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BY CHARLES CONRAD ABBOTT
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Tue FREEDOM OF THE FigLtps. With Fron-
tispiece by Alice Barber Stephens, and
three photogravures. Buckram, orna-
mental, $1.50
TRAVELS IN A TREE-Top. With Frontispiece
by Alice Barber Stephens, and three photo-
gravures. Buckram, ornamental, $1.50
Abbott's Fireside and Forest Library
THE FREEDOM OF THE FiELDs and TRAVELS
In A TREE-Top. Two volumes in a box.
tzmo. Buckram, ornamental, $3.00
Recent Ramses; Or, In Touch with Na-
ture. Illustrated. z2mo. Cloth, $2.00
Tue Hermit oF NotrincHam. A novel.
tzmo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.25
WHEN THE CENTURY was New. A novel.
tzmo. Cloth, $1.00
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Cloth, $1.00
Birp-Lanp EcHogs. Profusely illustrated by
William Everett Cram. Crown Svo. Cloth,
gilt top, $2.00
Tue Birps Asour Us. Illustrated. z2mo.
Cloth, $2.00
Abbott's Bird Library.
THe Birps Asour Us and Birp-Lanp
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Cloth, gilt top, $4.00
TRAVELS IN
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JB. OPC CO,
PHILADELPHIA 1698
CopyriGHT, 1894 AND 1897,
BY
J. B. Lippincott Company.
ConTENTS
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AMPLE Ur he. byecse. NM an pai. ae a).
Sika Gaming of the Birds oes).
Tbe Budding of the Nest. 33.
Corn-stalk Fiddles. .... si ieeieans
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A Winter-Night’s Outing. . 1... .
VAL af Crem Water (3 0 te (sieves)
An Old-fashioned Garde . . 1. ss
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Last,
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
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“ An Old-fashioned Garden . . Frontispiece
By Alice Barber Stephens
We ibes Chesapeake Oak 0) ia) ay se vee 22
Vv The Old Drawbridge, Crosswick’s Creek 116
BERGA EAGAN eae sau ohn ott sity oh) EY,
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CHAPTER FIRST
TRAVELS IN A TREE-TOP
5 | PEARLY mist shut out the river,
PNK
GRA the meadows, and every field for
ZN) miles. I could not deteét the ripple
of the outgoing tide, and the heartiest songster
sent no cheerful cry above the wide-spreading
and low-lying cloud ; but above all this silent,
desolate, and seemingly deserted outlook there
was a wealth of sunshine and a canopy of
deep-blue sky. Here and there, as islands in
a boundless sea, were the leafy tops of a few
tall trees, and these, I fancied, were tempting
regions to explore. Travels in a tree-top—
surely, here we have a bit of novelty in this
worn-out world.
Unless wholly wedded to the town, it is not
cheering to think of the surrounding country
as worn out. It is but little more than two
centuries since the home-seeking folk of other
lands came here to trick or trade with the
9
10 Travels ina Tree-top
Indians, wild as the untamed world wherein
they dwelt; and now we look almost in vain
for country as Nature fashioned it. Man may
make of a desert a pleasant place, but he also
unmakes the forest and bares the wooded hills
until as naked and desolate as the fire-swept
ruins of his own construction. It is but a
matter of a few thousand cart-loads of the hill
moved to one side, and the swamp that the
farmer dreads because it yields no dollars is ob-
literated. He has never considered its wealth
of suggestiveness. ‘* A fig for the flowers and
vermin. I must plant more corn.”
But here and there the tall trees are still
standing, and their tops are an untravelled
country. I climbed an oak this cool mid-
summer morning; clambered beyond the
mists, which were rolling away as I seated
myself far above the ground, safe from intru-
sion, and resting trustfully on yielding branches
that moved so gently in the passing breeze that
I scarcely perceived their motion.
_ Howmuch depends upon our point of view!
| The woodland path may not be charming if
the undergrowth too closely shuts usin. In
all we do, we seek a wider vision than our
arm’s length.) ‘There may be nothing better
Travels ina Tree-top i111
beyond than at our feet, but we never believe
it. It is as natural to ask of the distant as
of the future. ‘They are closely akin. Here
in the tree-top my wants were supplied. I
was only in the least important sense cribbed,
cabined, and confined.
Wild life, as we call it, is very discrimi-
nating, and that part of it which notices him
at all looks upon man as a land animal; one
that gropes about the ground, and awkwardly
at that, often stumbling and ever making more
noise than his progress calls for; but when
perched in a tree, as an arboreal creature, he
is to be studied anew. So, at least, thought
the crows that very soon discovered my lofty
quarters. How they chattered and scolded!
They dashed near, as if with their ebon wings
to casta spell upon me, and, craning their glossy
necks, spoke words of warning. My indif-
ference was exasperating at first, and then, as
I did not move, they concluded I was asleep,
dead, or a dummy, like those in the corn-
fields. The loud expostulations gave place
to subdued chatterings, and they were about
to leave without further investigation, when,
by the pressure of my foot, I snapped a dead
twig. I will not attempt description. Per-
12 Travels ina Tree-top
haps to this day the circumstance is discussed
in corvine circles.
( It is difficult to realize the freedom of flight.
Twisting and turning with perfect ease, adapt-
ing their bodies to every change of the fitful
wind, these crows did not use their wings
with that incessant motion that we need in
using our limbs to walk, but floated, rose and
fell, as if shadows rather than ponderable
bodies.) Until we can fly, or, rather, ride
in flying-machines, we cannot hope to know
much of this flight-life of birds, and it is the
better part of their lives. But it was some-
thing to-day to be with even these crows in
the air. Following their erratic flight from
such a point of view, I seemed to be flying.
We are given at times to wonder a great deal
about birds, and they have equal reason to
constantly consider us. Who can say what
these crows thought of me? All I can offer
to him who would solve the problem is that
their curiosity was unbounded, and this is
much if their curiosity and ours areakin. Of
course they talked. Garner need not have
gone to Africa to prove that monkeys talk,
and no one can question that crows utter more
than mere alarm-cries.
Travels in a Tree-top 13
A word more concerning crows. What so
absurd, apparently, as this?
‘¢ A single crow betokens sorrow,
Two betoken mirth,
Three predict a funeral,
And four a birth.”’
Yet it is a very common saying, being re-
peated whenever a few, or less than five, fly
over. Itis repeated mechanically, of course,
and then forgotten, for no one seems to worry
over one or three crows as they do when a
looking-glass breaks or the dropped fork sticks
up in the floor. Seems to worry, and yet I
strongly suspect a trace of superstition lingers
in the mind of many a woman. ‘Those who
will not sit as one of thirteen at a table are
not dead yet. Can it be that all this weak-
ness is only more concealed than formerly,
but none the less existent?
I watched the departing crows until they
were but mere specks in the sky, and heard,
or fancied I heard, their cawing when half a
mile away. It is ever a sweet sound to me.
It means so much, recalls a long round of jolly
years; and what matters the quality of a sound
if a merry heart prompts its utterance?
2
14 ‘Travels in a Tree-top
I was not the only occupant of the tree;
there were hundreds of other and more active
travellers, who often stopped to think or con-
verse with their fellows and then hurried on.
I refer to the great, shining, black ants that
have such a variety of meaningless nicknames.
Its English cousin is asserted to be ill-tem-
pered, if not venomous, and both Chaucer
and Shakespeare refer to them as often mad
and always treacherous. I saw nothing of
this to-day. ‘They were ever on the go and
always inahurry. ‘They seemed not to dis-
sociate me from the tree; perhaps thought
me an odd excrescence and of no importance.
No one thinks of himself as such, and I forced
myself upon the attention of some of the hur-
rying throng. It was easy to intercept them,
and they grew quickly frantic; but their fel-
lows paid no attention to such as I held cap-
tive for the moment. I had a small paper
box with me, and this I stuck full of pin-holes
on every side and then put half a dozen of
the ants in it. Holding it in the line of the
insects’ march, it immediately became a source
of wonderment, and every ant that came by
stopped and parleyed with the prisoners. A
few returned earthward, and then a number
Travels ina Tree-top 15
came together, but beyond this I could see
nothing in the way of concerted aétion on the
part of the ants at large looking towards suc-
coring their captive fellows. Releasing them,
these detained ants at once scattered in all di-
rections, and the incident was quickly forgot-
ten. Where were these ants going, and what
was their purpose? I wondered. I was as
near the tree’s top as I dared to go, but the
ants went on, apparently to the very tips of
the tiniest twigs, and not one that I saw came
down laden or passed up with any burden.
It is not to be supposed they had no purpose
in so doing, but what? There is scarcely an
hour when we are not called upon to witness
just such aimless activity,—that is, aimless so
far as we can determine.
Nothing molested these huge black ants,
although inseét-eating birds came and went
continually. One lordly, great-crested fly-
catcher eyed them meditatively for some sec-
onds, and then my identity suddenly dawned
upon him. His harsh voice, affected by fear,
was more out of tune than ever, and, coupled
with his precipitant flight, was very amusing.
The bird fell off the tree, but quickly caught
himself, and then, as usual, curiosity overcame
16 ‘Travels in a Tree-top
fear. Students of bird-ways should never for-
get this. The fly-catcher soon took a stand
wherefrom to observe me, and, if intently
staring at me for thirty seconds was not curi-
osity, what shall we call it? Is it fair to
explain away everything by calling it mere
coincidence? It is a common prattice, and
about as logical as the old cry of < instiné’”’
when I went toschool. ‘To have said, when
I was a boy, that a bird could think and could
communicate ideas to another of its kind,
would have brought down ridicule upon my
head out of school, and brought down some-
thing more weighty if the idea had been ex-
pressed in a “composition.” I speak from
experience.
To return to the cheerier subject of curi-
osity in birds: our large hawks have it to a
marked degree, and advantage can be taken of
this faét if you wish to trap them. I have
found this particularly true in winter, when
there is a general covering of the ground with
snow. Food, of course, is not then quite so
plenty, but this does not explain the matter.
An empty steel trap on the top of a hay-stack
is quite as likely to be tampered with as when
baited with a mouse. The hawk will walk
ose OT nena sierra it ewe ene ne a
Travels ina Tree-top 17
all around it, and then put out one foot and
touch it hereandthere. If we can judge from
the bird’s actions, the question, What is it,
anyway ? isrunning through its mind. I once
played a trick upon a splendid black hawk that
had been mousing over the fields for half the
winter. It often perched upon a stack of
straw instead of the lone hickory near by.
Early one morning J placed a plump meadow-
mouse on the very top of the stack, to which
I had attached a dozen long strands of bright-
red woollen yarn and a bladder that I had in-
flated. This was secured to the mouse by a
silk cord, and all were so concealed by the
snow and straw that the hawk noticed the
mouse only. ‘The bird was suspicious at first:
it was too unusual for a mouse not to move
when a hawk hovered above it. ‘Then the
bird alighted on the stack and walked about
the mouse, pecking at it once, but not touch-
ing it. ‘Then putting out one foot, he seized
it with a firm grip, the talons passing through
the carcass, and at the same time spread his
wings and moved slowly towards the lone
hickory that towered near by. I was near
enough to see every movement. It was evi-
dent that the hawk did not look down at first,
b ae
18 Travels ina Tree-top
and saw nothing of the streaming threads and
bobbing bladder; but it did a moment later,
and then what a quickening of wings and
hasty mounting upward! The hawk was
frightened, and gave a violent jerk with one
foot, as if to disengage the mouse, but it was
ineffectual. ‘The sharp claws had too strong
a hold, and the effect was only to more vio-
lently bob the bladder. ‘Then the hawk
screamed and dashed into the trees near by,
and was out of sight.
A curious and disappointing occurrence,
while sitting aloft, was the frequent dis-
covery of my presence by birds and their
sudden right-about movement and departure.
