bird has no
fancy for the inside of a building. How birds
so similar in their general habits and not found
fighting, species against species, should have come
to vary as they do in nesting habits is very curi-
ous and, I imagine, an unsolvable problem. Be-
fore the days of barns they took up with hollow
trees and caves, it is presumed, quarters they
would find strangely cramped and uncomfortable
now. It is not improbable that these swallows
were by no means so abundant in Indian times
as they now are. The changes wrought by civi-
lized man in settling a country were certainly
conducive to the general welfare of many small
birds, by affording safe and convenient nesting
sites and materially increasing the food supply.
Man unintentionally but unavoidably gathers
about him a great variety of plants, that in turn
afford lodgment for varied insect life, and this at-
tracts and sustains bird life. As an instance, no
natural conditions were ever so favorable to many
species of birds as is an apple orchard. Even now
this is true, when the trees are frequently show-
ered with insecticides. Happy the lover of birds
who can spend a season near an old orchard; one
with plenty of hollow trees. In one such, con-
sisting of ninety trees, I found in one year the
nests of thirteen species, not counting the nests,
three in number, placed upon the ground.

But what of the birds, other than swallows, that
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2ln ©ID JBarn

frequented the old barn? Of course the pewee
had been here, and the nest, occupied year after
year for a generous fraction of a century, was in
full sight from my window-seat. It would be in-
teresting to accurately determine how long the
same nesting-site has been occupied — of course
by the same pair of birds. I can speak positively
of one pewee, eleven years old, and have al-
ways fancied he had the same wife with him, year
after year. The bluejays and golden- winged
woodpecker came and went about the barn, but I
did not see them enter. At times, doubtless,
they do so, particularly in cold, wintry weather.
Here, now, it is a mere matter of shelter, unless
they sought insect food, for never a mouthful of
grain has been put here for almost twenty years.
Bluebirds of blessed memory — for they have
been little else during the present year — were for-
merly constant visitors, and often nested in one
convenient nook. These birds have largely dis-
appeared. Comparatively few have been noticed
for three or four years, and this summer I have
failed to find one where formerly there were hun-
dreds. It was their time-honored custom late in
August to associate with king-birds and young
orioles, and gather in the meadows and become
for the time expert fly-catchers, or they would
gather on the old worm-fences and stretch out, a
large, loose flock, for half a mile or more. There
was nothing of all this during the present summer,
ii 161

!Hn ©ID JSarn

It has been suggested that the bird is becoming
extinct. Can this be true? Probably not, but
rather they seem to have sought new quarters
where the villainous feather-hunters and con-
temptible collector cannot find them. This seems
the more likely because, late in October, we some-
times find the air, some bright, frosty morning,
full of these birds, evidently migrating. A melan-
choly change of habit this, after many years when
they were as strictly resident as our chickens or
the nasty sparrows now in the city streets.

E.ats and mice, too commonplace to be men-
tioned, and even the little weasel, the deadly foe
of both, found in the old barn a congenial home,
notwithstanding the most feral of domestic cats
that I have ever seen here nightly made his rounds.
Not one of these would rouse much interest, be
the history thereof told never so cleverly. But
bats, about which people know so little, always
command attention. Several were sleeping in the
old barn, and one that I disturbed was not long
in regaining his senses, and flew about as easily
as ever. At dusk he threaded the mazy tangle of
an old forest's tree tops. Bats are not bird-like,
although exquisitely graceful. They are suggest-
ive of the uncanny conditions in nature, of gloom
and hollow mockeries, of everything the opposite
of bird life. Bats are living fossils, relics of a dead
past that have escaped death, and no healthy
mind can be buoyed, cheered, exhilarated by such
162

JBarn

creatures, in spite of what a hypocritical Yankee
once said about them. To the naturalist, of course,
these animals are interesting, and yet, strange to
say, those who have studied them closely have
not given us many particulars as to their habits.
A beautiful monograph on the group by a promi-
nent zoologist gives every anatomical detail, but so
little about the creature's ways and doings. Pos-
sibly did we know them better we might love
them more. There is, however, one good word to
be said for all our bats; every popular adverse im-
pression concerning them is false : they will not
tangle a lady's hair, nor do they bring sleep's
deadly foe into the house.

It would require a small volume to tell how
plant-life was utilizing the old barn. Gray lichen
and green moss were both upon the roof. Vir-
ginia creeper, on the west, and a trumpet-vine on
the east, had such firm hold on many of the broad,
upright boards that they had been warped from
their original support and were now held by the
rank vines ; one of these had ruddy foliage al-
ready, and the other, still in bloom, proved an
attraction for the restless humming-birds that
came and went continually. A poison-ivy clung
to the hinges of the large double doors, com-
pletely concealing them. Pokeberry canes were
clustered outside, ruddy and vigorous as a sum-
mer sun could make them ; while a score of sickly,
yellow-white shoots, which had thrust themselves
163

2ln ©to JSSarn

through cracks in the barn's wall, now lingered
hopelessly in the unhealthy shade. Wherever
water lodged and dust collected, seeds of small
plants had taken root, and the choked gutter of
the south front was as well rilled with weeds as
ever a long window-box was thick with bloom.

Even in the cracks of beams and boards, wher-
ever exposed to the sunlight, seeds had found lodg-
ment and germinated ; and in one corner, to which
the sunlight came but for a short time, but where
there was pretty constant moisture, an acorn
placed there by a jay or squirrel had sprouted.
Necessarily its career would be soon cut short,
and already a great mouse-colored spider had
rather closely invested it with cobwebs. The won-
derful change which nature was steadily effecting
was just beginning, it is true ; but, could the old
barn remain, it would soon be more open than
now to both sunlight and showers, and then what
a rank growth would cluster about it, both within
and without ! Even the heavy threshing-floor
would be lifted up and sturdy tree-growths push
aside every obstacle. Strange as it may seem,
unchecked vegetation can absorb or digest even so
huge a mouthful as a barn. How clearly all that
I saw hinted of that which is to come, unless man
should interfere. Nature, with artistic fingers, has
already cast a veil over the clumsy handiwork of
man, and leaving to her the task, the old and once
ugly barn would become really beautiful.
164

H 1Rocfc\> IRoabsibe

r I ^HERE was a trembling mist and that dreaded
L silence in the valley that foreboded the com-
ing of a torrid day. The smoke rested as a heavy
cloud behind the cars, and scarcely a leaf stirred
as we left the station — Raven Rock — bound for
a distant Indian quarry among the hills. There
were three of us — a geologist, a botanist, and my-
self. Let me add that in this record of a day I
am mostly concerned with myself. Autobiogra-
phy is a simpler matter than history, and an
August day calls for a light task.

We quickly passed through the village about the
station, and while we saw many rocks we saw no
ravens. Probably, from the jagged hillside hard
by, some ravine has been miscalled, for the crows
were now holding the fort, and where they are,
ravens find no foothold.

Along a fairly smooth path we rose at every
step above the river. The road was walled in
shoulder-high and sadly circumscribed our out-
look. We were forced to be content with the
ii* 165

B

roadside rather than the rolling fields, with their
infinitely varied features. Here every object was
fixed, immovable, and I at once missed the scat-
tered ice-transported boulders of the shifting sands
of Jersey. We were on old ground, even geologi-
cally speaking; so old that upon it the forest
grew when the ice was jammed in the valley and
playing those pranks that now make the petty
geologists quarrelsome. It was not surprising
that the Professor could not refrain from telling
the story of the ice-age as he had translated it.
It is so clever, I had hopes never to hear another
version. To listen to many leads to endless con-
fusion. If possible, make your own translation.
The truth, as he sees it, is plain to the individual
who traces the figured rocks with his own fingers ;
but the gift of repeating what the rocks whisper is
not yet among us, and this is true, likewise, of many
another of nature's puzzles. The learned treatises
that crowd the bookshelves are arrayed, not as a
bodyguard of truth against ignorance, but each
against his fellows. If we read all these books
we have but the din of battle in our ears, and no
vision is keen enough to pierce the smoke and see
where victory rests. It is a sad mistake to become
only a reader ; it leads to becoming only an echo.
One excellent book is the blank one, to be filled
by our own hands, so that in the evening of
our days we can regale ourselves with morning
thoughts.

166

B

Something better than the everlasting rocks
were the transient flowers. To-day they were
abundant. Clinging to the gray stone fence was
the bittersweet, or better-known deadly night-
shade. I doubt if the latter name is really merited,
for the occasional eating of two or three of the ber-
ries has led to no harm, and so fine a plant should
not be shunned as if pestilential, as is often the
case. All too few are the plants that at the same
time give us both fruit and blossom. This did so.
The glossy red berries were peculiarly conspicu-
ous, scattered over the pale gray lichens, and the
purple and yellow bloom brightened and warmed
many a jutting corner of the loose piled rocks.
Responsive, too, to every passing breeze, the
beauty of both fruit and flower was heightened
when set trembling. That motion which has so
much to do with the beauty of many plants seems
to have been largely overlooked. A stiff, staid
aspen would be an ugly tree. That splendid
shrub, the nemopanthes, might possibly be passed
by, even if in full fruit; but never, if there is a gentle
breeze. Then every crimson berry on its slender
stem sways to and fro, and your steps are staid to
watch this carnival of color. And what more
beautiful than those purple globes of frost- spangled
eragrostis, the grass that in winter is rolled and
tossed, the sport of every wind, until lodged
fixedly at last, rods from its summer home.

Deadly or not, there were countless insects on
167

IRoa&st&e

the nightshade, and no defunct ones beneath it.
They crept over flower and fruit alike, nibbling at
both. It is true these creatures have white blood,
and so no toxic effect would be produced as would
or might be the case with red-blooded life; but
the cow that disturbed our meditations cropped
alike this vine and the grass beneath it, and no
poisoning resulted while we were present, and
doubtless not afterward. Indeed, it seemed a fa-
vorite plant just here. Great green and bronzed
dragon-flies alighted upon it as well as upon the
rocks near by. One gorgeous fellow appeared to
sip the moisture from the bloom as might a butter-
fly. These splendid insects came and went continu-
ally. They did not skim the fields like low-flying
swallows, but often rose far into the measureless
upper air, and then, after towering far above us,
going straight away, — not following the undula-
ting fields, — but sped across the valley more than
a mile distant to rocks and nightshade on the
river's other shore. I easily followed their direct
flight with my field-glass. What humming and
buzzing they made at times, like the roar of a
great city, as though, like us poor mortals, they
were burdened with many cares.

