& CLOUDY

C. C.ABBOTT

Clear Skies and Cloudy

OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELA

BY CHARLES CONRAD ABBOTT

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OEM SKIES ^ND
CLOUDY

CHARLES C

MUDELPHL4 & LONDON

COPYRIGHT, 1898

BY
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

To the

Amateur Naturalists

and to whomsoever loves an outing, and to
every Audubon Society in these

United States,
these desultory papers on

subjects closely akin to their aims and pleasures

are respectfully dedicated

by

The Author

THREE BEECHES, January 12, 1898

2128955

Preface.

H.E who keeps even so simple a matter as a
record of the weather will find that the years
are not very much alike. At this writing there
is that contradiction, a warm east rain prevail-
ing, although mid-January, and a year ago, this
date, it was clear and cold ; and so with prac-
tically every feature of Nature, comparing the
days of one year with another. The rambler
finds that history does not repeat itself, except
where the principal phenomena are grouped.
Birds nest in May and June and migrants come
and go at about the same time, but the success
of some outing that is vividly remembered is
not likely to be repeated when you go again on
the morning of your red-letter day to the same
upland field, deep, dark wood, or open, sunny
meadow. Would it be well if it were so?
There is more merit in uncertainty than satis-
faction in foreknowledge. The latter smacks

7

8 Preface.

of omniscience as derisively applied to hu-
manity, and such unfortunates are apt to bore
us.

To foresee the flowers and forehear the birds
might be sufficiently satisfactory, if you are
lazily inclined, and so the suggested outing fore-
done, which means staying in-doors and doing
nothing. The ever-present possibility of nov-
elty is an incentive that should prove all-power-
ful, and nowhere is the world so worn out that
the unexpected may not happen. What of
the showers of frogs, fish, and worms of which
we sometimes read ? To be caught in such a
shower, and without an umbrella too, would
probably stir up the dormant instincts that
make us all curious as to Nature in her playful
moods. It ought to, if it does not.

It was not long ago that a distinguished
archaeologist came to this neighborhood to see
the indubitable evidences of man's antiquity
that had recently been unearthed. He came
late in the day, but in time to see what was to
me of much greater interest, a superb sunset.
His attention was called to it, but he replied
with a groan, and not looking up even, as he

Preface. 9

spoke, " I have not had my dinner. Can't the
sunset wait?"

One of the few facts about which there can
be no disputing is, that Nature will not wait
for us : to secure her favor we must do the
waiting. I was not surprised, however, at the
remark made by the hungry savant, for there
never was so enthusiastic a nature-lover yet that
at times his stomach did not rule his head and
heart ; but enthusiasm should be pitched to
such a key that we, at least, prefer suffering
under clear skies rather than cloudy. Without
a willingness to suffer in some slight degree,
the rambler makes little progress in instructive
observation. The best of what is out of doors
is not always at arm's length. Healthy enthu-
siasm is a rational phase of the spirit of adven-
ture, but adventure does not necessarily mean
distance, be it understood. The dimly out-
lined forest that you people with many novel-
ties too often proves a tamer wood-lot than your
own back yard.

It has been suggested that " the loathsome
and the dangerous in nature" should be slurred
over on account of the readers' prejudices,

i o Preface.

which are intensified and not set aright by the
author telling the plain truth. The rambler
and the author should always remain as widely
apart as the poles. Certainly — not merely prob-
ably or possibly, but certainly — the rambler so
far unfits himself to ramble if he has at the
outset the subsequent role of authorship in
mind. This is evident if we give the subject a
moment of calm consideration. What will go
to the making of the liveliest essay? is the in-
evitable question, and deciding upon some sure-
to-be-seen bird or flower, you face but blurred
images of everything save the selected flower
or bird. Literally, you have been walking and
actually seen some object of more or less in-
terest, but this is far removed from a genuine
ramble, when you live up to the golden rule
of equal consideration for all. The essay is
written, but is it not unfair to the central ob-
ject? Why not overcome our prejudices and
accept the world as it is? To take our most
gorgeous beetle from his chosen home and set
him upon a rose-bud may suit the delicate
nerves of my lady fair, but what of Nature ?
Are we to say outright that Nature is indeli-

Preface. 1 1

cate, lacks taste, and is all unworthy of entrance
into the courts of the refined ? Out upon such
rot ! Have you seen your bird and flower as it
really is when you have seen nothing but it?
That which led to it, and all that filled the
world when it itself passed from view, had some
bearing upon it which you have missed. If to
reach some desired bird or flower you have to
pass through a den of snakes, do so, and if
moved to tell your story, say so. Do not slur
over snakes for sake of any supposed objection
to them. Serpents are as much a part of
Nature as any flower of hill or dale. I never
heard more exhilarating songs than those of the
Carolina wren, that stays all day in the barn-
yard and roosts, for aught I know, in the pig-
pen ; and I do not propose to transplant that
bird to the flower-garden or set it up on the
lawn to slur over the prosaic truth.

Having rambled as Nature's guest, do not
be mean enough to misrepresent her. The
"loathsome and dangerous" must not be over-
looked if the author is true to her, and loyalty
there, rather than to people's prejudices, should
be his ambition. If seen aright, Nature is

1 2 Preface.

never loathsome ; it is only the unhealthy
human being that is excited to nausea and
disgust, as the dictionary puts it, by Nature,
whatsoever the form she takes or work she
performs. To slur certain phases of natural
operations over is simply to be a coward, and
no author but should care infinitely more about
himself than about his readers. The author is
not his brother's keeper to such an extent that
he must neglect himself.

This is a tempting subject, but I forbear.
My little day has been spent with few people,
and usually with none at all. Possibly I am
all wrong, — certainly I do not care ; but will
remain happy until I can no longer see a sun-
set or hear a song-sparrow.

It may interest the reader to know that the
accompanying illustrations were all taken by or
for the author, and are points of view at his
own home, or just over the boundary, on the
lands of his neighbors.

C. C. A.

THREE BEECHES, June 2, 1898.

Contents.

PAGE

FROST FOLIAGE 17

AN ICE-BOUND BROOK 24

WINTER BELLS 33

A CORVINE CONGRESS 42

AFTER THE STORM 55

HEARD ON THE HILL-SIDE 64

BLUNDERS IN BIRD-NESTING 76

A MORNING IN MAY 82

DINNER AT NOON 95

THE POETRY OF SHELTER 107

MY ELM-TREE ORIOLE 122

SHORT SUMMER DAYS 137

AN OCTOBER OUTING 148

A NORTHEAST STORM 162

IN DEFENCE OF DESOLATION 170

A VERY OLD MILESTONE 189

CHRISTMAS OUT OF DOORS 201

THE CHARM OF THE INEXACT 208

THE RUSTIC : A PROTEST 217

THE UNLETTERED LEARNED 226

THE COMFORT OF OLD CLOTHES 236

IN DEEP, DARK WOODS 243

CORRESPONDENTS AND CRITICS , . 262

List of Illustrations.

PAGE

THE RUSTIC BRIDGE Frontispiece.

WHEN ARCTIC CONDITIONS PREVAILED 18

A MERE REMNANT NOW OF THE STREAM OF OTHER

DAYS 29

A REMOTE, WEED-GROWN, LONG NEGLECTED MEADOW 34
THE GULLY THROUGH WHICH HURRIES AN UPLAND

BROOK 43

MEADOWS NO LONGER, BUT A LOVELY LAKE .... 56

THE OLD FLOOD-GATES 88

THE FARTHEST THICKET — THE MOST DISMAL SWAMP 94
OUR WILDEST WILDERNESS is A RATHER TAME AF-
FAIR 103

WHERE OLD POAETQUISSINGS WIDENS TO A LITTLE

LAKE 109

OVERSHADOWED BY TALL AND STATELY OAKS . . . 138

IN THE CLEAR WATER I SAW MANY SILVERY FISHES 142

THE LOW-LYING MEADOWS 150

THE CROSSWICKS MARSHES 154

A NOVEMBER AFTERNOON 171

AN OLD WORM-FENCE ON ONE SIDE AND WOODS ON

THE OTHER 192

IN DEEP, DARK WOODS 243

WOODS DURING PLEASANT JANUARY DAYS 256

THE TRUNKS OF MAJESTIC, TIME-HONORED BEECHES 257

IS

Frost Foliage.

A WONDER-WORKER is this elfish frost
He deals not only in fantastic shapes, but
crowds the fields in a single night with glitter-
ing, crystalline ghosts of dead summer's blos-
soms. At daybreak they tremble in the rest-
less wind and tearfully stand their ground at
sunrise. Their master, arrant coward, has hid*
den in the shadows. The rising sun breaks
the spell and the ghosts are gone.

Emboldened by the north wind, it some-
times happens that frost works with greater
vigor through the watches of the night, and
then there are not only the same dainty blos-
soms as before, but the skeletons of the frail
growths of summer are rebuilt in crystal ; —
firmly rebuilt, and so rugged that the sun's
level rays only add to their splendor, and for
half a day, the fields are prismatic instead of
brown, and so brilliant that all we recall of

2 17

i8

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

summer's best efforts seem crude and merely
gaudy, never grand.

Frost is crowned king when autumn wears
away, and then the poetry of his early efforts,
when a petty prince, gives place to sturdy
building that defies the jealous sun. Even the

river yields to his command, and we have an
after-taste of the time when arctic conditions
prevailed and men who wandered in this river
valley were held back by a mighty glacier.
Long ago, but not all trace of it has vanished.

Frost Foliage. 19

Even the finger-marks of man have not been
erased. Likewise, too, every babbling brook
and rippling creek is silent in his presence.

Given the water turned to rock, the ground
covered with snow and moonlight, — these to-
gether,— and we have that " all silence and all
glisten" that Lowell used as a background to a
charming in- door scene ; but what of this back-
ground itself, and more particularly when there
is sound instead of silence, and sunlight instead
of pallid moonshine ? The air to-day was full
of frozen mist, invisible needle-points, that
pricked the skin and played painful pranks
with the ears of pedestrians ; but, putting aside
such minor inconveniences as this, can we put
on a real winter change and be as much one
with Nature now as in summer? It is a ques-
tion I have often asked, and if the columns of
answers were added up, I fear the result would
show that one pedestrian at least is a tropical
animal. There is a greater effort needed now
to meet Nature's requirements. More clothing,
more food, and artificial heat, if we halt upon
our journey ; but are we not repaid ? Can the
result be looked upon with doubt when we sum

2O Clear Skies and Cloudy.

up the joys of a winter camp-fire ? I do not
mean a blazing roar of consuming logs and a
crowd about it, — from such defend me, — but in
some sheltered nook to kindle a few gathered
twigs, and, absorbing all the heat, come in
closest contact with Nature in the days of frosti-
ness.

I could see through the thick ice that the
brook was flowing still, and if it could wait in
patience for the coming of spring why not I ?
To-day it looked through icy windows and was
content, while I was free. The leaping flames
crackled merrily and the sand beneath them
began to flow. I had made the spot a little
tropic for the time, and how quickly word was
passed and my neighbors came to see ! There
was the hum of a town's activity down every
twiggy avenue, and the airy lines of travel, long
deserted, were alive again, as the snow-birds
and tree-sparrows came trooping hither, and all
because a weary pedestrian had built a little
fire and was resting himself. It is well that
birds do not carry thermometers or study the
paths of storms, and, man-like, anticipate all
possible discomforts. The mercury sank to

Frost Foliage. 21

four degrees in the night, but the birds' spirits
did not sink in proportion. Winter is outside
of their feathers and there it is welcome. If it
steals their food, the birds laugh at their ill luck
and steal a march on winter. A few wing-
beats and the matter is mended. Who cares?
is the theme of every one of them, and man,
muffled in furs and shivering over a fire, calls
himself the lord of creation. So he is, but
until he is as independent as the birds there is
one spoke lacking to perfect his wheel.

My little camp-fire was a new world to me,
and, as it seemed, a new world to the friends
that flocked about me. Here came the two
nuthatches and the brown creeper ; the Caro-
lina wren and the winter wren from northward ;
the golden-crowned kinglet and tree-sparrows ;
the chickadee and his crested cousin, and, as if
to overlook them and warn of my hostile in-
tentions, if I had any, came two chattering
jays. I sat still for a while, and every one of
these birds seemed to enjoy a smoke-bath. The
curling, thread-like cloud no sooner reached the
lower branches of the trees than the birds
flitted through it, and then chattered in great

22 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

glee as they came to rest on the brittle twigs
of the shrubbery. I sat still, and drinking in
the warmth made no motion but with my eyes.
Not a bird but came closer, and as I measured
after, many were within three feet of my face.
Only the jays held moderately aloof, and prob-
ably by so doing showed to a greater advan-
tage. After all, is there not much in wildness
that is to be commended ? If birds flew in
our open windows and perched like flies on our
bald heads during a summer nap, then our in-
terest might flag. It is possible to maintain an
interest in things we cannot touch and to lose
interest in them when too often in our hands.
The jays, by reason of their size and brilliant
plumage, made fitting background to the win-
some wee birds that desired to fathom the mys-
tery of my fire. But what has all this to do
with frost foliage? Nothing, perhaps, to you,
even after my explanation, but much to me.
Not a bird in the bush or on a tree but is a
winter bird ; a bird as characteristic of this
January day as are the swallows of summer
sunshine. They have come, as it were, to me
to replace the leaves. They revivify the land-

Frost Foliage. 23

scape, and, coming at the call of frost, I asso-
ciate them with his crystalline lifeless handi-
work. Frost-work, in all its infinite variety, is
a fitting accompaniment to feathers in their
complexity. We have since the beginning of
time associated birds and blossoms, and to
many it may seem a novelty to have the one
without the other. But Nature is not partial ;
the summer songsters have not all of the
world's glories to themselves. My brave win-
ter wren and tits and nuthatches brave the frost
foliage, and when they sport among it the glory
of winter sunshine is apparent.

My little wayside camp-fire is but a heap of
ashes ; the smoke that arose from it has drifted
miles. The birds that gathered, one by one, as
I tarried, have left me ; and now I, too, pass to
other points, to a meadow here, a field there,
and through the dark cedars that fringe a high-
way, and wherever I turn there is no repulsive
nakedness, — the trees, the shrubs, the very skel-
etons of the dead grasses, are made beautiful
again, clothed in frost foliage.

An Ice-Bound Brook.

IT is a genuine comfort to know the nature of
our footing ; to be rid of doubt when we walk.
The possible near presence of a quicksand per-
turbs the mind until we are dead to Nature's at-
tractions. Sometimes, however, such a doleful
experience is repaid by the ecstatic reaction
when firm earth is reached, after treading some
treacherous path. We laugh at the very idea
of having entertained a fear and grow bolder as
the distance increases between danger and our-
selves.

Often, throughout the long summer and
dreamy autumn-tide, I had wandered as near as
prudence permitted to the wide brook that
flowed silently and swiftly through the weedy
marsh, but never quite reached to those river
sanctuaries that held, in fact or in fancy, the
chief glories of these unreclaimed tracts of
meadow. But kindly frost came to my aid.
24

An Ice-Bound Brook. 25

Through the long watches of one starry night,
when not a twig of the tall, sentinel trees
trembled, so gentle was the passing breeze, the
current was stayed in its haste, and before the
sun rose there was no rippled surface of flowing
water, but in its place a path of crystal. Firm
ice, blue-black and clear as glass, from bank to
bank, but not down to the very bed of the
shallow stream ; a covering that made the chan-
nel accessible and possible to observe beyond
any means that I could have devised. And
so I have been spending ideal hours in an ideal
spot.

Not all the green growths that, when summer
was most active, almost stopped the current of
the brook are wilted and wasted by the touch
of frost. There is a green and growing mat of
ribbon-like and hair-like plant life in the bed of
the stream that forever waves and trembles, but
not wholly because the water is in constant mo-
tion. Look long and steadily through the clear
ice, and at times you will be rewarded by seeing
sudden movements of dark objects, a sudden
darting here and there of living creatures, that,
if thought of at all, you supposed were taking

26 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

a winter-long nap deep down in the mud.
These many objects are not disturbed by some
unusual occurrence and your presence has noth-
ing to do with it. Aquatic life, in part, hiber-
nates, sleeping as soundly as any jumping mouse
on land, but it does not take any fish or turtle
so long to wake up, and some of these creatures
sleep with one eye open. This is quite evident
when a musk-rat goes fumbling down the ditch,
poking its nose into everybody's business, if one
may judge from its actions. Stupid suckers,
our most ungainly fish, except when young,
hurry in their awkward way from the matted
grass in which they were resting ; a pike, our
most graceful fish, will dart like an arrow and as
suddenly disappear ; and that sleepy-looking,
but not fool of a fish, the mud minnow, will be
neither sluggish nor precipitant, but duly me-
thodical, and effectually dodge any real or sus-
pected danger. The musk-rat means no harm.
Its journey down Water street, as we might
call it, is a peaceful errand ; but wild life,
whether in the water or in the air above it, is
not given to running unnecessary risks. Per-
haps a musk-rat might feel carnivorously in-

An Ice-Bound Brook. 27

clined, and a bite by his jaws wounds no less
surely and severely than a nip from an otter or
a mink. Explain it all as we may, there is a
commotion under the ice through which we
look, and we forget the stagnation of the sur-
rounding meadows that lie all uncomfortably
cold in the clear but unreviving sunshine of
January.

At this moment I hear the trill of song-spar-
rows at intervals, but here, to my fancy, is some-
thing even better, wild life seen without long
waiting between the acts. Only a few small
fishes, it is true, but where in any museum or
library shall we go to learn that which we would
like to know of these few fish ? The learned
ichthyologist is wholly concerned with the crea-
tures' bones and scales ; the angler passes them
by contemptuously ; the amateur naturalist fears
to draw too near lest he wets his feet, or must
come only on some sunny summer day. It is
a pity it is so. There is more to be seen in a
weedy, ice-bound brook in January than my
neighbor fancies. The little pike, sucker, sun-
fish, and many a so-called minnow is now neither
dead nor sleeping, but ready at a moment's no-

28 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

tice to play, as I am moved to call it, with the
fishes nearest by ; or the larger ones to indulge
in the more serious sport of swallowing the lit-
tle fellows within their reach, exhibiting here a
perfect counterpart of one phase of human
activities.

To find fish within fish, even three or four,
"telescoped," as it were, big, smaller, little, and
wee fish — all this is no uncommon occurrence.
But to go into particulars makes the whole sub-
ject appear ridiculous. I saw lately a fish which
reminded me of a pocket spy-glass, short and
stout ; but when fish after fish was revealed and
placed in a row, then it was like this same spy-
glass drawn out until every section was exposed.
In this case it was a matter of three fishes, — a
pike, a mud-minnow, and a very small pike.
Equally ravenous at times is the black pirate
perch. Tales of horror might be told of the
ceaseless warfare that goes on, summer and
winter, even in such little brooks as this in
the meadow. A few days of unusual warmth
reaches down a few inches into the mud and
turtles will stretch themselves. The larger pre-
datory fishes regain their appetites, and terror

An Ice-Bound Brook.

29

reigns in the camps of the minnows. The
grasses and pendulous growths that now so
peacefully wave with the gentle current may at
any moment be tossed tumultuously aside, and
the water be roiled for a rod or more of its
present crystalline course. It is not always a

pike that is at the bottom of the mischief. A
mink may surprise the pike, that is at the mo-
ment premeditating murder, and for an instant
pandemonium reigns.

My little brook is but a mere remnant now
of the pretentious stream of other days ; and,

30 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

with its loss of volume, there has been un-
happily a loss of wild life which formerly found
the world here Nature at her best. Otters are
all gone, I suppose. The last pair, it may
be, were those killed within a few months.
The beaver has been long extinct, but, while
no trace of a dam remains, the bones of these
creatures are common in the ashes of Indian
cooking sites. Even the lumpish, lazy musk-
rats have a host of enemies forever at their
heels. Think of those to come after us, re-
duced to the contemplation of meadow mice.
I am almost too late, but the savage within me
pleasantly thrills my breast as I make out the
frozen tracks of a raccoon, now firm in texture
as fossil footprints. It is useless to follow them
up, but there is some satisfaction, upon their
basis, of repeopling the brookside. Even now,
sitting at the foot of a cluster of silvery birches,
I can see not only the coon, but its more for-
midable cousin, the bear. Not strange, this,
for I saw only yesterday a bear's tooth, picked
from an upland field, which some Indian had
worn as an ornament. Is not this the secret of
the satisfaction we sometimes have in wander-

An Ice-Bound Brook. 31

ing about? Not so much what a thing is as
what it suggests, I take it, as the secret of that
content that eases weary limbs when we have
walked for miles. To wander by this brook-
side now, intent only on its ice, its mossy banks,
and the leafless trees that skirt its winding
course ; intent, I say, only on these as they are
individually, is "to feel like one who treads
alone some banquet hall deserted." The plain
truth of the matter is, there now are no living
creatures to be seen or heard, and frozen
ground, thinly carpeted with dead grass, does
not exhilarate like the rank growths of summer.
It is too cold, too, to speculate, and why at
such a time are winter birds so unreasonable ?
All things are favorable, from my point of view,
yet not a bird will show itself, and the song-
sparrows no longer sing, even fitfully. The
silence of a winter day is maddening, and were
it not that we have just expectations of at least
one chickadee, the rambler had better stay at
home ; but I hear jays now in the hill-side
beeches and quarrelling crows along the frozen
river. Such sounds bring content. A lively
activity that defies the cold is assuring, and the

32 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

little brook is at once a braver feature of the
landscape. I have often wondered why winter
landscapes are more popular on canvas than in
real life. Strange misconceptions of the world
in winter are everywhere prevalent. The win-
ter sunrise has a more brilliant array of colors
than a summer sunset, and winter sunsets lose
much by being seen through a window. The
clearer air, the snowy foreground, the inter-
lacing of leafless branches, through which we
look, all add their mite to the glory of the close
of day. And when, at last, as you turn your
steps homeward, you hear a song-sparrow trill
lightly as it is perched on the frozen twig, and
perhaps see it firmly outlined against an illumi-
nated background, as I did to-day, you will feel
that to trace the meadow brook, though icy-
cold the air, is not merely to brave the rigors
of winter, but to be one with earnest life that
can teach us many a useful lesson, if so be we
are willing to be taught.

Winter Bells.

iHE winter bells ring merrily to-day. In the
glittering sunshine the gathered tree-sparrows
chirped and twittered their childish hymn to
Peace. Bright and beautiful the day, without
a moment of depressing silence. Lisping chick-
adees came near to where I sat, not listening to
them, as perhaps they thought, but to the ring-
ing, clear and sharp, of the winter bells. They
were ringing out their delight, not " in the icy
air of night," but in the crystalline atmosphere
of a February noon. We are too apt, at such
a time, to spend our energy in searching out the
signs of Spring, and so remain unmindful of the
day's peculiar merits. Shrug your shoulders,
if you will, and turn contemptuously away, but
February has something to be said in its favor.
Here I am in a remote, weed-grown, long
neglected meadow ; home of more wildness and
strange fruits of Nature's fancy than any other
3 33

34

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

spot to be reached in a day's ramble ; alone,
and likely to be so unless I meet with some old
trapper or, less probable, wandering freak as
aimless as myself. But I have not come in
vain ; the winter bells are ringing. They ring
to call the sunbeams to this pretty spot, ring

for the birds that now are gathering here, ring,
I wish I dared to think it, for me too to come
and share in the general joy of this February
noon.

Welcome or not, none order me away, and I
am urged to tarry because of no offensive dem-

Winter Bells. 35

onstration. He who would know the joy of an
outing, whether in midwinter or during the
long and languid summer days, must have
evidence such as mine of a wild bird's confi-
dence. Thoreau's wood-chopper liked to have
the chickadees about him. Little wonder that
he did, for now while I am listening to the tink-
ling of merry winter bells, these birds come
near ; so near they look me directly in the face
and chirp, in a quizzical way, You here ? Noth-
ing more delightful than this in any welcome
among people in town. Yes, I am here, and
the bells ring on as sweetly as ever ; never tiring
of their own sweet music, nor can I ever, I feel,
grow weary of listening. Winter is but an empty
word to-day ; the cold gray clouds suggest no
chilling thoughts ; little it matters that the
branches of the trees are bare ; — the winter bells
are ringing !

I hear the wrangling crows, so like mankind
in all their disagreeable ways, where they have
gathered along and on the river, and I can see
them, in my mind, wandering about that deso-
late scene, floating on the huge ice-rafts, scram-
bling for stray bits brought by the recent flood,

36 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

and hovering over the blue-black waters, as
fancy pictures foul spirits in a gloomier world,
but nothing of all this reaches here. The trees,
the earth, the very air itself, strain out all harsh-
ness from the crows' ill-natured cries, and only
that which is pleasing is heard where the winter
bells are ringing.

I hear the rapid blows upon some dead tree
on the hill-side, and I know that the woodpecker
is at work, or is it merely noisy sport to him ?
The sound brings out to me in bold relief the
lonely remnant of the ancient forest, bleak and
bare and silent now, save for this bold bird that
wakes the echoes, it may be, to keep his courage
up. Winter means everything there that we
would shun ; the very mosses crack like brittle
glass, and no creature ventures now to wander
over the wood-path's carpet of crisp autumn
leaves. Not a sunbeam turns aside to cheer
the woods ; they have other things to do, and,
choosing gayety to sorrow, linger content where
winter bells are ringing.

I hear a rustling in the dead grass near me.
Soon the gaunt, frail skeletons of a summer's
growth are ruthlessly turned aside, and close to

Winter Bells. 37

where I sit a musk-rat pauses and stares at me
with evident fear, yet not to the exclusion of
astonishment. You here ? he seems to ask, and
seeing that I make no movement, a trace of
confidence is his, and he turns towards the bells
as if the more intently to listen to their music.
I feel that I must laugh aloud, and do so, and in
an instant my furry friend is gone. Gone, too,
was every chickadee and the song-sparrow that
had sung in dulcet tones, perched in a mossy
nook above the bells. I could hear, for the
time, neither crows nor the woodpecker. Our
birds are steadily learning a good deal ; have
already learned to their sorrow what mankind
usually proves to be to them, but never have
they rightfully interpreted laughter. Crows
laugh, in spite of what the bumptious pro-
fessionals may say, and parrots have a keen
sense of humor ; but it is wisdom on the part
of the rambler not to express himself in such a
way when amused by what he sees. Human
laughter would be to us a harsh, repelling sound
if we did not realize its significance, and we
know all too well it often means mischief and
not merriment. Like a fool, I laughed, and in

38 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

an instant the spot where I lingered was well-
nigh robbed of all its charms ; would quite have
been had not, happily, the winter bells kept
ringing.