Occasionally I could see them coming as if di-
rectly towards me, but their keen eyes noticed
the unusual object, and they would dart off
with a promptness that showed how com-
pletely at home they were while on the wing.
Even the bluebirds, usually so tame, had
their misgivings, and came to rest in other
trees. But if the birds were not always about
and above me, there were many below, and the
sweet song of the wood-robin from the tangled
underbrush seemed clearer and purer thap
when sifted through a wilderness of leaves.
Travels ina Tree-top 1g
It was not until noon that the wood and
open fields became silent or nearly so, for the
red-eye came continually, and, whether inseét-
hunting in the tree or on the wing, it seemed
never to cease its singing, or querulous cry,
which more aptly describes its utterance. ‘To
hear this sound throughout a long summer day
is depressing, particularly if you hear nothing
else, for the steady hum of inseét-life hardly
passes for sound. It was only when I lis-
tened for it that I was aware that millions of
tiny creatures were filling the air with a hum-
ming that varied only as the light breeze car-
ried it away or brought it nearer and clearer
than before. ‘There is a vast difference be-
tween absolute and comparative or apparent
silence. ‘The former is scarcely ever a con-
dition of the open country unless during a
still, cold winter night, and never of one of
our ordinary woodland tra¢ts. We do find it,
however, in the cedar swamps and pine-land,
even during summer. JI have often stood in
“‘the pines” of Southern New Jersey and
tried to deteét some sound other than that
of my own breathing, but in vain. Not
atwig stirred. ‘The dark waters of the pools
were motionless; even the scattered clouds
20 Travels ina Tree-top
above were at rest. It was to be absolutely
alone, as if the only living creature upon
earth. But ere long a gentle breeze would
spring up, there was a light and airy trem-
bling of the pines, and the monotone of a
whispered sigh filled the forest. Even this
was a relief, and what a joy if some lonely bird
passed by and even lisped of its presence!
The dee-dee of a titmouse at such a time was
sweeter music than the choral service that
heralds the coming of a bright June morning.
At noon, the day being torrid, there was
comparative silence, and yet as I looked about
me I saw ceaseless aétivity in a small way.
The ants were still journeying, and red ad-
miral and yellow swallow-tailed butterflies
came near, and the latter even passed high
overhead and mingled with the chimney-
swifts. Had I been on the ground, walking
instead of waiting, I should have sought some
sheltered spot and rested, taking a hint from
much of the wild life I was watching.
AT NOONTIDE.
Where cluster oaks and runs the rapid brook,
Repose the jutting rocks beneath the ferns ;
Here seeks the thrush his hidden leafy nook,
And wandering squirrel to his hole returns.
Travels ina Tree-top 21
Afar the steaming river slowly wends
Its tortuous way to mingle with the sea;
No cheerful voice its languid course attends ;
The blight of silence rests upon the lea.
Where the wide meadow spreads its wealth of weeds,
Where the rank harvest waves above the field,
The testy hornet in his anger speeds,
And stolid beetle bears his brazen shield.
Give them the glowing, fiery world they love,
Give me the cool retreat beside the stream ;
While sweeps the sun the noontide sky above,
Here would I linger with the birds and dream.
And now what of the tree itself? Here
I have been the better part of a long fore-
noon, and scarcely given this fine young oak
a thought. A young oak, yet a good deal
older than its burden; an oak that was an
acorn when the century was new, and now
a sturdy growth full sixty feet high, straight
of stem to its undermost branches and shapely
everywhere. Such trees are not remarkable
of themselves, though things of beauty, but
at times how suggestive! Think of pre-
Columbian America; then there were oaks to
make men marvel. ‘*’There were giants in
those days.” Occasionally we meet with
22 Travels in a Tree-top
them even now. A year ago I camped on
the shore of Chesapeake Bay near an oak
that measured eighteen feet six inches in
circumference four feet from the ground, and
in St. Paul’s church-yard, not a great way
off, are five big oaks, one of which is twenty
feet around shoulder high from the roots.
Such trees are very old. ‘The church-yard
was enclosed two centuries ago, and these
were big trees then, and so older by far than
any monument of white men on the continent,
except possible traces of the Norsemen. If
a tree such as this in which I have been sit-
ting is full to overflowing with suggestiveness,
how much more so a noble patriarch like that
upon the bay shore! It is usually not easy to
realize the dimensions of a huge tree by
merely looking at it, but this mammoth im-
pressed one at first sight. The branches were
themselves great trees, and together cast a cir-
cular patch of shade, at noon, three paces
more than one hundred feet,across. As a
tree in which to ramble none could have
been better shaped. ‘The lowest branches
were less than twenty feet from the ground,
and after reaching horizontally a long way,
curved upward and again outward, dividing
Travels ina Tree-top 23
finally into the leaf-bearing twigs. Course
after course continued in this way, the size
decreasing gradually, and the whole forming,
as seen from a distance, a magnificent dome-
shaped mass. Comparisons with the tree’s
surroundings were full of suggestiveness.
The ground immediately about was densely
covered with rank ferns and the acorn sprouts
of one or two years’ growth. Yet, where they
were, it seemed but a smoothly-shaven lawn,
so insignificant were they when seen with the
tree; and the sproutland beyond, which
would otherwise have been a wood, was ab-
solutely insignificant. Yet, in truth, every-
thing here was on a grand scale. ‘The ferns
were tall, and to prove it I sat upon the
ground among them and so shut out all view
of the great tree and its surroundings. I
spent many hours seated upon different
branches of this oak, and every one had feat-
ures all its own. From those nearest the
ground I surveyed the bird-life in the thicket
beneath, and was entertained by a pair of
nesting cardinal red-birds that came and went
as freely as if quite alone, and whistled cheer-
fully morning, noon, and night. I fancied I
made friends with these birds, for early one
24 ‘Travels ina Tree-top
morning the male bird came to camp, as if
to inspect my nest, thinking I was not up,
and he expressed his favorable opinion in
most glowing terms. A pair of doves, too,
had a nest in sight, and their melancholy coo-
ing seemed out of tune here, where Nature
had done her work so well. Once, at least,
while I was there, the bald eagle came for a
few moments, and, big bird as he is, was not
conspicuous, and had not a flash of sunlight
fallen upon his yellow beak and white head,
I should not have been aware of his presence,
as he certainly was not of mine. What I
took to be a duck-hawk, a few days later, in-
terested me much more. He was a splendid
bird, and tarried but a short time. The
leaves so concealed him that I was not sure,
having no field-glass at the time, but do not
think I was mistaken. The eagle did not
appear to disturb the fish-hawk’s temper in
the least, but the great hawk did, and he
was much excited until the bird disappeared
in the steam and smoke that as a great cloud
rested above Baltimore.
The birds of this retired spot may be
divided into two classes,—those of the oak
and of the sproutland growths about it, and
Travels ina Tree-top 25
the birds of the air, principally swallows,
which hung over the tree as a trembling
cloud. Never were swallows more numer-
ous, except when flocked prior to migration.
In the tree and bushes were always many
birds, yet often they were far from each
other. This gave me an excellent idea of
what a great oak really is. Birds quite out of
sight and hearing of each other were resting
on branches from the same trunk. Although
the middle of July, there was no lack of
song, and second nesting of many familiar
birds is, I judge, more common in Maryland
than in New Jersey. Of all the birds that
came, the little green herons were the most
amusing. A pair doubtless had a nest near
by, or young that were not yet on the
wing. ‘They walked sedately along the level
branches, as a man might pace up and down
his study, buried in deep thought. I listened
carefully for some expression of content, but
they made no sound except when they were
startled and flew off. I was much surprised
to find the beach-birds occasionally darting
among the branches, and once a spotted sand-
piper rested amoment near me. These birds
we associate with water and the open country,
a 3
26 Travels in a Tree-top
although this species is less aquatic than its
fellows. ‘They were always in sight from
the door of my tent, and always an earlier
bird than I. I recall now standing upon the
beach long before sunrise, marking the prom-
ises of the coming day, as I interpreted them.
The fish-hawks were ahead of me; so, too,
the little sand-pipers. ‘Their piping at this
time was very clear and musical. It was a
delightful accompaniment to the rippling
water. ‘The dear old song-sparrows were
quiet, and I was very glad; but with the
first flooding of the sea with sunlight they
all sang out, and the Chesapeake was afar
off and I in the home meadows on the Dela-
ware. I prefer novelty when away. It is
well to utterly forget, at times, that which
we most prize. What boots it to stand on
the hill-top, if your thoughts are forever in
the lowlands? ‘Twice, from the branches
of the old oak, I saw a splendid sunset, but
nothing equal to the sunrise of to-day. With
many a matter of this life the beginning is
better than the end. We had a superb sun-
set last night. The color was gorgeous, but
it was plain and commonplace compared to
the sunrise of to-day. Perhaps no tint was
Travels ina Tree-top 27
really brighter in one case than in the other,
but my mind was. The sunset was too
closely linked with the death of the day ; there
was the idea of a grand finale before the
curtain drops, and this tends to dull enthu-
siasm. It is not so with sunrise. It is all
freshness,—a matter of birth, of beginning,
of a new trial of life,—and with so happy an
entrance, the exit should be one of gladness
only ; but there is no trace of pity in Nature.
In awful certainty the night cometh.
I was not surprised at every visit to this
tree to find some new form of life resting on
its branches. A beautiful garter-snake had
reached a low branch by climbing to it from
a sapling that reached a little above it. There
was no break in the highway that led to
its very summit. The grass leaned upon
ferns, these upon shrubs, these again upon
saplings, and so the tree was reached. Any
creeping thing could have climbed just eighty
feet above the earth with far less danger than
men encounter clambering over hills.
And not only a zoological garden was this
and is every other old tree, but the oak had
its botanic garden as well. When we con-
sider that many of the branches were so wide
28 Travels in a Tree-top
and level that one could walk upon them, it is
not strange that earth, dead leaves, and water
should lodge in many places. Indeed, besides
the two gardens I have mentioned, the oak
had also an aquarium. But I cannot go
into particulars. ‘The parasitic plant-life—
not truly such, like the mistletoe—was a
striking feature. Maple seeds had lodged and
sprouted, and in a saucer-shaped depression
where dust and water had lodged a starved
hawkweed had got so far towards maturity
as to be in bud.
It may appear as utter foolishness to others,
but I believe that trees might in time become
tiresome. Whether in leaf or bare of foli-
age, there is a fixedness that palls at last.
We are given to looking from the tree to
the world beyond; to hurrying from beneath
their branches to the open country. To live
in a dense forest is akin to living in a great.
city. There is a sense of confinement against
which, sooner or later, we are sure to rebel.
We long for change. ‘The man who is per-
fe€tly satisfied has no knowledge of what satis-
faction really is. Logical or not, I turned
Travels ina Tree-top 29
my attention from the tree at last, and thought,
What of the outlook? MDire€tly north, in
the shallow basin, hemmed in by low hills,
lies the town. A cloud of smoke and steam
rests over it, and barely above it reach the
church-spires and tall factory chimneys, as if
the place was struggling to be free, but only
had its finger-tips out of the mire of the
town, of which I know but little. My won-
der is that so many people stay there, and,
stranger still, wild life not only crowds its
outskirts, but ventures into its very midst.
In one town, not far away, I found the
nests of seventeen species of birds, but then
there was a large old cemetery and a mill-
pond within its boundaries. ‘Time was when
through the town before me there flowed a
creek, and a pretty wood flourished along its
south bank. ‘The creek is now a sewer, and
an open one at that, and yet the musk-rat
cannot quite make up his mind to leave it.
Stranger than this was seeing recently, in a
small creek discolored by a dyeing establish-
ment, a little brown diver. How it could
bring itself to swim in such filth must re-
main a mystery. A queer old character that
had lived all his life in the country once said
ahs
30 ~=©Travels in a Tree-top
of the nearest town, “It is a good place
to dump what we don’t want on the farm.”