Beyond the nightshade grew a rank Virginia
creeper, and summer must end far earlier on
these hill-tops than in the valley; for plants are
still in the vigor and freshness of spring on my
lowland fields, while here the fruit shows, and
1 68

there is even now a goodly showing of reddened
leaves. A gum-tree or tupelo, the top of which
shows above the wall, is spotted with scarlet. It
seems too early by more than a month for all this
color, and may be due to local causes. Let us
hope so. Still, as the breeze, though it stole
very gently by, could not pass with silent foot-
steps, I heard a low murmur among the stones
of this old wall that hinted of autumn, singing
the same song that is whispered in the oaks,
weeks later, when the freshness of summer has
faded, and the leaves are dying and toughening
to withstand for a little while the onset of frost.

While I yet lingered by the nightshade, the
botanist clambered over the fence, and brought
me tansy and mountain-mint. The fragrance of
the latter recalled many an herb hunt in the sum-
mers of past years, when the good custom was
still kept up to please the old folks, although the
herbs had long gone out of use. For old time's
sake, tansy, catnip, and balm hung from the beams
overhead in the unceiled kitchen, giving out an
odor that may have kept off the disease they were
intended to cure. " It 's all doctor's stuff, nowa-
days," remarked Humphrey Fagan; "but folks
die all the same, if not a little more so " — and
his flabby sides, that had weathered nearly ninety
winters, would shake. I am ready to believe it.
The " yarb teas," as everybody called them, were
once in high repute, and deserved to be ; far more,
169

indeed, than the highly potentized pellets of ne-
farious popularity. The fact is, granny has taken up
more than one case the doctor had abandoned, and
"tea — ed" the patient back to health and strength.
Although the geologist was a bit impatient, I
waited for other gatherings of the botanist; but
he began a long explanation of why meadow-
sweet was growing on the hill-top, and I made
ready to start. I had use for his hands, not his
mouth. There are thoughtless people everywhere,
but think of lecturing in summer, and in the sun-
shine! What if the evening primrose was in
bloom all the morning, and the meadow-sweet
flourished in an upland field, can we not carry
these contradictions unconsciously, and revive
them, if we choose, when the snows of December
make the long winter evenings fit for philosophi-
cal discussion ? We do not need even to go over our
note-books if we have any real powers of observa-
tion. These pictures can be recalled when we
have time to attend to them. Even now the
rank arnica that crowded about a wayside fence
and hedged the barn-yard of a farm we passed
stands boldly out on call, and so likewise comes
back the remark of the farmer, who gravely told
us, " them plants is good for hurts, so they say,
but who 's goin' to get hurt just to see if it 's so? "
and then he chuckled as though what he said was
really funny. Then he became grave because we
did not laugh, and asked, " Who be ye, anyway ;
170

IRocfcg IRoaDsfDe

you don't look like tramps ? " We were still un-
moved to speak, which was really uncivil on our
part; but when we had passed some distance
down the road, I called back : " On a scientific
expedition ! " and we heard in reply a faint gurgle
which we all thought might have been " Golly ! "
The farmer was forgotten before the next house
was reached. We saw, while yet afar off, that
there was a well in the front yard, and, like un-
yoked oxen, we broke into a trot. We did not
ask permission to drink, but opened the yard gate
and passed in as though lords of that manor, and
evidently no such ceremony was expected, for a
tumbler was offered as soon as we halted and had
sent the bucket plunging into the cool depths.
To the good woman's surprise, we all courteously
declined the glass, and how could we do other-
wise when we saw the half of a cocoanut chained
to the curb. Thank Heaven ! at times we can
forget about microbes. Why is it that even in
such trivial matters the simplicity of the country
proves so attractive ? The geologist handled the
shell as if it was the most delicate porcelain, when
it could have been rolled down the mountain un-
harmed. Why should we be above country ways ?
Why, indeed, should any one? They are ways
to which all desirable adjectives are rightly at-
tached, and this is very far from being true of all
city ways. It was no compliment to be taken for
a man of the town, when all my life I have been
171

B

in fact, or in heart, a countryman. We had the
water that we craved, and, renewed in vigor, sur-
veyed the country from the standpoint of this
open well. There was not a feature of house, or
yard, or highway that was not old-fashioned, and
I longed to spend my time here rather than go
further. I did venture to peep around the corner
of the house and get a glimpse of the old kitchen.
A dark stone in the wall, near the peak of the
roof, had cut upon it 1770, and so tales of the
Revolution might have been gathered from within
its walls. But I was third fiddle to-day and of
little consequence, only able to air my superior
knowledge when I pronounced a little wooden
vessel to be a piggin. The botanist tried to be
funny, but being a Dutchman he could n't, and
the geologist was warmed to a lively narrative.
" I saw a city man seize a piggin once," he said,
" as he would have snatched his own child from
danger, and after a long, deep draught of well-
water, he said, < Madam, I '11 give you ten dollars for
that piggin. It 's the first time I 've been a real
boy for thirty years.' The piggin cost him noth-
ing and now hangs in his library." We are pretty
sure, when drifting townward or when stranded
there, to get, as it is called, above country ways,
but, to my mind, it is a sinking below them.

The tall white pines that shaded this wayside
cottage were remarkable objects. Both had been
struck by lightning, deeply scarred but not seri-
172

IRoa&stDe

ously injured; but, I judged, the enemies of these
trees had all been killed. Never, outside of their
native forests, have I seen the foliage of pines so
perfect. It was distinctly blue rather than green,
and every needle so long that each twig was
bushy as a fox's tail. We stopped a moment
longer to listen to that sad monotone, so marked
a feature of the seaside forests. We plainly heard
it. These lovely pines upon a distant hill mur-
mured the same story of the untiring waves and
never-resting wind that we now best hear near the
resounding sea.

This was the highest point we reached, and
probably not over five hundred feet above tide
water ; but even this slight elevation brings about
many changes in anticipation of what occurs along
the river shore, and in the low-lying meadows at
home. The frosts of early autumn certainly make
an earlier appearance, and so drive the insect-eat-
ing birds down to the valley. The vesper-sparrows
and other small finches, from these hills, are
among the earliest of autumn accessions to our
avian ranks. In the longer-summered lowlands
there is always a flight of visiting birds that have
not the habits of the residents. They do not fre-
quent the same localities and have no settled
homes or purposes. They wander as if lost, twit-
ter a great deal, and sing but little. These are
the hill-country birds that flee from frosty nights
and short rations. I noticed but nine species of
173

B IRocfcg

birds during the entire day, but heard two or
three others. Those I saw were meadow-larks,
bluebirds, robins, chewinks, a cardinal, a pe-
wee, many king-birds, vesper- and field-sparrows.
All, save the king-birds, were in full song, and this
was a surprise, considering the lateness of the sea-
son. The meadow-larks were livelier, clearer-
voiced, and more melodious, I thought, than any
I had ever heard before. Doubtless the clear air
had somewhat to do with this. These birds have
forsaken the home meadows of late. Why, it is
not easy to determine, for the region has not
changed, except that weeds are more abundant.
It is all pasture-land now, and not cropped for hay.
Would this bring such a change about ? For
larks that were once so abundant are now quite
scarce, and strictly, or nearly so, birds of the up-
land fields. Slight are the variations in condition
that result in the coming or going of our birds.
The usual midsummer drought sends many a spe-
cies from one locality to another, for abundant
moisture is a prime necessity. Without it, the
food supply is largely cut off, and so away go the
birds. The summer of 1894 showed this ; areas of
many acres in extent were positively birdless, that
but for the drought would be crowded from May
to October with more than a dozen species. Dur-
ing the whole of August of that year I had to
content myself with crows and chimney-swifts,
and only in the few damp spots in the upland

IRocfcg IRoaDstDe

fields were there any native sparrows. It is true,
goldfinches nested in the locust-trees by the
house, but they kept so closely to the tree-tops,
and fed in such far-off, weedy tangles, that they
seemed much more like strangers than door-yard
companions. Even the vireos found themselves
too far from water, and usually stayed in the trees
along the river shore.

The pretty chewink seemed to me quite out of
place in a stone-fence, but was evidently at home,
and the little trickling brook by the roadside that
scarcely dampened the ground met all its needs.
It che-winked as cheerily when threading the
mazes of the loose-piled rocks as ever it did in
the damp runways among the skunk cabbages,
and, unlike the same bird at home, was quite in-
different to our near approach ; and very tame,
too, were the dear old bluebirds, that have gen-
erally forsaken many a former haunt. Very nat-
urally, in accordance .with my observations for
years, they were to-day closely associated with the
king-birds, and proved as efficient fly-catchers.

It may be a bit perverse on my part, but to
myself the ceaseless chirping of the crickets was
really a more entertaining sound than the song of
any bird. It was so thoroughly homelike, and
recalled so vividly the lazy hours spent in the
angles of the old worm fences in the lower coun-
try. I closed my eyes for a few moments in the sha-
dow of the stone-wall here to let the crickets sing

21 IRocfcB IRoa&st&e

to me of the weed-hidden fences that for years have
had no caretaker except the strong briers that
bravely uphold all the weaker panels. Such fences
are the homes of many a small mammal, squirrel,
weasel, and dainty deer-mouse, and the loud excla-
mation of the sharp-eyed botanist showed this
was true of the stone-walls also. As a flash of
lightning a red squirrel darted by, and a weasel
followed, a close second in the race. The result
is a matter of little doubt, for the weasel is still
fresh when the squirrel is exhausted, and there are
few places that it can reach, where trees are want-
ing, whereto a weasel cannot follow. Later we
found where a vesper-mouse had been eating some
large seeds, leaving a little pile of chips, about
which a grim, gray spider had woven a tough web.
This was funnel-shaped, and directed downwards to
a dark crevice between two stones. We caught flies
and one small beetle, and tossed them in; but
their struggles did not tempt the crafty hermitess
from her den; or, what is more probable, she saw
us, and was suspicious. Outdoor spiders are ex-
tremely cunning. I think they have all the wisdom
of the ant, and some mental traits of value in ad-
dition. I have not found them cowards, but dis-
creet. They do not pretend to be a match for all
comers, but rather very judiciously exercise their
wits. It needs but scanty observation to be con-
vinced of this, provided, of course, we take up the
subject without preconceptions. Nothing so
176

B IRocfcg IRoaDsiDe

blinds us to the outdoor world as firmly rooted
indoor opinions.