Only very slowly is confidence restored in the
breasts of wild life. It seemed a long time be-
fore I could hear the chirp of any returning bird,
and the winter bells tolled rather than rang out
merrily. But the birds did come again. Chick-
adees, tree-sparrows, the brown creeper, and a
nuthatch came and chatted pleasantly among
themselves or to themselves ; it matters not
which. Enough that I heard them and that
they had forgotten my awkward blunder of
laughing aloud. Very different in their ways,
these birds, and the variety added interest to
the outlook, and again the winter bells struck
a livelier note and rang out so cheerfully, no
one worried about the time of year. Winter all
over the world, for aught we care, but nothing
of its dulness lingers here when the winter bells
are ringing.

To know what the out-door world fully means,
we must enter into the spirit of the scenes, must
be enthusiastic, and then it is not impossible to

Winter Bells. 39

divine the feelings of the birds that enliven such
a place as this. You may come here and, after
one swift glance, mutter "weeds and water,"
and go away, having spoken the simple, sober
truth ; true as when you say of a city, " bricks
and mortar." Having but his flesh and bones
before you, can you say, " here is a man" ? Lit-
erally true of where I am at present, weeds and
water, but if forced to seat yourself at the foot
of a tree and hold a weed before your eyes ; to
count its joints and branches ; to note each
frost crystal that clings to it ; — you will likewise
be forced to admit that a weed in winter is not
merely decaying vegetation. Its summer fresh-
ness may be gone, but its winter suggestiveness
remains until summer comes again and appeals
as strongly to those who love Nature not as she
is at times, but as she is always, and can fairly
shout for joy when the bright sunshine holds
all shadows back and winter bells are ringing.

If obstinate to the point of seeing no beauty
in a weed, may not water hold you a moment ?
It is not always as terrifying as the ocean in a
storm or lifeless as in a muddy mill-pond. Here
is something akin to neither extreme, — a spark-

40 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

ling rivulet that has worn its winding way
through the meadows to the river, where it adds
its mite to the greater stream and is lost in the
ocean at last. We need not trace it throughout
so long a journey. Here it is the prattling in-
fant rather than a staid old man, an artless child
rather than a cunning adult, — a rivulet, born of
the spring that lives in some underground re-
cess, and he who loves an outing cannot see
and hear it unimpressed. As I see it now, this
laughing brook looks up for a moment at the
blazing sun and then darts behind the ice-bound
masses of old leaves that have lodged by its
way ; then, turning and twisting among the airy
roots of an old elm, swirls about the domed
house of a musk-rat, and then in and out among
the hassocks of the open meadow. It is silent
at one point, tuneful at another, but never sober
and downcast. Its lively spirit moves or ought
to move you. Its presence alone means beauty
and joy, and means even more now and here, at
this passing moment, when many a bird is sing-
ing its praises and the winter bells are ringing.

The sunny day is waxing old apace. An
envious shadow is creeping hitherward, and al-

Winter Bells. 41

ready its repressing influence is felt. The bells
are ringing in a more deliberate way. One by
one the sparrows fly farther and farther afield,
seeking new regions where the sun still brightly
shines ; the chickadees have wandered to the
woods again, where now the sunlight falls in-
vitingly. The change here, where I have been
these hours, is felt rather than seen, and my
curiosity is piqued. I tarry yet longer, until
silence reigns supreme. Not a bell but now is
stilled and hints no more of music than the
solemn birch-trees that tower far above them.

I have not proved as fitful as the birds ; I
have been more faithful than the wandering
sun ; but now the cords are snapped that bound
me ; the spirit of restlessness is strong again. I
too hie me away to lovelier scenes, if happily I
may find them ; but what, I am asked on turn-
ing away, of these winter bells ? True, I had
almost forgotten. The icicles had ceased to
drip, the sparkling water no longer fell, drop by
drop, upon the ice below. These tiny spheres
of music were now no longer free ; no longer
rang these charming winter bells.

A Corvine Congress.

ABOVE the roar of the petulant east wind
that bent the tops of the pines about the house,
whistled through the big door-yard elm and
passed over the meadows, twisting and twirling
twigs and dead leaves in its path, — above all
this I heard the clamor of many crows that had
congregated in the white-oak grove near the
mouth of the gully through which hurries an
upland brook on its way to the river. I heard
these crows better than I could see them, so,
armed with a field-glass, I cautiously approached
their meeting site by a circuitous route, and
happily escaped discovery by any one of the
several sentinels that were most judiciously
posted at all points of approach that might
prove dangerous. The grove where this par-
ticular session of congress was held is well
adapted for the purpose on such a day as this,
being sheltered from the east wind, except
42

A Corvine Congress.

43

about the tops of the tallest trees ; a rural
coliseum, fit for all avian exhibitions, and never
quite forsaken, the round year, either by night
or day. But perhaps I had better refrain from
even the very plainest, least varnished account
of what I saw and heard. The cry of imagi-

nation run wild, of investing birds with attri-
butes not belonging to creatures lower than
men, and all that ultra-scientific rubbish of
theorists, — all this is so vehemently proclaimed
when a courier arrives from the woods, that
one may well question if a personal narrative

44 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

of out-door incidents is worth the while to
print. It is true, an ever increasing interest in
a particular species of bird may make us a bit
careless as to painfully extreme accuracy, our
enthusiasm making every act and utterance of
rather more significance than the facts warrant,
but this, however much it is to be deplored,
is less undesirable than the cold-blooded an-
nouncement of the anatomist that a crow flies
and screams "caw" at all times and is as black
as the ace of spades. This is true, but is it
quite all of corvine ornithology? No one
doubts the cunning of a fox, and a crow is a
fox in feathers. It is the most intelligent of
all our birds, and I do not suppose any one
doubts that there is a great difference among
our birds as to their mental calibre. Perhaps
it is doubted. The world has groped in error
so long that now it loves the false even to the
point of idolatry, and truth is offered no kindly
welcome when it timidly appears. I am not
an omnivorous reader of books, and so speak
only for myself. I have gathered from first
hands — that is, from the birds themselves — that
some are quick-witted, others foolish, and occa-

A Corvine Congress. .45

sionally some are downright fools. You can
hoodwink a wood-thrush, but it is a smart man
that deceives a cat-bird, and never the second
time. English sparrows know a trap however
natural its appearance, and know my gun as
something very different from a walking-stick.
The peewee is confiding, but its big, yawping
country cousin down the lane among the apple-
trees, the great crest, is always suspicious. The
chippy that nested by the parlor window took
crumbs from my fingers ; but the humming-
bird dashed at my eyes when I drew too near
its nest I never saw a chickadee that was
not distinctly friendly ; but the crested tit says
there is elbow-room enough for both it and
myself, and demands so much neutral territory
between us. The lines can be more closely
drawn. There is marked difference among in-
dividuals of the same species. You do not get
at this from a chance acquaintance, meeting
birds to-day and never afterwards. Circum-
stances must bring you together and keep you
associated for a season, and then, after such
an experience, the whole world will appear
to you in a different light. To annoy birds

46 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

will not occur to you and bird-murder be
unthinkable.

But the crows : what of them ? Luckily, I
gained an advantageous point of view, after a
deal of painful crawling through the weeds ;
and briers' thorns are sharper in January than
at other times, or human flesh more sensitive.
Adjusting the field-glass, I saw — not fancied I
saw — that one crow, from a commanding posi-
tion, was haranguing the assembled multitude.
What I heard was one crow's voice that varied
or rang the changes on the basic syllable kaw
about as follows : kd — ee', kd kaw ! kaw' kd ;
and then there was a babel of kaw — ka-d-d,
that clearly expressed assent, an apparent
"that's so" that was ludicrously like the chatter
of congregated humanity when an orator stoops
to their comprehension. After a momentary
pause, the orator, as we will call the speaking
crow, resumed his speech, and the variations of
kaw kd were repeated, but with many sounds
like 2-S and a trill, as ar-r-r-r. The latter
were always, I thought, uttered in a more
rapid manner than what I have called the
basic syllable, kaw, and certainly were accom-

A Corvine Congress. 47

panied with more gestures. Accurate descrip-
tion is impossible, words and actions were so
rapid, but my impression would doubtless not
have varied had the crow been more deliberate.
The most striking feature of it all, however,
was the dissent of the gathering on two occa-
sions, that was as plainly marked as the pre-
vious assent had been. The utterance was
wholly different and the accompanying gestures
likewise varied. The twisting and turning of
the head and neck was most pronounced, — a
turning away, as it were, from the suggestion ;
and there was also a decided wing movement
I did not notice before, corresponding in some
measure to the hand and arm movement among
ourselves when excited to the point of being
demonstrative.

I am not sure at what time of day the con-
gress opened its session, but it lasted for just
twelve minutes after I took up my position in
the spectators' gallery, if the tangle of briers
can be so called. Then occurred a break in
the proceedings, for one of the out-posted sen-
tinels was heard to call out, not unlike a turkey,
but the cry ending in a prolonged er-r-r-r.

48 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

This caused a sudden closing of the orator's
speech, or argument, or whatever it really was,
and the assembled crows rose into the air,
some thirty feet or more above the trees. I
noticed, by mere chance, that the sentinels re-
mained perched in the trees. After the lapse
of probably three or four minutes, the circling
and chattering crows resumed their places, and
what was to me most curious of all, in prac-
tically the same way they were previously dis-
tributed, and one individual, I shall always
think the same, took up his position, in a way
suggestive of being Speaker of the house.
There was a brief repetition of the proceedings
as described, and then a shout or extra-loud call
uttered by every bird. The sentinels left their
posts, and joining their brethren of the con-
gress, the whole gathering flew away in the
same westerly direction.

Now, if we are merely to witness what birds
do and refrain from contemplating their motives
in so doing, the great charm of out-door orni-
thology is gone. It is not satisfying to say there
was a lot of crows in the oaks of the gully
this morning and they made a great noise. It

A Corvine Congress. 49

is not for an instant to be held that crows caw
merely to hear themselves break the silence.
There is nothing in all they utter akin to music.
It is not intended as such more than the squeal-
ing of a pig. The associated acts and general
deportment of the crows clearly show they
have other purposes than soothing their excited
nerves with song. But how do we know this ?
It is difficult to satisfactorily reply, inasmuch as
it has been claimed, whether with good reason
or not, that it is not justifiable to judge the
non-human by the human standard. This may
be true, but I know of no other standard.
When a lower animal does the same thing that
we would do under like circumstances, it seems
thoroughly logical to assume that the intention
is the same in either case. When we see our
legislatures in session or recall the pleasant days
of youthful debating societies, the purpose of
the gathering together of a number of indi-
viduals is recognized at once, and would be if
we were deaf and could hear not a word that
was spoken. It is safe to say that a dog, enter-
ing a church during service, would recognize
that the officiating clergyman was speaking and
4

50 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

the audience listening. So in the case of the
crows to-day ; one harangued and the others
listened and occasionally commented upon what
was said ; possibly applauded. These birds
have not copied all this from man, but it has
come about in their case, as in ours, gradually.
They have learned the value of consultation, and
that the pros and cons of a proposition must be
duly considered. Certainly this was done to-
day by the crows assembled in my hill-side oaks,
and to reach such a point of complex mentality
means advanced intelligence. Those wonderful
instincts about which, when children, we heard
so much played no part in what I have called a
corvine congress. Even the posting of senti-
nels is not instinctive, but the result of fore-
thought based upon experience. Truly, crows
are cunning, but not merely from necessitated
exercise of caution, as is possibly true of a fox,
but cunning to the degree of planning what
under given circumstances it is best to do ; and
how, with a fair measure of safety, they can pit
their intelligence against that of man. Some
mammals do this and a few birds, but I know
of none in this country that go so far in the

A Corvine Congress.

direction of consideration of cause and effect
as does the crow.

It is useless perhaps to hope ever to be able
to translate the crows' language and so learn
what they are discussing, whether but two or
three are gathered together or a great flock is
addressed by some chosen leader, but the initial
step having long ago been taken, that com-
munication of ideas among the lower animals
does take place, it is no over-reaching of rea-
sonableness to recognize that the variations of
kaw and ka are full of meaning to the birds to
which they are addressed.

A careful study of corvine courtship would
be profitable to those who care for the subject
of animal intelligence. Their mentality shows
then, I doubt not, as prominently as when the
nest is deserted and life is a struggle for food
more than aught else. The actions of wooers
have too frequently been commented upon as
simply so many silly antics and not having any
deeper meaning, but we are not yet sufficiently
versed in ornithological lore to deliver snap
judgments. It is a common practice, but sin
is not less sinful because of its prevalence.

52 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

Among smaller birds than crows, the difficulties
lie in the fact that we cannot detect all the ut-
terances ; and it would not be surprising, if it
could be proved, that birds intentionally whisper
" little nothings" to those nearest to them. That
male birds sing to attract the attention of females
is undeniable, but there are other expressions of
their feelings and responses by the females that
are usually overlooked. Only at rarest intervals
can we witness a courtship throughout and see
for ourselves that birds are not mere machines,
soulless and unsentimental, moved by impulses
mysterious to themselves. I have seen a male
rose-breasted grosbeak bring food to its mate
and then, when the latter had taken it, rapidly
move its beak in a manner clearly showing it
was uttering some sound, which was quite in-
audible to me. I have seen the flicker stop his
work of cutting out a new nesting-place, and
sitting close by the side of his mate, the two
chatted, may I say? about their mutual interests,
and then he would resume his work of deepen-
ing the cavity in the tree. Great, at times, is
the chatter when the great crested flycatcher
enters the nest and tells his mate to go out and

A Corvine Congress. 53

take an airing and he will keep house while she
is gone. But significant as is all that we see
among mated birds, and we see but a mere
fraction of what we should to pose as interpre-
ters, it is little in comparison to that which is
constantly transpiring among the crows. They
do not live in fancied security as is true of other
birds ; they accept nothing through hopefulness,
and have no faith in appearances. Everything
with which they have to deal must be tested as
best they can, and so they live a life of constant
fear, such as mankind finds intolerable. A
happy crow, from our point of view, is an im-
possible creature ; but nevertheless, when crows
do have a moderate sense of security, and know
that their sentinels are alert and trustworthy,
they venture to make merry among themselves
and are playfully inclined. See them, for in-
stance, gathered on cakes of floating ice when
the river breaks up ; see them pitch and turn in
mid-air with almost swallow-like agility ; see
them hobnobbing with the gulls and hear them
laugh ! Perhaps this is a step too far, but it is
a wide-spread fancy, one I first heard of from
an old fisherman, and I have never been able to

54 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

rid myself of the idea that he was right. It
seems so rational an interpretation of their wild
cries as they are playing about the river, for
surely not all their time is now spent in search-
ing for food. The true inwardness of all corvine
ways is not yet within our reach ; but when they
are assembled as I saw them to-day and discus-
sion is conducted decently and in order, then it
is that the intelligence of these birds stands out
quite unmistakably.

After the Storm.

STEADILY, for many long hours, the rain
poured down, coming in long unbroken streams
from the low-lying clouds. The sleepy brook
that had murmured itself almost to sleep, as it
crossed the lane, and languidly crept through
the dark ravine that shuts out the sunlit world
for many a rod, at last was roused to unwonted
energy, and rushed forward to find the meadows
of which it had been dreaming meadows no
longer, but a lovely lake. Hour after hour,
still it rained, and never night more dreary and
more dark. The ominous roar of the wind
among the door-yard trees made me tremble
for the safety of the three beeches near my
house, nor was my mind at ease until the gray-
streaked dawn announced not only the break
of day but the passing of the storm. The up-
land fields were all intact ; the hill-side trees
had suffered no injury, but there were no

55

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

meadows ! I found myself living on the banks
of a new-born lake.

I cannot explain it, but the simple fact is all-
sufficient, the spirit of exploration and of ad-
venture takes strong hold upon me, when, after
the storm, the activity of resuming more nor-

mal conditions is at its height. The puffy
winds, the swiftly passing cloud, the scream of
a hawk, the cawing of crows, the harsh cry of
sea-gulls, and the nervous whistling of larks and
red-birds, even the excited twitter of passing
sparrows, all tend to rouse again my youthful

After the Storm. 57

energy, and, reckless of lessened suppleness and
strength, I hurry away, scarce noting where, —
only away, away ! Now, if ever, the blessed
wildness that is in us comes to the surface, and
he who has most of it is the happiest of men.
I do not speak hastily, I think, when saying
this. We are backward in all that makes man
what he was meant to be, when the grip of
artificiality has throttled all desire to breathe the
air beyond a village street. We hear much of
higher aims and of the superlatively superior
one of another existence, but must it be fol-
lowed by ignoring and making little of that
upon which we now dwell? I decline to make
the sacrifice. The sunshine of to-day, after
the storm, is bright enough ; anything brighter
would be blinding and painful, not enjoyable.
It is January, but I am afloat, not frozen in, as
if in the arctic regions, and how grand the
glittering sunlight on this nameless lake ! No
novelty, to be sure, but a repeated experience
of these past forty years and more, but history
has never repeated itself; and as of old, I am
all eagerness to see and hear. Leaves are too
tender for rude January days, yet the sapling sas-

58 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

safras is as green as a June meadow, and how
stately the rich foliage of the rhododendrons !
but here the slender silvery birches are bare in-
tricacies of delicate twigs, a pretty lace-work as
seen against the sky, and even prettier now that
a host of waxwings has settled among them.
They lisp in a languid way and never cease to
dress rebellious feathers, but they do not rouse
our interest beyond their prettiness. They lack
the animation of a wren and music of a thrush,
and one wonders what their place in Nature
really is. This is not an unusual time for them,
but their coming and going is very uncertain.
Not always, however, for I have known a flock
of half a hundred or more to linger about the
same cedars for weeks together.

Of greater interest than any strictly land bird
are the gulls that the storm has driven up the
river, veritable storm-tossed creatures that hap-
pily do not complain, but enter into the new
conditions with abundant zest They give a
seaside twang to the air and water, and I fancy
the wind in the trees the roar of the surf.
Other sea-birds occasionally come, and a good
many too, at times, were here, long ago, judging

After the Storm. 59

from their bones in the Indian kitchen-refuse
heaps and old cooking sites. Hawks add wild-
ness to the wintry sky, and a black falcon on
the bare branch of some outstanding tree is of
course the shining mark towards which perse-
cuting crows impetuously dart.

I need not row. The wind carries the boat
in that aimless way that is so desirable when
bound for no harbor. There are no breakers
ahead. I am due nowhere, answerable to no
one. Free as the wind is free ; aimless ; in love,
for the moment, with every new bird that
comes ; devoted follower of the wandering
musk-rat ; ardent admirer of the drowned-out
mice ; everything and all things unto each and
every creature ; torn from my moorings, like
my neighbor's fence-rails ; free and happy.
The storm, while it lasted, produced no pain,
but still there was a feeling of restraint. I
could have stood out in it and there was no
one to stay me, yet I was restrained. The
gloomy night suggested nothing to make me
love life or the world ; but the day, the sunlit
hours after the storm, mean everything, and to
float on these joyous waters that meet the pass-

60 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

ing breezes half-way and cap their waves with
foam, — this is life, the moments snatched from
year-long drudgery, that are not to be for-
gotten.

Where in the long summer days I was wont
to ramble on foot, seeking the cool shadows or
hidden spring of cool and crystal-clear waters,
now I go in a different fashion, and not a
landmark deigns to greet me. These old trees
have withdrawn their friendliness, and I am a
stranger among them ; but I will not be re-
buffed. There is no wind murmuring in their
branches, but the breaking of waves against
their sturdy trunks is no less musical. For
a while it is more dreamland than reality, but I
am called at last to facts that crowd all fancies
to the wall. The flood has unsettled the pur-
poses of the meadow wild life, and by chance I
see that mice, a squirrel, and some ill-defined
creature have taken refuge here. They do not
make any effort to escape or elude detection,
but sit in a philosophical way, waiting for a
change in the surroundings ; but what inter-
ested me most was to see that when required
creatures that live in one place can adapt them-

After the Storm. 61

selves readily to another. I never saw a meadow
mouse climb a tree, but here are three that
must have climbed the perpendicular trunk of
a maple for at least five feet, the distance
between the water's surface and the lowest
branch. Above them crouches some larger
mammal, but what is it? It hides itself effect-
ually, and I can form no idea from what little I
see. Possibly a young raccoon ; less probably
a "wild" domestic cat; it is too dark for an
opossum, and skunks cannot climb, it is said.
It is not strange to find the freshets upsetting
wild life's plans ; even the moles in the upland
fields have been burrowing in every direction,
and uplifted the sod near the house into long
disfiguring ridges.

All day long afloat and never tiring, though
no adventure awaits me. As noon approaches
the sun shines with unusual warmth, and my
neighbor's bees come from the hive. There
are insects in the air on the sunny sides of the
oaks and hickories. How very quick to re-
spond to a little sunshine is nearly every form
of life ! and how very apt to suffer because of
this credulity ! The winter sun, with us, can lie

62 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

in a most unblushing manner. To-morrow,
the mercury may sink to zero, — a drop of
fifty-five degrees. I have known still greater
changes. The only uniformity I have ever
found is at Nine Spring Corner, where the
water is always warm, plant-life luxuriant, and
pretty salamanders always to be found.

If there was no adventure awaiting me, there
was something equally good, a splendid sun-
set and gorgeous coloring of the rippled waters
that overspread the pastures. We think ot
winter as brown or white, and talk of the cold
gray skies, but never my lady's rose-bower
more brilliant with bloom than this lake of the
day with sunset's rainbow hues. Not one rain-
bow resting here, but thousands ; not fiery red
alone, but every softer shade, and the blossoms
of a summer scattered far and near. No
thought now of January or the nipping cold of
mid-winter nights ; no hint of icy waters black
and chill, of arctic desolation, and a longing
for the fireside light and warmth. Now was
winter in a playful mood and wreathed in rare
smiles, as sweet as they are rare. Nor was I
alone to enjoy it. A song-sparrow breaks the

After the Storm. 63

silence, and his infectious glee moves the crested
tit to whistle loudly, as if to call up every bird
about him, and a wren on the hill-side shouts
back to it, " Glorious /"

Such winter days are all too short. I tarried
until not a trace of color rested upon the
waters ; but scarcely less beautiful were the re-
flected stars and crescent moon that gilded the
black waters of the short-lived lake.

Heard on the Hill-Side.

BUT little that we meet with bears a very close
inspection. A gem without a flaw does not
flash from every ringer ; but he is unwise who
spends his days hunting for the world's defects.
The face of the long, low bluff^ that every one
calls a hill-side, is not perfect The moss is in
patches, the trees crooked, the bare earth shows
in spots, and is gullied and wrinkled where we
would have it smooth. The springs flow as
they choose and make here a swamp and leave
it a desert there. Tell the whole truth, and the
face of the long, low bluff is a veritable eye-
sore. Is it? Even during these early April
mornings I find it a very gate of Paradise, if
not that fabled garden of delight. Others can
find fault if they will, and much joy come to
them. But while yet the day was very young
the sun peeped over the roof of my neighbor's
barn, and in response to the assuring warmth
64

Heard on the Hill-Side. 65

here and there chirped the cheerful chickadee.
This is one of the day's minor incidents we
should all see and hear. It conveys a useful
hint to those pessimistically disposed. It brings
out the full meaning of the day. It means
wholesome appreciation. He who faces the
coming day whistling is not likely to look upon
sunset weeping. Later, my little bird uttered
the phcebe note, as Thoreau calls it, but I hold
it says, Hear me. Whether or not, I listened.
Wind cold as charity roared in the tree-tops ;
but why mind it ? Hear me ! was the sweet
sunrise salutation of the chickadee, and I half
believed that some herald of approaching spring
had charmed the tangled green brier and added
brightness to the mosses. Hear me ! and, heed-
ing the command, I strolled along the hill-side.
A squirrel barked, but must we take the first
greeting as indicative of a disappointing day
because it is a surly one ? It matters little if a
cross-grained squirrel is rude. There is gen-
erally some discordant note whatever the con-
ditions or wherever we happen to be. Jays are
pretty sure to screech when the matins of the
white-throated sparrows are floating along this
5

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

peaceful hill-side, a hymn to stir the better feel-
ings of the most indifferent. Hearing blue-jays
at such a time, it becomes quite evident that a
bird's song was not intended for man's enjoy-
ment, as has been seriously asserted. Never-
theless, we can get a great deal of satisfaction
out of it, sharing the music with the birds with-
out robbing them. But I did not come to the
hill-side to philosophize over bird-song, but to
listen, and let it be understood that there is an
art of listening. There is no such thing as a
meaningless sound. It is a contradiction to
speak of what we hear as having no significance,
but the meaning of any sound may or may
not be of importance to us. The footstep of a
detective may not disturb our day-dreams, but
bring a vision of the gallows to the pursued
criminal. As a matter of fact, the nearest to
meaningless sounds are those made by man.
Compare for a moment his clumsy tread with
the scarcely detected footsteps of a wood-mouse.
The man is absolutely nothing to us ; would
not be missed, if never heard of; but the day
was never long enough to watch a dainty white-
footed wood-mouse pick its way through the

Heard on the Hill-Side. 67

dead branches scattered by the storms of the
past winter. If it squeaks when startled, why ?
Follow the actions now of the mouse and trace
the cause of the sound to the shadow of the
hawk you see sailing over you. To simply hear
a sound is not all. To listen, to realize the full
intent and purpose of every variation in the
sound, to note the accompanying gesture with
each characteristic utterance, whenever possible ;
in short, to appreciate the effort on an animal's
or bird's part to interpret its own feelings, this
is to listen intelligently, and in so doing to be
taught a useful lesson in ornithology. There
is profit, then, as well as pleasure in being
abroad on a bright April morning like this,
and noting, whether we stroll along the foot-
path way or stand by some one of the old
oaks, whatsoever is to be heard on the hill-side.
But the skies are not always bright. We have
heard much of tearful April, and of the showers
that are so common during the month ; but the
effect of these varying conditions upon bird-life
does not appear to have been closely observed.
Cloudiness is not necessarily a drawback to a
day. There must be low temperature, chilly

68 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

dampness, and an east wind to make the early
spring migrants mope. I have sometimes
thought that the wood-thrush at no later period
sang as sweetly as during a dark, cloudy April
day, when the leafless woods were filled with
that strange shadowless light, such as we see in
a Claude Lorraine glass. It is a light to stir
the soul of man, if he has any, and could not
fail to affect our incomparable poet, the wood-
thrush.