This old fellow would always drive me
out of his orchard when apples were ripe,
but I liked him for the sentiment I have
quoted.
I am out of town now, and what of the
world in another direftion? ‘Turning to the
east, I have farm after farm before me; all
different, yet with a strong family likeness.
This region was taken up by English Quakers
about 1670 and a little later, and the houses
they built were as much alike as are these
people in their apparel. ‘The second set of
buildings were larger only and no less severely
plain; but immediately preceding the Revo-
lution there were some very substantial man-
sions erected. From my perch in the tree-
top I cannot see any of the houses distinély,
but locate them all by the group of Weymouth
pines in front and sometimes both before and
behind them. ‘The old-time Lombardy pop-
lar was the tree of the door-yards at first, but
these, in this neighborhood, have well-nigh
all died out, and the pines replace them.
One farm-house is vividly pictured before me,
although quite out of sight. The owner
Travels ina Tree-top 31
made it a home for such birds as might choose
to come, as well as for himself, and what royal
days have been spent there! There was
no one feature to attract instant attention as
you approached the house. ‘The trees were
thrifty, the shrubbery healthy, the roses vig-
orous, and the flowering plants judiciously se-
leéted ; but what did strike the visitor was
the wealth of bird-life. For once let me cat-
alogue what I have seen in and about one
door-yard and what should be about every
one in the land. At the end of the house,
and very near the corner of the long portico,
stood a martin-box, occupied by the birds for
which it was intended. In the porch, so that
you could reach it with your hand, was a
wren’s nest, and what a strange house it had!
It was a huge plaster cast of a lion’s head, and
between the grim teeth the bird passed and re-
passed continually. It promenaded at times
on the lion’s tongue, and sang triumphantly
while perched upon aneyebrow. ‘That wren
certainly saw nothing animal-like in the plas-
ter cast as it was, and I have wondered if it
would have been equally free with a stuffed
head of the animal. My many experiments
with animals, as to their recognition of ani-
32 Travels in a Tree-top
mals as pictured, have demonstrated every-
thing, and so, I am afraid I must admit, noth-
ing. In the woodbine on the portico were
two nests,—a robin’s and a chipping-spar-
row’s. ‘These were close to each other, and
once, when sitting in arocking-chair, I swayed
the woodbine to and fro without disturbing
either bird. In the garden were a mocking-
bird, cat-bird, thistle-finch, song-sparrow,
brown thrush, yellow-breasted chat, and red-
eyed vireo. In the trees I sawa great-crested
fly-catcher, purple grakle, a redstart, spotted
warbler, and another I failed to identify. In
the field beyond the garden were red-winged
blackbirds and quail, and beyond, crows, fish-
hawks, and turkey-buzzards were in the air;
and, as the day closed and the pleasant sights
were shut out, ] heard the clear call of the
kill-deer plover as they passed overhead, heard
it until it mingled with my dreams. ‘< Provi-
dence Farm” is indeed well named, for the
birdy blessing of Providence rests upon it;
but were men more given to considering the
ways and wants of wild life, we might find
such pleasant places on every hand. Farms
appear to be growing less farm-like. The
sweet simplicity of colonial days has been
Travels in a Tree-top 33
well-nigh obliterated, and nothing really bet-
ter has replaced it. On the other hand, a
modern ‘country place,” where Nature is
pared down until nothing but the foundation-
rocks remain, is, to say the least, an eyesore.
There is more pleasure and profit in an Indian
trail than in an asphaltum driveway.
Westward lie the meadows, and beyond
them the river. Seen as a whole, they are
beautiful and, like all of Nature’s work, will
bear close inspection. The bird’s-eye view
to-day was too comprehensive to be alto-
gether enjoyable: it was bewildering. How
completely such a traét epitomizes a conti-
nent! The little creek is a river; the hil-
lock, a mountain; the brushland, a forest;
the plowed traét,adesert. If this fact were
not so generally forgotten we would be better
content with what is immediately about us.
Mere bigness is not everything. So, too,
with animal life. We spend time and money
to see the creatures caged in a menagerie, and
never see the uncaged ones in the thicket be-
hind the house. Every lion must roar, or we
have not seen the show; a lion rampant is
everything, a lion couchant, nothing. ‘There
was no visible violence in the meadows to-
c
34 ‘Travels ina Tree-top
day; Nature was couchant, and I was thankful.
When the tempest drives over the land i want
my snug harbor by the chimney-throat. ‘The
sparks can fly upward to join the storm if they
will. The storms I enjoy are matters of hearsay.
Take up a ponderous government quarto
of the geological survey and glance over the
splendid plates of remarkable rocks, cafions,
and high hills, and then look out of your
window at the fields and meadow. What a
contrast! Yes, a decided one, and yet if
you take an open-eyed walk you will find a
good deal of the same thing, but on a smaller
scale. You have not thought of it before;
that is all. I put this matter to a practical
test not long ago, and was satisfied with the
result. ‘The last plate had been looked at
and the book was closed with a sigh, anda
restless youth, looking over the wide range
of fields before him, was thinking of the
grand mountains, strange deserts, and deep
canons pictured in the volume on his lap, and
comparing such a country with the monoto-
nous surroundings of his home.
«‘ What a stupid place this part of the
world is!”’ he said at last. ‘I wish I could
go out West.”
Travels in a Tree-top 35
“© Perhaps it is not so stupid as it looks,”
Treplied. <¢ Let’s take a walk.”
I knew what the book described at which
the lad had been looking, and had guessed
his thoughts. We started for a ramble.
«‘ Let us follow this little brook as far as
we can,” I suggested, ‘‘and see what a stupid
country can teach us,” purposely quoting my
companion’s words, with a little emphasis.
Not fifty rods from beautiful old trees the
colleéted waters, as a little brook, flowed
over an outcropping of stiff clay, and here
we voluntarily paused, for what one of us
had seen a hundred times before was now
invested with new interest. ‘There was here
not merely a smooth scooping out of a mass
of the clay, to allow the waters to pass swiftly
by; the least resisting veins or strata, those
containing the largest percentage of sand, had
yielded quickly and been deeply gullied,
while elsewhere the stiff, black ridges, often
almost perpendicular, still withstood the cur-
rent, and, confining the waters to narrow
limits, produced a series of miniature rapids
and one whirlpool that recalled the head-
waters of many a river.
Near by, where, when swollen by heavy
36 Travels in a Tree-top
rains, the brook had filled the little valley,
temporary rivulets had rushed with fury over
the clay, and cut in many places deep and
narrow transverse channels. From their steep
sides projected many a pebble that gave us
“* overhanging rocks,” and one small bowlder
bridged a crevice in the clay, and was in use
at the time as a highway for a colony of ants.
Near it stood slender, conical pillars of
slightly cemented sand, some six inches in
height, and every one capped with a pebble
of greater diameter than the apex of the sup-
porting sand. ‘These were indeed beautiful.
«©T have never seen them before,” re-
marked the boy.
«© Very likely,” I replied, ** but you have
crushed them under foot by the dozens.”
They were not to be overlooked now,
though, and in them he saw perfeét repro-
duétions of wonderful ‘*monument rocks”
which he had so lately seen piétured in the
ponderous government geological report.
Withdrawing to the field beyond, where a
bird’s-eye view of the brook’s course could
be obtained, we had spread out before us a
miniature, in most of its essentials, of a canon
country. The various tints of the clay gave
Travels in a Tree-top B7
the many-colored rocks; the different densi-
ties of the several strata resulted in deep or
shallow ravines, fantastic arches, caverns, and
beetling precipices. On a ridiculously small
scale, you may say. ‘True, but not too small
for the eyes of him who is anxious to learn.
A few rods farther down the stream we
came to a small sandy island which divided
the brook and made a pleasant variety after a
monotonous course through nearly level
fields. A handful of the sand told the story.
Here, meeting with so slight an obstruétion
as a projecting root, the sandy clays from
above had been deposited in part, and year
after year, as the island grew, the crowded
waters had encroached upon the yielding
banks on either side, and made here quite a
wide and shallow stream. Small as it was,
this little sand-bar had the chara¢teristic feat-
ures of all islands. ‘The water rippled along
its sides and gave it a pretty beach of sloping,
snow-white sand, while scarcely more than
half a foot inland the seeds of many plants
had sprouted, and along the central ridge or
backbone the sod was thick set, and several
acorns, a year before, had sprouted through
it. We found snails, spiders, and inseéts
4
38 Travels in a Tree-top
abundant, and faint footprints showed that
it was not overlooked by the pretty teetering
sand-piper.
Now camea total change. Abruptly turn-
ing from its former straightforward course,
the brook entered a low-lying swamp,
crowded to the utmost with dense growths
of tangled vines and stunted trees. The
water was no longer sparkling and colorless,
but amber-tinted, and in many a shallow pool
looked more like ink. Life here appeared
in many forms. Smal] mud-minnows, turtles,
and snakes were found in the gloomy, weed-
hidden pools, and numberless inse¢ts crowded
the rank growths above as well as the waters
beneath. ‘The mutual dependence of vege-
tation and animal life was here very striking.
Previously we had found comparatively little
either in the brook or about it, but now our
eyes were gladdened not only with what I
have mentioned, but birds, too, were in abun-
dance.
Bent upon freeing my native county from
the charge of stupidity, I led the way through
this “‘ dismal swamp.” It was no easy task.
Nowhere were we sure of our footing, and
it required constant leaping from root to root
Travels in a Tree-top 39
of the larger trees. There was at times no
well-defined channel, and often we could hear
the gurgling waters hurrying beneath our feet,
yet catch no glimpse of them.
Here, too, other springs welled to the sur-
face, and the augmented volume of waters
finally left the swamp a stream of considerable
size, which, after a tortuous course through
many fields, entered a deep and narrow ravine.
After untold centuries the brook has worn
away the surface soil over which it originally
flowed, then the gravel beneath, and so down
to the clay, thirty feet below. Upon this
now rest the bowlders and such coarser mate-
rial as the waters could not transport.
Clinging to the trees growing upon the
sides of the ravine, we closely followed the
course of the troubled, bubbling, foamy
waters, stopping ever and anon to look at
the exposed sections of sand and gravel here
shown in curious alternate layers. The
meaning of the word “deposits,” so fre-
quently met with in descriptive geology,
was made plain, and when we noticed of
how mixed a chara¢ter was the coarse gravel,
it was easy to comprehend what had been
read of that most interesting phase of the
40 Travels in a Tree-top
world’s past history, the glacial epoch, or .
great ice age. The gravel was no longer an
unsuggestive accumulation of pebbles, but
associated rolled and water-worn fragments
of a hundred different rocks that by the
mighty forces of ice and water had been
brought to their present position from re-
gions far away.
The ravine ended at the meadows, through
which the waters passed with unobstructed
flow ‘‘ to join the brimming river.” As we
stood upon the bank of the mighty stream I
remarked, ‘‘'This is a stupid country, per-
haps, but it has some merits.” I think the
boy thought so, too.
The meadows are such a comprehensive
place that no one knows where to begin, if
the attempt is made to enumerate their feat-
ures. ‘There is such a blending of dry land
and wet, open and thicket-grown, hedge and
brook and scattered trees, that it is bewilder-
ing if you do not choose some one point
for close inspection. From the tree-top I
overlook it all, and try in vain to determine
whether the azure strip of flowering iris or
the flaunting crimson of the Turk’s cap lilies
Travels ina Tree-top 41
is the prettier. Beyond, in damper soil, the
glistening yellow of the sunflowers is really
too bright to be beautiful; but not so where
the water is hidden by the huge circular leaves
of the lotus. They are majestic as well as
pretty, and the sparse bloom, yellow and
rosy pink, is even the more conspicuous by
reason of its background. How well the
birds know the wild meadow traéts!' They
have not forsaken my tree and its surround-.
ings, but for one here I see a dozen there.