We now commenced descending the hill, and
soon there was a beautiful hemlock grove in sight.
We found on reaching it that the difference in
temperature was fully twenty degrees. These
hemlocks appeared as of recent growth, none of
more than a foot in diameter, and so closely did
they stand that their interwoven crowns shut out
all sunlight. Every stone on the ground was
damp and moss-clad, and the light so dim we could
not well see to read. It is night here on a cloudy
day. There were no birds flitting through the
gloom, although certain warblers might have been
expected in such a place. After some minutes had
elapsed there was a song not familiar to me that
resounded through the grove, filling it with music.
The effect was strange. It seemed as if the
original utterance was echoed and re-echoed with-
out loss of volume. This strange bird, I felt sure,
I had never heard before, or did the place play
such a trick with the song as to deceive me?
This is not an uncommon occurrence. I remem-
ber a pewee singing in a cave, and the song was
more like the protracted effort of a thrush than the
flycatcher's bisyllabic refrain. I wished to re-
main until the bird showed itself, but my compan-
ions demurred. They knew the tavern was near,
and they were hungry. The poetry of the woods,
the charms of the fair hillside fields, the grandeur
12 177

of the bright blue sky and majesty of the river
that moved resistlessly through the winding valley
went for naught. Even if they never reached the
Indian quarry, these men must dine.

I had almost forgotten the prime purpose of our
outing, and I think the botanist was equally culp-
able in this respect, and it came forcibly to mind
that to dally any longer would have been unjust
to the geologist, whose guests we were. Not a
word of archaeology had escaped our lips until we
met at table, when our genial landlord assumed, as
a matter of course, that three such looking mortals
as ourselves, who never went near his bar — I did,
afterward — could have no weightier purpose
than relics, and so directed us to the quarry, say-
ing, after we had reckoned with him, we "were
not the first cranks that had come so far to see a
hole in the ground." We followed his directions
to the letter and went wrong, but found the spot
by accident in trying to discover some way out of
a wilderness into which we had blindly strayed.
The creek the landlord spoke of was merely the
dry bed of a stream that now rested under the
frown of Jupiter Pluvius. The quarry, that had
been discovered and discussed by prejudiced
rather than learned men, was a commonplace af-
fair, telling the same old story that has gone the
rounds of periodicals and papers since the history
of the Indian has been subject matter for discus-
sion. Here, in brief, a stone suitable for arrow-
178

B

heads and implements of larger size and other
purposes had been discovered and worked with
more patience than skill. The spot was now a
sad, silent, and long-forgotten one, eloquent of the
past and of the Indian, but a mere matter of yes-
terday as compared v/ith the age of ice and men
who then lived in this same region. Probably a
thousand years ago this quarry was the scene of a
busy industry, and it may have been abandoned
so recently as when the use of stone gave way to
metal and the bow and arrow were laid aside for
the gun. There was no clue to the exact history
of the place, so we all sat about conjecturing, which
is the sum and substance of American archaeology.
There was one fact connected with the spot:
what it contained had nothing to do with the
subject of man's antiquity in this river valley.
That matter was affirmatively settled years ago in
the lower valley, and nothing elsewhere has or
can cast a doubt upon the matter. In short,
the geologist, as I anticipated, had come on a
wild-goose chase, one of many victims of those
who for ulterior purposes have denied that the
glacial gravels contain the relics that speak of
man's antiquity. The truth has no rougher path
than when forced to clamber over scoundrels.
The geologist was disappointed in one sense, and
not in another. He anticipated no upsetting
evidence, but did hope for something more than
a mere Indian quarry. He was rather sobered,
179

for the walk had been long; but the botanist
and I were merry, and by the time we reached
the river bank and railway station, miles above
Ravine Rock, the day was too far spent to attempt
further learned discussion or give serious attention
to anything about us. Happy time! We were
our real selves again, and delighted to be natural,
to be animals rather than mentals, and to drink in
pleasure as we drew in the crisp air that came
rolling like a flood down the rock-ribbed valley.
For hours we had been lectured to and in turn had
lectured, but now were as boys out of school, and
who shall say what the practical folk thought of
us, who, for many miles, were their fellow-pas-
sengers ? I am sure they did not credit us with
being in league with any ology.

180

Pearson's Xane

IT is not a long lane, but is now a very lonely
one. It is as straight as a surveyor could plot
it, and as level as any plane could smooth it.
There are very ordinary fields on each side, and
from no point of view is there a commanding out-
look. Yet when you turn into it from the public
road you draw in a long breath, and give utterance
to an exclamation of delight. Do not ask why.
That is a problem every one solves for himself when
he happens here, and it is a red-letter day to any
rambler to stroll up Pearson's lane, or loiter under
any one of the old apple-trees in it. Let this fact
suffice, and seek for no explanations. The old
apple-trees : have these to do with the undoubted
charm ? It was in the spring of 1800 that a man,
whom I well remember, celebrated his twenty- first
birthday by planting twelve trees in the lane, six
on each side. Five of the dozen remain, and
when I last passed by they had fruit upon them.
The trees lack little of being a century old, but the
lane itself was opened by the original settler in
12* 181

3Lane

1696. It was in May of that year that the Pearson
who had come from England as a boy eight years
before married and took his wife up this lane to a
comfortable log house, wherein they dwelt for over
forty years. It was the first notable incident since
the opening of the new lane; an occasion as
worthy of notice as the house-warming that im-
mediately followed. There were no apple-trees
then, but who can doubt that the grass was starred
with sweet white violets ? I have said the bride
and groom went " up " the lane to the house. It
was so put upon record on that very day, and also
there was written, " and when I had seen the last
of the Friends go down the lane to their several
homes, I turned to Anne and said, ' I trust the
step we have this day taken may be for the best.' "
Six generations have come and gone since then,
and not one member of the fifth remains. It is
sad, but true, that the world will not miss much
when the sixth has disappeared. Then will come
a change, and the lane will be blotted out.

Now, no one appears to hurry up or down Pear-
son's lane. So many dead men and women have
been drawn slowly down its straight course during
two centuries that all nature here has taken on a
funereal pace. The apple-trees are slow in putting
out their leaves, the blossoms are not ready until
late in May, and the fruit is not mellow until No-
vember. The grass on either side of the single
wagon-track is not the earliest green in the neigh-
182

Pearson's Xane

borhood, but then such a sod ! It has been undis-
turbed for two centuries, bear in mind, and is as
soft and thick as the pile of good velvet. Nowhere
else have I found such grass upon which to walk,
or, preferably, to loiter.

As a rule, there is little to attract one when
passing along an ordinary country road. There
may be violets about our path, but these are com-
monplace ; or buttercups in the fields, but these
are everywhere; later, the thistle may be in bloom,
with dainty goldfinches swinging from the stems,
but many times before have we seen all this; there
may be asters and goldenrod, joepye-weed and
boneset, even pink centaury and dodder, and we
will pass them by as a tiresome repetition of other
days. Though unwise and illogical, our one
thought is for novelty, for something to take us
out of the line of common travel, away from the
worn path of the prosaic millions who look neither
to the right nor to the left, and think loitering a
sin. Their example is no evidence that there is
nothing to see even in the most commonplace of
crowded thoroughfares. Then as children we were
ever charged not to loiter, until the word became
thoroughly hated, as detested as the practice was
lovely ; and it remains lovely, even in greater de-
gree, as the rambler grows older. So when, weary
of the commonplace, which is not to your credit,
you chance to come to an old gate that has been
swinging in all weathers until it is as fixed a feature
183

3Une

as the trees that shade it, you will promptly leave
the highway behind you. It is but to take a single
step and enter another world. This, at least, is
true of Pearson's lane. Closing the quaint old
gate behind you, you leave to-day with your neigh-
bors and become a subject say of James II. or
Queen Anne. It matters not if you are a stranger
and know nothing of the place's history ; the sur-
roundings will keep you needfully posted. No one
ever saw an old lane and did not know it was a
thing of the past that held its own against the pres-
ent — I would I might add, was sure to combat
successfully with the future.

Now that we are in the lane, let us look about
us. The first apple-tree that we reach holds us,
of course. Its rugged trunk must be carefully in-
spected, its gnarly branches closely scanned. The
warbler singing in its leafy top is no ordinary bird.
Is not its song the echo of one that was uttered at
least a century ago ? We fancy this, and the bird,
at last coming into view, proves most appropriately
as plain of feather as the good old Quakers of
Penn's day were of garb, for this is the lane of a
Quaker pioneer. If in spring, you pin an apple-
blossom to your coat as a matter of course, when
no modern orchard bloom would ever tempt to
such vanity. If in summer, you hear the humming
of bees, but forget that there are such things, and
listen with rapt attention to the buzzing of the big
spinning-wheel, for the house is not far off. If in
184

"dp ipearson's Xane

autumn, you fill your pockets with fruit — if no one
is looking — and eat as sour an apple as ever grew,
thinking it sweet. If in winter and the dry twigs
snap beneath your feet, you see at once the huge
fireplace with its back-log, andirons, tongs and
shovel, the crane and swinging-pot, and with every
twig that breaks you have the crackle and snapping
of the fire upon the hearth.

But we came not to see one old apple-tree, but
the lane in which it stands, and we move on \ and
our steps are soon stayed, for here is another tree,
even larger, and beyond another and another.
We cannot pass them by. This one is hollow, and
half the branches are mere shells, that have given
shelter to owls and woodpeckers and are still the
summer homes of wrens and bluebirds, the great
crested flycatcher and the crested tit. If you
have a taste for natural history, every hollow tree
is a mine not likely to be worked out. This
second huge old apple-tree had never been ex-
plored ; and why did we come if not to fill out the
details of the grand discovery, that of the lane it-
self ? The woodpeckers are gone, but there may
be an owl, and yonder is the snake-skin dangling
from a hole, which means that a great-crest has
been nesting there. Looking for the possible lit-
tle red owl that is supposed to live in every hollow
tree, I thrust my hand into one of the cavernous
hollows. While feeling about its ridgy sides,
,my fingers come in contact with a small disk that
185

THp ipearaon's Xane

seems like metal ; it yields to slight pulling, and
proves to be a Washington penny. When the tree
was young, it had doubtless been hidden beyond
the bark, in accordance with a once widely preva-
lent notion that a coin so placed brought luck,
provided the owner voluntarily parted with it and
kept the fact a secret. I remember much of this
silliness as prevalent in my own day ; but children
and pennies have been more prominent than the
coveted luck.