What is to be heard on a bright April morn-
ing? There is a deal of scepticism on this
subject, and the common reply is, I fancy,
" Nothing much," or, perhaps, "Crows." Well,
I pity the person who can find no pleasure in
the varied calls and alarm-notes of these wily
birds. It suggests a lack of retrospective power,
and much is lost when the restless crows of
April do not recall these same birds in the past
winter, when all their ingenuity was taxed to
gain a living ; and what a pretty sight, when the
river opened, to see them riding on huge cakes
of ice or deftly darting between them for some
coveted morsel with all the grace of the gulls
with which they fraternized. But, then, there

Heard on the Hill-Side. 69

are people who never see crows except those in
their own cornfields. What, then, is to be
heard in April ? Just a round dozen of good
musicians and a host of pleasing dilettanti that
fill up the unoccupied moments, like gossipy
friends between the acts. The dozen are all
good, to my mind, but necessarily of varying
merit, and more than one, as a soloist, excellent ;
while others, in this light, are not, perhaps, to
be commended. But let the rambler judge for
himself. To-day there were, in varying num-
bers, robins, Carolina wrens, crested tits, blue-
jays, song-sparrows, red-winged blackbirds, car-
dinal red-birds, vesper sparrows, meadow-larks,
chickadee, flicker, and purple grakles, and the
united voices of at least three or four, and often
twice as many, could be heard at once. An
orchestral performance that sometimes was
bewildering and occasionally mildly irritating,
but never exasperating. It was the birds'
way of saluting a morning in April, and they
asked neither for permission nor approval. Is it
strange that, to-day, the violets opened their
eyes and looked towards the skies, and the pale,
trembling spring beauty was flushed with ex-

jo Clear Skies and Cloudy.

cess of joy ? Man, in his inordinate conceit,
would doubtless have differently arranged mat-
ters, and ordered more solos by the cardinal
and song-sparrow, or duets by the crested tit
and vesper birds, but man should remember
that on all such occasions he is an uninvited
guest, and ought at least to have sufficiently
good manners not to criticise — only he hasn't !
Lord of creation, no doubt, but in many a way
he makes a pretty mess of it.

April showers ! There is nothing depressing
about them, and if I ventured to criticise our
spring-tide and its birds, it would be that our
April shower might be a little repressing so far
as the robins are concerned. They certainly
are too noisy. A typical shower now fairly
electrifies the north-bound warblers, and with-
out exaggeration they can be likened to honey-
bees just before they swarm. I have tried more
than once to count the warblers in my door-
yard elm, but gave up in despair. Possibly the
most noticeably excited bird, after an April
shower, is the peewee. This is in part because,
later in the season, the bird is methodical and
emotionless, if not positively melancholy. Not

Heard on the Hill-Side. 71

so when the nest is again in order. Their
new year has commenced, and after perhaps two
or three days of dry and dusty weather, let
these be followed by an afternoon shower, and
this in turn by a flood of golden sunshine
through the dripping trees, and it is a peewee's
holiday, or, more strictly speaking, holy hour.
Then the two short notes are lengthened into
song, and so rapidly repeated that stirring music
fills the freshened air, and we know that spring
is here. The few new leaves of the hardiest
shrubs make green all creation at such a time.
If far away from the peewee's home, you have
something closely akin to this sudden accession
of excitability and emphasized bird-song, after
an April shower, in the song and movements
of the dainty little field-sparrow. This delight-
ful bird feels strongly the influence of the pass-
ing shower, and sings so much more vigorously
than usual that I believe its song can be heard
at twice as great a distance. Those of us who
rush in-doors at the appearance of rain lose a
great deal, and more, again, in not taking a
hint from the birds and rushing out of doors as
soon as the last drop has fallen. Be it birds or

72 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

business, not one man in a million is too soon
on the spot

The birds of the hill-side this morning re-
called a curious specimen of humanity I met
with the other day. I asked him why he never
came to these old strolling grounds of his ; that
they had not changed for the worse in any way.
His reply was, " Oh, there is nothing new to be
found there." His idea of an outing was to
collect something new to the neighborhood,
plant or animal. All his out-door world con-
densed in that one word, "specimen." To
think, as he does, that there are no violets ex-
cept the one in his herbarium ; no birds, except
the distorted skins that disfigure his study.
Horrible ! After all, it is the life that attracts
us, and not the body that merely displays it,
and we have not the whole truth until both
body and soul are set before us. An ornitho-
logical museum and a graveyard have a vast
deal in common, and I prefer the lively sparrow
on the village green to its defunct cousin be-
hind glass doors, as I do my friends of to-day
to the crumbling remains of worthy ancestors.

But a truce to controversy, and what more

Heard on the Hill-Side. 73

of the hill-side? An abundance of bird-song
largely compensates for lack of leaves, and the
trees did not appear bare. The birds sang so
much of summer coming that I fancied sum-
mer was here ; but, in fact, the trees were not
bare. The maples are in full bloom ; so, too,
the elms. Spicewood fairly glitters with its
wealth of golden flowers, and tiny tips of green
show on many a sheltered shrub. Even the
oaks have lost their wintry nakedness. The
leaf-buds have swollen, and, as the tree-top
shows against the sky, there is a promise of
vigorous growth that our imagination helps
upon its way. Listening to the birds, we enter
into their hopeful, prophetic spirit, and, forget-
ting the past, we magnify the present, and,
looking down the long stretch of forest on the
hill-side, gaze, as we fancy, far into the future.
What a museum would that be which could
give the dweller in town the songs of our
birds by merely opening a glass case ! The in-
ventor's cunning has come near, but not quite
accomplished this. A song may be bottled up,
but the sweetness is lacking when you draw
the cork, or is it that the songs and the sur-

74 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

roundings cannot be dissociated ? — a kinship
between our lungs and ears, and so a breathing
of musical odors as well as hearing of sweet
sounds. We cannot be passive, or mere re-
ceptacles of impressions that have not for us
their real significance. Such cannot be posi-
tive even that they heard a bird sing. Think
of being only vaguely impressed with the idea
that you heard some voices when out of doors !
Nevertheless, this is as far as many of my
neighbors go.

It profits nothing to draw an invidious dis-
tinction, as it really is, when many birds are
singing. Too much cannot be said of any bird
when that one is in its place, but our extrava-
gance as to the thrushes too often leads to in-
justice as to some unpretentious sparrow. Not
one of the many birds upon the hill-side shall
be first to me. I am rich when the least of
them sings in my hearing.

As the day draws to a close, all reluctantly
I turn my face homeward, and with unwilling
steps retrace the day's ramble. The foot-path
way is not bathed in the same cheerful light,
and the songs that still are heard are less full

Heard on the Hill-Side. 75

of cheer ; or, is the change only in ourselves ?
But merry or melancholy any strain, it is with
a feeling of time well spent that I take back
with me, not specimens, burdens upon both
arm and conscience, but the soul of every
sweet song heard while I lingered on the hill-
side.

Blunders in Bird- Nesting.

THIS is an ill-chosen title, perhaps, yet it is
purposely selected because it affords an oppor-
tunity to express an opinion on the subject of
man's attitude towards bird-life. Bird-nesting
in the sense of destroying or disturbing a bird's
nest is a crime, and the blunder is on the part
of the criminal, who degrades himself. Sci-
ence, under whose name so much cruelty takes
shelter, is no adequate shield to the wretch who
deliberately destroys a nest. The maturing of
a brood concerns the community, but the color
of the eggs and structure of the nest are not
matters of transcendent importance, and can
be determined without interfering with the
rights of the birds.

But the blunders I have in mind, if such
they are, are those of the birds themselves ;
errors of judgment, as seen from our stand-
point. As an instance, there are at this time
76

Blunders in Bird-Nesting. 77

three nests of song-sparrows on the ground in
my lane, which runs in a nearly north-and-
south direction. These nests are on the west
side, and are tilted so as to get the full benefit
of the sun in the forenoon. Each nest is deftly
concealed by the dead grass of the past sum-
mer being drawn over it, and to two of the
three are short roofed runways, better built
than many I have seen made by a meadow-
lark. So far, the birds have been wise, but in
all three cases the nests have been placed dan-
gerously near the wagon-track, — in one case
within fifteen inches of a deep rut, and the
others much less than twice that distance away.
The result is, the bird is forced, or so it sup-
poses, to leave the nest every time a carriage
passes, and this is quite frequently during the
day. Likewise, the sitting bird hurries away
on the approach of every foot-passenger. These
annoyances and real sources of danger were
doubtless not considered when the sites were
chosen, and perhaps were unheeded during
nest-construction, but the facts must have
dawned upon the builders before the eggs
were laid. Why, then, they took the apparent

78 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

risk is incomprehensible to us. From a man's
point of view, these birds blundered. In their
six little heads was not enough wit to foresee in
time inevitable consequences. For many days
I have been trying to see what were the com-
pensating advantages of these three similar nest-
sites, and I have not been able to solve the
problem. However, the three broods were
reared successfully, and perhaps this will be
held as an evidence that it was I and not the
birds that blundered.

But birds not only do blunder occasionally,
but acknowledge the fact. I have been daily
going the rounds of many nests in all sorts of
places, and spent many an hour patiently watch-
ing the building of the nest. The Baltimore
oriole has more than once commenced a nest
on a still day, but found that the wind pre-
ceding a summer shower caused too much
motion, and the unfinished structure was aban-
doned. One pair of robins fixed upon a cozy
hollow in an apple-tree, but, having no roof
overhead, they found their nest in a pool of
water after a night's rain. Nevertheless, all
else being favorable, birds are willing to risk

Blunders in Bird-Nesting. 79

possible discovery rather than relinquish a posi-
tion that pleases them. An uncle of mine told
me that he took an old crook-neck gourd in
which wrens had a nest, gradually moved it
nearer and nearer the kitchen door, and finally
hung it to one of the bare rafters overhead.
The wrens protested, of course, and yet were
not willing to be beaten if they could help it
They raised the first brood of that summer in
the kitchen, but found a new nesting-place for
their second brood. The following summer, so
Uncle Timothy said, the wrens came back and
inspected the gourd in the kitchen, but con-
cluded to take no risks. As my uncle was a
geologist, of course the story may be slightly
colored, but I have confirmation of the essen-
tial facts.

But, as birds have other enemies than man, it
is surprising how much they leave to chance,
running risks which, from our point of view,
might easily be avoided. For several days I
watched a pair of robins that chose as a nest-
ing-site the swaying twigs of a tall pine-tree.
Day after day I watched and wondered, and
with every puff of wind expected to see the

80 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

nest come tumbling to the ground. But all
went well in those airy regions, and never were
two robins happier, if we can judge by their
actions. When the nest was finished and prob-
ably an egg or two laid, the end came. I hap-
pened to be out of doors in the night, and,
while looking at the tree-tops darkly limned
against the moonlit sky, saw an owl floating
in mid-air like a black cloud. Suddenly it
swooped down. The robins screamed, and
then there was death-like silence. One of the
birds was seized, the other was frightened from
its home, and the deserted nest remains a
monument to their folly. What advantage
there could be in a nest in such a position is
not demonstrable. True, we do not see the
world with a bird's eyes, but we are supposed
to have a keener mental if not physical vision,
and we must think that the birds blundered.
They of course had a purpose in building
where they did, but lacked foresight to the
extent of not realizing possible disadvantages.
Do such birds, escaping death, profit by experi-
ence, or repeat their folly? Probably, with
them, thought-transference does not go far

Blunders in Bird-Nesting. 81

enough to permit the giving of advice, and
improvement can lie only in the one direction
of experience. I think there is satisfactory
evidence of this, but it is of such a character as
not to be convincing when put upon the printed
page. A good deal of our ornithological knowl-
edge must be the result of personal observa-
tion, and, while this is ever food for thought
and a delightful subject of contemplation when
we happen to be alone, its bloom is rubbed off,
its significance is lessened, its value is de-
preciated, when subjected to the criticism of
others who have not seen as you have seen, or,
as so often happens, have not seen at all.

A Morning in May.

I WAS laughed at not long ago for suggesting
that the other months resign in favor of May.
It is not, after all, so very surprising that such a
thought should come, when we consider how
full to overflowing is this perfect month. That
June day of which Lowell has so sweetly sung
did not excel a recent morning, when the
humming-birds brought to a close the long
procession of north-bound warblers, themselves
last and least. The sun rose very slowly over
my neighbor's woods, as if it, too, would like to
tarry here on the blooming meadows and play
bo-peep with the hill-side shadows. The wake-
ful robin was astir at dawn, and far off in some
leafy glade a tuneful thrush piped in its own
enchanting way, and soon, roused by these, one
by one, the summer's host of songsters joined
in the chorus. It is not worth the while to
claim which is the earliest bird to sing, nor
82

A Morning in May. 83

which first to settle down to the prosy facts of
life after the sun has risen. A bird's day and
ours are not the same, and he knows the birds
best who keeps the same hours. Such things
vary indefinitely, too, and a sleepy-head occa-
sionally is the earliest astir, just as no two morn-
ings are alike, even if wind and weather have
remained unchanged since yesterday. At least,
there will be a variation in the clouds, and the
shadow of a cloud may postpone the song of a
bird. Clouds and the shadow of a single cloud
have been quite too much neglected. I have
seen busy nest-building birds suddenly quit
work and sit as moodily as if in the depths
of despair because the sunlight was shut off,
and resume their labors with most suggestive
promptness when the sun shone again. It
would be difficult to explain this. I have no
intention of attempting it ; but after seeing it,
time and again, for years, there is an almost
unavoidable disposition on the rambler's part to
spend an hour or two in speculation as to the
status of the bird's emotions. Birds' nests we
know, and birds we think we know, but not too
much attention has been paid to birds when

84 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

building. Then, if ever, can we witness the
varied manifestations of all their mental quali-
ties. Love, fear, anger, jealousy, obstinacy, and
ingenuity are exhibited in quick succession, and
every emotion so unmistakably that there is
next to no danger of misinterpretation. I went
the rounds almost daily of forty-two birds'
nests during the month, and the many quaint
incidents I witnessed would fill a volume : pa-
thetic beyond my power of description where
an accident happened to the mate of a red-
start ; almost complete paralyzation through
fear when I attempted to photograph a nest
full of young ; rage that overreached itself on
the part of a Carolina wren I teased ; strange
antics ascribable only to jealousy when I placed
a mirror near a nest, and a catbird saw in its
reflected self a rival ; persistence when one
bird determined to retain material for a nest
which the other bird deemed unsuitable ; and
in how many ways did birds strive to overcome
little difficulties I placed in their way ! Happily,
all went well at last, and these birds and their
babies came to know me. So I think, but
others doubt it. At all events, I could do what

A Morning in May. 85

others could not, and I have my own opinion
of the matter. Whether birds of the out-door
world come to distinguish individuals or not,
they are very much tamer in some localities
than others. This no one will deny. My
friends were surprised, at the opening of the
nesting season, to see a wren's nest on the porch
where people were continually passing; and
these wrens seemed to know the difference
between the family and strangers ; but later in
the season a pair of wrens took possession of
a little watering-pot hung against the side of the
house, within arm's length of the pump. A
nest was built and a brood reared within six
feet of a farm-house kitchen door. I had heard
strange stories of very tame house-wrens before,
and I am better prepared to believe them now.
Do we not too often consider as unusual some
incident to which our attention is particularly
called ? We relate it as an anecdote of animal
life, and think it a remarkable illustration of
some mental or instinctive quality of the bird or
animal, when in fact it is an every-day occur-
rence. What we see done is not likely to be at
all unusual. Under peculiar circumstances any

86 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

creature may exercise to a greater degree some
one of its powers to meet the demands of the
occasion, but there is really nothing remarkable
in this. It would be strange if they did not,
and we would have cause for wonderment if
wild life succumbed without an effort to avoid
any danger suddenly sprung upon it. When we
read anecdotes of animal life, we read usually
the every-day doings of the creatures mentioned.
When we see these incidents paraded in news-
papers as remarkable, we read the evidence of
the author's ignorance. It is the manner of
the bird or mammal when nothing particular is
going on that gives us a true insight as to what
that mammal or bird really is, just as we can
realize what our friends are only when they
are seen unmoved by anger or undisturbed by
petty vexations. In birds in particular it is
the toss of the head, the flirt of the tail, the
cheerful or impatient chirp, and a dozen or more
little details that are really instructive and come
to the rambler to mean more than all the un-
usual incidents, so called, that will be witnessed
in a lifetime.

The free agency of birds is as much a myth

A Morning in May. 87

as is that of man. Generalizations as to morn-
ings in May, as of many another matter of
Nature, are of no particular value, but of one
recent morning I can speak with confidence, for
haply I was astir at dawn. The robin started
a little trickling stream of song down the hill-
side, and before it had crossed the meadows
and reached the river this same trickling stream
was swollen to a flood of melody. There was
not a silent second for three full hours ; not a
moment unburdened with sweet sound. Had
the rambler been in pursuit of some single
song ; had he wished to hear the rose-breasted
grosbeak, or one of the vireos, or desired to
single out the utterance of some migratory war-
bler, his efforts would have proved in vain. This
bewildering confusion of infinitely varied sounds
cannot in its entirety be considered, in a scien-
tific sense, as music. An orchestra would be
mobbed that attempted to reproduce it ; so,
why is it that the birds' salutation to the rising
sun does not offend the ear? It is true, I have
heard of a musician who swore at a nightingale
and exclaimed "What discord !" but the world
at large has thousands of less critical ears, and

88 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

such are pleased, not pestered, when a wild bird
sings. Everything, I take it, depends upon the
surroundings. In an aviary, for instance, the
same mingled bird-songs would not be attractive.
The medley in a bird-store, canaries and parrots,
is never musical, but who unaffectedly objects to
the mingled voices of a dozen birds in their own
home ? Even the crow's cawing blends with the
thrush's song, and we have not mere discord, —
the rambler has not, at least, — but mingled wild-
ness and melody ; the rugged and the tender ;
activity and contemplation. The truth is, if we
find such harsh sounds as that of the crow and
qua-bird and the fretful w hough of the green
heron a source of annoyance, then we lack that
trace of the savage in our nature that is like the
pinch of salt that makes the dish of meat pala-
table. There is something that amuses me and
really calls for pity when I see a man or
woman ecstatic over the warbling of a rose-
breast and given to scolding if a blue-jay
screams. I have known my visitors to shrug
their shoulders when, in the course of a ramble,
we stopped at the flood-gates, and instead of
songs of thrushes, heard the rattle of the king-

A Morning in May. 89

fishers. For longer than I can remember these
birds have made the creek at the ruins of the
flood-gates their favorite summer home, and the
" rattle" that disturbs the visitor is music to me,
because of old associations. Remember, you
have gone to Nature, not coaxed her to come
to you, and where she is there expect to find
her just as she is. There will be no hurried
opening of a stuffy parlor as you approach ; no
thrusting of this into the background and push-
ing that to the fore, nor frantic effort to change
a dress in time. There will be no flushed face,
due to haste, ill concealed by powder, but an
honest countenance, and no shadow of annoy-
ance at your appearance. Nature is ever ready
to meet the right kind of visitors ; is not taciturn
or petulant ; but by not so much as a hair's-
breadth will she vary from a predetermined
course. The birds are hers, not ours, and if she
bids them all sing at the same moment, remem-
ber, she is directing her own orchestra for her
own entertainment and never even so much as
remembers there is such a thing as a man on
earth. Like a conscientious student, she has
due regard for the law of priority, and being

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

herself older than the birds, and birds ages older
than the dawn of humanity, she rightly con-
siders that man, Nature's most recent after-
thought, should be a respectful listener only and
not assume to dictate. Even to offer advice is
impudent, and to presume to criticise ill-man-
nered. The rejoicing of the birds of a morning
in May is no novelty to the time-worn hill-side
along which I wander. The sweetness thereof
has drifted like a cloud in the summer sky from
the forest to the river, from the river to the
sea, — a sweetness that has soothed many a
troubled breast in the days of our forefathers
and calmed my own fretfulness to-day.

But a morning in May is not merely a matter
of bird-song. There enters into it bird activity
as well, and to the practised eye this activity, in
its various phases, is as characteristic of birds as
is their singing. Birds of different species are
alike in some ways, but are also, on the other
hand, as unlike as we are. What among man-
kind is called a family trait or peculiarity has its
analogue in the differences among species. It is
possible to recognize a bird by the wing move-
ment or flirt of the tail, its method of flight, or

A Morning in May. 91

general manner when at rest or walking, but
when it becomes a matter of positive identifi-
cation such minor details are not to be trusted ;
the risk is too great. Imitations too often
occur, as in bird-song. Birds that are not tree
creepers can creep over trees, and birds without
webbed feet can swim like a duck when neces-
sity requires it.

It is apparent, from all this, that to be abroad
at sunrise is no blind man's holiday, the world
open only to our ears. There is ever much to
see as well as to hear ; but we stand, as it were,
on dangerous ground if moved to report all we
witness. Some one, neither able to see nor hear,
might, from the controversies arising, doubt if
either faculty was developed among his fellows.

The enjoyment of watching birds comes from
our attempts to interpret their actions. We can
go but a little way. We know if a bird is eat-
ing or drinking, but when it is at rest the ques-
tion arises, Is it thinking ? It may be said that
the bird is strictly passive, and so only roused
to action by some external stimulant. It sees
an insect and pursues it ; but if no insects come
in sight for a protracted time, then, to avoid

92 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

starvation, an instinct to travel is roused by the
cravings of an empty stomach. I cannot incline
to a view that makes of the bird merely a ma-
chine. There is one feature of the year limited
hereabouts to the closing days of April and the
beginning of May, — the return of migratory
birds. It is unquestionable that, to a certain
extent, we have the same individuals return
year after year. There is no confusion when
they arrive ; no restless wandering to and fro ;
no crowding, as when emigrants are herded on
the steamer's wharf. The wrens go to their
boxes, the rosebreasts to the orchard, the oriole
to the elm, the indigo-bird to the shrubbery, the
swifts to the chimney, the peewee to its nesting-
site under the bridge. There is no confusion,
but orderly return to the routine of a year ago.
This immediate distribution, each bird to its
particular haunt of the preceding year, could
scarcely come about if there was, on the part
of the birds, a total ignorance of the locality ;
nor is there any delay in finding materials for
nest-building, but this, of course, is not so
strange, but there is some significance in the
fact that when material was provided in a pre-

A Morning in May. 93

vious year, this is remembered and the same
spots promptly visited. I have aided many an
oriole and great crested flycatcher when build-
ing commenced, and the aid extended and ac-
cepted then seemed the following spring to be
expected, which I submit as proof positive that
I was dealing with the same birds. A little
chippy, the hair-bird, has accepted my offering
of waxed coarse sewing-silk as a nest lining and
does not trouble itself to hunt for hairs. I
hope, if my pets of the box-bush live long
enough, that they will take the silk directly from
my hands. The wrens of my porch have more
than once raided my wife's work-basket, and it
was indeed a funny sight when one of them
stepped upon a cushion and was pricked by a
needle. Half, I think, of the delight of watch-
ing the birds that return to us in May is to
realize that they are in great measure our friends
of other years. This fact makes it practicable
to go directly to the chosen homes of any
species. We lose no time, and happiness would
be complete were fear banished from the bird's
breast and the word "wild" marked obsolete in
the dictionary. It is steadily decreasing among

94

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

the birds of the door-yard, but we cannot rest
content not to wander beyond its confines ; and
no time like a May morning to plunge into the
farthest thicket, tread the most dismal swamp,

and trace old pathways through the darkest
woods, eager as ever to see and hear, and, hear-
ing and seeing, to solve the various problems of
bird nature ; problems ever set before us, when
out of doors, but never in such bewildering
profusion as when we start early on our rambles
when the woods are greening and violets fleck
the dewy pastures.

Dinner at Noon.

THERE is a great deal in the way we divide
our day, and, absurd as such a thing may
seem at first thought, there is something to be
said in defence of dinner at noon. Of course
everything depends upon what portion of each
twenty-four hours is set aside for sleep ; but it
can scarcely be called irrational to select the
half-dozen least suggestive hours, and these are
the year round from 10 P.M. to 4 A.M. Not
that we miss nothing by being then asleep, for
every hour has its own wonderful history, but,
the year through, we lose least by turning our
backs upon the world at such a time.