Mere inky specks, as seen from my point of
view, but I know them as marsh-wrens and
swamp-sparrows, kingbirds and red-wings,
that will soon form those enormous flocks
that add so marked a feature to the autumn
landscape. It needs no field-glass to mark
down the passing herons that, coming from
the river-shore, take a noontide rest in the
overgrown marsh.
I had once, on the very spot at which I
was now looking, an unlooked-for adventure.
For want of something better to do, I pushed
my way into the weedy marsh until I reached
a prostrate tree-trunk that during the last
freshet had stranded there. It was a wild
place. The tall rose-mallow and wavy cat-
4*
42 Travels in a Tree-top
tail were far above my head, and every trace
of civilization was effectually shut out. It
was as much a wilderness as any jungle in
the tropics. Nor was I alone. Not a
minute elapsed before a faint squeak told me
that there were meadow-mice in the hollow
log on which I sat, ‘Then the rank grass
moved and a least bittern came into view and
as quickly disappeared. - I heard continually
the cackle of the king-rail, and the liquid twit-
tering of the marsh-wrens wasadelight. ‘The
huge globular nests of these birds were every-
where about me; but the birds did not think
of meas having any evil designs upon them,
so they came and went as freely as if alone.
This is bird-viewing that one too seldom
enjoys nowadays. Often, and very suddenly,
all sound ceased and every bird disappeared.
I did not recognize the cause at first, but was
enlightened a moment later. A large bird
passed over, and its very shadow frightened
the little marsh-dwellers. If not, the shadow
and fright were a coincidence several times
that morning. The day, for me, ended with
the unusual chance of a close encounter with
a great blue heron. I sawthe bird hover for
a moment directly overhead, and then, let-
Travels ina Tree-top 43
ting its legs drop, it descended with lead-like
rapidity. I leaned backward to avoid it, and
could have touched the bird when it reached
the ground, it was so near. I shall never
know which was the more astonished. Cer-
tainly, had it chosen, it could have stabbed
me through and through.
I was glad to be again on drier Jand and in
open country. ‘There had been adventure
enough; and yet, as seen from a distance,
this bit of marsh was but weeds and water.
Southward there stands the remnant of a
forest: second- and third-growth woodland
usually ; for trees of really great age are now
generally alone. I can see from where I sit
three primeval beeches that are known to
be over two centuries old, and not far away
towered one giant tulip-tree that since the
country’s earliest settlement had stood like a
faithful sentinel, guarding the south bank of
a nameless spring brook. Ever a thing of
beauty, it shone with added splendor at night,
when the rising full moon rested in its arms,
as if weary at the very outset of her journey.
‘My grandfather told me that in his boyhood
it was known as the “ Indian tree,”? because
a basket-maker and his squaw had a wigwam
44 Travels ina Tree-top
there. ‘That was a century ago, and often,
of late years, I have hunted on the spot
for some trace of these redskins, but found
nothing, although all about, in every field,
were old Indian relics, even their cherished
tobacco-pipes. Small, recent growths of
timber, even where they have succeeded an
ancient forest, are not, as a rule, attractive.
Their newness is too evident, and, except
for a few passing birds, they are not apt to
harbor much wild life. As I look at the
mingled foliage of oaks and elms, beeches,
hickories, and wild cherry, I give little heed
to that before me and recall forests worthy
of the name, doing precisely what I have
declared unwise. A naturalist could find
more material in these few acres of wood-
land than he could “work up” in a lifetime.
I have underrated them. From the little
thicket of blackberry vines I see a rabbit
slowly loping, as if in search of food. It is
a full-grown fellow, and suggests the round
of the traps in late autumn and the woods in
winter.
I never knew a boy brought up in the
country who was not at one time an enthu-
silastic trapper. Just as mankind in the in-
Travels ina Tree-top 45
fancy of the world were forced to pit their
energy and skill against the cunning of the
animals needed for food or of such that by
reason of their fierceness endangered human
life, so the country boy of to-day puts his
intelligence to work to circumvent the supe-
riority of such animal life as by fleetness of
foot or stroke of wing can avoid the pursuer.
It is a question largely of brain against ana-
tomical struéture. No Indian, even, ever
outran a deer, nor savage anywhere by mere
bodily exertion stopped the flight of a bird.
Men were all sportsmen, in a sense, when
sport, as we call it, was necessary to human
existence. As centuries rolled by, such
animals and birds as came in daily contaét
with man necessarily had their sleepy wits
aroused, and now it is a case of cunning
against cunning. We are all familiar with
such phrases as ‘* wild as a hawk” and “ shy
asa deer.” In the morning of man’s career
on earth there were no such words as ‘¢ shy”
and *‘ wild.” ‘They came into use, as words
are constantly coming into our language, be-
cause circumstances make them a necessity ;
and as men were trappers before they were
traders or tillers of the field, so the words
46 Travels in a Tree-top
are old, and while animal life lasts they will
be retained.
Nowadays we generally outgrow this love
of trapping, or it remains in the love of sport
with gun orrod. But, old Izaak Walton and
Frank Forrester to the contrary notwithstand-
ing, I held that nothing in fishing or shooting
has that freshness, that thrilling excitement,
that close touch with nature, that clings to
our early days, when, in autumn and winter,
we went the round of the traps. How
through the long night we had visions of the
rabbit cautiously approaching the box-trap —
on the edge of the swamp! How clearly we
saw in the corner of the weedy old worm-
fence the stupid opossum bungling along, and
awoke with a start as the clumsy creature
sprang the trap from the outside! I pity the
boy who has not had such a distressing dream.
No boy ever turned out before sunrise with
a smiling countenance to milk or help in any
way with farm work ; but how different when
it was a matter of the traps he had set the
night before! The anticipation of success is
an all-sufficient incentive, and neither bitter
cold nor driving storm deters him. Of a
winter dawn much might be said. No boy
Travels ina Tree-top 47
ever was abroad so early that the squirrels
were not before him, and in the fading light
of the stars he will hear the crows cawing
and the blue-jays chattering in the woods.
To the naturalist, of course, such time of
day is full of suggestiveness; but the general
belief that it is a proper time to sleep will
never be given up. Indeed, judging others
by myself, as the boy gets well on in his teens
there is a growing disposition to let the traps
go until broad daylight and even until after
breakfast. ‘This is unfortunate in two ways:
there is a likelihood of seeing animal life in
the full flush of aétivity in the pre-sunlit hours
that is unknown as the day advances; the
night-prowlers are all gone to their dens, and
the birds that roost in colonies have dispersed
for the day. One seldom overtakes a raccoon
or a weasel at or near noontide, and in the
woods where a thousand robins have roosted
there may now not be one. ‘Then, again,
your visit to the traps may be anticipated
if you are too deliberate in starting on your
rounds. ‘This is an experience that no boy
of spirit can calmly undergo, and no wonder.
The rude box-trap was not easy to make, con-
sidering the usual condition of tools upon a
48 Travels in a Tree-top
farm. The hunt for likely places whereat to
set it had been real labor. The long tramp
in the gloaming when tired out from a day
at school; the early tramp, before sunrise
perhaps, for he must be on time at school that
morning,—all this is to be considered; but
if success crowns the effort, all is well. On
the other hand, to find that some rascal has
been ahead of you and your labor has gone
for nothing I never knew a boy to be
a saint at such a time.
I can recall a well-marked rabbit-path I
once found, half a mile from home, and with
great secrecy carried one of my traps to the
place. It was on the next farm, and so I had
to be more than usually careful. Nothing
could be done in daylight for fear the boys
living on that farm would find me out, and
this sort of poaching was not tolerated. At
first I was successful, catching two fine rab-
bits, and then, alas! was so elated that, boy-
like, I said too much. Some one must have
tracked me, for I caught no more, although it
was evident that the trap had been disturbed.
Straightway I suspected treachery, and pre-
pared for revenge.
Now, auntie had a fur tippet, or ‘* boa,”
Travels ina Tree-top 49
as she called it, which was just six feet long.
The moths one summer had ruined it, and for
some time it had been lying around uncared
for and a plaything for the younger children.
This I appropriated, and fastened to one end
of it a rabbit’s head, with the ears wired up
and with huge painted marbles bulging from
the sockets for eyes. It was a startling if not
life-like creature.
Armed with this, I started after dark to the
trap, and soon had all in readiness for my vic-
tim. I coiled the “boa” into the rear of the
box and placed the head near the opening of
the trap. The “ figure-of-four” triggers were
laid outside in such a way as to suggest that
the trap had been sprung by ananimal. Then
I went home.
The next morning I went to school with-
out visiting the spot, fearing I might meet
with the supposed offender. All day long I
wondered. No boy had any marvellous tale
to tell and no one looked atall guilty. There
soon came over me a feeling that perhaps I
had played a trick upon myself, and by sun-
down I was rather reluctant to determine if
anything had happened; but goI did. The
trap had evidently been disturbed. The
c d 5
50 Travels ina Tree-top
“¢ boa” with the rabbit’s head was lying at full
length outside and the bushes were broken as
if a bull had rushed through them. But who
or what had been there?
Two days of most distressing doubt passed,
and then came Saturday. I wasill at ease and
took no pleasure in my holiday; but about
noon our neighbor came over, and I heard
him tell grandfather how, on Fifth-day, while
the family were at breakfast, Bill, the bound
boy, came rushing into the room and ex-
claimed, excitedly, ‘Something from the
menagerie’s broke loose and got in the rab-
bit-trap !””
I had had my revenge.
A wood, to be at its best, should be located
on the shore of a lake or river, or, perhaps
better still, a river should run through it.
Here are my impressions of such a wood, from
my note-book of 1892, under date of May 1:
Nothing could have been more fitting than
to take a May-day outing at such a place.
The swift current of the Great Egg Harbor
River rolled resistlessly along, its waters black
as night, save where, over the pebbly shal-
lows, it gleamed like polished amber. ‘The
wind that swayed the tall crowns of the tow-
Travels ina Tree-top 51
ering pines made fitting music, according well
with the rippling laugh of the fretted river,
while heard above all were the joyous songs
of innumerable warblers.
We had placed our boat upon a wagon six
miles below our point of departure, and partly
realized on our way what this pine region
really was. The cedar swamp, the oak
openings, the arbutus that gave color to the
narrow wagon-track, the absence of man’s
interference,—all tended to give us the full
significance of that most suggestive word, wil-
derness. We needed but to catch a glimpse
of an Indian to see this part of creation pre-
cisely as it was in pre-Columbian days. I
sat for some time in the boat before taking up
the anchor. This was but the entrance, I
was told, to spots more beautiful, but it was
hard to believe. Here was ariver hidden in
a forest, and what more could one wish?
The warblers well knew that May-day had
come again, and every one of the mighty
host greeted the brilliant sunshine. There
seemed literally to be hundreds of them.
Flashing like gems were redstarts, light as
swallows upon the wing. Bright-spotted
warblers, and others sombre gray, laughed
52 Travels in a Tree-top
as they tarried on the trembling twigs; then,
mounting into the sunlight, sang loudly as
they flew, or darted into gloomy nooks so
hidden that not even a sunbeam could follow
them.
The river with its attendant birds could
not claim all the merit; the land was no less
beautiful. The oaks were not yet in leaf,
but there was no lack of green. The holly’s
foliage was bright as May, the polished
leaves of the tea-berry shone as a midsummer
growth, the ink-berry had defied the winter’s
storms, and the maples glowed as a great ruddy
flame. Really distinét as was every object,
yet, as a whole, the outlook was dreary, hazy,
half obscure, as we looked direétly into the
wood, where the drooping moss festooned
the branches of the smaller oaks.
No voyager ever set forth from so fair a
port.