We found no owls, but it is something to dis-
cover where they have been and are likely, in
proper season, to be again. That they had feasted
when last in the .tree was evident from the hand-
fuls of mice bones that I scooped from several of
the deep holes in the trunk and larger branches.
On this tree, too, were singing birds, one a most
melancholy thrush, that, as my companion sug-
gested, sang snatches of Auld Lang Syne. Now,
this man was as prosy a mathematician as can be
found, and yet he had actually caught the spirit
of the place, or the spirit had caught him, and be-
fore we were at the last of the remaining old trees
he bore some slight resemblance to a poet. He
did not attempt any verses. Probably he had
never read ten lines of poetry in his life. He did
remark, however, " The quiet here is eloquent. I
seem to be some other than myself. Why is it ? "
Simply what I have already said, but he, being
mathematical and less receptive than common
186

"dp Pearson's Xane

folk, needed all these trees to influence him.
Usually two or three are enough.

Perhaps I do him wrong. I did expect he
would calculate the width of the lane on entering
it, and estimate its length by staring down the
wagon-track. To his credit, he did neither ; to our
discredit, neither had noticed the old worm fences
that hemmed us in. It was only as we were pass-
ing from the lane to the door-yard that we saw
them. But then who ever did see everything
as he passed along lane, road, or wood-path, or
across lots? We can only aim to overlook as little
as possible.

It was just one hour later in the day when we
left the lane and stood before the farm-house.
This is such loitering as I dearly love, a whole
hour given to just one furlong. No surly watch-
dog questioned our right, and no crabbed pro-
prietor spoke to us of trespassing. The dog is a
thing of the past, the several owners widely scat-
tered, and the accommodating tenant not at home.
We had but to people the place as we chose, and
I, posing as local historian, proceeded to do so.

There was not a single feature of the old yard
that was intact. This was fortunate. Any linger-
ing newness robs all old objects of their charm.
It is not enough to be old ; they must look it.
We were among ruins; not the product of sudden
disaster, but the havoc brought about by long use,
no attempt at repair, and the general ravages of
187

fcearson's Xane

time and season. On every side we were sur-
rounded by such ruins, and the pleasure of recon-
struction was ours. Here, for once, the imagina-
tion had full swing, and how we reveled ! What
we did not know we fancied, and what we fancied
we fell in love with. This is the proper business
of loitering. Bent upon our own amusement
only, our aimless method was not a loss of oppor-
tunity, and we were acquiring as much truth as
does the professional historian by his scientific
procedure. Does he not sometimes go astray al-
most as much as the woman who said she did not
believe her folks ever cleaned flax with such a ma-
chine, looking, at the time, at the skeleton of a
spinet? But the mathematician to-day made a
bad break. Pointing, as he spoke, to a churn
upon its cross-legged stand, he said, " That 's bet-
ter than putting your barrel of wine on the cellar
floor and having to stoop over to draw the
liquor."

" That 's a churn, man," I replied.

" A churn ? You were speaking of history ; let
me say that the distance between it and the truth
of the matter is like that with which we deal in
astronomy."

That was a neat remark, too good for a mathe-
matician, and I told him so.

" They laid out their paths more with reference
to convenience than to the garden landscape," my
companion remarked. " See that crooked line in
188

Pearson's Xane

the weeds, with bits of box-bush still struggling to
keep alive."

" And they did well," I added. « Why forever
stick to straight lines and turn sharp corners, as in
Philadelphia streets ? What a pleasing, winding
way is even that short path from the kitchen door
to the spring-house ! "

" Spring-house ! Let 's go." And away went
the mathematician in a bee-line.

I followed slowly, and did not wonder at his
enthusiasm when I reached the spot. In a lit-
tle ravine there rippled a stream of sparkling
water, cold as winter, beady as champagne. We
could trace in the ruined brick-work where the
milk-pans had been placed, and found, beneath
a coating of moss and earth, huge slabs of stone
that had formed the floor. I began gathering
material for a romance, and my companion re-
marked, to himself apparently, " This reminds me
of lines — "

" Well, boys ! " from the lips of the old tenant, a
queer man, but excellent of heart, cut short my
meditations and my companion's remark.

On invitation, and for policy's sake, we fol-
lowed the aforesaid tenant to the house. Halting
on the door-step, I asked permission to explore
the cellar.

" You '11 break your neck in the rubbish, for it 's
black as night down there ; but you can go, of
course."

189

lap Pearson's Xane

" Can I have a lantern ? "

" Yes, but don't smash it."

" Are you coming ? " I asked of my com-
panion.

" Not much," he replied, emphatically. " I '11
go back to the spring-house."

The feeble rays of the smoky lantern availed
little against the darkness. It seemed as if no
daylight had been here since 1737, when the cel-
lar was dug, and that year after year the darkness
had thickened, so that now you waded through a
condensation of gloom. It pressed upon you and
fought the lantern's feeble flame until it dwindled
to a pale red spark. By looking backwards I
could see the steps down which I had come,
so I was not lost, and I knew that this hole in the
ground had narrow metes and bounds. The old
man was right ; there was in it rubbish and noth-
ing else. By dint of much feeling about, and
casting occasional rays of light upon objects in
reach, I made out, in one corner, what appeared
to be part of a cheese-press, of itself of no mo-
ment, but there was a bit of an old book in it, and
this I pocketed. Then on and on from corner to
corner, but nothing strange or wonderful was
found. Old garrets of late had become common-
place, and I had been hoping much from cellars
as promising new hunting grounds. It was very
provoking. As I neared the door I noticed a
slight break in the wall, with what seemed the neck
190

Pearson's Xane

of a bottle projecting from it. Drawing it from
its long-time resting place, it proved to be a
quaint green-glass bottle of curious shape, one of
the "Jersey Pines" glassworks product of more
than a century ago. The lantern, at this moment,
suddenly grew bright, as if it was thrilled by the
discovery, and I read in the flash, " Currant wine,
1802." I gave my lips an anticipatory smack,
and, with a firm grip on my treasure, passed to
the welcome sunshine, never thinking I was on
another's ground

" What you got ? " asked the old man.

" Oh, nothing."

"Too big for nothin', and in a bottle, too.
Let 's taste."

There was nothing else to do, and, calling to
my companion, we went into the kitchen. My
precious wine must be sacrificed. I handed the
bottle to the old man to open, which he did, pull-
ing the bit of waxed corn-cob with his teeth quite
dexterously. In the green glass tumblers that he
had previously set out, no trace of the wine's color
could be seen, and the atmosphere of the kitchen
effectually prevented our detecting any fragrance,
did it exist. The two tumblers were nearly filled,
and offered us; we took them with thanks, and
at the same moment brought them to our lips.
Instantly they were withdrawn, and, with a bound
that would have done credit to an athlete, the
mathematician made for the spring-house, and I
191

's Xane

was less precipitate only because of my more
sluggish limbs. What gallons of water it needed
to wash away the horror that hung about our lips !

" Say, fellers," remarked the old tenant, for he
soon followed us, " that was pretty tough. Seems
to me that was hoss liniment, if I know the smell."

Somehow I did not care to talk as we strolled
down the lane, and I noticed that my friend was
not only morose but extremely mathematical in all
his movements. Even his constant but suppressed
exclamations of disgust and efforts to blow his
mustache from his mouth were at regular inter-
vals. Then, to make amends, as if the guilty
party, I tried to divert his thoughts by recurring
to events prior to the mishap, and asked to what
lines he referred when we were interrupted at the
spring-house. "Were they straight, curved, or
crooked ? "

" Not as crooked as your wine ; but it was
Wordsworth's lines that I meant :

A jolly place, said he, in time of old,

But something ails it now ; the spot is curst.

I believe it now." And he gave a vigorous blow
at the hair which he fancied was still dripping
with liniment. " Your fly-away method is all well
enough sometimes, but it does n't hurt to mix it
with a little mathematical precaution occasionally.
You jump at conclusions, and then swear black
is white in spite of the facts as subsequently de-
192

Pearson's Xane

termined. Of course it was only spoiled wine
you '11 say, and not vile liniment."

" Why, of course."

" Well, it 's a pity you did n't see the twinkle
in that old codger's eyes when we turned into the
lane."

" What did he say ? "

" Say ! Nothing ; but he looked volumes."

'3 193

IRamble

THE distant river comes and goes as the sun-
light bids it. At times, a mere matter of
faith, but now a glittering thread of silver wend-
ing its shiny way to the sea. But I take more
kindly to the ponds and ditches. They come
more nearly down to my level and are compan-
ionable to-day. The north wind passes overhead,
and the sunlight creeps among the old oaks as if
expecting to find me. It does, and we laugh
together. Summer has left an abundance by
which to remember her. We call it winter fruit,
but it was the deft fingers of summer that shaped
the bright red berries of the black alder which now
replace the scarlet lobelia that in August blazed
by the brookside. Then, too, there were the
ruddy seed-vessels of the wild rose, and over the
ground the golden fruit of the horse-nettle. The
privet, laden with black berries, was still green,
and the rhododendron and sassafras sprouts were
fresh as a bright June morning, and beyond, the
gaunt trunks of the walnuts were draped with
194

IRamble

climbing bittersweet, glowing with its wealth of
crimson and gold. All this with abundant sun-
shine. What if it is December ? It would be
safe to wager there were flowers yet in bloom, I
thought, and straightway found dandelions starring
the dead grass.

Determine beforehand whither you will ramble,
and make an early start. Sunrise I have always
associated with mirth, and melancholy with the
sunset. It is reasonable to do so. Be astir at
sunrise then, and receive the greeting of that lover
of the dawn, the blackcap. Chick-a-dee-dee means
" cheerfulness," as he who hears it quickly learns,
for the chill of the early hour is thereby tempered.
Those who never see the world at such a time
have strange ideas of winter. Frost is a gardener
of most excellent taste, and when he has encased
seed pods and dry grass with crystal all their
beauty is restored.