Dinner at noon means an early breakfast, —
preposterously early to many people ; but why
not follow Nature a little more closely than we
do and get our share of the fruits of the morn-
ing? A strawberry, while yet the dew is upon
it, is one of the marvels of Nature's handiwork,

95

96 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

and our conception of the world about us is
broadened almost indefinitely by a closer ac-
quaintance than people usually possess. Strange
as it seems, most people that I have met appear
to have a horror of sunrise, and boast, not of
witnessing this phenomenon, but of having per-
sistently turned their backs upon it. They are
welcome to do so. The sun does not feel the
slight, and will go on rising quite indifferent to
humanity's whims and oddities. It is gravely
asserted, too, that there is danger in the un-
sunned air of early morning, and insanity is the
result of too frequent lungfuls of the day at
dawn ; that farmers lose their sanity because
of early rising, and, if not quite so bad as this,
at least their mental strength is prematurely
weakened. Perhaps the air is poison-laden at
dawn, but the toilers in the field are more
probably driven insane by over-worry than by
overmuch breathing of the morning freshness.
Obnoxious politics, rather than obnoxious gases,
cause the mischief. Tariff tinkering and stock
gambling can and do work greater mischief
with the farmer than miasmatic taints that pass
his nostrils. It is the all work and no pay, due

Dinner at Noon. 97

to pernicious legislation, and not the chill or
damp that greets us when we plunge into the
odor-laden air of a bright June morning and
greet the coming day. The familiar distich
concerning "early to bed and early to rise" has
as much sense as sound, and this cannot be said
of all the rhymes of all our rhymesters. For
one, I am willing to run the risks of insanity for
the sake of what I hear at sunrise, and in spite
of the sneers of aristocracy will eat my dinner
at noon ; and I hold that man a downright
fool who will not judge for himself what is best
for his individual needs, or lives under pro-
test that his neighbor may have no occasion to
criticise. Our duty to our neighbor does not
extend that far. If it did, it were time to revo-
lutionize the world.

If the early morning is so worthy of an in-
timate acquaintance, why has not the world
long ago made the discovery? What I call
"the world" has done so, but my world is not
yours. Day and night have not the same mean-
ing in the city as they have in the country. I
have often wondered if the robin slept with one
eye open, for, however indistinct may be the
7

Clear Skies and Cloudy.

first faint streak of light in the east, it will be
detected by this bird, and the approach of day
announced in no uncertain tones. The wrens
that are nesting near my window are first to
hear the news, and, with no further toilet than a
wing-shake and a comfortable yawn, repeat it
from corner to corner of the house, until I am
in no doubt as to the approximate time of day.
Then, one by one, the goodly list of birds about
us take up the cry, and not a nook or corner of
the farm but rings with the tidings that the day
is breaking. Why should I not be astir? If
the world now is fit for every bird that flies, I
will trust to not being out of place. Whether
poison or not, I daily risk the morning air for
the sake of the morning's music. Breakfast
over, I am ready, while yet there is but a broad
band of gilded cloud in the east, to take my
stand under the old oaks and listen. The leaves
still dripping with dew, the meadows hidden by
low-lying mist, the noonday world as a sealed
book, but music steals from it, and it is for this
I came. All the world knows our wood-thiush.
and has gone ecstatic over it, so let us pass it by
with brief mention. Its melody fills the air

Dinner at Noon. 99

now, unceasing as the murmur of the south
wind in the tall pines. The songs of many
thrushes are now completely filling every mo-
ment, every spot to which we wander. We
breathe the music as we do the odor of the
many blossoms. An all-pervading song of such
subtle sweetness is it that pleasure gives way at
last to a feeling akin to pain, — sweetness that is
sad rather than cheerful ; the continued telling
of a sorrowful story, of love lost rather than of
love triumphant.

How very different the song of the rose-
breasted grosbeak ! Not even those very learned
people, the professional ornithologists, appear to
have heard it. At least, judging from the litera-
ture of the subject, these birds have been heard
only to hum, to talk with their fellow-grosbeaks,
and whistle a few notes as if to refresh their
recollection of some special effort ; but the song
proper, the melodic outburst of flute-like notes,
notes that, by their magic, silence other birds
and will stay the steps of any mortal not a fool,
— these appear not to be generally known :
grand, exultant, the peroration of cheerfulness,
the perfect hymn of absolute content. Hearing

ioo Clear Skies and Cloudy.

this, the impression of a thrush's supremacy is
changed. But such is not the only song of this
superb singer. When in a meditative mood
this grosbeak has a song that we fancy is retro-
spective, so far as the singer is concerned. It is
pitched in so low a key that we must be near to
hear it, and while we listen and watch the bird
the thought comes to us that now the grosbeak
is studying some new effort, one of transcendent
merit, and it is no wonder that we do, for this
low, meditative strain is one of incomparable
sweetness, as if the soul of a flute murmured in
its dreams.

In all such outings we are too apt to ignore
the minor minstrelsy that goes so far to perfect a
summer morning. By actual count, I recently
heard singing at the same time, or so nearly so
as to give that impression, fifteen species of
birds, and there are several others that I have
found nesting within a comparatively short dis-
tance. Not all of these are accounted song-
birds, that is, musical in a marked degree, but
their efforts, heard with others, go to make up
a chorus that is inspiriting, that makes you be-
lieve in cheerfulness as a gift of great value.

Dinner at Noon. 101

The great crested flycatcher can do nothing
but cacophonously screech, and it teases more
than any ear-piercing fife, but when the sound
is mingled with the rustling of leaves, the united
voices of summer warbler, redstart, and yellow-
throat, or of Carolina wren or cardinal red-bird,
it adds a decided flavor of wildness to the whole,
and so is quite acceptable. All music is to me
mere sound, if not suggestive, and many a noise
that is crude and disagreeable in one locality
may be pleasing in another. The roar of Ni-
agara is readily imitated, but without Niagara is
nothing but noise. The common crow's con-
siderable vocabulary is but a series of harsh
cries if the poor bird is caged at the Zoo ; but
given a crisp October morning, with the forest
draped in scarlet and the far-off skies of incom-
parable blue, — hear this same crow now, when
perched on some tall tree-top, its rhythmic call
keeping time to the dropping of nuts and rus-
tling of falling leaves, — hear then this much-
maligned bird, and you are listening to music
that will linger long in your memory.

To become the better acquainted with our
birds, for no second-hand knowledge is so un-

1O2 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

satisfactory, and at times exasperating, as the
recorded impressions of some other observer,
whether amateur or professional, it is necessary
not only to see and hear birds collectively, but
to single out some one of them as it flashes by
you, and follow it as best you can. You must
go on the "faint heart never won fair lady"
principle ; go determined to follow through
thick and thin. This seems much easier to say
than do, but the rambler will find his way very
seldom insuperably blocked. Time and civiliza-
tion have about obliterated the pathless forest
or impenetrable thicket, at least on this side of
the Mississippi River. Our wildest wilderness
is generally a rather tame affair, so it is not
a desperate undertaking to go to the edge of
a swamp, and, by going, you will see what a
picture some small bird in which you are inter-
ested makes of a mere mud-hole, some other-
wise desolate spot, shaded by rank weeds, and
giving off malarial odors. Here, to your infinite
surprise, you will be greeted by songs that you
have not previously heard, or heard indistinctly,
as when a yellow-throat transforms acknowl-
edged ugliness to accepted beauty by virtue

Dinner at Noon.

103

of the creature's earnest but not unmusical
warbling of such words as witchery, witchery,
witch ! Plunge into some thicket and shut your-
self from the world by a surrounding wilderness
of twiggy growths, and meet face to face a Caro-
lina wren. The bird may be a bit surprised at

your intrusion, but it really does not mean dis-
respect if, as is likely, it demands, " How'd ye
get here?" with startling emphasis, and follows
the question with a peremptory " Get out, get
out, get out !" You will be astonished at first,
then amused, and so entertained that the ap-

104 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

parent rudeness will have no depressing effect,
and on reaching the open country and again in
a beaten path, you will wonder why you have
never been so inquisitive as to birds before.

In a morning's outing worthy of the name,
if in early summer, the chances are that you
will find a bird's nest as you trace the narrow
paths of the wood or break one for yourself
through a thicket, — perhaps the nest of a small
flycatcher or of one of the vireos, adepts in
the art of catching flies. Pretty structures these
that bear close examination, for they are skil-
fully built, and no little engineering skill has
been brought to bear upon their construction
that the wind and rain may not destructively
prevail against them. Perhaps a shrill buzzing,
as of an angry bee, may startle you, and again
and again you look, but in vain, for your
assailant. It is an irate humming-bird, whose
nest you have unwittingly approached. If
you look long and patiently you may find
the latter, saddled on some horizontal branch,
looking like a small lichen-coated excrescence,
but fashioned with infinite care. Such nest-
hunting does the birds no harm, and you return

Dinner at Noon. 105

from your tramp amply rewarded, and, it may
be safely added, mentally refreshed. Not a
bird that does not repay the rambler for all his
trouble in following it into its most secret
haunts. You are always instructed as well as
entertained, and more sure of seeing and hear-
ing wisdom of act and utterance than when with
crowds of men ; for while there is no bird that
does not make mistakes, they are never such
lifelong blunderers as ourselves. After an early
morning outing, you return with a deeper in-
sight into the world about you and discover
fountains of pleasure-giving knowledge that had
hitherto been unsuspected, though perhaps dur-
ing all your life within easy reach.

But what has all this to do with dinner at
noon ? Do you remember that my outings
commence at dawn, and I feel tardy if not in
advance of the rising sun? It is not strange
that, old as I am, I still cling to that delight of
childhood, a bite between meals, fit subject, by
the way, for a reminiscential essay, and, as mid-
day draws near, am ready for a substantial meal.
Dinner at noon is not, from this point of view,
to be sneered at. And after it? As nature

io6 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

takes a nooning, birds are silent, flowers sleep,
and even the brook seems to dally drowsily with
the pebbles that fret its course, why not follow
their example ? A noonday meal, a mid-day
nap, and then ready to meet the world on even
terms. I am receptive to the renewed activities
of the closing day. In short, dinner at noon
means two short days rather than one long
period of activity in the twenty-four hours ; and
who, when a child, but did not always prefer
two pieces of pie rather than one big one ? It
seemed more, whether it was or not, and that
made all the difference in the world. Let what
is before us seem superlatively excellent and
so it is, in that mightiest sense, unto our own
selves.

The Poetry of Shelter.

IT requires no labored mental effort to com-
prehend the philosophy of shelter ; but what
of this necessity of our lives in its poetical
aspect ? That it has such an aspect may, in-
deed, be asked, and it is not strange that
there should be serious doubts as to its exist-
ence. But shelter is a good deal more than
the roof and walls of your accustomed home ;
much more than the protection of some awning,
or umbrella, or the open doorway of a friend's
house, however welcome you may be therein.
Daily and in innumerable ways we are taking
shelter, even to the seeking it, from the results of
our blunders, in ways that are open to question.
But all this is prosy to the point of dulness.
Happily, on the other hand, for some at least,
it is a positive pleasure to turn from the civilized
to the savage, from the formal and fixed to the
unrestrained and circumstanced by chance only,

107

108 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

as when, overtaken by a storm, we seek some
shelter in the country, in perhaps a true wilder-
ness,— an effective shelter wherein we are safe
from the discomfort or possible danger incident
to exposure, and, while unconcerned as to our-
selves, can contemplate Nature in her fretful or
positively angry mood, whether a gentle rain or
a driving storm prevails ; for there is almost as
much difference between a summer shower and
a cloud-burst as between bathing and drowning.
We are much too far from Nature when at home
during a rain. The world as seen from the
windows even of a country house is too much
like the moon seen through a telescope. Realiz-
ing that there are mountain-tops, we long to
stand upon them. Distance does not always
lend enchantment to the view. A far-off tree,
to come to tamer things, is a disturbing sight
until I have wandered through the wilderness
of its tangled branches. A hollow in any tree
frets me until I have seen the owl that lives
therein. I would knock at the doors of all my
neighbors that are not burdened with humanity,
and see if life has not features among them that
might by adoption lessen the load that I am

\Vhere old Poaetquissings widens to a little lake.

The Poetry of Shelter. 109

doomed to carry. On the other hand, to at-
tempt to withstand the fury of a raging tempest
as does the lonely chestnut in a pasture or the
old oak by the roadside is foolhardy. We need
adequate shelter, but its value is in proportion
to its simplicity. A hollow sycamore has been
my safe harbor more than once, and, standing
therein while it rained, I felt as an owl must
feel, and went home hooting my satisfaction,
not humanly shouting it.

As an episode in a rainy-day ramble, give me
an overturned boat under which I can lie while
the shower passes. There is rare pleasure in
living for a few moments like a meadow-mouse.
To be one with the wildness about us is an
unending joy, for the memory is too much
impressed to have the pictures fade, though you
live as long as the myths of tradition. Well I
remember, how long ago it boots not to tell,
being overtaken by a sudden shower while drift-
ing with the current where old Poaetquissings
widens to a little lake. Quickly the little craft
was turned inshore, and just as the initial pound-
ing drops came rattling down the boat was tilted
nearly over and I was safely ensconced beneath

1 io Clear Skies and Cloudy.

it. Never was the creek more beautiful to my
faithful eyes, for to my mind Nature has no-
where else been so lavish of her charms. The
rain fell in huge drops, that struck the water
like pebbles, making a glittering splash, for the
storm was local in its strictest sense and the sun
shone brightly in the western sky. While lying
in my snug retreat I saw a pretty wood-duck
with her brood moving by in fancied security,
as if no harm would come while it was raining.
Presently the duck stopped, turned, and faced
me, as if it purposed sharing my shelter. How
my heart beat ! I feared the duck would hear
my breathing. Suddenly when very near it
stopped, and I could plainly see its bright black
eyes. The young gathered about, and the
group rested as content as I was under the
boat. The shower was now over and I was
anxious to continue on my journey, but could
not miss such an opportunity to see these
wary birds. After some chattering, a rather
melodious "peeping" by the young, the parent
duck led them back to the middle of the creek.
I crawled from my hiding-place, and the moment
I stood up the mother disappeared and the

The Poetry of Shelter. ill

young flapped the water for several seconds
until white with foam ; then all were gone.
Splatter-dock and arrow-head were here above
the water, which was so shallow I think the
birds escaped by hiding rather than diving.
Many a time since then I have sheltered my-
self in this or some similar way and watched the
creek for hours. It is hard upon one's muscles,
but I never remember my patience to have
gone unrepaid. To keep yourself hidden is the
secret of success in observing wild life. By so
doing you gather in an hour more practical
natural history than by any other plan that I
have tried or know of others trying. It is
astonishing how often aquatic life comes to the
surface ; and it is something to see even the
heads of turtles, snakes, eels, frogs, and perhaps
a mink comes inshore with a fish in his jaws.
Taking shelter in some chance way from a pass-
ing tumult in the overarching skies, we happily
forget, for the time, the crushing weight of our
own importance as man, and see with the clearer
vision and interpret with the unprejudiced wit
of the purely animal. Nothing so surely rids
us of our sense of importance as to find the

112 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

storm no respecter of persons, and to be forced,
like any bird of the air or beast of the field, to
seek the nearest shelter. With no time allowed
us for selection, we accept the first offer of a
shield from the pitiless storm, and our thank-
fulness converts, or should convert, the hovel
into a palace.

Herein lies the poetry of shelter. Contra-
dictory as it may seem, I have been much of
late in palatial hovels. Of course we are never
satisfied ; that is out of the question. Com-
fortably sheltered from the rain, within arm's
length of the best bit of wildness in a day's
journey, with birds so near we can see their
eyes, and snakes in such proximity we can
count their scales, we delude ourselves into
thinking such opportunities can be had on de-
mand, and, peering out from our shed, cave, or
hollow tree, continually ask ourselves the ques-
tion, Is it going to clear ? Do our clear- weather
days yield us such profit that an occasional rainy
one can justly cause us regret ? The anxiety
for the storm's cessation had better be set aside
for an hour, and the best made of a passing op-
portunity. How many pages have been printed

The Poetry of Shelter. 113

of wild life in the rain ? Clear-weather men
have grown eloquent over clear-weather birds,
but what of the thrush that has sought shelter
and the hawk that is soaring above the passing
clouds ? What of the fragile insects that were
dancing in the sunbeams and will reappear with
the returning sunshine ? No naturalist has done
full justice to the most commonplace locality.
If he would occasionally go abroad with only a
pencil and paper and take notes instead of speci-
mens, what a brightening would there be of
zoological text-books ! The younger men are
too eager to increase their collections ; the older
men find the work too laborious ; but a change
may come, and he who has best made known
the habits of every creature we meet will loom
up as greatest among naturalists. There is some-
thing veiy delightful in seeing a woodpecker
put his head out of doors, or a thrush peep
from a leafy shelter, to see if the rain is over.
It is ludicrous to see a frog poke his nose above
the surface of the water, ready to croak again,
when bang ! goes a drop of rain on his head,
and down he goes into the depths to wait for
perhaps another hour. All animal life appears
8

114 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

to know better when it is going to rain than
when it is going to clear. It is said that the
robin is an excellent weather prophet to this
extent, but at times he is wofully mistaken. A
lull in the storm is supposed to be the end of it,
and the woods ring with the bird's premature
rejoicing ; and, strange to relate, some people
are fooled all their lives by the bird's mistakes,
and yet swear to the last that the robin is as safe
a guide as the best barometer that man can
build. I believe in the robin, but always fortify
my belief by carrying an umbrella.

Here is my last experience in a chance shel-
ter, wherein I tarried for two hours, snug as any
snail in its shell. I was not tired ; I had not
walked a dozen miles that day ; and yet the
idea of stopping for a while was not an annoy-
ance. My aimless wandering had been through
neglected pastures, where the cattle were forced
to search for the scanty patches of sweet grass,
and in so much of the region as had reverted
to Nature's care there was all the charm again
of Nature's taste. What though the clouds were
gathering? The ground-floor of earth was too
attractive for me to explore the attic. Clouds

The Poetry of Shelter. 115

might gather and the storm break at last, but I
would not for such reason part company with
the sparrows in the hedge. And the storm did
break. A few admonishing drops came gently
down, and, tapping the tough leaves of the oak,
made known their mission. It was their busi-
ness to announce that it was going to rain.
Receiving the message, I took shelter in an
ideal spot, — in a great hollow willow- tree stand-
ing where the creek bends almost at a right
angle. This old tree, for years past, has been
put to many uses. It has often been the store-
house of picnic parties, and years ago had been
used as a stove, the effect of which was to char
the walls and roof and make them no longer
available as homes of ants, spiders, and un-
canny creeping things. I had been here before,
and it is ever a pleasure to feel that one is
not a stranger. To feel that we are strangers
deadens our appreciation of whatever we see.
I filled the hollow in the tree without discom-
fort, and before me was the winding creek, with
alternate pasture and woodland reaching to its
shore. At the time there was no apparent cur-
rent, but in a few moments the tide turned.

1 1 6 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

The twigs and leaves that had passed by re-
turned. Very slowly but steadily the waters
crept again over the wide reach of barren mud
and up the slimy sides of the stumps of trees
felled, it may be, centuries ago, — stumps that
might tell strange stories had they tongues.
What a delight to talk to a tree that never saw
a white man ! The rain continued ; the sound
of the million drops about me was a steady
hum that did not deaden other sounds. Far
and near were merry-hearted birds that sang
sweetly as, like me, they waited for sunshine ;
but not even the steady dripping of raindrops
is monotonous. A gentle breeze stirs to greater
activity, and at times there was a roar like that
of the surf of the far-off sea.

While waiting and watching, I asked myself,
how old is this creek ? When did the tide for
the first time explore this winding valley ? when
did the waters of many sparkling springs first
greet the sunshine, and, collecting, wander to-
wards the river ? Even if we cannot contemplate
the end of all things, we are always curious
about their beginnings. "At the close of the
Glacial period," glibly replies the geologist ;

The Poetry of Shelter. 1 1 7

but, cunning as he is, he never ventures upon a
more definite statement. Perhaps ten thousand
years ago, perhaps ten times ten thousand.
The only satisfaction is that we have abundant
room for private speculation. It is a genuine
pleasure to have a few millenniums to squander
and yet keep within bounds. Lord Kelvin tells
us the age of the earth may be so much or so
much ; only a trifle of thirteen millions of years
between the extremes ! Such estimates are not
satisfactory. If Crosswicks Creek before me is
only ten thousand years old, it is a mere child
yet, to be sure, but we can learn a good deal
from children. This fluviatile youngster has
had several millions of high and low tides, and
still can smile serenely whether the day is clear
or cloudy. Its ups and downs do not disturb
its temper, and this is a fact worth knowing.
Do men laugh when it is low tide with them ?
Are they never fools at high tide ?

As I watched and waited, I thought of a
dead creek I had lately visited, — a creek that
had flowed where now is a high, dry, upland
field. Running waters are tireless scribes, re-
cording their autobiography up to their last

1 1 8 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

moments. " He who runs must write," is the
law of their existence ; but " he who comes
among men must read," does not hold good.
If the record contradicts a careless precon-
ception, then the man is often brazen enough to
call Nature an ugly name. An old man who
looked on while others were digging went away
after hearing much discussion, muttering, —

" Place little reliance
On men of science."

I do not wonder. But this creek of other days
had its pretty story. It flowed and fretted be-
fore Crosswicks Creek came into being. It car-
ried the sand from the adjoining hills and spread
it over a plain ; it bore ice with pebbles encased,
and dropped the pebbles with as little regularity
as plums in a pudding, — often no plums at all,
like my piece of pudding when a little boy.
Storms occurred in those long-gone days, and
the waters were soiled. Mud and clay replaced
the clean sand and covered the bed of the one-
time stream. Such in brief was the story told ;
but there is another chapter. In the sand, and
often under layers of clay, were flakes of stone

The Poetry of Shelter. 119

such as man only can produce, and finished
blades of stone wherewith man cut his food and
fashioned his clothing. We think of our own
people as men of a distant past, who came here
some two centuries ago, — think of them as see-
ing this country when it was young and fresh ;
and we are quite lost in contemplating the
Indian who preceded our ancestors. His is
antiquity too great for our decipherment. But
now a more remote phase of human activities
is laid bare. It is sufficiently plain to those
willing to see, and a source of endless amuse-
ment when in connection therewith we witness
the antics of the overwise who have been pro-
claiming that such things could not be, — who
overvalue theory and undervalue veracity.

The rain is over. The steady hum of the
millions of drops has toned down to the drip-
ping of a few thousands. Every leaf holds a
few sparkling gems wherewith it is loath to
part, but the greedy earth demands every one,
and mischievous breezes scatter them over the
grass and into the bosom of the swelling tide.
Though birds carry no barometers about them,
they know when the change has come, and how

12O Clear Skies and Cloudy.

promptly do they venture from their shelters !
Not a robin but is shouting now, and the gentler
strains, the refined expressions of sweet content,
such as the song-thrush knows, ring through
the leafy arches of old woods. Not a redstart
but is on the alert for venturesome flies, not a
greenlet but begins his song in praise of tireless
energy. It is a strange medley that is now
heard, a confusion that frets us if we have a
preference ; and such is always mine, when
above all these varied songs I hear the rose-
breast, whose magic song snaps sorrow's chain.
How few people appear to have heard this bird,
if we may judge from what has been written !
As well say that you have heard some great
master when he was only tuning his violin, as
to claim familiarity with the rosebreast's song
on hearing a few high notes. A finished per-
formance is the bird's hymn to contemplation,
which the rosebreast withholds from all who
are not very near to it. The rambler must
share the shelter of the same tree, and then, it
may be, this marvellous musician will take him
into his confidence and warble strains no thrush
need ever hope to echo.

The Poetry of Shelter. 121

The glittering sunshine calls me out of doors,
or, now, from a doorless house, and I do not
leave, I trust, unmindful of the merits of this
modest shelter. Trees have a new meaning
now to me. Not only their leafy branches, but
their bodies, offer shelter, so I have more homes
on earth than I ever dreamed of. When the
storm breaks, a man need not be unhappy in a
hollow tree. It affords the protection that he
asked, and what more had he a right to expect ?
But there is also added the goodly gift of de-
lightful suggestiveness.

My Elm-Tree Oriole.

THE humming-bird is summer written in
italics ; the scarlet tanager is the season's ex-
clamation point. By nothing else is our delight
at summer's charm so well expressed. We
never look beyond these birds for greater glory.
They are the completion, we feel, of the sum-
mer's effort to beautify our woods and by-ways.
The Baltimore oriole is a strong competitor.
There is the tropical brilliancy and almost the
humming-bird's activity, but many soon weary
of this display of orange and black, of flame
and smoke, because of the tiresome screeching
with which its presence is proclaimed. I have
known nervous people driven in-doors by the
oriole's harsh cries, that can best be likened to
the piercing creak of unoiled machinery. But
it is not always so. Early in the blessed month
of May a smooth-tongued oriole came to the
door-yard elm, and with all the vivacity of its

122

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 123

race, while threading the maze of branches of
this fine old tree, sang in dulcet tones these
cheerful words : " Music, good music, all day !"
My oriole I called it from the day it came,
and when you take to a bird it often happens
that the bird will take to you. Not actually, as
you might say this of a person, but so it seems
in your fancy, and that is practically the same
thing. Whether the bird knew me or not, I
knew the bird. The elm-tree was not the
oriole's only home. It wandered along the
hill-side, even to my neighbor's door-yard, and
often was so far away that I could scarcely hear
the sweet song that so effectually drove away
dull care. But these wanderings were always
of short duration. The distance was never
great as measured by the bird's power of flight,
and after a period of comparative silence the
bird would suddenly reappear and rouse the
very echoes with its inspiring song, " Music,
good music, all day!" I say "comparative
silence," for silence absolute does not occur.
We have but to consider the needs of the birds
and they will make return of the best they have
to offer, their songs. There are wrens in my

124 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

boxes and in a corner of my porch. There
are cardinal redbirds in my garden, and rose-
breasted grosbeaks in the orchard. Song-spar-
rows nest in the gooseberry-bushes, and robins,
thrushes, chats, vireos, and flycatchers tarry
wherever they can find a nesting-place, and
all are in full song. So it is, therefore, that
my elm-tree oriole speaks not for itself only but
for them when its clear, flute-like whistle pro-
claims from dewy morn until the gloaming,
" Music, sweet music, all day !"

When in the misty, murky east

Forbidding clouds are piled,
Fit realms where imps of darkness feast

And gladness never smiled,
Ere long there comes, despite the glance

Of night's forbidding frown,
The cheery morning's swift advance,

And casts her foeman down ;
Then one fair bird, unmoved by fear,

Speaks to my doubting soul,
Revives my hopes with words of cheer,

My elm-tree oriole.

The hours pass, the sun in might

Bids gloomy shadows flee,
As some strange troubling dream, the night

Has fled beyond the sea.