My companion knew the route, and with
an oar he took his place astern to guide the
boat safely down the swift stream. It was
all right as it proved, but at times I forgot
that I had come to see the forest. Instead,
an element of doubt as to the guide’s ability
came painfully to the front. With devilish
Travels in a Tree-top 53
malignancy, as I thought, trees had prostrated
themselves and rested just beneath the water’s
surface, or stood up, with outreached arms,
as if defying us. How we passed many a
crook and turn I cannot now remember. I
was too much occupied with desperately
clutching at anything within reach to notice
the ‘“‘ when” or “ how,” but there still re-
mains the delicious sensation of suddenly
shooting into smooth water and feeling—
brave as a lion.
For several miles on either side of the
stream we had a typical mixed forest. The
willow-oak predominated at times, and the
delicate foliage, so unlike other oaks, was very
beautiful. ‘The leaves appeared translucent in
the bright sunlight, fairly sparkled, and once
made asplendid background to scarlet tanagers
that flashed through them. In this long reach
of dense woods there were fewer birds than at
our starting-point, or perhaps they held back
as we passed. But other life was not want-
ing. From many a projecting stump there slid
many a turtle into the dark waters, and a mink
or musk-rat crossed our bow. Careful search
would no doubt have revealed numerous creat-
ures, for here was a safe retreat for all the
5*
4 Travels ina Tree-top
fauna of the State. ‘The deer are not yet quite
gone, possibly a few bears remain. Certainly
the raccoon and otter must be abundant. I
was constantly on the lookout for minks, for
the river abounds in fish. This animal is
sometimes mistaken for a huge snake, as it
rises several inches above the water at times,
and has then a rather startling appearance.
An old fisherman on Chesapeake Bay told me
that he had seen a mink with a huge eel in its
mouth come to the surface, and then the
wriggling fish and long, lithe body of the
mink together looked like two serpents fight-
ing. I can readily imagine it. Birches,
liquidambars, and pines in clusters would
next command attention, and usually there
was a dense undergrowth. Holding the boat,
at times, we could hear the water rushing
through the roots of this tangled mass, and
found that what we had supposed was firm
land afforded no certain footing, and a bluff
of firm earth was very welcome when we
thought of landing for a hasty lunch. This
jirm earth did indeed support us, but in re-
ality it was the most unstable of shifting sands,
being held in place by reindeer-moss, par-
tridge-berry, and other pine-barren growths.
Travels in a Tree-top 55
Nothing was in sight but the scrubby pines,
and we had to be very careful that our fire
did not get among the “needles” and dash
through the woods. I found here absolutely
no birds. They seem all to prefer the traéts
covered by deciduous trees ; but inseét-feeders
could have flourished here. ‘The steam of
our dinner-pot brought more substantial forms
than mosquitoes, one house-fly being deter-
mined to share my Frankfurter and success-
fully defying all attempts at capture.
Again afloat, we soon came to the mouth
of an inflowing stream called Dead River,
said to be very deep. This point was per-
haps the wildest of all. The open water
here was very wide, and a forest of projecting
stumps of various heights showed plainly that
we were on the edge of an area of drowned
land. In the distance was an unbroken back-
ground of pines, which now looked black. At
wide intervals could be seen huge pines
that had escaped the charcoal-burner or lum-
berman. The stems and lower branches
were, of course, concealed, but in the hazy
atmosphere the tops were as floating islands
of darkest green, standing boldly out against
the pearly sky behind them.
56 ‘Travels in a Tree-top
Here, at the mouth of Dead River, we be-
held a pretty sight. A wood-duck with her
brood rushed over the water in a most lively
manner, flecking the black expanse with
patches of white foam. Such incidents add
much to sucha journey. An empty forest
is as forbidding as an empty house.
In the coves there were changes from the
surrounding scenery that were not to be over-
looked. A rank growth of golden-club rest-
ing on the dark waters was very striking.
The picture was such as we see on a Claude
Lorrain glass. Near by fresh sphagnum in
a shallow pool was bronze and green: a place
for frogs to squat unseen, but I could find none.
How often this happens! At the very places
where we think animal life will be in abun-
dance we can find no trace of it. Then, look-
ing up, we see but trees. No break in the
line that hems us in. ‘Trees old and young,
trees living and dead, great and small ; nothing
but trees.
The wind freshened as the day grew old,
and doubly troubled were the waters. ‘There
was no rest for them now, even in sheltered
nooks, and it was only by sturdy strokes of
the oars that we made headway atall. ‘There
Travels in a Tree-top 57
was no perceptible current to bear us along as
before. The waves dashing against the bare
trunks of trees long dead and now bent by the
wind added much to the wild scene. Novel
as it all was, I could not quite enjoy it. It
was something to be contemplated from the
shore, I thought. I know I was laughed at,
but the many “ blind” stumps, or those just
beneath the surface, of which my companion
spoke so unconcernedly came too promi-
nently to mind when I least expected them,
and added much significance to the fact that
I cannot swim.
As we neared home the scene abruptly
changed, and the river was lost in a wide ex-
panse that might be called a lake if the fa&
was not so evident that it is a mill-pond.
This, however, did not detract from the
beauty of the surroundings, and before our
final landing we drew up to a bold bit of
shore and searched, while it was yet day, for
pyxie. ‘There was an abundance of bloom-
ing andromeda, too, and arbutus, with club-
moss of richest green. I almost placed my
hand on a centipede that glowed like an em-
erald. It was resting on ruddy sphagnum,
and made a splendid piéture. I could not
NS AGI GAGE es
58 Travels in a Tree-top
capture the creature. An attempt to do so
on my part was followed by its disappearance
with a suddenness that could be likened only
to the flashes of light that played upon its
back. Here I heard many frogs, but could
find none. ‘The rattle and peep were not
like the voices of those in the meadows at
home, and I wondered about Cope’s new
tiger-frog and the little green hyla that is so
rare here in Jersey. Possibly I heard them
both ; probably not.
We returned to prosy life when the boat
was lifted over the dam, and the incidents
were few and commonplace in the short drift
that carried us to an old wharf, a relic of the
last century.
What a difference between such a forest
and a few hundred oaks and ashes at home!
and yet these are far better than treeless fields.
It is these few trees that hold many of our
migratory birds, and through them, in spring,
troop the north-bound warblers. ‘In the
gloaming a small traét of woodland widens
out, and, seeing no open country beyond,
what does it matter, if we walk in a circle,
whether it be one acre or one thousand?
Travels in a Tree-top 59
There is good philosophy in ‘ Small favors
thankfully received.” Here in this little wood
are beautiful white-footed mice, a shy, noc-
turnal jerboa, flying-squirrels, and, if I mis-
take not, a whole family of opossums. Here,
until autumn, are wood-robins that never
weary us by overmuch singing, and cat-birds,
chewinks, and the rose-breasted grosbeak. 1
do not complain, but as the summer passes I
regret that these birds have their appointed
time and will soon be gone. Why so soon?
I often wonder, for their haunts do not lose
their loveliness for weeks after they have dis-
appeared.
No wall of green above, about,
They silently steal away 5
With but a carpet of withered leaves,
The minstrel will not stay.
But the spot is no “‘ banquet-hall deserted,”
for all that; the departure of the summer
birds is but to make way for those who have
gladdened Canadian woods for many weeks.
The purple finch will soon be here, and tree-
sparrows in great companies, and the gentle
white-throat; and these, with our stately
cardinal for a leader, will hold forth melodi-
60 Travels ina Tree-top
ously, though the north winds blow and the
angry east wind brings the snow upon its
Wings.
In the smile of winter sunshine there will
be enacted another drama, but now it is
comedy rather than tragedy. ‘There are no
conflicting interests now, no serious quarrels,
no carking cares—the world is really in good
humor and our days of early darkness are
misunderstood.
Let him who doubts—and there are but
few who do not—turn from the worn lines
of travel, go well out of the beaten path,
and find, in the way-side nooks his neighbors
have neglected, most excellent company:
birds of brave heart that can sing in the teeth
of a storm ; and many a creature, wrapped in
his furry coat, laughs at the earnest efforts of
winter to keep him from his outings.
Did I dare sit in this same oak when the
leaves have fallen, I should have strange tales
to tell,—tales so strange that the summertide
would be commonplace in comparison.
CHAPTER SECOND
A AUNT FOR THEPYXIE
N° storm raged to defeat a long-cherished
plan, and we must laugh at threaten-
ing clouds or miss many an outing. In
dreams the pyxie had been blooming for
weeks, and to prove that not all dreams go
by contraries, I started on a flower-hunt.
This is not always so tame and adventure-
less a matter asone might think. There are
wood-blooms that scorn even a trace of man’s
interference, and the pyxie is one of them.
Nature alone can provide its wants, and only
where Nature holds undisputed sway can it
be found. To find this beautiful flower we
must plunge into the wilderness.
It was a long tramp, but never -wanting a
purpose for every step taken. Each turn
in the path offered something new, and if
ever for a moment a trace of weariness was
felt, it was because even to our hungry eyes
6 61
62 A Hunt for the Pyxie
the wilderness was overfull. Bewildering
multitudes are more to be feared than possi-
ble dangers. There is no escape from the
former. Nota tree or bush, not a bird or
blossom, but to-day offered excellent reason
why with them we should spend our time;
and how often they all spoke at once!
Except the ceaseless rattle of small frogs,
there was no sound, for that sad sighing of the
tall pines seems but the rhythmic breathing
of silence; or, passing from the wet grounds
to the higher, drier, and more barren traéts,
we heard only the crisp crackling of the
reindeer-moss we crushed at every step.
Although
*¢Tt is the bright day that brings forth the adder,
And that craves wary walking,”
we gave no thought to possible danger,—for
rattlesnakes are still to be found. Not even
when we stooped to pick the bright berries
of winter-green did we think of a coiled ser-
pent buried in dead leaves ; and what oppor-
tunity for murder the serpent had as we
buried our faces in pillows of pink and pearly
arbutus !
At last we reached South River (in South-
A Hunt for the Pyxie 63
ern New Jersey), and just here was no place
to tarry, unless to court melancholy. It was
not required that my companion should enu-
merate the reasons why the one-time farm
along the river-bank had been abandoned.
A glance at the surrounding fields told the
whole story. There was, indeed, barren-
ness,—and very different, this, from what ob-
tains in localities near by to which the same
term isapplied. In the so-called pine barrens
there is a luxuriant vegetation ; but here about
the deserted house and out-building there
was nothing but glistening sand, moss, and
those pallid grasses that suggest death rather
than life, however feeble. And how widely
different is it to be surrounded by ruin
wrought by man, and to be in a forest where
man has never been! Could I not have
turned my back upon the scene and looked
out only upon the river, the day’s pleasure
would have vanished. But we were soon
away, and a naturalist’s paradise was spread
before us. What constitutes such a place?
Not necessarily one where man has never
been: it will suffice if Nature has withstood
his interference; and this is true of these
pine barrens, this weedy wilderness, this
64 A Hunt for the Pyxie
silent battle-field where the struggle for ex-
istence never ceases, and yet, as we see it,
peaceful as the fleecy clouds that fleck an
April sky.
Though the wind that swept the wide
reach of waters close at hand still smacked
of wintry weather, there was a welcome
warmth on shore. The oaks even hinted of
the coming leaf. ‘Their buds were so far
swollen that the sharp outlines of bare twigs
against the sky were rounded off. The ruddy
stems of the blueberry bushes gave to the
river-bank a fire-like glow, and yet more
telling was the wealth of bright golden glow
where the tall Indian grass waved in all its
glory. The repellent desolation of mid-
winter, so common to our cold-soil upland
fields, was wholly wanting here; for, while
nothing strongly suggested life as we think
of it, even in early spring, yet nothing re-
called death, the familiar feature of a mid-
winter landscape.
The scattered cedars were not gloomy to-
day. Their green-black foliage stood out in
bold relief, a fitting background to the picture
of Spring’s promises. ‘That the sea was not
far off is evident, for even here, a dozen miles
A Hunt for the Pyxie 65
from the ocean, many of these trees were bent
and squatty at the top, as are all those that
face the fury of storms along the coast.