No walk is so successful as that in which we
make a discovery. It may be some trivial matter
that we find, but this is of little moment. We have
added to our own stock of knowledge, and this is
often more pleasant than adding to the world's
stock. There is no silly criticism to face, and when
the walk is over there is abundance to think about,
and the ramble reviewed at night before the and-
irons is a repetition of the day's enjoyment.

When, in the good Colonial days, this was a
Quaker settlement and the folks were all neigh -

21 lule*afDe IRamble

borly, there were footpath- ways. Here and there
some lone tree may be standing that was much
more of a landmark to our forefathers than it is to
us. Trees, I am sure, were something more than
so many oaks and elms to the lovers of the last
century. Be this as it may, they are trees only to
us, and utterly without association of like import.
The old-time paths have long since been blotted
out, and so I hold it as my most excellent good
fortune to find to-day a trace of one that was full
of suggestiveness.

In a long-neglected corner of a high pasture
meadow, to which none but the very highest
freshets ever reached, there stands a curious group
of trees, five in all, two willows, an oak, a maple,
and a hickory. There is no great difference in
their ages, and all are trees of the preceding cen-
tury. I directed my steps toward them, more
because they were the scene of a noisy gathering
of crows than for any other reason that I can re-
call. Jays, a wary pigeon-hawk, and wandering
robins flew above, and, I fancied, turned their
heads when directly over me, as if they pitied any
one who had to crawl upon the rough ground. I
did not wonder. The hearty cries of these birds,
as they dashed through the frosty air, expressed
abundant joy. The call of the jay and whistling
scream of the hawk, like the harsh plaint of the
nuthatch and rattle of the flicker, accorded well
with the surroundings, and bore the same relation
196

IRamble

to the bare twigs and nut-like fruit that the songs
of summer birds bear to the leaves and flowers.

The clump of trees was deserted by the crows
before I reached it, and when I stood in the
weedy hollow between the five huge trunks, the
spot was still as the sleepy churchyard with its
charge. For the first time, though often here be-
fore, I noticed how strangely shaped were the
trunks of the two willows, and closer investigation
showed that they had overgrown a stile until at
last they had quite concealed it. The wood of
the two old willows was now so rotten, except for
a little space next the bark, that the last efforts of
a raccoon or opossum to effect a lodgment had
broken away large pieces of the trees, and so ex-
posed the stile. A path had at one time passed
between these trees, and I could see the probable
direction it extended ; but why a path here, and
from what point did it start, and whereto did it
lead? These were hopeless questions. I doubt
if any one now living knows; and what of the
people who had passed to and fro in years long
gone ? Here, indeed, must have been a favorite
spot for people to meet — by accident, of course
— and we know that young Friends were equal to
falling in love, and have been known to flirt. I
have knowledge of one lively lass that could not
be sobered by a drab gown, who was so frequently
called to account by her elders that she finally got
out of all patience, and very wisely, for her peace's
13* 197

iRamble

sake, married out of meeting. In a quiet way,
this was a lively neighborhood ; and the one-time
footpath and stile in a little grove could tell a
pretty story if they would but speak. But because
abandoned now of men, it was by no means deso-
late. A troop of tree sparrows followed me —
they are usually quite wild — and pine-finches
dropped from the clouds. The twittering of a
hundred birds is equal to the single effort of an
accomplished songster, and yet the guardian spirit
of the place was not satisfied, and a Carolina wren
came darting out of some dark hollow of the old
willows and sang. The voice of this bird works
a miracle. It is the magician's wand that trans-
forms gloom to glitter, darkness to light, night to
day. Winter stands back ; the north wind checks
its headlong course ; the whole world listens with
bated breath lest it lose a single note. What a
yule-tide greeting was this, and in the one-time
haunt of my own people, too, more than a century
ago. There is something more in a bird's song
than mere music.

It might be thought, I can readily see, that the
effect of much bird- song would not be pleasant at
this time of the year. We are so accustomed to
think of winter as a season of rest and compara-
tive silence, that any sudden outburst of joyous-
ness grates upon us. It is untimely, and, so, un-
tuneful. So much for your theorists and the dusty
commonplaces of your feather counters and egg
198

B mie*Vite "Ramble

measurers. The birds do not look upon winter
as most men do ; but man does not seem to have
found this out. We have often more music in the
leafless woods than when the foliage is at its fresh-
est, at the flood-tide of its growth. Not the same
music ; in fact, with few exceptions, not the same
birds, but this signifies nothing. It is music, none
the less, and as heartily rendered as ever by nest-
ing birds. There are those who say they have
never heard this, but they forget there are hospi-
tals for the deaf. The trouble largely lies in the
fact that there is no radical cure for laziness.
There is a vast difference between a summer stroll
and a winter tramp.

We have many winter residents as well as all-
the-year-round birds, and they are not disposed
to remain forever quiet. A crested tit would ra-
ther be struck dead than struck dumb. Song is the
very soul of a tit's existence, and I have never seen
the storm that he dared not face and whistle his
merriest when the north wind carried the mercury
below zero. Bluebirds and song-sparrows, that
are forever prated about as harbingers of spring,
are just as merry and full of song in December as
in April, and the latter are here to-day, as they
have been ever since the species was evolved, for
aught any ornithologist knows to the contrary,
and will be until the end of time, unless collectors
increase, or there is a total change of climate.
The birds that really indicate the coming of spring
199

21 I>ule*ai0e IRamble

and are not here now are less familiar than song-
sparrows, and, though finer singers, are not more
welcome than the constant friends of all seasons.

As suddenly as they appeared, many birds
about me as quickly departed. I could scarcely
trace their movements, and in a moment they
were out of sight. What could have frightened
them, and where would they find safer quarters ?
I questioned myself thus, and soon had a reply,
not from myself. A curious moaning sound from
overhead, then a slight swaying of the tree-tops,
then the blast of chilling air from the frozen north.
How did the birds foretell its coming ? I do not
for a moment admit the possibility of mere coin-
cidence. What is the character of the forerunner
of these cold waves that appears to whisper so
gently and hint so delicately that only a bird can
understand the warning ? In this case the change
in temperature was very marked, though I did
not mind it. It is always summer on the sunny
side of the oak, and I betook myself to it. There
was a glorious outlook over wide-spread meadows,
and how gracefully the tall sedges and bleached
grasses stand guard over the timid mice that ven-
ture abroad beneath them. Cunning and quick,
yet not always equal to escaping the sharp eyes of
the harrier or the marsh owl. There is poetry in
the motion of most of our birds of prey, which
even those who have most closely studied our
outdoor world seem to have overlooked. A hawk

200

IRamble

is something more than a mere murderer. Our
greatest ornithologist, Coues, has most apprecia-
tively described their habits and individuality, but
even he has omitted the hawk's ecstasy when
caught in a gale. The wild scream of the red-
tail that I heard some days ago might need some
modification, but would make a splendid chorus
for a lively song. It was the fullest expression of
exultation that I have ever heard. It was full of
meaning and force, not a senseless jargon like a
college cry. Our large hawks differ in their cries
or songs, as I prefer to call them, but the varia-
tions are not easily described. One that I some-
times hear is an echo on the plain of a storm in
the mountains ; a crashing of timber and rending
of rocks, softened by distance.

The sunny side of the oak was well known to
a winter favorite, the brown tree-creeper, and he
soon appeared, stopping very near my shoulder,
and moving only a little way off when I turned
my head. It is a mistake to suppose that these
birds never rest during the day. If we watch
one for an hour and see it constantly on the move
during that time, we jump at the conclusion that
it never rests; but it does. I have seen them
cling to a bit of rugged bark and remain as mo-
tionless as a gray lizard. The one that ran to the
sunny side of the oak while I was standing there
did not remain quiet for more than a second at a
time, except once, when it stretched its neck well

201

IRamble

out, and sang after its quaint fashion, as if thank-
ing the sun for its warmth. It was the more in-
teresting incident because the bird was running
down the tree-trunk head foremost, like a nut-
hatch, a position not often assumed by the tree-
creeper.

But the world is something more than a bird-
cage, though I am apt to forget it when out of
doors. Given one sunny nook of a bright winter
day, and we are more apt to linger there than
trust to finding others further on. But the land
is full of them. Here, where the wind has full
sweep, it is dotted with shelters ; and the observer
would be astonished were he to compare ther-
mometers placed in the sun and shade. Even
at night, I find by experiment, the warm day-
time nooks are not so cold as the more exposed
places, and here it is that so many birds roost.
The smaller sparrows, at times, roost on the
ground, where they are sheltered from the wind ;
but in milder nights I have found them in the
thick-set shrubbery.

Leaving my sheltering nook, where the sun
keeps the grass green all the year, I wandered to
where, along the dividing fence that separates two
tracts of meadow, there is a long row of gigantic
sassafras-trees; not one but is over fifty feet in
height. The trunks of many of them have been
twisted from the very start, and are now of most

202

IRamble

grotesque shape, while others are straight-stemmed,
but with never a branch that is not crooked as a
corkscrew. The leaves are gone, and the bare
twigs stand out boldly against the dark-blue sky,
suggesting that much might come of a study of
twigs. They are as characteristic of trees as the foli-
age, or, if not quite, sufficiently so to make it im-
portant to the painter of winter landscapes. I
have seen the top of one tree on the trunk of an-
other in more than one pretentious picture. About
the trunks of the sassafras-trees, supported by a
villainous wire fence, was a dense growth of green-
brier, and here the thrushes had lingered until
early autumn. Their nests were still intact, and
one was occupied by a pair of white-footed vesper-
mice, that had roofed the original structure, and
now had a cosy home, through which neither
wind nor snow could penetrate. Shaking the
tangled vines until the nest began to tremble, I
brought the mice to their door, which figuratively
opened and shut so quickly that I could not see
it. They came into view much as the drops of
moisture gather on the outside of a glass, and,
when on the outside of their nest, began to inves-
tigate me. As I stood perfectly still, one ran
upon my outstretched arm, but at once realized I
was of flesh and blood, and ran away with such
haste I could not follow it. How they travel at
all in such tangles has always been a mystery;
203

IRamble

but they do, and how poorly language can con-
vey any idea of their dexterity. As well attempt
to measure the angles of a flash of lightning.

As yet, this has been an open winter ; what if
the weather be severe ? The difference is much
more with yourself than with what you will see
or hear in a country ramble. You may need a
thicker coat, but not so the chickadee or crested
tit. I do not know but berries look ruddier and
the rhododendron greener when the thermometer
marks zero. The air is apt to be very clear at
such a time ; and, if still, the winter falcon may
salute you with a cheery " good morning," though
half a mile away. Certainly the snowbirds will
go " piping down the valleys wild " just as they
did when we had an Indian summer.