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 125

No merry warbler of the wood,

No songster of the field,
Hath his heart-stirring warmth withstood,

To his command they yield.
And songs of love, life's sweetest song,

Through field and forest roll,
And foremost in the tuneful throng

My elm-tree oriole.

The shadows of the coming night

May fill the leafy glen,
The sunny landscape shut from sight

And darkness reign again,
But not a song of sunny day

Is lost ; we hear them still,
They linger by the foot-path way,

The meadows, and the hill :
Songs from the hearts of birds as true

As needle to the pole,
But nearest of them all are you,

My elm-tree oriole.

Now, having heard this song from time to
time during the summer ; having seen the bird
weave the fabric of a wonderful nest, suspended
from the most yielding of the tree's terminal
twigs ; having seen the young carefully inducted
into the wide world with all its delights and
dangers, and heard the last regretful chirp of
young and old as they leave the home tree for

126 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

fresh woods and pastures new ; even after all
this, can we say that we have a thorough knowl-
edge of these birds? I think not. We have
as deep waters to fathom as when we deal with
mankind, and not only as deep, but different.
Bird-nature is not our nature, and it is an open
question whether or not it is in our power to
rightly interpret the motives of the birds about
us. To slaughter them that we may count the
fibres of a particular muscle or determine the
precise tint of a feather gives us no clue to
what most concerns us, — what birds do and why
they do it Perhaps we shall never know ; but
our present ignorance, of which we are aware,
is not painful or at all irritating, when we are
striving to overcome it, but really a source of
pleasure. We are drawn the more to the birds
because of it, ever hopeful of a solution of the
problem at last, and if doomed to die, as is
probable, without that full light to which we
aspire, we have at least had the pleasure of
listening, while we labored, to " Music, good
music, all day !"

Though almost hourly in evidence, the elm-
tree oriole did not overshadow the other birds.

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 127

Not a condor of the Andes could thrust my
door-step wrens into the shade, nor majestic
eagle lessen the glory of that darling of the
door-yard, the song-sparrow. I will not attempt
to explain it, but the fact stands unmoved and
immovable, birds, unlike all other forms of
animal life, do not weary us. We may wish, at
times, that they were not so noisy, yet his is a
brutal hand that would brush them aside. For
their many merits we readly overlook such a
trivial blemish as excessive loquacity. Think
of driving into the deserts all of our own species
that talk too much. Who of us would be left ?
The literature of the subject, ornithology,
covering thousands of pages and hundreds of
titles, has heretofore dealt with bird anatomy,
classification, and their habits, and only at rarest
intervals has a single word gone up in their de-
fence. Because some birds are fruit-eaters,
they are proclaimed destructive to our horticul-
tural interests ; because crows like very young
chickens, the poultry-men are up in arms ; and
so runs on this sickening twaddle through many
chapters. There has been too little said of the
other side, as is usual. What of the insects and

128 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

worms that were sapping the strength of the
fruit-trees ; what of the millions of grubs and
of destructive cut- worms devoured by the crow ?
I have seen the stomach of a crow that proved
to be full almost to overflowing with cut-worms
that were gathered the very morning of the
bird's death at the hands of an obstinate, igno-
rant, prejudiced farmer in that man's own field.
I do not speak strongly without reason. I have
in mind a cherry-tree, bearing phenomenally fine
fruit in great abundance. As soon as there was
a trace of blush upon the cherries the robins
came and feasted, and, as was claimed, to the
entire destruction of the crop. Not one bird,
but several, came, and then the cat-birds fol-
lowed. " No pies or puddings ; none to can
for next winter," — these dolorous cries went up
throughout the house, and had there been no
staying hand, the arms of an arsenal would have
been brought to bear upon the offending birds.
There was as much mourning in-doors as out in
the yard there was " Music, good music, all day !"
The day of ripened fruit came at last, and all
the one-time mourners feasted ; our neighbors
feasted. We gathered until weary of gathering ;

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 129

until every closet was burdened with cherries,
canned, pickled, and preserved, and then the un-
used fruit finally fell from the tree in such quan-
tities that the grass about the tree-trunk was
destroyed. The truth was, we had fed the birds
and the birds had fed us, and more, they had
entertained us. They had sung whenever we
appeared, and through that summer there was
not a moment when, wearied of the nagging of
an exacting world, we could not turn to the birds
of the door-yard and be soothed by " Music,
good music, all day !"

All birds are a delight to both the eye and
ear. I know of no one that is ugly when in
its proper place. I know of no one that is
discordant when waking the echoes of its own
home. The dull brown diver of the mill-pond
is a sorry spectacle when waddling over the
ground in search of water, but the moment that
element is reached all this bird's awkwardness
disappears. The herons and bitterns, as they
rise from the marsh in anxious haste, seem only
desirous of escape, and are merely a jumble of
illy-directed wings and legs ; but settled to
rhythmic flight, their movements in the upper
9

130 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

air are extremely graceful. Nearest to being a
blot upon the scene is a too near view of a
turkey-buzzard, particularly if it has just gorged
itself with unsavory food. Startle such a bird,
and its awkward effort to regain command of
its wings is not only suggestive of Nature having
blundered in this instance, but we are likely to
be amused as well as moved to pity. But when
this vulture's wings have conquered gravity and
the one-time almost helpless creature passes into
the upper air, our pity becomes envy ; we do
not criticise now, but wonder, and how helpless
we feel ourselves to be, at least in so far as re-
gards locomotion, when we watch that soaring
vulture floating, without an effort, among the
clouds.

The hooting of an owl when we are passing,
it may be in the night, along some lonely wood-
land path ; the weird cry of the heron, its ghost-
like, guttural "whough!" suddenly breaking
upon our ears ; the far-away iteration of the
whippoorwill, hidden in some leafy dell ; the
shrill, despairing cry of some sleeping bird
roused to sudden realization of danger and of
death, — such sounds as these may not be ac-

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 131

counted musical as you hear of them, but,
wandering in the wild wastes, where man has
not as yet stamped tameness upon Nature's
breast, and such sounds will not seem harsh.
We do not then stop to analyze, or even to
particularize ; but we do realize that now we are
face to face with Nature in her tragic and un-
tamed mood, and have new impressions of the
great drama that is being performed, — a drama
of which many know absolutely nothing, or
know through second hand, and so imperfectly.
We cannot and ought not to shut our eyes and
ears to tragedy, for all life has its tragic element.
If we do, the world about us can never be
rightly understood ; yet we need not linger long
where night gathers ere the day be done, or
stays in stern defiance of the sun. Happily,
there is always a more cheerful path into which
we may turn, a path that has only those features
which go to the furthering of peace and pleas-
ure ; where light, not shadow, greets us ; where
songs of love replace the cries of exultation and
despair ; where, if we desire, we may hear not
alone the cheery words of my elm-tree oriole,
but the gleesome rejoicing of a happy host,

132 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

filling the soft summer air with " Music, good
music, all day !"

I like to make positive statements, and hav-
ing for more than forty years studied the orni-
thology of a few acres, I am a little surprised
when I am contradicted ; for I am frequently
informed — not always politely — that some of
my birds do not occur, except as migrants, in
the State, and others that I class as common
are rare in my locality. It would seem as if it
were proper to shut our eyes to all facts that
are not the facts in common possession. Doing
so, how are we to increase the sum of knowl-
edge ? Rose-breasted grosbeaks are common
where I live, common to the fields, the hill-side,
and meadows ; common even to the yard about
my house. They often sing so near my open
windows that the rooms are flooded with mel-
ody ; inspiring music that drives our doubts to
the background and fills the heart with hope.
This bird does not whistle to keep his courage
up, but finding his little world one more of light
than shade, would have all the world to know
it. It is no idle whim of an idle fellow to assert
that the birds about us teach many a valuable

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 133

truth, but, overestimating ourselves, we turn
away, indifferent to their suggestiveness. Not
at all that birds are intended to be our teachers,
but he who neglects to profit by what happens
before his eyes — neglecting it because not within
the pale of humanity — throws away golden op-
portunities of bettering his life. Deaf to a
bird's song, he nurses many a sorrow that he
might drown, and cheats himself of the soul-
refreshing pleasure of music that is more than a
concourse of sweet sounds. The evening song
of a thrush, recalling other days and making the
present moment one of such exquisite pleasure
that every care in life is for the time forgotten,
lingers with us, soothing as some magic balm,
when the skill of the harper and voice of the
artiste have been quite forgotten.

To me it is marvellously strange that the
world at large is so utterly indifferent to bird-
life, and that governments will spend millions
to protect the seals of a far-distant sea and
never lift a finger to stay the destroying hand of
a greedy few that profit by the slaughter of our
native birds, the birds of our door-yards even,
selling the skins of their victims to thoughtless

134 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

women who hope to prove more attractive be-
cause of a gaudy head-gear. But what of our
laws for the protection of birds? I hear you
ask, — What of them, indeed ? What is any law
that by common consent is looked upon as a
dead letter? Who ever troubles himself to
enforce it, and by what a host of technicalities
can it be evaded ! How common, too, to find
those most interested, people living in the coun-
try, content with the seductive half-knowledge
due to generalization from insufficient facts, and
declaring war when every condition of their
material prosperity calls for peace ! No birds
and a plague of insects, — a plague of insects
and the loss of the harvest I would that these
words were written upon every guide-post at
the cross-roads and hung upon the walls of
every school-house in the land.

But it is wisdom on my part to leave to other
and abler hands this subject of bird protection.
Perhaps I am too prejudiced in their favor.
The cunning of a thieving crow so wins my ad-
miration that I am blinded to the financial as-
pect of the question. There is positive pleasure
in being cheated by a crow ; it so effectually

My Elm-Tree Oriole. 135

snubs our vanity, and we are taught that in
some ways we are not lords of creation. Too
often we lack due consideration and crow
over our neighbors, but with good reason the
crows can crow over us all. These black ras-
cals, as they are unfairly called, often take my
watermelons and I am out of pocket, but not
altogether a loser. I have gained knowledge
by experience and more nearly realize what a
bird really is.

And a word in conclusion as to the bird-
world's more popular representatives, and here
again I leave their economic significance to be
discussed by the professional ornithologist I
know birds better as musicians ; that is from
a purely personal and selfish stand-point, and
speaking from such I commend to you these
birds whenever you are moved to approach
nearer to Nature and forget for the time being
the vexations that dog your steps as careworn
humanity.

Have you heard the songs at sunrise, and,
too, those of a still earlier hour? Have you
been thrilled by the enthusiasm that marks these
carols at the birth of day? Have you joined

136 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

with them, in spirit, and brought yourself to
believe as they do that every bright, sunny,
summer day is the brightest and best that ever
blessed the world ? To do so is an excellent
safeguard against pessimistic dyspepsia. And
as the day wore on, have you noted how the
exultation that was so marked a feature at sun-
rise has given way almost to languor at noon-
tide, but never the sweetness of the song is
lost ? The soul is ever present, but in a weary
body, — a body that renews its vigor as the after-
noon hours pass, and every utterance is abun-
dantly reassuring at sunset Bathed in the
golden light of the setting sun and in the
dreamy purple tints and ghost-like shadows of
the gloaming, what incomparable sweetness is
that of the lingering few that all reluctantly bid
farewell to day ! Having listened thus, from
dawn to dark, as I have so often listened, there
is nothing but peace in the silence of the night
that followed, — silence, soothing as the calm
that rests in summer's star-lit skies.

Short Summer Days.

SHORT summer days that at sunrise give us a
foretaste of autumn are days of both gladness
and sadness. No longer the enervating heat,
but too strongly are we reminded of the chill-
ing breath of winter that even now is astir in
the north country ; but he deserves evil who
persistently anticipates it. These short summer
days are not mere sorry remnants of the season's
fulness, — the scattered debris left by the merry
throng that crowded the green world when days
were long. If such were the rambler's thought,
his would be a melancholy state, — the tree-tops
sighing for him in a funereal way ; but away with
retrospection ! The days are short, but merit is
not lacking. The meadows yet are all ablaze
with brilliant bloom ; purple ironweed of match-
less hue, and golden-rod that seems each year
to be brighter than before ; the dodder, frag-
ments of a silken net, and rose-mallow, all are

138 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

yet here to contradict us when we speak of the
summer nearing its close. The great leafy ban-
ners and uplifted blossoms of the lotus have
neither wilted nor turned pale. The freshness
of May is everywhere. The days may be short,
the birds silent, the breeze too cool for comfort,
but it is not the end.

Where meadow brooks wind in and out
among dense shrubbery, and this overshadowed
by tall and stately oaks, we occasionally find a
hazel-bush or two, and to all such as I know of
I make an annual pilgrimage in September,
gathering the few nuts these bushes produce.
There may be many clumps of hazel-bushes I
have never found. I thought I knew this region
thoroughly years ago, when I was beginning to
study it. I am wiser now.

No nut but is an autumn fruit, but no frost
has touched here as yet, and I give no thought
of what might be when I come. More than
one of these clusters of hazel-bushes has ac-
quired a summery sacredness now, and my visits
are only made when I am alone. The recol-
lections of other years must not be interrupted.
At least once a year my companion returns to

Overshadowed by tall and stately oaks.

Short Summer Days. 139

the hazels, and always on the day that I have
chosen. I see him, I hear him ; we talk and
shout as merrily as ever, yet my companion
left me forever, oh, how long, long ago ! Had
frost and storm driven all freshness and fulness
from the face of Nature, it would still be sum-
mer when I gather the few hazel-nuts about
which lingers the ineffaceable halo of thoughts
too deep for tears. Or I wander to the lone
hickories that stand like patient sentinels on the
broad pastures and gather the few shellbarks
that have dropped in advance of the bidding
of frost. They smack of autumn, surely ; but
no, there is too much freshness still remaining.
The grass is too green upon which they fall, and
I do not think of the end that is so near. Man-
kind in general seems averse to winter, unless
his lot is cast in some large city, and so honestly
regrets that summer so soon, as it seems to him,
draws to a close. It is so, too, with those whose
happier lot is cast in the country, and who, like
myself, love, as my neighbors call it, to loaf.
We loafers, then, disliking any marked change
when the world is so suited to us, as it is, fight
against the sobering thought of summer's end-

140 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

ing and may do so successfully if we keep in
certain paths, but a chance step may defeat our
over-brave conclusions. It is probable that be-
fore the day closes we will wander from the
meadow to the creek-side. If we do, the whole
scene is likely to be changed and our minds
changed with it. We cannot always force our-
selves to believe a fiction true, however pleasing
it may be. However riotous in the realms of
fancy, we cannot always tarry there, but must
walk at times soberly and in the presence of
plain facts. There are limitations even to our
imaginations. No one ever likens our autumn
foliage to a flower-garden. It is too pronounced
a phase of the passing year to be compared with
other phenomena, and so it was to-day when I
reached the wooded shores of a sluggish, un-
known creek. At every turn I saw the scarlet
lobelia, the torch that lights the footsteps of de-
parting summer, and I knew what these short-
ened days meant It was not strange that birds
were not singing, that the hum of insect life
was subdued, and even the clouds were anchored
in the dreamy skies. It is the day after, with
nothing but reminiscence filling each languid

Short Summer Days. 141

moment. However widely open are our eyes
and ears, the gateways of the mind, we can de-
tect nothing of the activity of days gone by.
Scarlet lobelia is the bloom of all others cele-
brating the achievements of the past, and has
only hints of a less glorious future. It is a re-
trospective bloom, and not, like April violets, a
prophetic flower. Need we sit down by the
nearest river or in the shade of a Babylonian
willow and weep because of this ? I never
thought so. This summer is not to prove the
very last, and there is more of the world still
than our senses can fully comprehend. A full
day is the very opposite of an overcrowded
one ; a day with its single, all-absorbing object
overflows when one that is kaleidoscopic merely
dazzles and is empty at the last. And what
day but has its worthy topic, be it long or short ?
What though the sun sets now an hour sooner
than in midsummer, it has more than enough
daylight for the busiest brain. Short, indeed !
But might we not more consistently worry over
our own shortcomings, our many limitations, in
endeavoring to encompass the significance of
the shortest day ? Was it mere coincidence, I

142 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

wonder, when, looking from the scarlet lobelia
to its reflection in the clear water beneath, I saw
many glistening, silvery fishes playing about the
glowing stalk of bloom, and I remembered not
that they saw neither plant nor image, but as-

suming it, a bond between us was established ?
Let us but have some common interest with the
simplest form of life, and we will realize how
much the least and greatest forms of life have
in common. I entered into the sports of a
school of minnows so far as to be convinced

Short Summer Days. 143

that play was their object, and not some prosy
effort to obtain food. I know it is denied to
them, but why should not fishes have their
measure of pure enjoyment? No angler of
experience ever called a gamy fish a fool.
That the angler fools them is not to the point.
How very little we know of our common fishes
beyond their anatomy ; the secret of their lives
from season to season has baffled our natural-
ists, and their history has yet to be written.
Whether our present ignorance arises from in-
difference or the inability to overcome their
cunning at concealment, I do not know, but
to scoop a dozen from the water and give them
long Latin names seems to have satisfied our
ichthyologists to date, and yet the humblest
minnow of a weedy brook can readily con-
found philosophers. Happily, the day of "new
species" is over, but that of species new to a
locality will continue to the end of time. A
September ramble this year may be inch for
inch as last year so far as the paths you follow
are concerned, but there will not be quite the
same sights and sounds. It is the certainty of
this difference that makes our strolling an un-

144 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

failing joy. Only those who have had the ex-
perience can realize what a thrilling incident is
the finding of a plant or animal that you have
not found before. You feel yourself one of
Nature's favored ones, as if the sun was shining
for you rather than your neighbor. Even the
possibility of such an occurrence or the thought
of such a possibility is a sufficient incentive to
take a walk. Find a rare plant, and the shortest
day will seem long because of the fulness of
interest that crowds every hour. Such a dis-
covery starts a train of thought that is likely to
tax the brain, but in a healthy way. How came
it where you found it ? Why never here be
fore ? You may not satisfy yourself, probably
will not, but the whole plant-world is clothed
with greater dignity, and just a suspicion of the
philosopher will cling to your skirts.

Another and more likely feature of a stroll is
the finding of objects new to yourself, but
familiar enough to the masters of science. This
should not lessen your pleasure one iota. The
rambler is concerned with himself and his own
ignorance, and no one is so well taught as the
self-taught Let this never be forgotten. See

Short Summer Days. 145

with your own eyes, and having seen, be as firm
concerning the fact as is the rock-ribbed earth ;
but be very sure you see aright. Do not leave
the spot thinking, but knowing. There is a vast
difference, and time too often allows the former
to merge into the latter, and your impression
becomes a conviction. Such results, like pois-
onous snakes, are to be avoided, and yet there
may be as much disaster in allowing want of
self-confidence to unmake you, and the facts
lose their value treating them as probabilities
merely. Much has been lost to the world in
consequence of this. There is no setting apart
of a few men who are to be the world's fact-
determiners. The wood-chopper at his work is
as likely to see a rare bird as the naturalist with
his gun and field-glass. He may not know
that it is rare, but he does know that it is rare
to him ; and woe betide the theorist who de-
clares the wood-chopper unfamiliar with the
woods. That which has been declared non-
existent has too often proved prevalent when
the unlearned has gained a hearing.

The arrogance of learning, defending snap
judgment, is a potent cause of the continuance

146 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

of ignorance. Only recently two great names
clouded their reputations by talking authorita-
tively of this neighborhood, which one of them
has never seen and the other never studied.
Scarcely a statement made was correct in any
particular, but what was spoken was sent over
the whole land by the public prints, and the
labors of those who have bravely borne the heat
and burden of exploration goes for naught. It
does not augur well for the advancement of
science when men are more given to maintain-
ing the positions they have taken on important
questions than admitting they are mistaken and
eager to proclaim the truth that others have dis-
covered. It is not strange that the masses look
with some suspicion on what is called expert
testimony. Can it be that a life-long familiarity
with simple conditions goes for nothing, and
with Nature forever before us, we shall die with-
out an inkling even of what has been and is
now occurring before our eyes ?

The shadows of the tall hickories in the
smooth meadows are creeping eastward. A
purple mist is gathering along the jagged out-
line of the horizon, and one by one the trees

Short Summer Days. 147

that stand afar off are shut from view. Nearer
it comes, and the pastures fade away, and now,
as the sun sinks behind the old oaks that line
the creek's wild shores, I stand alone, shut in
from all the world, yet not alone. A crested
tit, full of faith as to bright hours to-morrow,
whistles dull melancholy to the winds and hails
me as we stand by the meadow gate, bringing
a cheerful message as ever, arguing, in its own
sweet, persuasive way, there is always ground for
happiness. Every bird is a willing teacher when
we are anxious to be taught. An idle whim,
perhaps, but I have long held that the crested
tit is a philosopher, and insists that we be not so
intent upon what is passing away that we see
not that which is coming. These are short
summer days, it is true, but what of the fulness
of approaching autumn ?

An October Outing.

OCTOBER is the charming prelude to the
stern tragedy of winter. It means a clear at-
mosphere and colored leaves, and with them,
never to be overlooked, the screaming blue-jay
and the fretful crow. Better still if a red-tailed
hawk sends his shrill cry down to you from the
depths of the deep blue sky. Frost has dulled
the golden-rod and the asters have lost their
freshness, but the grass is green, and a snowy
orchid on its slender stalk has a goodly array
of pure, waxy flowers that seem out of place.
Much remains to the rambler for which to be
thankful, but the month's chief glory is the har-
vest of nuts. So I have always maintained, and
with the regularity of a religious fanatic gone
expectantly to the nut-trees to gather my share
of the harvest. Strangely enough, it is the in-
cidents of the journey to and fro that I most
distinctly remember, and the goal is not promi-
148

An October Outing. 149

nent. To-day it rained steadily, yet I walked
as usual to the shellbark hickories, gathering a
harvest as I went of greater value than the nuts
that whitened the closely cropped meadow. I
saw many bluebirds. It is not long since I
was told that the bluebird was threatened with
extinction, and one more feature of the familiar
meadows would soon be but a memory. It was
well worth exposure to a northeast rain to see
and hear these birds again. They have passed
the danger line. Natural forces will not prevail
against them, but what about mankind ? Is it
likely that boys will be allowed toy guns, and
fashion call for blue feathers in bonnet deco-
ration ? The bluebirds have returned, and is
not this simple statement enough to rouse in-
terest in bird protection ?

A word here concerning their encouragement.
Can we cultivate them as was formerly done?
My own efforts in this direction have proved of
no avail against the attacks of English sparrows,
but this is no reason why our ingenuity should
not be further taxed. I will say this much, that
the destruction of sparrows' nests in April seems
to so disturb the birds that they quit the neigh-

150 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

borhood for the summer, and if the bluebirds
could be taught this fact, a step in the desired
direction would be taken. How far what I
have been told holds good I do not know from
observation, but I am assured that gourds hung
well up and so fixed that they have some motion

when perched upon will be accepted by the
bluebirds and purple martens, but sparrows
will not go near them, being afraid of that, to
them, suspicious swaying motion. It might be
thought by the snugly housed mortal that low-
lying meadows of a rainy day was drawing very
near to the portals of desolation, and so it is, if

An October Outing. 151

you take a telescopic view of them from the
window next your fireside ; but drops of water
are not serious obstacles to the progress of an
earnest man, and what was not shunned by the
bluebirds that I had no desire to shun. It
makes some difference as to whom you share
your discomforts with, and with birds as com-
panions the gloomy aspects of creation are
fringed with rosy light The song of the blue-
bird is next in merit to the laughter of a friend,
and I should fear to listen to sweeter music lest
I prove to have an unappreciative ear. Then,
too, absorbing attention on a single object causes
us to forget that we are plagued with myriads
of petty ills. I heard the bluebird, saw it, and
was oblivious to all else. The clogging infirmi-
ties of increasing years rolled off my shoulders
as surely as the rain-drops ; but do not, after
fifty, delude yourself into jumping over ditches
without previous estimate of their width. I
have heard more than one man exclaim im-
patiently, "Oh! I'm as young as ever," and
jump, but he did not reach the opposite bank,
and his day's ramble was spoiled. Exceptions
occur, of course, and old John Riker, at sixty,

152 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

outran a wing-tipped snipe, jumped two broad
ditches, and held on to his gun while so doing ;
but then he was a Dutchman who was more at
home in a marsh than on a board floor. Now
that I have given up running, I do not think
anything is to be gained by rapid locomotion.
Sour grapes ? I think not. This is the same
meadow, this the same bluebird, and myself,
almost, the same mortal of forty years ago.
What of northeast storms at such a time ! My
little play was more than worth the candle.
And all this may continue unless fashion de-
mands blue feathers. Let us hope the Audubon
Societies will save us from the sorrow of the
bluebird's extinction.

I could not stand still all the morning, and my
progress drove the birds beyond my hearing,
but my pleasure remained, so vivid was the re-
cent meeting. It would have been well, per-
haps, to have gone directly home and spent the
day in retrospection ; for, however near to the
ideal is an outing, it is sure to have a shadow
lurking near its sunshine, and the brighter this
the darker the other. I soon began to notice
among the leafless trees and shrubbery numbers

An October Outing. 153

of unsuspected nests. How my pride was af-
fected ! All through the early summer I had
been boasting. For once, at least, I had had
eyes equal to every occasion. Nothing had
escaped me, and now, following a daily trodden
path, and sometimes at arm's length, I find
empty nests, and some of them of birds that I
must have overlooked. How little the fi-eld
naturalist really knows in comparison with what
it is possible to know ! The past summer was
the most bird-full I have ever known, and every
nest I discovered fired my ambition to find still
another and another, and I hunted until the
field was exhausted Exhausted ? Here are
several that I did not find when they were oc-
cupied. Nature issues no bulletins for man's
benefit, and the man is not yet born who can
keep track of her activities. Seeing a little, we
think that little all. It must be remembered,
too, that many nests are so slightly constructed
that they fall to pieces before the onset of brisk
autumnal gales. The many nests that I found
some months ago were but a fraction of what
were built here on the home meadows ; and
what of the broad acres of my several neigh-

154 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

bors ? I have never seen a spot that reached
to perfection, in my mind, but soon I found
that another spot excelled it. The Crosswicks
marshes have been called a birds' paradise, but
there are hundreds of equally paradisiacal areas
not far off, and only the shadow of man's care-
lessness prevents the sunshine of perfection
being realized. Too many cry out impatiently,
Who cares for a chippy-bird ? And the result
is the keeping back of the hand that could pre-
vent the birds' destruction. He who cries, Who
cares ? is the world's worst enemy.