Every one harbored north-bound migrating
birds; restless, warbling kinglets principally.
No other tree seemed to attract these pretty
birds, many a flock passing by scores of oaks
to the next cedar in their line of march.
The clustered pines were not similarly fa-
vored, not a bird of any kind appearing about
them, and life of all kinds was wholly absent
in the long aisles between their stately trunks.
Our path led us through one great grove
where every tree grew straight and tall asa
ship’s mast. The light that filled this wood
was strangely beautiful. Nothing stood out
distin@tly. ‘To have passed here in the gloam-
ing would have tried weak nerves. Even in
the glare of noonday my imagination was ab-
normally aétive, every stunted shrub and
prostrate log assuming some startling shape.
Think of such a place after sunset! Let an
owl whoop in your ears when hedged in by
thick-set trees! Philosophize as one will in
daylight, it goes for little now, and the days
of Indians, cougars, and all ill-natured beasts
come trooping back. This distrust of dark-
e 6*
66 A Hunt for the Pyxie
ness is not mere cowardice, and I would
accept no one’s statement that he is wholly
free of it. Every sound becomes unduly
significant when we are alone in a wilderness ;
often unpleasantly so, even during the day,
and
‘Cin the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear !””
Out of the pines and into the oak woods:
the change was very abrupt, and as complete
as possible. Every feature of the surround-
ings was bathed in light now, and the emer-
gence from the pine forest’s gloom restored
our spirits. We are ever craving variety, and
there was positive beauty in every stunted
oak’s ugliness, and from them we needed but
to turn our heads to see thrifty magnolias
near the river-bank. ‘These have no special
enemy, now that the beavers are gone, and
thrive in the black mud by the water’s edge;
better, by far, than the gum-trees near them,
for these were heavy laden with pallid mis-
tletoe,—to me a most repugnant growth.
We reached open country at last, and here
were birds without number. How quickly
all else fades at such a time! The whole
A Hunt for the Pyxie 67
valley trembled with the ringing whistle of
a thousand red-wings. A few swallows—the
first of their kind to return—darted over the
wide waters and rested on projecting branches
of trees that floods had stranded on the
islands. The sprightly kill-deers ran with
such dainty steps over the sand that I could
not find their footprints. They, too, were
pioneer birds, but none the less light-hearted
because alone. They sang with all their last
year’s earnestness, scattering music among
the marshes where frogs were now holding
high carnival. They were very tame, at
least so far as we were concerned, but a little
in doubt as to what a stray hawk might be
about. But they left us only to make room
for others, and whether we looked riverward
or landward mattered not: it was birds, birds,
birds! Here a hundred sparrows in an oak,
there a troop of snow-birds in the bushes, a
whistling titmouse sounding his piercing
notes, the plaintive bluebird floating over-
head, the laugh of the loon at’ the bend
of the river, and buzzards searching for
stranded herring where the seine had been
drawn.
A flock of herons, too, passed overhead,
68 A Hunt for the Pyxie
and, had they not seen us, might have stopped
here on the river-shore. What an addition
to a landscape! and yet now so seldom seen.
No birds can be more harmless than they,
yet not even the hawks are subject to greater
persecution. Not long since these birds
were abundant, and a “ heronry” was one of
the “sights” of many a neighborhood; but
people now scarcely know what a “ heronry”
is. ‘The very word suggests how rapidly our
large birds are disappearing, and their roost-
ing-places, where hundreds gathered and
nested, too, in season, are matters of ** ancient
history.” In fear and trembling, the herons
that linger about our watercourses singly
seek secluded trees wherein to rest, and, I
fear, even then sleep with one eye open. A
fancy, on the part of women, for heron
plumes has wrought a deal of mischief.
But where is the pyxie? We knew it
must be near at hand, but why make haste
to find it? All else was so beautiful here,
why not wait even until another day? The
river-bank was itself a study. At the top,
sand of snowy whiteness; then a ribbon of
clay over which water trickled carrying iron
in solution, that was slowly cementing a sand
A Hunt for the Pyxie 69
stratum beneath, where every degree of den-
sity could be found, from solid rock to a
paste-like mass that we took pleasure in
moulding into fantastic shapes, thereby re-
newing our dirt-pie days.
A little later in the year, this bluff, now
streaked and spotted, will be green with the
broad-leaved sundews, curious carnivorous
plants that here take the place of grasses.
There is a filiform sundew that grows near
by, where the ground is high, if not dry ; but
it, too, waits for warmer days. Not so the
pyxie. Almost at first glance, as we left the
bluff, we saw it, sparkling white, nestled
among the gray mats of reindeer-moss, or
fringed by shining winter-green still laden
with its crimson fruit.
Here the earth was strangely carpeted.
Sphagnum, beautiful by reason of rich color,
gray-green moss, and the object of our long
tramp,—pyxie. No botany does it justice,
passing it by with the mere mention of its
barbarous name, Pyxidanthera barbulata. It
might be thought the meanest of all weeds,
but is, in truth, the chiefest glory of this
wonderful region.
Is it strange we regretted that Time would
70 Wild Life in Water
Little incidents like this are forever oc-
curring and effectually set aside the once
prevalent idea that fish are mere living ma-
chines. Look a pike in the eye and you
will deteét something very different from
mere instin¢tive timidity.
But fish are not the only creatures that live
in the water ; there are one snake and several
species of turtles, and frogs, mollusks, and
inseéts innumerable. ‘These are too apt to
be associated with the land, and, except the
two latter forms, are usually thought of as
taking to the water as a place of refuge, but
really living in the open air. This is a great
mistake. ‘There is a lively world beneath
the surface of the water, and the tragedy of
life is played to the very end, with here and
there a pretty comedy that wards off the
blues when we look too long and see nothing
but the destruction of one creature that an-
other may live.
Here is an example of cunning or wit ina
water-snake. A friend of mine was recently
sitting on the bank of a little brook, when
his attention was called to a commotion
almost at his feet. Looking down, he saw a
snake holding its head above the water, and
Wild Life in Water 131
in its mouth struggled a small sunfish. Now,
what was the snake’s purpose? It knew very
well that the fish would drown in the air, and
not until it was dead could it be swallowed
with that deliberation a snake loves. The
creature was cunning enough to kill by easy
means prey that would otherwise be difh-
cult to overcome, for while crosswise in the
snake’s mouth it could not be swallowed,
and if put down for an instant the chances
of its recapture would be slight.
To suppose that a turtle, as you watch it
crawling over the mud, has any sense of
humor in its horny head seems absurd; yet
naturalists have recorded their being seen at
play, and certainly they can readily be tamed
toa remarkable degree. Their intelligence,
however, shows prominently only in the
degree of cunning exhibited when they are
in search of food. ‘The huge snapper “ lies
in wait,” and truly this is a most sugges-
tive and comprehensive phrase. I believe,
too, that this fierce turtle buries surplus food,
and so gives further evidence of intellectual
activity.
To realize what wild life in the water
really is it must be observed where Nature
132 Wild Life in Water
has placed it. It is perhaps not so much set
forth by exceptional incidents that the student
happens to witness as by that general appear-
ance of common sense which is so unmistaka-
bly stamped upon even the most common-
place movements. Writers upon animal
intelligence do not need to be constantly on
the lookout for special exhibitions of cunning
in order to substantiate the claims they make
in favor of life’s lower forms. It is plainly
enough to be seen if we will but patiently
watch whensoever these creatures come and
wheresoever they go and the manner of their
going and coming.
Do not be so intent upon watching for the
marvellous that ordinary incidents are not
seen. In studying wild life everywhere,
and perhaps more particularly in the water,
to be rightly informed we must see the aver-
age individual amid commonplace surround-
ings. Doing this, we are not misinformed
nor led to form too high an opinion. It is
as in the study of humanity. We must not
familiarize ourselves with the mountebank,
but with man.
CHAPTER TENTH
AN OLD-FASHIONED
GARDEN
pe world at large is a most intricate
machine, and parts viewed separately
give no hint of their importance to what
appear quite independent objects. Man may
dissociate without destroying, but, when he
does so, his constant attention must then take
the place of the aéts that Nature designed
other conditions of life should perform.
The isolated plant, for instance, is destroyed
by insects unless we protect it by a glass
covering or a poison-bath: Nature gave it to
the birds to prote&t the plant, and in so
doing find food for themselves. This law
of interdependence is made very plain in the
case of a modern garden or the trim lawns
of a large city, and in less degree applies
to towns and villages. The caterpillar
12 133
134 An Old-fashioned Garden
nuisance that requires the collaring of shade-
trees with cotton-wool to proteét their foli-
age illustrates this; and what an example is
a modern garden filled to overflowing with
exotic plants! An all-important feature is
wanting,—birds; for, except English spar-
rows, we have none, and these are worse
than useless.
It was not always so, and the cause of the
deplorable change is not hard to find. When-
ever we chance, in our wanderings, to come
upon some long-negleéted corner of colonial
times, there we will find the bloom and birds
together. JI have said “neglected ;” not
quite that, for there was bloom, and the
birds are excellent gardeners.
Let me particularize. My garden is a
commonplace affair, with the single innova-
tion of a tub sunk in the ground to accom-
modate a lotus,—so commonplace, indeed,
that no passer-by would notice it; and yet
during a single summer afternoon I have
seen within its boundaries fifteen species of
birds. At that hottest hour of the midsum-
mer day, two p.M., while looking at the
huge pink blossoms of the classic lotus, my
attention was called to a quick movement
An Old-fashioned Garden 135
on the ground, as ifa rat ran by. It proved
to be an oven-bird, that curious combination
of thrush and sand-piper, and yet neither,
but a true warbler. It peered into every
nook and corner of the shrubbery, poised on
the edge of the sunken lotus-tub, caught a
wriggling worm that came to the surface of
the water, then teetered along the fence and
was gone. Soon it returned, and came and
went until dark, as much at home as ever in
the deep recesses of unfrequented woods.
As the sun went down, the bird sang once
with all the spring-tide ardor, and brought
swiftly back to me many a long summer’s
day ramble in the country. It is something
to be miles away from home while sitting on
your own door-step.
Twice a song-sparrow came, bathed in
the lotus-tub, and, when not foraging in the
weedy corners, sang its old-fashioned song,
now so seldom heard within town limits.
The bird gave me two valuable hints as to
garden management. Water is a necessity
to birds as well as to any other form of life,
and shelter is something more than a mere
attraétion. Was it not because the birds
happened to be provided with them to-day
136 An Old-fashioned Garden
that I had, as I have had the summer long,
more birds than my neighbors?
How seldom do we see the coral honey-
suckle, and how generally the trumpet-creeper
has given place to exotic vines of far more
striking bloom, but, as will appear, of less
utility! If the old-time vines that I have
mentioned bore less showy flowers, they had
at least the merit of attraéting humming-
birds, that so grandly rounded out our com-
plement of summer birds. These feathered
fairies are not difficult to see, even though so
small, and, if so inclined, we can always
study them to great advantage. They be-
come quite tame, and in the old-fashioned
gardens were always a prominent feature by
reason of their numbers. They are not
forever on the wing, and when preening
their feathers let the sunshine fall upon them,
and we have emeralds and rubies that cost
nothing, but are none the less valuable be-
cause of this. In changing the botanical
features of our yards we have had but one
thought, gorgeous flowers; but was it wise
to give no heed to the loss of birds as the
result? I fancy there are many who would
turn with delight from formal clusters of
An Old-fashioned Garden 137
unfamiliar shrubs, however showy, to a
gooseberry hedge or a lilac thicket with
song-sparrows and a cat-bird hidden in its
shade. We have been unwise in this too
radical change. We have abolished bird-
music in our eagerness for color, gaining a
little, but losing more. We have paid too
dear, not for a whistle, but for its loss. But
it is not too late. Carry a little of the home
forest to our yards, and birds will follow it.