When homeward bound I looked about for
some gnarly root of an old tree borne hither by
freshets years ago, it may be, and now ready to
fall in pieces. Such rubbish, as my neighbors call
it, is the choicest firewood where there is an
open fireplace with andirons. I found more than
I could well carry, and selected one piece for a
back-log that was as twisted as the serpents of
Laocoon. How splendidly it turned to ashes a
few hours later. It made for the time a pretty
picture, and, while drawing the fire from a hickory
coal until my pipe was well lighted, I was at least
contented, if not a perfect picture of content. No !
not altogether satisfied. The day's restlessness
204

IRamble

still lingered, and I could not keep my hands
from the burning sticks. Such sticks are never
properly arranged, and we must, or think we
must, forever change their positions. It is a fas-
cinating pastime ; and what a dear, old Colonial
ring there is in the clatter of the tongs !

205

Xanbmarfce

Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have
set. — Prav. xxii. 28.

NO text in Hebrew Scripture is more com-
pletely forgotten than this, and yet it merits
as much consideration as the average quotation
from Genesis to the Apocrypha. Everywhere we
are removing landmarks ; nowhere are we rearing
them. But I write of the country, not the town,
of which I know nothing. Scraps of old journals
and quaint entries in time-worn commonplace-
books have given me an insight into the conditions
of my own neighborhood two centuries ago, and
it has taken only two hundred years to bring down
the beauty Nature was long in building to the level
of the commonplace. In the struggle for wealth
we have made the land poor, and have not en-
riched ourselves. My neighbor has a large farm
here in New Jersey, and spends the winter in
Florida, that he may see the country. In other
words, he robbed his own home, years ago, to pay
the railroad and his board bill, and now bemoans
206

XanDmarfcs

the barrenness of the landscape. He deserves to
be kicked, and yet preserves the respect of his
fellows ; he even excites their envy. Another of
my neighbors cut down four walnut-trees that he
might enlarge his pigsty. After this there seemed
to be no hope ; for these men, who even shoot cat-
birds to save their cherries, who stuff their stom-
achs and starve their ears, are not to be reasoned
with. For years, as I looked from an east win-
dow. I saw that group of walnuts, towering above
the other trees, and in summer their leafy tops
seemed like a huge ball that was rolling along the
horizon, for trees on all sides hemmed me in.
Now there is a break. I can see beyond, where I
do not care to look, or, looking earthward, trace
the roof of the new piggery. With the proceeds
of his crop of pork, he too, this enemy of walnut-
trees, is going to Florida. But even worse things
have been done. Another neighbor has felled an
old oak because the shade rotted the shingles, and
now has a sunburnt door-yard, with a sickly arbor-
vitae near where the old tree stood, — a very mod-
est green tombstone of the fallen monarch. This
neighbor never thought that his shingle roof might
have been replaced by slates at about the same
cost that was required to remove the tree. " But
I sold the tree for a good price," he said to me.
"And you gave away your credit for common
sense," I replied.

Perhaps there is no landmark so suggestive as an
207

Xan&marfcs

old tree. We are forever building monuments, but
why not let those stand which Nature set up, even
before the white man appeared upon the scene, and
which were landmarks to our ancestors as well as
to ourselves ? We cherish Washington elms, Stuy-
vesant pear-trees, and Penn's treaty elm, because
the men named once stood in their shade. Is it
not as suggestive that an Indian once stood, it
may be, under an oak and harangued his people ?
But, even if forsaken of all men, there is not a tree
that has weathered two or three centuries but is as
worthy of regard now as the scattered growths
that happened to become associated with some-
body's name. No mere association can the more
ennoble a majestic elm. Because an oak, still
standing, was riddled by bullets during the Rev-
olution, it has no additional dignity. The mur-
mur of the breeze through its branches is more
musical than the whistling of hot lead. There is
many an old tree still standing, but quite disre-
garded, because, as you say, it is nobody's oak or
elm. No great man ever saw it or stood beneath
its branches, so why should you ? What rubbish !
It is everybody's tree, teaching lessons, if you will
but learn, that will greatly aid you on your jour-
ney through life. Tree-worship, once so common
and still existing, is now accounted among us as
trivial and evidence of a low order of intellectual-
ity, even among savages; but it is not as be-
littling as our modern hero-worship.
208

Xanfcmarfcs

A recent summer day bade fair to be all that a
rambler could wish, and I was off early, for an all-
day stroll. Long before noon I met an old man
from the town, and stopped a moment at his re-
quest. " The silver bells of the field-sparrows
tinkle along the fences, just the same," he re-
marked, " but I hear no meadow-lark, and no
wonder ; the old landmark 's gone. In the middle
of this field there stood an old oak, that was half
dead when I was a boy, but it was here a year
ago when I passed by. Never a May morning
that I did n't hear the meadow-lark that stood on
the very top and whistled. I heard him sixty
years ago, and I heard him last spring. It 's all
changed now with that landmark gone. How I
wanted to see the old tree just once more ! " And
the old man turned away. It was a sad incident,
and spoiled for me a fresh June morning. The old
man's words kept ringing in my ears, and every
warbler seemed to sing the same sad refrain, —
" the old oak 's gone."

I remember the tree. It was not so very large.
There were no wide-spreading branches, but short,
thick-set ones, that bent in upon themselves until
the tree looked like a stout man with arms folded
on his breast. Standing thus, it had weathered
the storms of two or three centuries. It was once
a corner tree, and is recorded as such in an old
deed, so we have some clue to its age. But this
is prosy history at best, and true of many others :
14 209

XanDmarfcs

so what are the claims of old trees to our regard ?
Single one out, and study its career. Go to it in
early spring and watch the swelling leaf-buds.
This is the tree's busiest time, and yet how quietly
it does its work ! No one ever heard of a ner-
vous or fretful tree. There 's a hint for you. I
know a beech that yearly bears a half- million of
leaves, yet their growth never made sufficient stir
to deflect thistle-down from its course. Millions
of drops of sap course through as many channels,
yet there is no sound of moving water. It is in
vain to press your ear against the bark ; you will
hear nothing ; but the sap was passing upward all
the while. No tree asks aid from its neighbors.
It is self-reliant; and how much of that virtue can
you rightly boast of?

We know that ere long the tree will afford us
grateful shade ; but did it make you any promise
to that effect ? You go to it, in fullest confidence,
when the hot July sunshine scorches the fields,
and you never are disappointed. Cannot man-
kind get a hint from a tree? Who ever lived
that never spake of himself, never despatched a
courier announcing his intentions, and never failed
to meet the just expectations of his fellows ? Death
alone is the disturber of a tree, but man, with all
his superiority, is the sole reason for such a word
as vacillation. He is a poor student who can
spend a day with a tree and go home none the
wiser. I say this with confidence. As the tree
210

XanDmarfcs

is instructive in proportion to its age, why not let
it stand ? Remove not the ancient landmark.

And what, too, of those mellow autumn days,
when the green leaf, before its fall, rejoices in gay
colors at the success of its mission ? Though its
last days have come, it sees no reason for mourn-
ing, but joins you in rejoicing that the expected —
but not promised — fruit has matured. Who that
has gathered nuts, after a stinging white frost in
October, but has learned to love the old shell-
barks that are landmarks in the meadows ? It is
not childish to love an old tree. It is brutal not
to do so.

But there are other landmarks than old trees.
True ; there are old houses, and we add, perhaps,
old men. The village without its patriarch is in-
complete ; and what a difference between Colonial
houses and those that have recently sprung into
existence ! We breathe in the odor of unpainted
cedar and mossy shingles, — not strive to rid our
lungs of the smell of paint. We seldom stop to
look at a house built in our own lifetime ; but ho\v
generally we scrutinize the old house near by,
though we may have seen it daily for many years!
Its quaint porch, the small-paned windows, the
low eaves and substantial chimney, appeal to us,
and we wonder if life is not more restful and soul-
satisfying under such a roof. The old man in his
high-backed rocker, dozing by the fireplace, the
old woman knitting in her throne-like easy-chair,

OLanfcmarfcs

the willow-pattern china in the open cupboard, —
what a picture ! But these venerable people can-
not long remain, and then what ? The children
scatter the furniture, the old house is torn down,
and we have the smell of paint and the chatter of
strangers. Can we not at least preserve one such
house in every village, furniture and old-fashioned
garden and all else, keeping it for our children's
sake, an illustration on the page of local history ?
What a poor exchange for this is a single chair or
an odd plate upon the mantel of a new house !
Detached from their proper surroundings, few ob-
jects retain their real beauty. It is like the caged
canary as a substitute for the free minstrel of the
wildwood.

The present rage for relics and indifference to
landmarks are strangely inconsistent. I cannot
understand that man who chases after a china tea-
pot that he cannot authenticate, and allows his
comfortable old house to be modernized. No one
should be governed by his children in this. Let
them be taught to reverence the old, and not fall
down and worship the new. If you must prove
that you had a great-grandmother, gather up the
old crockery ; but pry not too deeply into its his-
tory. The cracked tureen that now holds the
place of honor on the sideboard held soap-fat in
the kitchen in Colonial days ; but the old house
itself was a monument to thrift and intelligence
»and patriotism : so let it stand, if possible, and

212

XanDmarfcs

worry less about the trifles it once contained. We
are not so land-poor that the new house must ne-
cessarily occupy the site of the old. Even in large
cities, an old house, here and there, is as pictur-
esque as an open " square." A bronze tablet in
the wall of a new structure is at best but a re-
minder that we once possessed a treasure and
threw it away.