The bluebirds came back when I reached
the hickories, and sang as I gathered the scat-
tered nuts, — a song for every nut I gathered, so
it seemed ; and the pitiless rain was quite for-
gotten. When the serious labor of the day was
over, the economic purpose of the outing ac-
complished, I turned again to the birds, but
they had gone. This is no unusual experience.
The song remains so distinctly that we do not
mark the withdrawal of the singer. When this
happens, we have reached the flood-tide of ap-
preciation, the high-water mark of our capa-
bility to realize what a bird's song really is.

An October Outing. 155

He has deaf ears who finds it only a pleasant
but unsuggestive sound. As we draw a circle
to represent our globe, so a single note of a
bluebird tells me the story of the round year.
It is again spring, with all that the season of
promise means to us ; it is again summer, with
earth's goodliest gifts before us ; it is autumn,
rich with ripened fruit and brilliant color ; it is
winter, only dreary to those who know not what
this season means. If danger still exists, let
Audubon Societies everywhere come to the
bluebird's rescue. We never exhaust a local-
ity, however frequently we pass through it, yet,
strangely enough, we assume this on our return
from the outermost limit of our walls. Every-
thing happens, so it is recorded in the books,
when going out ; nothing when coming in.
This really means that we are wearied of sight-
seeing by the middle of the day, and long for
an afternoon nap. We lose about one-half of
our possibilities by giving way to a desire to re-
turn. Expend all your energy in locomotion,
and the world is two blank walls, between which
you hurry. You can narrow the widest meadow
until it is little better than a prison cell. All

156 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

that is needed is to keep your eyes in the di-
rection of home and close your ears to the
birds about you. Not overburdened with the
nuts I had picked up, and with less rain to
annoy, I attempted cataloguing the newly found
empty nests, and found still others. Here was
severe snubbing, for I have always been proud
of my powers of observation. I must have
mistaken for a spider's web, heavy with dust, a
nest of a little flycatcher, and a downy wood-
pecker must have been mottled lichen only
when it was cutting out a brand-new nest in a
little tree. Where were all the cat-birds when
I was here in June ? I trust to having my eyes
more widely open in the coming year, and my
ears more quick to catch each passing note. I
have said this before. But if humiliating to
take a walk in October, it is also instructive. A
careful study of empty nests in leafless trees
will teach us how to look and where to look
when the nest-building season comes again, and
no one has yet determined just how far old
nests are utilized in the construction of new
ones. I have known a new nest to be built
within three feet of one of the preceding year,

An October Outing. 157

and I am positive not a twig of the latter was
taken away ; but old nests are not always left to
gradually fall apart and disappear. The pretty
white-footed mouse will rebuild or refit a cat-
bird's nest and have a snug home that defies
the winter's storms ; but an even more enter-
taining instance of reoccupation is when a big
gray spider lines with web a chipping-sparrow's
nest, and builds from it a gauzy approach. One
that I found to-day had a veranda, a lawn of
gossamer, " all and singular" the features of any
home of man, or even moated castle of other
days and lands. In no other ways do I recall
the utilization of old birds' -nests, but, even if
deserted by every living creature, they never
lose their suggestiveness until bit by bit they
have been scattered by the winds.

It is folly to spoil the day by wondering and
worrying about what has not been seen. Let
the restful hours of the evening, after an outing,
be given to the better realization of what has
been observed. That is only half seen upon
which the eyes merely rested. Sitting to-night
by the open fire, I have only to hold before me
a single hickory-nut, and the old trees, the

158 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

meadows, and the path leading thereto are all
before me, and I see with a clearer vision and
renewed delight that which has been before me
daily for these many years.

These many years ! There could not be a
more unfortunate phrase come to mind, unless
we desire to invite blue devils. Every hero of
my childhood has passed away and I am classed
among old folks. It is hard to realize, and out
of doors I quite forget it. Not so before the
open fire. Every flame is the epitome of an ill-
spent year. Every sudden brightening of the
room as a clearer light springs from the fire-
place is to me the vivid recollection of blunder-
ing days. It is so easy, afterwards, to see where
we were groping and stumbling in the dark,
and why. Light and the need of it do not
always walk hand in hand. The glowing back-
log is one long panorama of the past, and why
the pleasures of other days keep in the back-
ground is a puzzle to me. I cannot force them
into prominence. Blue devils have the upper
hand to-night, and have had these many years.

These many years ! The victim of blue
devils is a willing one. I will be gay to-night

An October Outing. 1 59

in spite of them. Fresh fuel may fright them
from my little room. Many are the big chunks
— I like this word "chunk," though it finds
scant welcome in the dictionary — big chunks
of knotty wood that my neighbors had allowed
to remain wheresoever chance had put them
that I have gathered and gloried in when they
crowned the pile of fagots in the fireplace, and
towered above the slender brass posts of the
andirons, — household fixtures that link me to
colonial days. It is all very well for Americans
to sniff at genealogical research, as a good
many do, and affect indifference to the facts of
their family history, but just so far I am un-
American, if you choose, for I do care a great
deal, and am more proud of the fact that I can
sit before grandmother's andirons than if I had
sold an essay and bought a new pair. A pleas-
ant thought is an enviable possession, and I
have many such when facing the open fire.
Andirons now play a new part ; they are finger-
posts directing backward to days when the axe
was more important among tools than it is to-
day ; for a hatchet will suffice among saplings.
What of the skilled wood-choppers of other

160 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

days? There are none left in this neighbor-
hood ; their ashes are mingled with those of the
forest. Anybody can hack a tree down, if he
keeps long enough at it, but to skilfully fell an
old chestnut is another matter ; cut and split it to
posts, rails, fire-wood, and fagots ; putting every
bit of it to some use and leaving a level-topped
stump upon which you might set the dishes for
your supper. This is a lost art ; irrecoverable
perhaps as the marvellous tales the woodmen of
the last century told to the children of that day.
I wonder how much of all they told was true.
Very little, possibly ; very much, probably ; for
it is hard to even imagine how a primeval forest
and its belongings could be exaggerated.

The chunk upon the andirons to-night is from
somewhere up the river, brought down by the
last freshet and left, very conveniently, on my
meadows. There is on it a curious ring-like
growth, the attempt to heal over where a branch
has died and dropped off. An opening has
been left, and looks so smooth at one point, I
fancy squirrels have been passing to and fro for
many generations. My chunk is part of an old
tree, that perhaps, after standing long near the

An October Outing. 161

river-shore, was cut down at last to make room
for improvements ! Strange as it may seem, I
have known an old tree to be cut down because
the vacant space was considered an improve-
ment. If the lower animals had been such
fools as some men are, evolution would never
have reached to the human species. If trees,
when burning, would only sing a swan-song as
they turn to ashes ! Something akin to this
once happened. I placed a gnarly root on the
fire, and while watching, in a dreamy way, the
flames play about it, there was a sudden snapping
and hissing that roused me, and just in time.
The root at one point opened and untwisted
and a dull gray object was exposed. Warped,
blackened, and gaping wide, it proved to be a
pewter snuff-box, in which was a many-folded
paper. This defied all my efforts to save it ; but
I have the box still, and how often I have won-
dered as to its history ! What a splendid basis
for a story might have been recorded on that
folded paper, for it was covered with writing !

The world is welcome to anthracite or cannel
glowing in the cheerful grate, — give me my
andirons and a chunk of wood.

A Northeast Storm.

raindrops should fall in a very disagree-
able manner is not apparent. Their single pur-
pose is to reach the ground, we presume, but,
as in many another case where the operations
of Nature are concerned, do we not presume
too much? Whether or not, northeast rain-
drops are as different from those of a summer
shower as sand from swan's-down. To-day a
northeast storm prevails, and to study its peculi-
arities is a serious undertaking, as every at-
tractive feature of merely falling water has been
eliminated. In short, we are brought face to
face with tragedy, and I would, influenced
wholly by my own taste, that there was less of
it in the world, in our lives, and in literature.
Especially do I dislike to be brought face to
face with death and disaster when I settle down
before the cheerful fire on the andirons and
open a new book. There is more than suf-
162

A Northeast Storm. 163

ficient of both entering into our daily walks to
satisfy us, and to make sure of comfort I want
to be moved to laughter, not to tears. No one
laughs, it is supposed, when facing a northeast
storm, and in November, too, when every ex-
pression of these melancholy days is given a
rising inflection, is emphasized with energy, and
not a puff of rain-burdened wind but whispers
" Fool !" as you pass onward. Why I ever de-
liberately go out of doors and face such stormy
weather is not to be explained, at least by me.
I go, but I do not know why. I invariably wish
that I had not gone, but never turn back until
some reasonably distant goal is reached. I do
not see much, for every living creature takes
shelter now as it never does at any other time.
You see but few birds, and these not willing
wanderers, and I believe I never overtake a
meadow-mouse or catch an out-door opossum or
squirrel. Other people sometimes do, of course.
All the world is more fortunate than myself, but
a northeast storm is my synonyme for forsaken
fields. The air, now, seems too full of water to
hold anything else, and such a wail of utter
hopelessness comes from the twiggy tops of the

164 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

beeches and old oaks when the wind with fitful
fierceness rushes through them. This dismal
moaning is enough of itself to drive all wild
life to close cover, and it seems to do so. Soli-
tary crows, that folk-lore says betoken sorrow,
are the storm's most fitting attendants, — single
crows that fly moodily with the wind and never
utter a sound as they pass by. I was prepared
to see this forlorn creature beating its way over
the fields, at times swooping down as if it would
clutch the earth and shake it, and then rising
petulantly above the trees as if to be beyond
reach of its old home and stamping-grounds.

Every other bird, I supposed, was snugly
housed, but herein I was mistaken, which fact
makes this my most memorable storm. It
would appear that some, at least, of our many
kinds of sparrows do not lose their appetites in
any weather, and where, to-day, the weeds were
rankest, there I found these birds, running like
mice along the ground, but with no marked cur-
tailment of flight power because of the driving
rain. They knew very well what prolonged ex-
posure meant, and so only flew when necessity
required it. I was both right and wrong. They

A Northeast Storm. 165

had sought shelter, yet not where the search for
food was impracticable, and while not fearing
the rain took care not to be entrapped by it.
Feathers sometimes prove a leaky roof. But I
could not stand long to catch uncertain glimpses
of mouse-like sparrows. It is well to keep
moving when out in the rain ; the buffeting of
the storm falls less heavily, and birds in wet
weather are not peculiarly entertaining. They
exhibit no new feature of their many-sided
characters, and keep their familiar pleasantries
as closely shut as their feathers. As much as
butterflies, birds belong to sunshine and the
rosy sunrise hours of our days. We think of
them when flowers bloom and trees are in full
leaf. We are not logical in so doing, to be
sure ; but then logic and a May morning are
ill-suited companions. Young people, I have
heard, fall in love in May, and where is logic ?
Too often retired to shady groves to weep. A
truly philosophical state of mind leads to seek-
ing out the reason of the discomforts of a north-
east storm and not merely endeavoring to avoid
them. And the discomforts, as we call them,
are they such to all animal life ? A bedraggled,

166 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

rain-soaked mouse is a forlorn object in our
sight. We suppose the creature feels our dis-
comforts under such conditions, but does it
really? One red and black woolly caterpillar
kept on its course, twisting in and out among
little pools of water, and did not seem affected
by the pelting of rain-drops to which it was ex-
posed ; but possibly it was muttering to itself
as it went along ; growling as much as I did.
How next to nothing we know of the mental
status of the varied forms of life that daily cross
our paths ! Indeed, can we safely say that we
know anything ; is it not all inference on our
part?

If only moved to the latter, why not cut the
Gordian knot by remaining in-doors ? I write
this for the benefit of those who shudder at the
mention of a pitiless, cold, driving rain-storm,
when every sound is to them a sob and every
sudden increase of energy on the part of the
wind is accompanied by a piercing shriek or
wail of despair. That something of this is a
figment of fancy, nourished in ignorance, is cer-
tainly true. Not that Nature cannot be serious
and deal destruction with a lavish hand ; but, in

A Northeast Storm. 167

very truth, a northeast storm is not, or very sel-
dom, indeed, found to be much more serious a
matter than when woman turns man's comfort
out of doors and him along with it, when clean-
ing house. That is an abomination, comparable
only to a Western blizzard or some huge tidal
wave of the Pacific. But, happily, just as the
newly cleaned house has a freshness about it
that the most crabbed old bachelor is forced to
admit, so Nature wears a fresher face and the air
is clearer, as with the last drops of the dismal
storm comes a brightening of the western sky
as the day closes. Even in November this is
an hour to be remembered, — an hour of bril-
liant color, of bird song, of general rejoicing.
Even the naked trees shake their gaunt sides
and exult that the northeast wind is a thing of
the past and restful quiet is now at hand, — the
quiet and comfort of drowsy, hazy sunshine,
where the greatest voluntary effort is to dream
of the many gains and few losses of the de-
parted summer. It is worth being all day out
of doors, — yet at the time I never think so, —
however violent the storm, that we may be in
at its death and mark the progress of the new

168 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

order. The gentle, assuring breeze from the
west ; the splendor of the sunset, painting and
gilding every broken cloud ; the melody of the
brave birds that sing now on their way to their
roosting trees ; the deepening of the shadows ;
the fading out of every trace of day ; the soli-
tary glory of the evening star ; the rising of
the moon and reillumination of the earth and
sky, — these, in quick succession, follow in the
track of the storm, and gladness fills the world
that but a few hours before was desolate beyond
endurance. No, not quite that, for however
wild the storm we come out of it unscathed.
We think recklessly when it rains and talk ex-
travagantly of another deluge, but why has
never been explained. As my journals for
many years attest, I have faced more than a
hundred northeast storms and am yet alive.
Just as I called myself a fool at the outset,
shivering and forlorn as I faced the wind and
rain, now that it is all a thing of the past, I have
no regrets and call myself fortunate. The
western sky is one vast sheet of brilliant color.
Warm reds and summery green extend over
half the heavens. Every rain-drop clinging to

A Northeast Storm. 169

the scattered leaves adds its mite to the sparkling
outlook, and before me an alder, berry-laden,
glows with a ruddy glow that pales even the
sunset. It is to me the last outreaching flame,
darting defiantly from the ashes of the dead
summer.

In Defence of Desolation.

" HOW desolate !" Such is the common re-
mark when in late autumn or winter we look
out of the window on a dull, cloudy, or possibly
rainy day. Is the asserted desolation real or
apparent? To test the merits of a locality,
choose the most hopelessly commonplace cor-
ner, some unreclaimed swampy bit that has de-
fied the farmer, and, if it proves too full of
interest to be exhausted in one day's study,
where is the asserted desolation ? The fault is
with ourselves, not with irreclaimable Nature.
We have persistently turned our backs upon
her, and so devoutly worshipped the artificial
that much of what is thoroughly good and
wholesome is looked upon with dread or indif-
ference. The pleasure asserted of the pathless
woods is also in the trackless swamps, and lurks
in the weedy corners of badly cultivated fields.
To the untrained eye a clump of bushes may
170

In Defence of Desolation.

171

be as aimlessly grouped as my neighbor's wood-
pile ; but it is not so. There is no lack of pur-
pose, no neglect on Nature's part, and nothing
of weed or bush or sapling that has not a
deeper significance than one is likely to fathom.
To speak of desolation because green leaves

are lacking is the arrogant speech of ignorance.
The truth is, without regard to evergreen trees,
the absence of green leaves is comparative, not
absolute. I have not yet, in forty years' wan-
derings, been unable to find at least one fresh,
living leaf in the course of a morning's ramble.

\J2 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

Nature keeps up a sort of guerilla warfare with
winter long after her main army has been de-
feated, and brave weeds find safe retreats and
flourish unmolested in neglected nooks to which
attention is never directed ; and so, casting a
careless glance over the fields and forest, we
exclaim, in our ignorance, how desolate !

The million lances of the thistle may avail
nothing against the legions of frost ; but it
would not seem so, for here, long after the grass
is wilted and brown, a blooming thistle lifts its
purple plumes and invites the goldfinch, now in
late autumn, just as it did in the steamy hot
sunny August afternoons. This is an encour-
agement surely to go deeper into the asserted
desolation of the day. The goldfinch is no
stranger even in midwinter, but when Christmas
is not far off you do not expect to find him on
a blooming thistle ; yet one was thus found to-
day, in mid-November.

Perhaps it was when the glaciers still rested on
our nearest hill-sides that the ancestral crested
tit looked out upon the sunshine of a bright
May morning, and in the exuberance of its joy
whistled, Sweet here. Whatever the truth, this

In Defence of Desolation. 173

prince of cheerfulness has never changed its
tune, and no storm, not even midwinter's great-
est effort, ever shut out the sunshine in this wee
bird's heart It never admits the supremacy of
gloom, and finds beauty and content when we
are mourning over the desolation wrought by
frost. Not even the forest, now gloomier than
the field, is too dreary for him, and that assur-
ing Sweet here was not mockery, but a light-
giving song that lifted the cloud.

There is no other bird that has the same
awakening power. To-day the cardinal, that has
for a time been silent and moping in the denser
underbrush, came from his hiding, echoed the
tit's emphatic words, and added many another.
" Clouds and bare branches do not ruin the
world" is the theme of his November song, and
what the hill-side lacks in sunshine is made good
by the brilliant glow of his crimson coat. He
is a pessimist indeed who can find the world
askew when such birds are singing.

I had not passed through the garden before
I had seen and heard three singing birds, and
now at the stile I was greeted by the Carolina
wren. If possible, it was more desolate under

174 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

the old oaks than in the meadows, for the leaf-
less branches are so many and interlaced, they
shut out the light. On a dark day, to go into
the woods is like passing from the gloaming to
night ; yet here, facing a forbidding east wind,
the Carolina wren was singing. Not humming
to itself to rouse the memory of brighter days,
but a whole-souled declaration of content, though
the sky was gray and an east wind muttered
vengeance as it hurried by. I hear this bird all
the year through. It is my daily companion,
and never a thought of desolation when it is
singing at my elbow. There is no desolation.
Looking at the world from the library window,
seeing nothing and hearing less, what right have
we to be so critical of Nature's methods ? The
browns of autumn make the greens of spring
less tiresome, and when many birds, or even one,
can be as cheerful as a Carolina wren, although
every feature of the day be forbidding, why
should mankind declaim against the desolation
of the outlook? It is infinitely better to be
warmed by the assuring songs of a bird than to
hover over the register of a stuffy room. No-
vember fogs, east winds, clouded skies ! Go

In Defence of Desolation. 175

out and hear what the birds say of them, and
you will find the world less black than you had
painted it.

Even the little brown tree-creeper does not
feel necessitated to keep on the leeward side of
the tree-trunks, though wind and snow and even
hail conspire to dislodge it It squeaks its sat-
isfaction, and while it held on, though a stiff
breeze was blowing, I saw the plucky bird draw
a worm from a cranny in the bark : swallowing
its prey, it snapped its beady eyes at me and
squeaked a suggestive " Good-morning" as it
hurried away. That bird never missed the sun-
shine. The day was not so bad that it might
not be worse ; and if birds are satisfied, why
not ourselves ?

A dead tree, stricken in its prime by lightning,
is as nearly typical of desolation as any object
I have ever seen. I will never believe that such
things ought to be. But the dead and decaying
hickory gave rise to fewer gloomy thoughts
when a woodpecker came and beat in a rhyth-
mic way that was akin to music. Mere noise,
perhaps you insist ; but there is method in it,
something lacking at times in in-door chatter.

176 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

A red-headed woodpecker in November, and
cloudy at that, is equal to half a dozen sun-
beams. It will penetrate the gloom to that ex-
tent, and send desolation a little deeper into the
beyond.

Six birds already, and my walk has just com-
menced. There is yet a trace of youthful vigor
left. I always jump from the top step of the
stile ; not always gracefully, I admit ; and,
tripping this time, I shook the near earth as I
sprawled in the briers. Bob White went off
with a whirr as if I was some blundering sports-
man ; and I had not picked a tenth of the
desmodium and bidens seeds from my clothing
before another and another went whizzing off
to my neighbor's sproutland, whither I too was
bound. Could a field in November be sud-
denly shorn of its weeds, what a wealth of wild
life would be exposed ! Looking across country,
it is by mere chance we see any bird, and very
seldom life of any other form. Birds can see
us when we cannot see them ; probably, while I
was yet several rods away, a skulking woodcock
knew of my approach. Quail and woodcock !
I did not smack my lips over them as mere

In Defence of Desolation. 177

" gobbets of venison," but snapped my eyes
thankfully at them for aiding so materially in
disproving the assertion that cloudy, storm-
threatening autumn days are desolate.

The day was darkening, but I was not de-
terred. Turning towards the marshy meadows,
I startled a whippoorwill, some straggler, linger-
ing a full two months after all his brethren had
sought the sunnier climes of the Gulf States ;
but let no straggling, over-staying bird surprise
you. As I know from careful examination, in-
sect life has not been lacking until now, and if
it was a matter of food only, there has been no
reason why all our whippoorwills should not
have eaten their Thanksgiving dinners with us.

On the wide stretch of marshy meadows the
outlook is at first forbidding, more so than on the
upland fields or the wooded hill-side ; but it is
necessary only to accommodate oneself to the
new surroundings to be assured that chaos has
not come again because of your standing on a
marshy meadow, with threatening clouds over-
head and a fierce east wind blowing. It is Na-
ture in a savage mood, but this has naught to
do with desolation. I gave no further heed to

178 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

the conditions in general when I saw, still in-
tact, a massive globular nest of the marsh-wren.
It is too late for the birds themselves, for they
have no liking for Nature under the new order
of things, when frost is stage manager.

You stand in such dreary places as a marshy
meadow, and wonder why you came. With only
dead vegetation about you, it is not strange ;
but such feelings vanish when one by one the
lurking life begins to grow restive, and your at-
tention is called, now this way, now that ; to the
pool in the marsh in front of you, to the tan-
gle of wilted rose-mallow or great, gray, wilted
leaves of the classic lotus at one side, or to the
leaden sky above that seems so low down you
are oppressed by its nearness. A marsh-owl
with a mouse in its talons may rise up as silently
as any ghost at midnight, and, alighting on
some projecting stake, proceed to devour it,
quite unconcerned by your presence. At least,
this may happen if you are equal to standing
as rigidly as a fence-post ; and this is not so
very difficult if your attention is drawn to any
occurrence that interests you. The day being
dark, it is possible that the barn-owl, living in

In Defence of Desolation. 179

the cavernous hollow of an old tree, may be
tempted to come out, — and a splendid fellow he
is ; or if not abroad, he may be sitting at the
doorway of his home, enjoying the sunless pros-
pect, and thankful that the glaring sunshine is
this day spared him. If not so fortunate as to
see this noble owl, he can be searched for and
routed out, if adventure so far moves you ; but
this I never advise.

Owls seem nearer to Nature than do other
birds. There is an air of mystery about them
that rouses our interest. We ask ourselves
more questions when brought face to face with
an owl than we do in the case of any other bird.
Theirs is no meaningless stare. They can look
us out of countenance, and put as much in-
telligence into their eyes as we can in ours.

There is some reason for calling the owl the
bird of wisdom ; and yet there is cause for
wondering if the crow is not mentally his su-
perior. Crows are not disheartened by the
gloom of late autumn. If the fog is too dense
to fly through it, they rise above it or trot about
the ground, discussing the situation with their
fellows. Is this speaking too positively? I

180 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

have long been familiar with an observing man
who has lived all his days within sight and hear-
ing of crows. He claims to understand their
language, and can repeat the "words" that
make up their vocabulary. Certainly crows
seem to talk ; but do they ? Does a certain
sound made by them have always the one sig-
nificance ? Year after year I have listened and
watched, watched and listened, and wondered
if my friend was right. He believes it. I be-
lieve it almost. Are there limitations to orni-
thological interpretation? And is this an in-
stance where truth is unattainable ? We know
that crows are cunning, and by their mother wit
have withstood the persecutions of mankind ;
we know that they have a wide range of utter-
ances, and not one is put forth merely to gratify
the ear, as in the case of a thrush's song ; yet
we hesitate to say plainly that crow talketh
unto crow and that they take counsel together.
There is no physical or metaphysical reason
why this should not be the case ; there is
abundant evidence pointing in that direction,
but no actual demonstration, satisfying every
one, has taken place. Were we less theory-

In Defence of Desolation. 181

ridden and more observant, the question would
have been settled before this. In such a case,
the opinion of the farmer is worth more than
that of the professional ornithologist

A crow, black as night, might seem a fitting
accompaniment of a dreary day and desolate
outlook ; but what of the great flocks of rusty
grakles and of cow-birds ? Neither is really
black, but both appear so as they rise from the
marsh and drift like dead leaves before the
wind, perhaps to sink out of sight in the dead
grass, or, gathering in the near-by trees, chirp,
splutter, and gurgle in a strange yet not un-
musical way. These are northern grakles that
are now southward bound, and quite different
from their purple, boat-tailed cousins that were
here all summer. The cow-birds are not migra-
tory, strictly speaking, but will come and go all
through the winter; — curious birds, uncertain
in all their ways, and fitting into no scheme of
well-regulated communities. Building no nests
and never mating, what can we expect of them ?
Yet their presence to-day is more than welcome.
However desolate in appearance, the world is
not deserted.

182 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

Without moving from the spot at which I
have been standing this half-hour, by a mere
upraising of my eyes I can see an eagle perched
on the tall dead sassafras near the river-shore ;
a black hawk nearer by, intent upon the shallow
waters directly beneath where it is perched ;
and a broad-winged buzzard, hovering over a
hassock where a meadow-mouse is lurking,
helpless perhaps from fear, knowing well the
enemy that is so swift and sure when it does
strike. But not every swooping falcon rises
from the earth with prey. The dim light of a
cloudy November afternoon might be some ex-
cuse for failure, but even when light and wind
and all else is favorable, it is never so much as
fifty out of a possible hundred. Many a time
I have seen a hawk pounce and pounce again,
and then fly away with a shrill scream, clearly
indicative of its intense disgust.