And let me here wander to an allied matter,
that of the recently-established Arbor Day.
What I have just said recalls it.
To merely transplant a tree, move it from
one spot to another, where perhaps it is less
likely to remain for any length of time than
where it previously stood, is, it seems to me,
the very acme of folly. The chances are
many that the soil is less suitable, and so
growth will be retarded, and the world is
therefore not one whit the better off. There
is far too much tree-planting of this kind
on Arbor Day. In many an instance a plot
of ground has been replanted year after
year. I fancy we will have to reach more
nearly to the stage of tree appreciation before
Arbor Day will be a pre-eminent success.
12*
138 An Old-fashioned Garden
Can we not, indeed, accommodate ourselves
a little‘more to the trees growing where Na-
ture planted them? I know a village well,
where the houses are placed to accommodate
the trees that stood there when the spot was
a wilderness. ‘The main street is a little
crooked, but what a noble street it is! I
recall, as I write these lines, many a Friends’
meeting-house, and one country school,
where splendid oaks are standing near by,
and to those who gather daily or weekly
here, whether children or grown people,
the trees are no less dear than the buildings
beside them. ‘The wanderer who revisits
the scenes of his childhood looks first at the
trees and then at the houses. ‘Tree-wor-
ship, we are told, was once very prevalent,
and it is not to be regretted that in a modi-
fied form it still remains with us.
As a practical matter, let me here throw
out the suggestion that he will be doing most
excellent work who saves a tree each year.
This is a celebration that needs no special
day set forth by legislative enaétment. How
often I have heard farmers remark, “‘ It was
a mistake to cut those trees down”! Of course
it was. In nine cases out of ten the value
An Old-fashioned Garden 139
of the trees felled proves less than was ex-
pected, and quickly follows the realization of
the fact that when standing their full value
was notappreciated. Think of cutting down
trees that stand singly or in little groups in
the middle of fields because it is a trouble to
plant around them, or for the reason that
they shade the crops too much! What of
the crop of comfort such trees yield to both
man and beast when these fields are past-
ures? ‘But there is no money in shade-
trees.” I cannot repress my disgust when
I hear this, and I have heard it often. Is
there genuine manhood in those who feel
this way towards the one great ornament of
our landscape?
It is not—more’s the pity—within the
power of every one to plant a tree, but those
who cannot need not stand idly by on Arbor
Day. Here is an instance where half a loaf
is better than no bread. Many a one can
plant a shrub. How often there is an un-
sightly corner, even in the smallest enclosure,
where a tall tree would be a serious obstruc-
tion, whereon can be grown a thrifty bush,
one that will be a constant source of pleasure
because of its symmetry and bright foliage,
140 An Old-fashioned Garden
and for a time doubly attraétive because of
its splendid blossoming! We know too little
of the many beautiful flowering shrubs that
are scattered through every woodland, which
are greatly improved by a little care in culti-
vation, and which will bear transplanting.
We overlook them often, when seen grow-
ing in the forest, because they are small,
irregular, and often sparse of bloom, But
remember, in the woods there is a fierce
struggle for existence, and when this is over-
come the full beauty of the shrub’s stature
becomes an accomplished fact.
Here is a short list of common shrubs,
every one of which is hardy, beautiful in
itself, and can be had without other cost or
labor than a walk in the country, for I do
not suppose any land-owner would refuse a
‘© weed,” as they generally call these humble
plants. The spicewood (Lindera benzoin),
which bears bright golden flowers before the
leaves appear; the shad-bush (Amelanchier
canadensis), with a wealth of snowy blossoms,
which are increased in number and size by a
little attention, as judicious trimming; and
the “‘ bush” of the wild-wood can be made
to grow to a beautiful miniature tree. The
An Old-fashioned Garden 141
well-known pinxter flower (Azalea anudi-
caule) is improved by cultivation, and can be
made to grow “stocky” and thick-set, in-
stead of scragged, as we usually find it. Its
bright pink blossoms make a grand show-
ing in May. There is a little wild plum
(Prunus spinosa) which only asks to be
given a chance and then will rival the famous
deutzias in profusion of bloom, and after-
wards remains a sturdy tree-like shrub, with
dark-green foliage that is always attrattive.
This, too, blooms before the foliage is de-
veloped, and hints of spring as surely as the
robin’s song. A larger but no less handsome
bush is the white flowering thorn (Crategus
crus-galli), and there are wild spireas that
should not be overlooked, and two white flow-
ering shrubs that delight all who see them in
bloom, the deer-berry (Vaccinium stamineum),
and the <“ false-teeth” (Leucothoe racemosa).
All these are spring flowers. And now a
word about an August bloomer, the sweet
pepper-bush (C/ethra alnifolia). ‘This is
easily grown and is a charming plant.
It happens, too, that a place can be found
for a hardy climber, and as beautiful as the
coral honeysuckles of our grandmother’s days
142 An Old-fashioned Garden
is the climbing bittersweet (Ce/astrus scan-
dens). The plant itself is attraétive. Its
vigorous growth soon covers the support
provided for it, and in autumn and through-
out the winter its golden and crimson fruit
hangs in thick-set clusters upon every branch.
Considering how frequently near the house
there are unsightly objects, and how depress-
ing it is to be forever looking upon ugliness,
it is strange that the abundant means for
beautifying waste places are so persistently
neglected. With one or more of the plants
I have named, an eyesore may be changed to
a source of pleasure, and it was Beecher, I
think, who said, «‘ A piece of color is as use-
ful as a piece of bread.” He never spoke
more truly.
And what of the old-time arbors, with the
straggling grape-vine, and perhaps a rude
wren-box perched at the entrance? Is there
better shade than the grape-vine offers, a
sweeter odor than its bloom affords, or more
charming music than the song of the restless
house-wren? Certainly there have been no
improvements upon these features of the old-
time garden: yet how seldom do we see
them now! We must travel far, too, to
An Old-fashioned Garden 143
find a martin-box. As a matter of faét,
the bluebird, wren, and martin might, if we
chose, be restored to the very hearts of our
largest towns. People have no more terror
for them than for the English sparrow, and
they can all hold out against these piratical
aliens, if we would consider their few and
simple needs. ‘The wrens need but nesting-
boxes with an entrance through which the
shoulders of a sparrow cannot pass; and the
bluebirds and martins require only that their
houses be closed during the winter and very
early spring, or until they have returned from
their winter-quarters. This is easily done,
and when the birds are ready to occupy the
accommodations provided for them they will
take possession and successfully hold the forts
against ali intruders. This is not a fancy
merely, suggested as the basis of experimen-
tation, but is the result of the experience
of several people in widely-separated locali-
ties. I vividly recall visiting at a house in a
large town, where purple martins for more
than fifty years had occupied boxes placed
upon the eaves of a one-story kitchen.
While stress is laid upon the importance
of regaining the presence in town of these
144 An Old-fashioned Garden
birds, it must not be supposed that they are
all that are available. ‘There are scores of
wild birds, known only to the ornithologist,
that can be “cultivated” as readily as the
wild shrubbery that under startling names
figures in many a florist’s catalogue. Give
them a foothold, and they will come to stay.
Orioles, thrushes, vireos, fly-catchers, are
not unreasonably afraid of man, and would
quickly acquire confidence if they were war-
ranted in so doing. How long would a
scarlet tanager or a cardinal grosbeak remain
unmolested if it appeared in any city street?
Here is the whole matter in a nutshell: the
birds are not averse to coming, but the people
will not letthem. This is the more strange,
when we remember that hundreds of dollars
were spent to accommodate the pestiferous
imported sparrow, that is and always must
be a positive curse. Hundreds for sparrows,
and not one cent for a bluebird! While the
mischief can never be undone, it can be held
in check, if we will but take.the trouble,
and this is a mere matter of town-garden
rearrangement ; and why, indeed, not treat
our ears to music as well as our eyes to color
and our palates to sweetness? Plant here
An Old-fashioned Garden 145
and there a bush that will yield you a crop
of birds. That this may not be thought
merely a whim of my own, let me quote from
the weather record of Dr. John Conrad, who
for forty years was the apothecary of the
Pennsylvania Hospital, in Philadelphia. This
institution, bear in mind, is in the heart of
the city, not in its outskirts. Under date of
March 23, 1862, he records, ‘* Crocus and
snow-drop came into bloom last week and
are now fully out.” Again, he says, *¢ Orioles
arrived on April 8, after the fruit-trees burst
into bloom.” Here we have a migratory
bird in the city three weeks earlier than its
usual appearance in the country, but I do not
think the doétor was mistaken. I have posi-
tive knowledge of the fact that he was a good
local ornithologist. Under date of June,
1866, Conrad writes, “* A very pleasant June.
Fine bright weather, and only one week too
warm for comfort. The roses bloomed well
(except the moss-rose) and for the most part
opened better than usual. The garden full
of birds, and inseéts less abundant than usual.
Many blackbirds reared their young in our
trees, and as many as sixteen or twenty have
been counted on the lawn at onetime. Cat-
G R 13
146 An Old-fashioned Garden
birds, orioles, thrushes, wrens, vireos, robins,
etc., abound and make our old hospital joyous
with their sweet songs.”
During the summer of 1892 I was twice
in the hospital grounds, with which I was
very familiar during my uncle’s—Dr. Con-
rad’s—lifetime, and I heard only English
sparrows, although I saw two or three native
birds. It was a sad change. Think of
being able to speak of your garden as “ full
of birds,”?— as “joyous with their sweet
songs.” This, not long ago, could truthfully
be done. Will it ever be possible to do so
again?
CHAPTER ELEVENTH
AN INDIAN TRAIL
| a was a strange coincidence. A farmer
living near by employed an Indian from
the school at Carlisle, and now that the work
of the summer was over, this taciturn youth
walked daily over a hill to a school-house
more than a mile away, and the path leading
to it was an Indian trail.
Not long since I met the lad on this very
path returning from school, and when he
passed I stood by an old oak and watched
him until lost among the trees, walking where
centuries ago his people had walked when
going from the mountain village and rock
shelters along an inland creek to the distant
town by the river.
As you looked about from the old oak there
was no public road orhouse in sight; nothing
but trees and bushes, huge rocks, and one
curious jutting ledge that tradition holds is a
147
148 An Indian Trail
veritable relic of prehistoric time,—a place
where council fires were lit and midnight
meetings held.
Whether tradition is true or not, the place
was a fitting one whereat to tarry and fall
a-thinking. Happy, indeed, could the old
oak have spoken.
Many a public road of recent date has been
built on the line of an old trail, as many
a town and even city have replaced Indian
villages; but take the long-settled regions
generally, the ancient landmarks are all gone,
and a stray potsherd or flint arrow-point in
the fields is all that is left to recall the days
of the dusky aborigines.
Only in the rough, rocky, irreclaimable
hills are we likely now to be successful, if
such traces as a trail are sought for.
It was so here. Bald-top Hill is of little
use to the white man except for the firewood
that grows upon its sides and the scattered
game that still linger in its thickets. As
seen from the nearest road, not far off, there
is nothing now to suggest that an Indian ever
clambered about it. ‘The undergrowth hides
every trace of the surface ; but after the leaves
drop and a light snow has fallen, a curious
An Indian Trail 149
white line can be traced from the base of
the summit; this is the old trail.
It is a narrow path, but for so long a
time had it been used by the Indians that,
when once pointed out, it can still be fol-
lowed without difficulty. It leads now from
one little intervale to another: from farmer
A to farmer B; but originally it was part
of their long highway leading from Phila-
delphia to Easton, perhaps. It matters not.
Enough to know that then, as now, there
were towns almost wherever there was land
fit for dwellings, and paths that led from one
to the other. It is clear that the Indians
knew the whole country well. The routes
they finally chose resulted from long experi-
ence, and were as direét as the nature of the
ground made possible.