But let us go back to the country. Where do
we find those features that most surely attract at-
tention and rouse more than a passing interest?
Not on the main thoroughfare so much as along
the back-roads. It is rare that any landmark is
left when the road is a mere extension of the city
street, without its pavements and long rows of
dwellings. The welfare of vehicles and the con-
venience of horse-jockeys have alone been con-
sulted, and every tree that encroaches beyond
private grounds has been removed. The world is
in too much of a hurry to go round an old chest-
nut. Though it has weathered two or more cen-
turies, it has acquired no rights; no respect is
shown to its age. Happily, matters are better
ordered along the by-ways, and there we have
ground free to all and not shorn of all its beauty.
I passed along a back-road, last autumn, where
nearly every fence-post was draped with crimson
Virginia creeper, — where dwarf sumachs held aloft
an abundance of ruddy fruit, and trailed between
the lichen-coated boards of an old fence were wil-
14* 213

Xanomarfcs

lowy branches of climbing bittersweet, laden with
crimson and yellow fruit. Not a bird of all the
summer's host had forsaken the spot. After a
wearisome ride along a dusty turnpike, with little
that was natural to be seen, except the sky above,
that back-road was a veritable elysium, — a land-
mark for the old region thereabouts, which I trust
no overseers of the highway will venture to
disturb.

Remove not the ancient landmark which thy
fathers have set, lest you force us to remain for-
ever as strangers in a strange land.

214

ftboreau

'T^HERE are two of the many essays on Thoreau
J_ that are probably more read than all the oth-
ers put together, and because of their authorship
— Emerson and Lowell — have greater weight in
the minds of readers than would any expression of
opinion from any other source as to Thoreau as a
man of letters or as a naturalist. But the world is
not always wise in bowing down to greatness, for
greatness is very sure, in the long run, to overesti-
mate itself. Neither Emerson nor Lowell was
fitted to the task he undertook, though he doubt-
less thought he was. It is true that Emerson's ar-
ticle prefacing Thoreau's " Excursions " is a bio-
graphical sketch merely, but in it are phrases that
are open to criticism. As an instance, take Emer-
son's estimate of Thoreau's ambition, or what he
calls a lack of it. Now, so great is the influence
carried with every word of Emerson that probably
not one reader in a hundred but regrets that Tho-
reau preferred to be " captain of a huckleberry
party " to leader of a political one, and that he held
215

Gboreau

" pounding beans " to be better than " the pound-
ing of empires." There is the error. What we
sadly need is an infusion of intellect into the lower
strata of man's activities. There will always be
brains and to spare in professional life, — great
leaders who will reach the artificial element that
crowds the cities, and happily leaves undisturbed
the simple folk who live nearer to nature. Thoreau
would have been lost, or at best would have been
but one of many, had he overcome his repugnance
to mere formality, and met his neighbors in a dress-
suit. We cannot imagine him acting any one of
the innumerable white lies of modern society. In
such slavish toggery he would have excited as much
of ridicule as he now commands of admiration. In
his lifelong battle for sincerity and simplicity, he
knew the field upon which he was to fight ; knew
it better than any antagonist he met, and left it a
conqueror.

As we glance over modern biography, we find
there are countless examples of youth born in the
ranks of the lowly who have aspired to better
things, and seized knowledge as a cable by which
to draw themselves upward, and spent their re-
maining days at a higher level and in an atmos-
phere that was but a source of wonderment to their
ancestors. This sounds very noble ; it is noble ;
but in Thoreau's case there was an inversion of this
order, and the intellectuality that Emerson de-
plored as dissipated was put to the very highest
216

Cboreau

of uses, that of making the lower or simpler things
of life shine out in their proper light. By thought-
fully pursuing the occupations he chose, he raised
them to the rank of professions, and clothed with
dignity labor that before was drudgery. The quick-
est way to send the world to perdition would be to
make all men lead professional lives, and the posi-
tive curse under which we now rest is that the
absurdity is taught by parents to infants, and by
teachers to scholars, that the true or best life is that
of the preeminently learned, and that no dignity
or honor or worthy reward of any kind comes to
him who lives closest to Nature, and so most re-
mote from the centers of civilization. Pounding
beans, which Emerson sneers at, would not be de-
grading or belittling or unworthy a man of brains,
if here and there a man of mental force would show
that his brain and brawn need not come into con-
flict. If, over the land, Thoreaus would demon-
strate that a day of toil in the fields can be followed
by an evening of rational, intellectual enjoyment,
the world would quickly advance beyond the
present stage of agitation and unrest, that needs a
standing army to preserve even the semblance of
order. If the philanthropists would attack the
problem of intellectualizing work, the workman
would be benefited indirectly more than any efforts
directed at " the masses " will avail. No work
that the world calls for should be looked upon by
a favored few as beneath mankind. More mis-
217

{Tboreau

chief lurks in a sneer than about a cannon's mouth,
Thoreau stands for two conditions which neither
Emerson nor Lowell nor any great man of letters
or of science or of political economy has ever
dreamed of displaying upon his banner : Simplicity
and sincerity. This was an ambition far higher,
far better fitted to secure the welfare of man and
the permanency of his own fame (if he ever thought
of the latter), than anything that Emerson ever
thought of. Of course we must always bear in
mind that Thoreau died before the youth of old age
had commenced, and it is obviously unfair to pass
too critically upon his writings. But two of the
eleven volumes that complete his works were is-
sued in his lifetime, and what he might have done
with the mass that has since been printed, what
omitted and what elaborated, cannot even be con-
jectured. That the best results should be realized,
Thoreau should be read first, and what his critics
have to say be considered subsequently ; and it is
to be regretted that, laudatory as is the biographi-
cal sketch by Emerson, it should have contained a
single stricture. That stricture was not called for.
Lowell's essay on Thoreau, in the former's vol-
ume entitled " My Study Windows," though he
claims his " most fruitful studies " to have been " in
the open air," is eminently unjust. There was not
the slightest trace of sympathy between the two
men. Lowell is the reporter of the flower-garden ;
Thoreau, of the forest. Lowell can ride in a well-
218

Gboreau

appointed boat down a safe stream, and report the
graceful weeping willows that adorn its banks;
Thoreau can sit cross-legged in a cranky canoe and
tell in matchless language of the wild life that lives
in dangerous rapids and lurks in the fastnesses of
the untrodden wilderness. Lowell is tame ; Tho-
reau is savage. The former tells us of a zoological
garden ; the latter of life in the haunts that Nature
has provided. This being true, there lurked no
cunning in Lowell's pen to tell the world who and
what Thoreau really was. He simply gives us his
own impressions, and they are erroneous. The
well-known instance of Lowell, as editor, omitting
from a manuscript of Thoreau's what he consid-
ered an objectionable passage, shows how widely
apart these two men stood, and the act was an
assumption on Lowell's part without excuse. What
right, indeed, had he tacitly to assert that heaven
lacked a feature Thoreau thought might be there ?
Neither of them knew, of course, one whit about
the matter, but it is difficult to see why the bare-
headed, sun-burnt, out-of-door Thoreau's opinion is
not as worthy of consideration as that of his in-
door, kid-gloved critic. It was a trivial matter,
perhaps, but nevertheless a straw showing the di-
rection of Lowell's thoughts, that Thoreau, because
of his being a champion of simplicity and a foe to
half that which Lowell cherished as making life
worth living, could be snubbed successfully. But
the world is growing wiser. There is more free-
219

Gboreau

dom of thought than there was forty years ago, and
perhaps no better evidence of true advance than
the increase in numbers of those who now ponder
as seriously over Thoreau's suggestive pages as they
were once entertained by the polished periods of
Lowell.

Extremes are necessary to effect great changes.
No man ever yet drove a nail home, using only the
exact force needed. There will always be an
over-expenditure of enthusiasm. Thoreau always
said more than he meant, knowing that, if he did
not, his meaning would not reach home. He did
not expect or wish a Walden hut to be built on the
shore of every frog-pond. It was enough that
his own experience should be an object-lesson for
succeeding generations. We can carry a hermit-
age with us wherever we go, and meditate therein
to our advantage. There are few men of culture
but have or long to have their " den " where they
are comparatively free from interruption. This is
the meaning of Walden. He knew, well enough,
that to be heard we must speak loudly to the
deaf, and he shouted his best phrases where others
have whispered and been unheeded. There is a
roughness that is excusable on occasion. We do
not ask the drowning man if his arm is sore when
we firmly grasp it to save his life. If the reader
is surprised at times at Thoreau's earnestness and
plainness of speech, he must remember that he
was a man with a purpose, and held his moments
220

Gboreau

at their full value. There was no time to study what
others had decided as the best methods of record-
ing thought ; and yet, who has given us better spe-
cimens of pure literature than he ? There is no
other writer of our country who leaves the mind
in a more thoughtful state, when we close the vol-
ume, than he does. This is just the difference
between Thoreau and his critic, Lowell. The
latter keeps us in a pleasant frame of mind so
long as we read, but Thoreau lingers long after
we have laid aside his books.

A very recent and ludicrous evidence of mis-
conception as to Thoreau runs as follows : " Tho-
reau is as one of the lower wild animals, occupied
with woods and mountains because he had under-
taken to get a living for body and soul out of
them. Thoreau cannot be said to have loved, or
sympathized with, any creature, neither the wood-
chuck whose meat he was after, nor the farmer
whom he delighted to puzzle with conundrums
about the cost of living, nor the Indian whom, a
century ago, he would have slain on sight." If
we take this simple statement as it is, not reading
between the lines, it is worse than an absurdity,
for it is positively and inexcusably false. Thoreau
was the very prince of lovers ; but of late people
have lost the proper conception of honest love;
and when we reflect how greatly he preferred
an Indian who was what he claimed to be to
white men who were not what they wished to be

221

Gboreau

considered, the idea of his slaying a red man
is indeed remarkable. Then this critic claims
that others who have a fancy for the outdoor
world are " more humane," and enter the woods
with "more civilized" souls; but we must re-
member that these "improved" outdoorists say
we must not ogle a bird but shoot it, to determine
its identity. This is the humanity so much admired
of late. If the bird-butchers, weighed down with
" humanity " and " civilization," were extinct, and
Thoreaus dotted the landscape in every direction,
the world would be better off.

A word more concerning Thoreau as a natural-
ist. He was busied with the wild life about Con-
cord when " Science " was still occupied with the
hunt for new species, and content with a mere de-
scription of form and color. Evolution was but
little discussed, and in New England much disre-
garded, because of the efforts of Agassiz to make
it appear untrue. Thoreau made no practice of
haunting museums, objects in alcohol or stuffed
with tow not appealing strongly to him ; but he
did care to know, and was successful in ascertain-
ing, the habits of the animals he saw. It is true
he was anxious to know the scientific name of a
plant that he had found, and, learning it, felt
his interest grow ; but this does not seem to have
been a need as to animal life. It was enough to
know that a given fish was a chub or a perch.
The bream built a nest, scooping a hollow in the

222

sand. That this New England " bream " was a
percoid, and not a cyprinoid as is the English
bream, and that it had a dozen Latin names given
by as many authors from Linne down, did not in-
terest him. He knew the birds as creatures to be
met in various places, each with habits of its own,
and its seasons of going and coming. This, ra-
ther than anatomy, was to him a matter of inter-
est and importance. To-day such facts are found
to have a bearing on philosophical zoology quite
equal in importance to anatomical structure. Tho-
reau did not add greatly to our knowledge of
wild life, but he did that which is of equal merit,
showed how delightful was the pursuit of such
knowledge, and, in a measure, how it might be
attained.