The frost and thin ice at times have driven
away much of the bird-life of these wide-spread
marshes. The redwings have gone, the reed-
birds disappeared, and the swamp -sparrows
have wandered to more sheltered spots, but the
reeds and cat-tail are not deserted. If we

In Defence of Desolation. 183

watch the bared areas of mud, now that it is low
tide, we will surely see the common sora, or rail,
and not improbably the Virginia rail. Occasion-
ally the latter remains all winter, and the sora is
often forced to do so because of slight gun-shot
wounds that prevent migration ; but such birds
do not, I think, survive the winter. Many are
caught by the hawks, and some fall victims to the
sly snapping-turtle and to pike, before the gen-
eral freeze-up ; others succumb to intense cold.
What I have warrant to expect seeing, before
the day is done, is the great blue heron ; and to
start up the delicate least bittern is not improb-
able. The heron is not shy, and too big, one
might think, to conceal itself, yet it can stand
motionless among sticks and grass, quite invis-
ible to any but a well-trained eye. Taking up a
new position, as I supposed, I flush a heron from
the willow hedge : how the big bird brightens
the landscape ! It utters no wild yawp, as if
badly frightened, but moves easily at a slight
elevation, and would again alight, but some-
thing again disturbs it, and now it rises into the
upper air by a few rapid and very vigorous
wing-strokes. Its long legs no longer are an

184 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

encumbrance, as they at first appear to be, but
are fixed in an outreaching position and offer
no resistance to the bird's progress. The old
days of the peregrine falcon are no more, and
the bird here has no enemies. The bald eagle
that was recently in sight might prove a dan-
gerous foe were it so disposed, but it cares for
fish and mammals more than birds, and I have
never seen one attack a heron or any bird on
these meadows. Negative evidence, of course,
and of less significance because eagles are rare
now, and herons not so abundant as forty years
ago. The indifference of farmers, and that
abuse of freedom, allowing anybody and every-
body to carry a gun at all seasons, has done its
deadly work. Where there should be a hundred
birds we are fortunate now if we see ten. Time
was when there were herons and heronries and
stately white egrets along the river-shore, and
the creeks teemed with wild fowl in season.
It is a cause to be thankful, to-day, that the
heron, a single heron, has given to this dismal
day the charm of its presence, and so added to
the evidence that the exclamation, " How deso-
late !" was not merited.

In Defence of Desolation. 185

I grant that deserted Nature may be desolate.
An arid desert, with no life upon it except
scorpions and spiders, may be the climax of
desolation ; but no such conditions obtain here.
Even if the storms, with all possible accessories
of discomfort, beat upon us, there is a resisting
energy in the wild life that has wisely chosen
these marshes as its home. Discomfort for the
day is far removed from desolation ; and if you
persist in calling it such, then let me argue in
its defence. Dark, dismal days, such as this,
are really pleasing by way of variety. Already
I have seen many birds, when the outlook from
the hill-top was anything but assuring ; but then
there was the goldfinch almost at my door, and
the crested tit announcing "All's right!" be-
fore I had gone a dozen rods. Through the
window, desolate, perhaps ; but what of a closer
inspection ? It is ever so.

There is yet an hour before sunset, but no
ruddy light will illuminate the wide-reaching
marsh. Night will quickly come, but here is
the winding creek, forsaken now by trapper and
fisherman. The wind foretells the rain in no
uncertain terms, and even these hardy men

186 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

care much for the comforts of a shelter. They
know that the autumn flight of wild-fowl has
taken place. They know that the little pools
and winding brooks that drain the meadows
are likely to be visited by pintail ducks and
widgeon, and that now the home-bred sum-
mer ducks are hobnobbing in the marsh with
their cousins from the up-country. The gunner
knows this, but it is going to rain, and not
for ducks will he get wet. They will not pass
away with the storm, he thinks.

Perhaps not, but I will not risk it. The
greater my triumph, the more I see, and so
prove the day not empty, the country not deso-
late. Here, as I expected, I startle widgeon
from the wilted cat-tails, and the pintail ducks,
taking warning, rise with a clatter into the air,
without knowing what the danger may be.
They are all gone, and the cold, glittering
reaches of old Crosswicks are forbidding. The
storm is too near for comfort I admit, yet sight-
seeing is not at an end. Almost at my feet, as
I stand on the bank of the little river, is a coot
that floats as lightly as a cork, and holds its
head as erect as a June rose in the sunshine.

In Defence of Desolation. 187

The world is not wrong with it. If the waters
are a bit troubled by the wind, a little more
care is needed perhaps ; but what of that ? Its
feathers are comparatively storm-proof, and
there is always quiet underneath the waves.
The commotion made life merrier for the coot,
as a bit of excitement adds a healthy pulse-beat
to our sluggish selves.

But I must hurry away : the darkness means
a great deal if it overtakes you on the marsh.
I give another searching glance at the wind-
tossed water as I turn from it. There, for the
first, I see a little brown dab-chick, a distant
cousin of the coot's, and just as happy as that
strange bird. It dived as I saw it, but immedi-
ately reappeared, and I waved it a good-by.

I might have accepted my friend's dictum,
moped in front of the andirons, and believed
the world desolate. How unfair would I then
have proved to myself and to the commonplace
corner in which my lot is cast ! A cloudy sky,
a cold east wind, a chill that reaches to the
bone, and patches of moisture-laden fog may
all be present ; the leafless trees may look all
forlorn and not a sound reach you as you look

i88 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

from the window ; but plunge into these ele-
ments of discomfort, accept no other than
your impressions after close contact, and you
will be moved to admit that only upon the
failure of a thousand happenings, and a deeper
blackness settling over the outlook than ever
did, will you be justified in exclaiming, even as
you survey the world from a window, " How
desolate !"

A Very Old Milestone.

ALMOST in the middle of a neglected field,
mottled with parti-colored pebbles in winter
and green during summer, when the dewberry
vines run riot over the glacial drift, — here, half
a mile from any public road, I recently un-
earthed a very old milestone, when and by
whom set up nobody living knew. A know-
ledge of it came to me as an Indian idol, and so
it was hunted up, the frozen earth removed, and
the relic recovered. Closer examination proved
it to be a flat, frost-split slab of slaty stone, with
S. M. still decipherable upon one side, and a
few dents and short lines that I cannot demon-
strate ever meant anything. In proportion to
their ignorance, the idle element of the neigh-
borhood, standing about, assumed to be pro-
ficient in antiquarian lore, and took it unkindly
when called fools. Had I been blind I might
have imagined the ghosts of the colonists of

189

190 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

two centuries ago were all babbling at once.
The poor old resurrected milestone had no
chance to be heard where it was, so I took it
home, and am thankful that my door-yard is far
too wide for the neighbors to look across it
Here both the milestone and myself are rest-
ing in peace, the latter standing boldly out in
the winter sunshine, and now a milestone once
more, but only indicating how far in the distant
past is the old township of Nottingham of two
centuries ago.

First, the Indian trail, and how long every
journey must have seemed when threading the
deep, dark woods from which dangerous foes
might at any time appear ! for these were the
days of the lurking cougar, the most dangerous
of animals since the time when the Ice Age
hunter contended vainly with angered masto-
dons. The references to the cougar in colonial
documents are few and unsatisfactory, yet these
fierce creatures lingered here long after Euro-
pean occupation of the country, and certainly
before then were not rare, if we may judge
from the traces of them found in the ashes of
the earlier Indian village sites. Among these

A Very Old Milestone. 191

I recall a curiously fashioned fragment of a
lower jaw, with the teeth in place, the purpose
evidently being that of an ornament. Teeth
and claws of bears are still popular with the
untamed red man, and this bit of a cougar's
jaw told the same story. I have seen, too, a
rude etching on a slate that seemed to be in-
tended for this animal, — one of the few inscribed
stones which could not be held in suspicion, not
passing through too many hands before reaching
an archaeologist

Peter Kalm makes no reference to the cougar,
and yet it was still roaming through South Jersey
even at the time of his visit, 1749, but, pre-
sumably, of rare occurrence.

After the trail, a bridle-path, or, more cor-
rectly, the one became the other, through the
same boundless forest, extending as it did from
the river to the ocean. It was available, as a
path, for a horse and its rider only, and some
years elapsed before it was widened and became
a roadway for carts. Here documentary evi-
dence helps us a little. The cart-road in time
became a highway that permitted the use of
four-wheeled vehicles, but it was still a twisting,

192 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

turning, serpentine route, following the same
lines that the Indians had found, those of least
resistance to foot travel. Then came the new,
direct roads from town to town, and the ap-
proximately geometric marking of farm boun-
daries. From the Indian trail to the bicycle-

path seems an indefinitely long time, but there
are people living who have seen one-half of it
My recovered milestone faced the storms, but
saw little of the sunshine of more than one-half
of the last two centuries. The forest was too
dense for even summer sunbeams to penetrate.

A Very Old Milestone. 193

It is a little difficult to realize now, when
practically all the one-time natural features of
the region have been removed, that our public
roads, as they now are, did not spring at once
into existence at the command of the surveyor.
Some of them did, but the main thoroughfares,
the old-time roads, grew into being very gradu-
ally, and, time-honored, should not their old
name of "road*' be retained? What sickly
sentimentality that changes it to " avenue," as
we find the case in many a city ! Now, the
pedestrian's highway is the winding foot-path
along the hill-side, with an old worm-fence on
one side and a respectable wood on the other.
This is the squirrel's and chipmunk's highway
also, so one is pretty sure of lively company, or
if this is too remote, the pedestrian can take the
"back road," or that most remote from the
popular lines of travel ; a deep sandy road
that defies the bicycle and so leaves the foot-
passenger happy. May such roads long con-
tinue ! Pay the supervisor his salary, but pray
him not to earn it. If only as a prostrate mon-
ument to good old times, let us have here and
there a road such as suited our easy-going
13

1Q4 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

grandfathers. Nature, when unmolested, does
not unmake a road, but puts many a finishing
touch upon it, and happy is the traveller who
passes that way. When such roads go out of
existence, walking will become mere locomotion
and the pedestrian by choice a curiosity. The
whirling throng of to-day that glory in wheel-
ing-paths and macadam are becoming familiar
enough with the wayside halting-places of their
rapid transits, but what of the intermediate
country? No spot quite empty to the eager-
eyed, and life lurks in many a tangle just over
the fence. The weeds of a single summer's
growth can effectually conceal the largest bird or
beast that is now found in our country ; ay,
that has been found here since the days of the
mastodon and giant elk. I found weeds, not
long since, that were eight feet high ; but then,
who cares for weeds? — is not the very name
one of reproach ? and such foul growths are to
be shunned, not sought. Until fools are dead
this will ever be the case ; but a wilderness of
weeds of a single summer's growth will well re-
pay most careful exploration. It can offer stout
resistance to your progress, and what may not

A Very Old Milestone. 195

hyssop and boneset and iron-weed and dudder
conceal ? Your legs and arms held fast by
the Gordian knot of greenbrier, you magnify,
when helpless, every unexplained condition, and
a foot-long garter-snake will give you a passing
vision of a boa-constrictor, and mice will grow
to wild-cats, before you see them scampering
across your feet. If you would rid the day of
possible monotony, push through a pathless
thicket in the corner of some neglected field ;
get scratched and pricked, and warmed by the
effort, if not excitement, and believe ever after
that the well-known country, as you thought it,
is not so well known after all. Too seldom do
we leave the beaten path and leap over the
farmers' fences.

Roads or paths alike are mere conveniences.
We do not live on them. The little poetry
they possessed passed with the times that were.
Endless the stream of traffic and of pleasure it
may be that now is passing to and fro, but how
prosy the present when the milestone calls up
a vision of the past, when the winding way
through the woods was the spot where the col-
onists occasionally met and held earnest conver-

196 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

sation, or, better yet, by chance young people
came by, and how vividly the youth stands out in
one's imagination as he leans nervously against
the old stone and murmurs little nothings that
elicit a scarcely audible reply !

The old milestone is intricately seamed, and
many the deep lines here and there, but Nature
has been the etcher. In vain has been my
search for hearts transfixed by arrows ; yet in
the century and more that passed when this was
in very fact a milestone, some such comedy
must have been acted within the reach of its
noontide shadow.

S. M. stood for Stacy's Mill, and that was
three miles away as the crow flies, but all traces
of the figures indicating this fact have crumbled
to dust. Indeed, I have but the ghost of a
milestone, but ghosts are suggestive, if not lo-
quacious, and how glorious it would be if many
people we know were only ghosts ! Mahlon
Stacy, the proprietor, had five daughters I know
of, and perhaps there were others, and how un-
likely that this milestone should not have been
passed and repassed by anxious, meditative
swains, going, of course, to the mill on business,

A Very Old Milestone. 197

but coming from it dissatisfied if Ruth or Re-
becca had not been in evidence. In such way
fancy runs wild as I look at the stone, and in
more sober moments I am forced to confess the
thing itself is not suggestive. How utterly
stupid is a modern milestone ! and why, after
all, should one that has crumbled under Time's
destroying touch be more so ? It fails, to my
sorrow, to conjure up a lengthy panorama of
Colonial days. Perhaps it is as well ; for if the
whole truth were told our enthusiasm might be
chilled. As it is, we forget that then as now
there was an ugly, seamy underside of things,
and the early settlers were quite as human as
their successors of to-day. No ; in digging up
an old milestone I did not dig up a treasure.
Fancy no more clings to it than water to the
feathers of a duck. But I have been impatient.
Looking at it again to-day, while the storm
was raging, the old milestone, to my surprise,
was clothed with interest. Brave snow-birds
perched upon it. How suggestive they proved
to be ! A strange light seemed to rest upon the
stone, and I saw, as in a picture, the forests of
other days ; and not a tree but was the resting-

198 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

place of a bird. Every bush was the home of
a songster, and through the grass ran the wary
mother grouse and quail, with timid, peeping
brood. What days were those, when their one
great enemy had not appeared in force, civilized,
cultured, charitable, tender-hearted man ! The
milestone brought a vision to me of the day
when this foe to the bird world had not yet
asserted himself; and what happy days those
must have been ! It is hard to realize that time
was when on this very spot there were birds by
the thousands, and now often half a day goes
by and not even one poor sparrow to make
glad the fields. Many birds passed away with
the trees, but not all. Birds have wit enough
to accommodate themselves to very changed
conditions, and would do so, but man will not
permit. Very excellent evidence that mankind
is not capable of taking care of itself, but needs
an iron hand to keep it under control. We are
continually prating about the blessings of lib-
erty, but when do we ever hear of the curses
of it? Liberty has its well-defined boundaries,
but these are ignored, and license and liberty
are held as synonymous. Now, when it is

A Very Old Milestone. 199

almost, if not quite too late, an earnest cry is
going up to spare the birds ; but are not the
fools too many and the wise too few to restore
our one-time blessing ? Spare what are left by
all means, but what of those that are gone
forever ?

We establish national parks for the preser-
vation of " noble game" when it is threatened
with extinction, but had not wit enough to
foresee the danger and check the lawless scoun-
drels who caused the mischief. Awake to the
disappearing bison, because " noble game," but
what of the nobility of singing birds ? Is it
never to be recognized ? We do not seem to
awake to this until the music ceases, and it
dawns upon us that something is lacking to
round out the summer day. A stranger from
another planet might think that the "country"
belonged to the city, and farmers were living
in the fields by sufferance. Some heartless
city clique demands bluebirds for bonnets,
orioles for hats, and breasts of grebes for tip-
pets, and these birds must yield their lives to
meet such whims. He who loves the living
bird is a fool and must stand aside. A cele-

2OO Clear Skies and Cloudy.

bration of some sort in Baltimore nearly caused
the extermination of the Baltimore oriole. Bet-
ter exterminate But I forbear.

I can no longer see the milestone as it was.
It forever brings to mind the one-time natural
world, with all its beauties ; a thrilling thought
while it stays, but ever followed by the sobering
realization of naked and almost barren fields.
Gaze intently at the milestone, and it will be
replaced by the primitive forest and all wild life
in its glory ; turn aside for an instant, break the
spell, and what a dreary outlook is before us !
My milestone, about which I hoped to weave
many a cheerful story, and with which I hoped
to spend many a retrospective hour, is in very
truth but a tombstone, recording how much has
been lost to us, .gone from us forever.

Christmas Out of Doors.

THAT bird is a bit of a philosopher that can
stretch out its Christmas to three full months,
and have the memory of it gladden all the rest
of the year ; that can get in its holiday a full
month before we do ours, and keep it up for a
good two months after our one little day. We
have such a bird, a wren, cousin to the little chap
that used to build in boxes, even in city yards.

Cheerfully, cheerfully, cJieerfully ! Hear its
Christmas salutation, and who thinks of the
dismal weather, even if snow be fathoms deep ?
See to it, see to it, see to it ! Who can resist
attending to such a command and keeping a
merry countenance, even if there is no turkey
for dinner? That wren's music will soften the
hardest crust, and change what is very like a
fast to a feast.

No holly or mistletoe, but why feel slighted ?
Here is black alder with as bright a berry, the

201

2O2 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

whole bush like a ruddy flame that warms and
lights the woodside glen, and here is moss as
green as any sunny grass-plot of a May morn-
ing ; here, too, is Prince's pine and pipsissewa,
and not a brown leaf in the woodland path but
covers some fresh and frost-defying growth.
Even in the open fields, tempest-swept and
bleak under a cloudy sky, there is modest
mullein, velvety and bright, that looks up at
you like a winsome girl wrapped in her winter
furs. We start out on a Christmas walk, think-
ing we will have to hunt for cheer, and find
rather that our search must be for the truly
desolate ; that is, if we want to nourish our
pessimism among the wrecks and ruins of the
dead summer ; and at every turn in our path,
it may be, we will be urged to go yet farther
afield by this good genius of a winter's day,
the wren, that will call, when you least expect it,
Look here, look here, look here ! This is not
silly fancy, nor overstraining of a wild bird's
note to make it suit our whim. The Carolina
wren has found the secret of a sweet content
and would share it with the world.

Do not ask where this strange bird finds a

Christmas Out of Doors. 203

home, — whether in open fields or wooded hill-
side, by the wide river's bush-grown banks, or
hides in hollows thick with tangled briers. I do
not wish to track his wrenship to his lair. He
is not a bird to be hunted, but let him find you
out. Reverse the order, and be pursued rather
than the pursuer. Now, he comes from the
twiggy tops of twisted trees, and then, as
if earth opened, he comes from some dark
cave beneath you ; but whatever the direction,
whatever the manner, the message that he
brings is ever the same, let him express it as
he will, — Cheery, cheery, cheery ! and even the
old oaks look glad. Whether or not, I feel so
when I hear this earnest herald of a winter-long
Christmas. Not all the sacred music of this
day is to be heard in the churches. There is a
real or supposed magic in green, and never a
day in winter but we greet it effusively, as an
ever welcome but unexpected gift. Are we
logical ? We act as though we would all have
headaches if the world was red, or become
bilious beyond endurance if the skies were yel-
low, forgetting that the Eskimo finds a white
world endurable ; so why not we, who hold

204 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

ourselves so far in advance of hyperboreans,
find the at present all prevailing browns of win-
ter an inspiring color? It is not for a moment
to be considered with reference to what has
been or will be, but as to what is. Here we
are, confronting a brown world this Christmas
morning, — brown grass, brown weeds, brown
everything, — and yet only regretfully, and loath
to take up each object as it is and live in the
present moment. If we could walk with the
Carolina wren continually present, chiding our
faint-heartedness, perhaps our illogic would not
be overpowering. Do not wait, however, for
the bird to call out Look up at me, look up at
me/ but remember its cheerful assurances at
the outset and live only in the present moment ;
never indulge in a backward glance even men-
tally, nor, worse than all, wonder if your neigh-
bor's fields are less brown than your own.
Here you are, and a downright fool not to
make the best of it. Let the path before you
be the subject of a brown study, but do not let
any element of a sad and sickly retrospection
enter therein. Why, when grass is dead, does
it turn brown and yellow rather than pink and

Christmas Out of Doors. 205

purple ? Let such a question come to mind ;
puzzle over it, and see more in winter than a
mere cemetery of the summer. Do this, and
you will not be so surprised at the Carolina
wren's sudden outburst of Cheerfully, cheer-
fully, cheerfully ! because you are now so
cheerful yourself.

I fancy the attractiveness of in-door festivities
of a Christmas Day will always be enhanced, by
way of the contrast, if we have a Christmas
outing in the same twenty-four hours. We can
better keep our own holiday if we know some-
thing of how Nature is celebrating hers. Better
this than by taking a nap after dinner, as we
are apt to do. Doubtless Nature sleeps in the
moon and not even dreams, if astronomers are
not mistaken, but here on earth one can find
activity enough even in late December, if we
know how to go in search of it. The Carolina
wren is sufficient of himself to guide you into
paths of pleasantness and of surprisingly active
celebrations of upland and meadow merriment,
but never for one instant think this bird is left
alone to keep creation in good spirits. There
is the cardinal, that whistles not to keep his

2o6 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

courage up, but to keep his too great good
spirits properly down ; transmuting his surplus
energy to music that other creatures may share
his happiness. Who, I wonder, can think his
walk barren of attraction that has been saluted
by a chickadee ? Probably this has happened,
but it is well to lend a patient ear to every bird
that flies. Birds are not people, remember, and
are in some things their superiors. There are
those in this world who have judged and spoken
hastily to unassuming people and lost thereby
that for which they have been laboring half their
lives. With but very few exceptions — none,
with some people — our chickadee is the dearest
of all the hundreds of birds that crowd about
our home, and there should be no lack of com-
pany nor ground for complaint ; no excuse for
loneliness on the rambler's part if even but one
of these birds greets him in the woods or by the
wayside. Christmas jollity extends over the
whole winter with the chickadee. We make
much of it to-day, and at most pick the bones
of yesterday's turkey to-morrow. Why Christ-
mas at all, if it preaches no sermon we can re-
member ? The spirit of the day in us, it seems

Christmas Out of Doors. 207

to be also in all we see. Even the solemn little
red owl in the hollow apple-tree looks to-day
less wise and more natural and happy, his big
eyes reflecting the glow of winterberry and
cedar and the green of the fresh grass spread
now over the pebbly bed of the rippling brook.
Not literally so, perhaps, but seemingly, be-
cause, in a happier mood ourselves, our own
vision is clearer. We leave dull care behind
us, and Nature then always looks kindly on our
better selves. She has no patience with de-
spondency, which is twin to cowardice, but
meets cheerfulness face to face. When the
storm comes the Carolina wren raises its voice.
Are our activities roused in proportion as the
tempest rages ?

The in-door world to-day has a stronger claim
than usual upon us. The coveted outing must
be cut short, but better a crowded furlong than
an empty mile, and no man has yet seen all
that a furlong has to show. Eager to return,
yet reluctant to leave the merry field and wood,
it is well, perhaps, that Christmas comes but
once a year.

The Charm of the Inexact.

\VHEN a child of two or three is asked if it
will have a cake, it naturally answers "Yes,"
but the cake is withheld until there is added to
the original reply " Thank you, ma'am ;" all of
which may be very polite, but is an infliction
that the child should be spared. It is not what
is said, but how it is said, that determines the
mental status of the speaker. A simple "yes"
or "no," as the case may be, spoken in a
proper tone and with a meaning look, is better
a thousand times over than, in reply to a simple
question, to have a small vocabulary impatiently
flung at you. We have but to listen to an
ordinary conversation between a half-dozen
couples in a room, and with our eyes shut we
can imagine a battle royal between Webster,
Worcester, and the several new dictionaries. We
use too many words ; the trouble begins in
infancy, and while then it is mere tautology and
208

The Charm of the Inexact. 209

meaningless, it unavoidably develops a love of
inexact statement, as when a child is found
perfunctorily adding " I thank you" when it
doesn't, and saying "yes" for politeness' sake,
or to escape punishment, when its wishes call
for "no."

I remember well, when a little boy, being
asked by my mother if I did not want to go
with Mrs. Bluemonday and carry her bundle.
My reply was, "I do not want to go, but I
can." Here was an exact statement of the
conditions ; but I was roundly scolded for being
so outspoken. Result, from that day I hated
Mrs. Bluemonday.

The man who mentions but the plain fact, or
is mathematically or rnonosyllabically inclined
and says "warm" and "cool," meaning just
this, for "hot" and "cold," not meaning those
conditions, — such a person, I say, is invariably
but most unreasonably voted a bore. He can-
not meet our extravagant demands, requiring,
as we do, recklessness of statement to rouse us
to even a semblance of attention. The brilliant
man, as he is popularly called, is too often but
a polysyllabic chatterer. Fatigue never checks
14

21O Clear Skies and Cloudy.

his loquacity, but it is muscular rather than in-
tellectual vigor that stands him so well in need.
Why ? If we go back to the starting-point of
our intellectual careers, we find that the natural
disposition to observe literally a scriptural in-
junction and let "yea" and "nay" suffice is
corrected, and we are forced to tack on a deal
that means nothing usually and sometimes is a
positive falsehood. In short, the child that
would be terse and truthful is required to be
verbose and incorrect. The Psalmist said in
his haste, "All men are liars:" if living now,
he could and would say it with justified delib-
eration.

As words are merely signs of our ideas and
we come quickly to understanding them, how-
ever improperly used, there is no serious harm
done, it is claimed ; but this we deny. Least
of the ills is that most commented upon, the
development of a curious condition, the demand
for strong statement, for the use of even many
adjectives when none are called for. In short,
we become charmed, as in the myth of the ser-
pent exerting its power over birds, by the mere
tools of speech. For this reason our language

The Charm of the Inexact. 211

appeals to the eye more than to the ear. As
written, it is much more artistic than as spoken.
We listen to the reading of printed matter with
pleasure and profit, but when is conversation
akin to this? I trust others have been more
fortunate. I have not met a dozen persons who
knew thoroughly well how to talk and gave me
the feeling of having been fortunate because I
had met them. Conversation should be worth
the effort of utterance ; but how seldom the
outcome warrants the wear and tear of the
machinery !