The study of trails opens up to us a broader
view of ancient Indian life than we are apt
to entertain.
We find the sites of villages on the banks
of the rivers and larger inflowing streams ;
travel by canoes was universal. No locality
was so favorable as the open valley, and here
the greater number of Indians doubtless
dwelt. But the river and its fertile shores
pghs
150 An Indian Trail
could not yield all that this people needed :
they had to draw from the resources of the
hills behind them. They soon marked the
whole region with a net-work of trails leading
to the various points whence they drew the
necessities of life. ‘The conditions of the
present day are laid down on essentially the
same lines as then.
An Indian town was not a temporary tent
site, or mere cluster of wigwams, here to-day
and miles away to-morrow; nor did these
people depend solely upon the chase. Be-
side the trail over which I recently passed
was a great clearing that had been an orchard.
We can yet find many a barren spot that is
rightly known to the people of to-day as
an Indian field. So persistently were their
cornfields cropped that at last the soil was
absolutely exhausted, and has not yet re-
covered its fertility.
There was systematic bartering, too, as the
red pipe-stone or catlinite from Minnesota
and obsidian from the more distant North-
west, found on the Atlantic coast, as well as
ocean shells picked up in the far interior, all
testify. There was also periodical journey-
ing in autumn from inland to the sea-coast to
An Indian Trail Ig
gather supplies of oysters, clams, and other
“‘sea food,” which were dried by smoking
and then ‘strung as beads and carried as
great coils of rope” back to the hills to be
consumed during the winter.
Many small colonies, too, passed the win-
ters on the coast in the shelter of the great
pine forests that extended to the very ocean
beach. It was no hap-hazard threading of a
wilderness to reach these distant points. The
paths were well defined, well used. For how
long we can only conjecture, but the vast ac-
cumulations of shells on the coast, often now
beneath the water, point to a time so distant
that the country wore a different aspect from
what it now does; a time when the land rose
far higher above the tide and extended sea-
ward where now the ocean rolls resistlessly.
Returning inland, let us trace another of
these old-time paths from the river-shore
whereon the Indians had long dwelt, over
hill and dale until we reach a valley hemmed
in by low, rolling hills.
It is a pretty spot still, although marred by
the white man’s work; but why was it the
goal of many a weary journey?
Here is found the coveted jasper, varied in
152 An Indian Trail
hue as autumn leaves or a summer sunset.
The quick eye of some wandering hunter, it
may be, found a chance fragment, and, look-
ing closer, saw that the ground on which he
stood was filled with it; or a freshet may
have washed the soil from an outcropping of
the mineral. Who can tell? It must suffice
to know that the discovery was made in
time, and a new industry arose. No other
material so admirably met the Indian’s need
for arrow-points, for the blades of spears, for
knives, drills, scrapers, and the whole range
of tools and weapons in daily use.
So it came that mining camps were estab-
lished. To this day, in these lonely hills,
we can trace out the great pits the Indians
dug, find the tools with which they toiled,
and even the ashes of their camp-fires, where
they slept by night. So deeply did the
Indian work the land wheresoever he toiled
that even the paths that led from the mines
to the distant village have not been wholly
blotted out.
The story of the jasper mines has yet to
be told, and it may be long before the full
details are learned concerning the various
processes through which the mineral passed
An Indian Trail 153
before it came into use as a finished product.
Much vain speculation has been indulged in ;
the fancied method of reducing a thick blade
to a thin one has been elaborately described,
although never carried out by any human
being; in short, the impossible has been
boldly asserted as a faét beyond question.
The Indian’s history can be read but in
small part from the handiwork that he has
left behind.
One phase of it, in the valley of the Dela-
ware, is more clearly told than all else,—the
advance from a primitive to a more cultured
status. "There were centuries during which
jasper was known only as river-pebbles, and
its discovery in abundance had an influence
upon Indians akin to that upon Europe’s
stone-age people when they discovered the
use of metals. At least here in the valley of
the Delaware this is true.
It is vain to ask for the beginning of man’s
career in this region; what we find but hints
at it. But he came when there were no
trails over the hills, no path but the icy river’s
edge; only as the centuries rolled by was the
country developed to the extent of knowing
every nook and corner of the land, and high-
154 An Indian Trail
ways and by-ways became common, like the
roads that now reach out in every direction.
A “trail,” then, has a wealth of meaning,
and those who made it were no “ mere sav-
ages,” as we so glibly speak of the Indians,
thanks to the average school-books.
The haughty Delawares had fields and or-
chards; they had permanent towns; they
mined such minerals as were valuable to
them; they had weapons of many patterns ;
they were jewellers in a crude way, and fin-
ished many a stone ornament in a manner that
still excites admiration. ‘They were travellers
and tradesmen as well as hunters and warriors.
Although my day’s search for relics of these
people had yielded but a few arrow-points,
potsherds, and a stone axe, when I saw the
Indian on his way from school, walking in the
very path his people had made long centuries
ago, the story of their ancient sojourn here
came vividly to mind in the dim light of an au-
tumn afternoon, when a golden mist wrapped
the hills and veiled the valleys beyond, and I
had a glimpse of pre-Columbian America.
CHAPTER TWELFTH
4 PRE-COLUMBIAN
DINNER
A PONDEROUS geologist, with weighty
tread and weightier manner, brought
his foot down upon the unoffending sod and
declared, ‘“‘ These meadows are sinking at a
rapid rate; something over two feet a cen-
tury.” We all knew it, but Sir Oracle had
spoken, and we little dogs did not dare to bark.
Not long after I returned alone to these ill-
fated meadows and began a leisurely, all-day
ramble. ‘They were very beautiful. There
was a wealth of purple and of white boneset
and iron-weed of royal dye. Sunflower and
primrose gilded the hidden brooks, and every
knoll was banked with rose-pink centaury.
Nor was this all. Feathery reeds towered
above the marsh, and every pond was em-
purpled with pontederia and starred with
o Ss
156 A Pre-Columbian Dinner
lilies. Afar off, acres of nut-brown sedge
made fitting background for those meadow
traéts that were still green, while close at
hand, more beautiful than all, were struggling
growths held down by the golden-dodder’s
net that overspread them.
It does not need trees or rank shrubbery to
make a wilderness. ‘This low-lying tract to-
day, with but a summer’s growth above it, is
as wild and lonely as are the Western plains.
Lonely, that is, as man thinks, but not for-
saken. ‘The wily mink, the pert weasel, the
musk-rat, and the meadow-mouse ramble in
safety through it. ‘The great blue heron, its
stately cousin, the snowy egret, and the dainty
least bittern find it a congenial home.
The fiery dragon-fly darts and lazy butter-
flies drift across the blooming waste; bees
buzz angrily as you approach ; basking snakes
bid you defiance. Verily, this is wild life’s
domain and man is out of place.
It was not always so. The land is sink-
ing, and what now of that older time when
it was far above its present level,—a high,
dry, upland traét, along which flowed a clear
and rapid stream? The tell-tale arrow-point
is our guide, and wherever the sod is broken
A Pre-Columbian Dinner 157
we have an inkling of Indian history. The
soil, as we dig a little deeper, is almost black
with charcoal-dust, and it is evident that
centuries ago the Indians were content to
dwell here, and well they might be. Even
in colonial days the place had merit, and es-
caped not the eager eyes of Penn’s grasping
followers. It was meadow then, and not
fitted for his house, but the white man built
his barn above the ruins of his dusky prede-
cessor’s home. All trace of human habita-
tion is now gone, but the words of the ge-
ologist kept ringing in my ears, and of late
I have been digging. It is a little strange
that so few traces of the white man are found
as compared with relics of the Indian. From
the barn that once stood here and was long
ago destroyed by a flood one might expeét to
find at least a rusty nail.
The ground held nothing telling of a re-
cent past, but was eloquent of the long ago.
Dull indeed must be the imagination that
cannot recall what has been here brought
to light by the aid of such an implement
as the spade. Not only were the bow and
spear proved to be the common weapons
of the time, but there were in even greater
14
158 A Pre-Columbian Dinner
abundance, and of many patterns, knives to
flay the game. It is not enough to merely
glance at a trimmed flake of flint or care-
fully-chipped splinter of argillite, and say to
yourself, <*A knife.” Their great variety
has a significance that should not be over-
looked. ‘The same implement could not
be put to every use for which a knife was
needed ; hence the range in size from several
inches to tiny flakes that will likely remain a
puzzle as to their purpose.
Besides home produéts, articles are found
that have come from a long distance, and
no class of objects is more suggestive than
those that prove the widely-extended system
of barter that prevailed at one time among
the Indians of North America. ‘There are
shells and shell ornaments found in Wis-
consin which must have been taken there
from the shores of the Gulf of Mexico;
catlinite or red pipe-stone ornaments and
pipes found in New Jersey that could only
have come from Minnesota. ‘Shell beads are
often found in graves in the Mississippi Valley
that were brought from the Pacific coast, and
the late Dr. Leidy has described a shell bead,
concerning which he states that it is the Conus
A Pre-Columbian Dinner 159
ternatus, a shell which belongs to the west
coast of Central America. This was found,
with other Indian relics, in Hartman’s Cave,
near Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. ‘Two small
arrow-points found in New Jersey a year or
more ago proved to be made of obsidian.
These specimens could only have come from
the far South-west or from Oregon, and the
probabilities are in favor of the latter locality.
It is not unlikely that objects like the above
should find their way inland to the Great
Lakes, and so across the continent and down
the Atlantic coast. On the other hand,
arrow-points could have had so little intrinsic
value in the eyes of an Indian that we are
naturally surprised that they should have
been found so far from their place of origin.
Obsidian has occurred but very rarely east
of the Alleghanies, so far as I am aware.
In the Sharples collection, at West Chester,
Pennsylvania, is a single specimen, reported
to have been found near that place, and a few
traces have since been discovered in the up-
lands immediately adjoining these Delaware
meadows, and really there is no reason to
suppose that objets of value should not have
passed quite across the continent, or been
160 A Pre-Columbian Dinner
carried from Mexico to Canada. There were
no vast areas absolutely uninhabited and across
which no Indian ever ventured.
It has been suggested that, as iron was
manufactured in the valley of the Delaware
as early as 1728, the supposed obsidian
arrow-points are really made of slag from the
furnaces, but a close examination of the speci-
mens proves, it is claimed, this not to have
been the case, and at this comparatively late
date the making of stone arrow-points had
probably ceased. Just when, however, the
use of the bow as a weapon was discarded
has not been determined, but fire-arms were
certainly common in 1728 and earlier.
A careful study, too, of copper imple-
ments, which are comparatively rare, seems
to point to the conclusion that very few were
made of the native copper found in New
Jersey, Maryland, and elsewhere along the
Atlantic coast, but that they were made in
the Lake Superior region and thence grad-
ually dispersed over the Eastern States. ‘The
large copper spear from Betterton, Maryland,
recently found, and another from New Jersey,
bear a striking resemblance to the spear-heads
from the North-west, where unquestionably
A Pre-Columbian Dinner 161
the most expert of aboriginal coppersmiths
lived. Of course, the many small beads of
this metal occasionally found in Indian graves
in the Delaware Valley might have been made
of copper found near by, but large masses are
very seldom met with.
Speaking of copper beads recalls the fact
that a necklace comprising more than one
hundred was recently found on the site of
an old Dutch trader’s house, on an island in
the Delaware. ‘They were of Indian manu-
facture, and had been in the fur trader’s pos-
session, if we may judge from the fad that
they were found with hundreds of other
relics that betokened. not merely European,
but Dutch occupation of the spot. This
trader got into trouble and doubtless de-
served his summary taking off.
It is not “‘a most absurd untruth,” as was
stated not long ago in the Critic in a review
of a New York history, that the Indians were
“