For many readers, perhaps for most, there is
too little natural history in his books, too much
of other matter. As we read, we feel at times a
wish that he would sooner reach his conclusions
on philosophical or political questions, because
we are sure they will be followed by some bright
reference to a bird or beast, simply phrased, yet
so cunningly that the creature stands before us.
Anybody can say or write, " I see a fox," but in
Thoreau's books these same words are so framed
in other matter that the animal leaps into view,
and we see it dart over the snow, daintily carry-
ing its splendid brush, perhaps looking partly over
its shoulder at us, and leaving footprints that dot
223

ftboreau

the author's pages, though he is eloquent over
Greek poets, addresses a mountain, or weaves into
splendid imagery the smoke that at sunrise he
sees curling from his neighbor's chimney.

Thoreau had no predecessor and can have no
successor. He was the product of conditions
that can never again arise, for to expect another
Concord with its galaxy of intellectual giants is
utterly vain. He was one whose influence will
last as long as our language shall remain.

224

flnbey

'5

Actinism of spring light, 47
Apple trees, 181
Arbor-vitae, 207
Arbutus, 52
Arnica, 170

Arrowheads, flint, 124

Arrow-leaf, 152

Ash, 130

Asters, 183

Aurora, remarkable, 12, 24

B

Balm, 169
Bat, 31, 159
Beech, 52
Birch, 80

Birds and blossoms, 54
Birds, language of, 117
Birds, night-flying, 14
Birds, sleep of, 21
Bittern, 40
Bittern, least, 127
Bittersweet (Solatium dulca-
mara], 167
Bittersweet, climbing, 195, 214.

Blackberry, 95, 132
Blackbirds, red-winged, 14,

20, 153

Bladderwort, 87
Bluebird, 105, 161, 174, 185,

199

Boneset, 183

Bory St. Vincent, quoted, 124
Box-bush, 189
Bream, 222
Buttercups, 183
Buzzard, broad-winged, 69

Cactus, 148

Cardinal redbird, 48, 96, 104,

148, 174
Carp, 88

Cassia chamse crista, 148
Cat, domestic, n, 34
Catbird, 57, 99, 103, 113
Catfish, voice of, 58
Catnip, 169
Cat-owl, 6
Centaury, 183
Chat, yellow-breasted, 113

Chewink, 65, 113, 174
Chickadee, 48, 195, 204
Chipmunk, 35
Chub, 222

Cobwebs, 36, 151, 164
Cope, E. D., quoted, 85, 134
Coues, Elliott, quoted, 201
Cricket, 106, 147, 159, 175
Cricket, leaf, 35
Crosswicks Creek, 137
Crow, 18, 174, 196
Cuckoo, yellow-billed, 20

227

Darkness, absolute, 25
Darkness, determination
objects in, 10

D

Delaware valley, rosy sunsets
of in, 3

Dodder, 183

Delaware river, varied aspects Dove, 21, no

Dragon-flies, 148, 168
Ducks, wild, 37

of, 46

Delaware valley, 3
Delaware valley, ice-age in, Ducks, wild, whistling of, 56

125

Elm, 24, 52, 208

Emerson, R. W., quoted, 215

Falcon, winter, 204

Finch, pine, 198

Fire-flies, 30

Fishes, voices of, 58

Flicker, 196

Flounder of Delaware river, 60 Frogs, cries of, 59

Flycatcher, great crested, 99,

in, 185

Folk-lore of Indians, 67
Fox, 36, 75, 223
Frog, bull, 25

Glow-worms, 31
Gold en rod, 183
Goldfinch, 175, 183
Grakle, purple, 99
Grapevine, 123, 130

Greenlet, white-eyed, 103
Grosbeak, rose-breasted, 22,

57, 1 10, 134
Gum-tree, 80, 169

H

Hare, 36

Harivansa, quoted, 103

Hawk, black, 69

Hawk, marsh, 68

Hawk, pigeon, 196

Hawk, red-tailed, 18

Hawk, sparrow, 69

Hawks, voices of, 201

Hemlock, 50

Heron, great blue, 13, 18, 39

Heron, little blue, 152

Heron, green, 104, 152

Heron, night, 40

Herons, 20

Hickory, shell-bark, 9, 74, 130,

196

Houstonia, 119
Humming-bird, 132, 163
Hyla, Pickering's, 143

Ice-age in Delaware valley, Indian village-site, ancient, 16,

125

Ignis fatuus, 25, 27, 29
Indian pottery, 109
Indian quarry, 178
Indian summer, 204

145

Indians, Delaware, 16, 149
Indians, Delaware, refuse

heaps of, 93
Indigo-bird, 96, 99, 148
Ivy, poison, 125, 163

228

Jamestown weed, 16
Jay, blue, 18, 161, id

-196

J

Joepye-weed, 183

K

Kalm, Peter, quoted, 41, 141
Katydid, 35
Killdee, 13

King-bird, 98, 161, 174
Kingfisher, 18

Kingfisher, nocturnal habits
of, 67

Krakatoa, volcanic disturb-
ance at, 3

Landmarks, 206

Lark, meadow, 174, 209

Larks, horned, 9

Leidy, Jos., Dr., quoted, 124

Lenape language, 67

Light, springtide, 47

Lightning-bugs, 31

Maple, 196

Maple buds, frozen, 49

Marsh-wrens, 81

Martin, purple, 80

Maryland Yellow-throat, 19

May magic, 52

Mink, 24, 63

Minnows, 91

Mint, mountain, 169

Mistletoe, 120

Moonlight, 32

Mosquitoes, 115

Mouse, deer, 23, 176

Nemopanthes, 131, 167
Nettle, 16.
Nettle, horse, 194
Night, definition of, I

Lily, pond, 152

Linn£, 223

Liquidambar, 9, 38

Lobelia, scarlet, 194

Lotus, 86, 131

Lowell, J. R., quoted, 215

M

Mouse, house, 162
Mouse, meadow, 22, 75
Mouse, vesper, 8, 203
Mouse, white-footed, 23
Mouse, wood, 23
Mud-turtle, 91
Mullein, 148
Music, animals attracted by,

Muskrat, 63, 86

Muskrat, winter houses of,

87
Muir, John, quoted, 9

N

Night-hawk, 41
Nightingale, 67
Nuthatch, white-bellied, 196

Oak, 196
Oak, red, 6
Oak, white, 208
Oaks, 156
Octopus, 88
Opossum, 36
Oriole, 81, 98

Otter, 63
Owl, cat, 6
Owl, little red, 7, 71
Owls, 18, 22, 25', 34, 185
Owls, as origins of ghost
stories, 7

229

fnfcej

Pewee, 100, 161, 174

Pewee, wood, 19, 31, 65, 134.

Phlox, 119

Pickerel weed, 86, 152

Pine, white, 172

Plover, 13, 20

Poaetquissings Creek, 24
Pokeberry, 163
Privet, 194

Pullen, Bill, hermit fisherman,
42

Rabbit, 75

Raccoon, 36

Rat, 162

Raven Rock, 165

Redbird, 48, 96, 104, 148

Red snow, 124

Quail, 21
R

Redstart, 19, 81, 100
Rhododendron, 50, 194, 204
Robin, 19, 99, 174, 196
Rose-mallow, 86
Rose, wild, 152, 194

Salamanders, 109
Sassafras, 9, 194, 202
Scuttle-bugs (Gyrlnus), 112
Sea-serpent, 88
Shell-bark hickory, 9
Skunk, 23, 126
Skunk cabbage, 175
Snake, black, 108
Snake, copperhead, 107
Snake, garter, 107
Snake, green, 107
Snake, water, 63
Snow-birds, 75, 204
Sparrow, chipping, 99
Sparrow, English, 99
Sparrow, field, 174, 209
Sparrow, song, 49, 65, 100, 104,
113, 133, 148, 199

Sparrow, tree, 5, 75, 198
Sparrow, vesper, 17, 174
Sparrow, white-throated, 8
Sparrows, 22
Spiders, 158, 164, 176
Spring beauty, 119
Squirrel, flying, 8
Squirrels, 34, 164, 176
Sturgeon, voice of, 58
Suckers, 58
Sundew, 122
Sunflowers, 39
Sumac, 213
Swallow, barn, 159
Swallow, chimney, 134
Swallow, cliff, 159
Swallow, white-bellied, 80
Swift, chimney, 20, 31, 134, 174

Tansy, 169

Thistle, 16, 183

Thoreau, H. D., quoted. 97,

103, 107, 151, 215
Thrush, brown, 99
Thrush, wood, 65, 153
Tick, yellow, 39
Tit. crested, 22, 104, 199, 204
Toad, 32, 83
Toad, spade-foot, 79

Tortoise, box, 92

Tree-creeper, 201

Tree-sparrows, 5, 75

Trumpet-vine, 163

Tulip tree, 130

Tupelo, 169

Turtle, mud, 91

Turtle, painted, 92

Turtle, snapping, 43, 92, 105

Twilight, I

230

u

Utricularia, 86

Violet, dog-toothed, 119 Vireo, warbling, 99

Violets, 183 Virginia creeper, 130, 163,

Vireo, red-eyed, 113 168, 213

W

Walden, 103, 151 Woodpecker, golden-winged,

Walnut, 194, 207 161

Wasps, 159 Woodpeckers, 18, 185

Water-bug, giant, 95 Wood-pewee, 19, 31

Weasel. 8, 23, 75, 132, 162, Wood, phosphorescent, 29

176 Wood-thrush, 65

Whippoorwill, 31, 42 Wren, Carolina, 22, 105, no,

Will-o'-the-wisp, 25, 27 134, 198

Willow, 196 Wren, house, 99, 100, 104, 185
Wren, marsh, 128

23I