There is a ludicrous aspect of this whole
question, attached almost exclusively to the con-
versation of women, which is perhaps a natural
outcome of their inborn disposition to reck-
lessness of statement, particularly where some
immediate, petty advantage is to be gained, and
total lack of heed as to the ultimate conse-
quence. It required some months of constant
observation, much commingling with woman-
kind at popular gatherings, and a deal of listen-
ing unobserved when in stores and places of
amusement, to determine the curious fact, as
asserted by these women, that not one of them

212 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

was ever startled by some sudden occurrence,
but always "frightened to death." Never a
woman because of a delayed meal felt the con-
dition of hunger but was " almost starved ;"
she is never cold, but "positively frozen ;" and
so to the end of the chapter. The frequency
of a woman's nearness to death is so marked,
in her conversation, that when the critical time
comes we imagine she ought from familiarity
with the sensation to shuffle off this mortal coil
with inexpressible ease and grace. And per-
haps it is from this claimed familiarity that she
is able to hoodwink the king of terrors, for she
lives to be a hundred much more frequently
than falls to the lot of men. But most remark-
able of all of woman's peculiarities is the fre-
quency with which she is "just crazy." The
most trivial incident completely unbalances her,
and all day long she is "just crazy" to see, to
hear, to say, to do ; and it must be admitted
that a great deal which she does and says does
smack of lunacy. Perhaps it is this lack of
absolute sanity that makes them so charming.
Certainly there is some cause for it other than
exquisitely adjusted mentality. Let us be thank-

The Charm of the Inexact. 213

ful for the inexactitude of her self-condemnation
as to sanity. She is always "just crazy," but
generally sane enough to meet the approval of
mankind. Why men never use these extrav-
agant expressions I do not know. Is it be-
cause of the ounce or two more brain or an
added convolution to the wrinkled mass ?

This potent spell, this charm of the inexact,
cast over us in early life, is the fountain-head of
the all-prevalent insincerity that marks more or
less every individual's career ; and, ungallant as
it may seem to make the statement, this brief
dealing with plain facts necessitates that women
are to be placed in the front rank in this regard.
Not a new bonnet at Easter or new dress at a
reception but calls forth the " How lovely !"
and "Perfectly exquisite!" that ripple charm-
ingly from rosy lips, but did not bubble up
from the heart. Alas, the fair creatures when
they reach home say to themselves or to their
sisters of this same bonnet or dress, "Wasn't
it horrid?" And in the crowded street, when
they meet their acquaintances every one for the
moment is their dearest friend, and the sole
pleasure of the morning had been to meet

214 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

them : out of hearing, how frequently this
dearest friend is stabbed in the back ! How
very wonderful and incomprehensible is this
charm of the inexact, and how very unnecessary !

It may be objected that too precise statement
would prove like the old-time Quaker garb, so
monotonous that it would be depressing, and
gayety shut out from the world. This seems
reasonable at first glance, but if we practise
moderation of speech and correctness of as-
sertion, even very mildly, it will be found not
so funereal as imagined. Our thoughtless chat-
ter may be likened to the glare of sunshine ;
our sober conversation to the refreshing shade.

Here is another view of the subject, and by
no means an unimportant one. The world at
large would be less ignorant if fact and theory-
could forever be kept separate and apart until
the latter has passed its probationary stages and
been raised to the state of fact-hood. But they
are not kept apart and radically distinct, they
keep knowledge in a turmoil, and prove, sadly
enough, that where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly
to be wise. Those who read our newspapers
and periodical publications find it difficult to

The Charm of the Inexact. 215

equip themselves with the facts of any case,
seeing how fiercely disputed is every statement
of a fact as such. Those who have had ex-
perience in any line of research know the
bewildering array of opinions daily set forth,
and how persistently the theorists hound every
one who ventures to question their hobbies by
virtue of the obvious facts resulting from their
own observations. To defy the truth and de-
fame the truthful that theory may remain as-
cendant and the fathers of theories hold to high
places is one of the melancholy features of prev-
alent inexact statement. This phase indeed
calls for strong language, and it is unfortunate
that it is not legally permissible. A vast deal
of the ignorance that is now prevalent is due
to the impudence of those who have really no
authority to express an opinion. Barnum, it
was, I believe, who said people liked to be
humbugged; but did not this refer to matters
of mere amusement, — tricks that we were always
expecting to solve and so set ourselves aright?
So far no harm is done, but not so when the
truth is held back because here and there some
opiniative "professor" must needs confess him-

216 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

self mistaken. This is everywhere a feature of
inexact statement that is not charming, but dis-
gusting, to those who finally discover for how
long a time they have been duped by dishonest
" authorities" on the subject.

The Rustic : a Protest.

BY mere accident my eye caught the definition
of "Rustic" in Stormonth's Dictionary, and I,
being a countryman, at once rebelled. " Rude,
untaught, awkward, unadorned." Perhaps it
was unwise, but at the time, and still, I feel
warranted in talking back, and am moved to de-
clare the definition, as it stands without any
mollifying comment, undeserved. But my pro-
test must have a beginning that is respectful, if
emphatic, and to maintain with proper dignity
the rustic's point of view I will start with the
assertion that the dictionary's statement, stand-
ing without qualification, is not true. If the
rustic is all that is here said of him, it means, as
compared with city folk, and what a difference
that makes ! Why cannot I, a rustic, look de-
preciatingly at the folks in town ? As a matter
of fact, I have never done anything else.

The rustic is not necessarily rude. He may

217

218 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

be plain-spoken, but not offensively so. He
may look you straight in the eye, but he does
not impudently stare, and there is herein a won-
derful difference not always recognized within
city limits. Honest himself, he expects honesty
in you, and, speaking the truth, neither blushes
in so doing nor expects that his words will cause
you to be confused. If this is rudeness, let us
have more of it.

Untaught ! True, he may never have heard
of Homer, and is in doubt if Shakespeare is the
author of dramas, or is a play of that name.
Never mind. The rustic makes a remark at
odd times that Shakespeare would have been
delighted to have thought of. Shockingly un-
taught ! Yes ; but what is ancient literature to
him who has been reared in the still older litera-
ture of a bird's song and the murmur of the
breeze in the pine-tree tops that shade his cot-
tage? If untaught as to the past, in an his-
torical sense, he is not ignorant of the present,
and his arguments in times of political turmoil
are worthy of attention. It seems not to occur
to some people that the rustic has no special
edition of the metropolitan dailies printed to

The Rustic: a Protest. 219

meet the requirements of his supposed inferi-
ority. And, to be less serious, how effectually
he silences many a college-bred theorist who
applies his knowledge of Nature to the rustic's
farm.

"There ought to be clay near the surface
here and rock cropping out over yonder, and
your soil is better adapted to grass than grain,"
the rustic is informed.

" Ought to be, did you say, sir ? Well, per-
haps ; only it ain't so. There's no clay nor
rocks within sight, and I grow better wheat than
hay. ' '

The college man is not silenced. How could
a rustic accomplish that ? Perhaps he thinks
the man is lying, and he continues, patroniz-
ingly, "Your brook is too small for anything
but minnows, and all the game's killed off, of
course."

" Good-sized minnies, sir, in that ditch in the
pastur' meadow ; big enough for pan fish, so
the folks say, when I bring up a mess of pike,
a pound a-piece or more ; but you're right about
game. There's no deer nor bears, but when
the season comes in, I look a bit after the quail

22O Clear Skies and Cloudy.

and woodcock and rabbits and the like. Farm
work's pretty much done up in October, and I
don't mind takin' a day off."

How very rude, thinks the college man ; but
stay, where really was the rudeness ? Does it
not lie at the door of the townsman who comes
to the country thinking that every rustic is a
fool ? There is not one word to be said against
colleges and the education to be received there,
but it must not be supposed that no portion of
that same lore can be gathered without the aid
of a text-book. Given a desire for knowledge
and it can be had by any one at head-quarters,
from Mother Earth herself, as well as from class-
rooms where it is filtered through a professor's
brain.

An untaught rustic is but another name for
an idiot, and unless in charge of a caretaker
would soon die of starvation. The knowledge
derived by close contact with Nature may not
fit us for the extremes of artificiality of the
city ; may leave the ear untrained for the opera
but not unappreciative of the thrush ; may knot
the knuckles, to the destruction of kid gloves,
but harden them to effectiveness when brought

The Rustic: a Protest. 221

face to face with danger. The rustic's eye may
not follow the cunning of the landscape spread
upon canvas, but it notes the changing scene
as the seasons pass, and makes the rustic the
reliable guide if you would know where the
sweetest fruits and brightest flowers are found ;
and it is not an unknown occurrence for the
museum-lounging naturalist to experience a set-
back when he airs his science in the rustic's
hearing. Untaught, yes ; we admit it, but every
inch a man. Do those from the city always
bear measuring by the same standard ? Is the
rest from toil less wholesome, more animal-like,
less worthy of a man, sought in the rude rocker
of hickory splints, than that, too often sought
in vain, on velvet cushions ? It is a matter of
difference of education, of tastes in opposite
directions, but is there less manliness ? Is the
rustic really lower in the scale ? Is being nearer
to Nature lower than being part and parcel of a
town ? The most fastidious can pass weeks with
a rustic and yet never have a fair opportunity to
criticise adversely one word or deed. That the
"untaught" condition of the rustic, as viewed
by the city man, signifies lack of refinement and

222 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

necessitates it, is positively untrue. He may be
plainer spoken, may never attempt to chase the
devil around the stump, but his words are no
more offensive than the vagueness of the town-
dweller's redundant phrases. If they are offen-
sive, then the hearer is more open to criticism
than the speaker. Unto the honest all things
are honest, and the defect lies with those whose
thoughts are led into miry paths because of
honest speech uttered with no trace or thought of
extended construction. No; the "untaught"
rustic has a good deal to be thankful for, having
honesty sufficient to look the world squarely in
the eye and speak plainly. It is an inestimable
privilege, and he who takes offence is a fool.

The author of my dictionary is not content
with calling the rustic he had in mind rude and
untaught, but he is awkward ! Whether this is
a greater or less defect than the others I do not
know, but it stands equally prominent upon the
printed page. Awkward ! I admit he might
not pass through a crowded parlor without jost-
ling the elbow of some slender fop of the city,
or worse, might tread upon that abomination of
fashion, a lady's train ; he might, but only with

The Rustic : a Protest. 223

grave misgiving, be trusted to pass a cup of
coffee through a surging crowd of hungry mor-
tals. It were better not to trust him. Yes ;
awkward when he feels out of place, and who is
not ? But I have seen this awkward rustic pick
up a light rifle — rifle, mind ; not shot-gun —
and bring down a teal that was flying at the rate
of a mile a minute ; have seen him drive his
team afield and plough a furrow, without other
guide than his eye, as straight as the best sur-
veyor could have staked it out. I have seen
him cut a slender switch, and with a fuzzy string
from the grocer's counter make tackle that
wound deftly in and out among the overhanging
tangle of brush, and bring to his creel the trout
that had teased and tormented the skilled an-
gler. Awkward, yes ; where the artificialities of
town are concerned, but scarcely so when near
to Nature. There he treads the earth with that
confidence in his strength which makes him bold
as a lion where bravery is called for, and gentle
as a lamb to all the unoffending world.

Not content with the triple charge, that, if
true, would be too great a load to carry, the
author of the dictionary adds that the rustic is

224 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

unadorned. We know all too well there is truth
in this charge. There is no ring on his finger,
no diamond on his shirt front ; the cuffs are
buttoned, or there may be no cuffs at all ; there
are no tanned shoes polished with lemon juice
or banana peel ; no golf stockings or cycling
suit ; not a trace of evidence that Fashion has
been ever heard of; but there is a glitter in the
eye that outsparkles the diamond ; there is the
line of strength in every muscle if not the line
of beauty, and through the sunburn that has
reddened his face shines an honest purpose that
fills his whole life ; an adornment that is too
often lacking when we pass the boundary that
divides town and country. It may be true, but
is it pity that the rustic is rude, untaught,
awkward, and unadorned, when, with all these
blemishes, he knows no fear, and in time passes
to another world without thought of cringing,
but to look directly in the face, all unabashed,
whomsoever he may meet in the realms of
eternity ?

How true it is that the rustic loses when he
goes to town ! with the man of the city it is all
gain when he goes into the country. Lay

The Rustic : a Protest. 225

prejudice aside. Be honest for the moment, if
not too great an effort, and see if the rustic, as
painted in the dictionary, loses so very much
when compared with the finished product of
metropolitan humanity.

The Unlettered Learned.

CRUDITY of diction is not always indicative
of crudity of thought. The latter has been
longer in the world than language, for the prime •
val savage was not without the elements of
mind when gestures and grunts were his sole
means of expression. To rebel is as human as
to err, and he who defies grammar is not neces-
sarily a fool. How often we hear it said, " Oh,
he's an uneducated man," and so pay no serious
attention to what this " unfortunate" may have
to say. It may happen that we suffer more
than he does by such assumed superiority. The
round of the seasons can effect as much as a
college curriculum to an open-eyed man. Not
in the same direction, not with equal artistic
finish, but fool himself who sets down the un-
tutored student of the out-door world as little
better than a fool. By syntax and prosody we
cannot solve the problem of an oak-tree, or
226

The Unlettered Learned. 227

that of the minnow in the brook that flows past
its gnarly roots. Greek philosophy does not
explain the color of a flower, nor Roman
sophistry why birds build nests.

Granted the desirability of all the intellectual
culture that centres in a university library, still
it is not indispensable when we take to the
woods and have a desire to know more of the
planet on which we live ; for this self-same earth
was a very complete affair and well worthy of
a place in the universe when the anthropoid ape
was the climax of evolutionary activity. Had
man never been, no reasoning creature from
Mars, we will say, could have thought of the in-
completeness of earth or supposed it was yet to
be the scene of higher intellectual activities ;
or, if the world had come to an end in the days
of continued struggle with wild beasts, of cave-
dwelling and cannibalism, it could not have been
said of the planet that it had closed its career
untimely ; nor, later, in the dawn of education,
could this have been said. Some nineteen
hundred years ago the end of the world was
confidently expected by a few thousands of
world-weary enthusiasts.

228 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

Before the day of schools and colleges there
were unlearned men who knew a vast deal, after
their own fashion ; and this is equally true of
to-day. The world has waited for wireless
telegraphy and the electric motor, but it did not
need to. The north pole is no longer a mys-
tery, but many have lived who were ignorant of
all this, yet spoke words of wisdom. The ice
of the mill-pond whispers the essentials of a
frozen ocean. Many have walked boldly to a
fact and by unschooled cunning captured it.
Now, the bicycle carries us across the continent,
but the only gathered fact is that we are trans-
ported. Eyes and ears are no longer the open
avenues to the brain. Life is more a matter
now of heels than of head.

The man who has spent a long life in the
country, with his fields bounded by woodland
and swamp, though he can neither read nor
write, is not necessarily ignorant. Nature has
made so much of her working plain to his un-
tutored mind that he can interpret in a way of
his own, and a way, too, that is not bewildering
by reason of a long array of contradictory state-
ments. It is something to have knowledge all

The Unlettered Learned. 229

your own, gathered wholly by your unaided
efforts : it makes one free ; for he who merely
echoes another's thoughts, or accepts the dictum
of another as to what is true and what is false,
is in a sense a slave. The authorities, as they
assert themselves to be, are ever tyrants ; our
manhood is in proportion to our independence
of any and all arbiters. The submissive man is
a mere machine. To shape our lives at the
direction of others that we may be wise and
saved, is to keep ourselves ignorant and un-
worthy of salvation. Knowledge direct from
Nature is a source of satisfaction as unfailing as
a great library is to a student of books. When
the uneducated man who lives in the open
country lays by his work for the day, he can
turn to himself for amusement, and often with
satisfaction equal to his who turns to the printed
thoughts of other people.

I do not undervalue what the world calls
"education." Lacking it myself, I may be
calling down condemnation upon my head for
speaking of it as I do. I never had a teacher
who gave me the slightest encouragement, and
more than one was a brute in human form. I

230 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

know nothing of college life beyond vague
hearsay ; but, although it seemed to be ex-
pected, I never trembled in the courts of classic
greatness. It is no part of evolution that all
men should be of one pattern. There are oak-
trees and people who live in their company, and
smaller folk who linger in the shade of shrub-
bery ; there are toilers in the field as well as in
the town, and the place of each is equally well
defined. Homer, in the library, for him who
loves Homer ; but the thrush's song, in the
tangle of green brier, is sufficient for my needs.
I may be less a man, but is this being less not a
part of the scheme of the world ? I do not feel
my littleness. But I would speak of others, not
of myself.

Lack of guidance derived from books is not
a synonyme of mental inferiority or degradation,
as some would put it. The "ignoramus" who
cannot speak correctly can send the bullet of
his thought straight home, if he does use as a
means of so doing an obsolete flint-lock musket
instead of the improved Winchester rifle. We
pay too little attention to the fact that a man's
purpose is accomplished, and criticise too much

The Unlettered Learned. 231

the manner of its bringing about. Words are
signs of ideas : the crude speech that makes me
wiser is more welcome than the polished phrase
that tells me nothing but what I knew before,
or leaves me in doubt whether it is sense and
sound, or sound that lacks sense.

" But," speaks up some one learned in book-
lore, "without an arbiter there must be con-
fusion, an inextricable confusion of fact and
fancy."

"Thanks for the suggestion," I reply, "but by
what authority does your arbiter dare to deter-
mine which is true and which is false ?' ' Really,
if we ponder reverently, patiently, and of our
own accord, unmoved by others' urgency, over
the tomes of Solons dead and gone, shall we
find harmony ? The sages of the past are called
authorities. Over what? By what authority
are they so called ? Not by common consent
That never yet has been accorded to any man.
Not a fact was ever set before the world but it
gave rise to at least two opinions, and usually
to ten times as many more. Truth is a plant
of slow growth, and man's gardening improves
neither its stalk nor its blossom. No one can

232 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

change to sweetness the bitterness of its fruit,
or, on the other hand, embitter its sweetness.
The unassuming man of the backwoods, whom
we hold as ignorant, may not be able to separate
paste from diamonds, but both are sources of
genuine pleasure, and an arbiter, even if such a
character had or could have other than earthly
authority, would only take away the paste and
lessen by a large fraction the delight or satis-
faction in life of the so-called ignorant man.

But why forever drawing the distinction be-
tween the ignorant and the learned, between
wisdom and foolishness, the true and the un-
true? Do not the mightiest in the world of
scholars hug delusions ? It is ever a matter of
almost all-wise but never quite so. We say of
many, "If" — and nothing further is necessary.
If, then, greatness hugs delusion, why may not
littleness cling to the self-taught "ignoramus" of
the woods and fields ? The unlettered learned
has his place in the world ; the untutored aristo-
crat does not lack in wholesome dignity. Ig-
norance has proved the guide to truth too often
to be spurned as useless. I have met with many
unschooled men, talked with them, listened to

The Unlettered Learned. 233

them, and the world was fuller of meaning to
me because of them. They are still so vividly
impressed upon my memory that when wisdom
makes the world unlovely (no uncommon occur-
rence) I turn to those whose ignorance has
proved a blessing to them, and so full a one
that in no stinted measure they share their joy
with me.

Uz Gaunt, the Humboldt of his township.
Miles Overfield, the Cuvier of Crosswicks Creek,
were the truly great men of my boyhood's days,
greater by far, to me, than the "intellectual
giants" I have met since then. I say this with
all due respect for those now living, for these
men of my days of hero-worship told me what
I wished to know, and what they told me be-
came then and there gospel that I have not
since learned to look upon askance because of
the higher criticism natural to maturer years.
And then, alas ! to-day's Solons are all at log-
gerheads about such things as have ever inter-
ested me the most. I greet with hearty laughter
now the thought that the simple explanations
of that unlettered yet really learned Uz Gaunt
stand the test of time and of hostile criticism.

234 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

Miles Overfield knew every tree on the broad
reach of meadows, and what each one was to
every bird and beast of the wide waste of swamp
and weedy pasture. There was not a bird that
nested here but he could lead me to its haunts,
nor mink or muskrat, opossum, skunk, or rac-
coon, but he knew where it hid by day and
where by night it was likely to wander. A
hunter, in all this, but this was not all. He dis-
cerned their relations to one another and to the
world at large. No mere hunter, bent only
upon his game with all the savagery of hawks
bent upon their prey, but a naturalist in the
widest sense, taking comprehensive views of
what lay before him ; grasping with quick intel-
ligence a fact, and — what mankind so generally
fail to do — grasping its full significance, the re-
lation of one fact to all others. Since his primer
was tossed aside with a shout of joy, as of a
prisoner set free, his eyes had seldom rested on
a printed page, and never quite understandingly ;
yet Miles Overfield, though unlettered, was not
unlearned. A congregation of scientists might
have confused him, could they have cornered
him in their book-lined halls ; but what of these

The Unlettered Learned. 235

men singly, did they meet him in the open field ?
There would not come one specialist but he
could lead him to spots that would delight the
student's heart and open up to him new views
of their common treasure-house, the out-door
world.

By both Gaunt and Overfield technical details
were overlooked, perhaps their existence was
never suspected ; the scholars' fine philosophy
never entered their dreams. That far, they were
abundantly happy in their ignorance. As to
the great mystery that encompasses the whole
earth and the heavens above the earth, they
were wisely content to leave to eternity to
make clear whatsoever time withheld from
them. These men realized their limitations,
and did not presume to lead me beyond facts
about which there could be no discussions •
facts that met every requirement of my life
then ; facts that were sources of joy then, and
must remain to me as such until I have joined
my unlettered friends ; and I ask no better com-
pany, if company we have, in the land of the
hereafter.

The Comfort of Old Clothes.

HOW far do we think our own thoughts • how
far repeat to ourselves the thoughts of others,
thinking we are dealing with original impres-
sions ? Is there anything new under the sun ?
It is an open question, but there are some
things remaining among us that are old — as
one's old clothes. For one I am thankful —
not an ever-present sensation — for my share ;
but we all have them, inasmuch as not until
garments are old do we lay them aside. When
they are worn out, in my neighbors' estimation,
I begin to love clothes dearly. Not until every
trace of newness is gone are they an essential
part of me ; in other words, do we become ac-
quainted and work in perfect harmony. We
are righteously indignant when unreasonably
restrained ; patience at such a time being but
admission that we are weaklings and require a
guardian. I, for one, have no time to spend in
236

The Comfort of Old Clothes. 237

bending the tailor's lack of skill to the shape
of my shoulders, and new clothes are valueless,
an infliction, metal yet in the ore, until they be-
come old, and then their value is inestimable.
Rebel as I will against having aught to do with
it, I have at intervals to conquer this obnoxious
newness, and perhaps I am fairly well repaid ;
but then comes the hour of my trial. When I
have come off conqueror and more than con-
queror, I am told that I need a new suit ; or, in
plain English, the recent torture is to be re-
peated. But I am not conquered. I am rich
now in that I have two old coats, and there shall
be no divorcement. Until death do us part, as
young people promise, so I promise myself.
The world may go hang, but I will be happy as
a king. My coat knows me and I know my
coat. It is not mere toleration on either part,
but mutual good-will and respect. It is a whim
of mine to believe my old coats are happy be-
cause they fit, and I am happy that they are an
aid and not a hinderance. A man is known by
the company he keeps, so let me be known by
my close association with old clothes. If you
that worship immaculate cloth and glory in the

238 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

newness thereof chance to see me coming, walk
on the other side of the road. Do not seek,
but shun me. I am too happy to be disturbed.
Do not talk to me about coats fitting as
neatly to the body as the bark of a beech-tree
to the trunk thereof. My skin does that, and
what I ask for in a coat is the loose and careless
hang of the lichens that find lodgement on the
beech's bark, or the moss that rests lightly at
the roots of the tree. There is a fine old sassa-
fras that stands before me whenever, at home, I
turn eastward, going out of doors. From top
to toe it is draped with a creeping vine that
hangs in graceful folds ; the tree a noble Ro-
man, with an artistic toga. That tree tells me
daily how desirable is flexibility in clothing, and
yet I am urged — and sometimes submit — to an
unyielding collar that tortures my neck, and box
in my wrists as if every bone was broken and
needed artificial support. It is bad enough to
be really injured and have to be boxed up and
braced until the bones are knitted and strong
again, but to imitate all this and to be be-col-
lared, be-cuffed, and be-bosomed by a laundry-
man and then smile and be happy is really

The Comfort of Old Clothes. 239

beyond my power. I do not criticise my neigh-
bors, but I do ask and insist for myself flexi-
bility of covering, and indulge in no end of
honest, outspoken profanity when I cannot
have it. We do not value our independence
sufficiently. The world is not yet powerful
enough to down genuine talent. To a certain
extent every man can be a law unto himself
and yet not a failure in the race of life. His
clothing can come within the limit. Let him
wear his coat honestly. Let his proper self
shine through that coat to the pleasure and
profit of his friends, and the antique cut of the
garment will not be an eyesore unto them. If
it is, then your coat more than yourself is
valued, and your friends can be dispensed with
without serious loss to yourself. He who is re-
belliously disposed and possesses an inquiring
mind will be astonished at the reception such
views will meet with from his fellow-freemen.
Free ? However smooth the current, let but the
tiniest twig fall upon it and its surface is ruf-
fled ; so the bare mention of a counter-current
thought disturbs at once the placid serenity of
our spiritless compliance to whatsoever has been

240 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

laid down as law. Once, when 1 spoke of the
comfort of old clothes, not a friend but frowned,
looking anxiously at his broadcloth, and daintily
tweaked the spear-points of his faultless collar.

Old clothes, not out-worn or threadbare or
offensively soiled, but old in the sense of
adapted or ripened, so that your coat is con-
formable, an extra-cuticular garment that is twin
to your skin and not a veneer merely that is
cross-grained and rebellious, contesting every
extension and expansion of the wrinkles Nature
has given the only covering she allows you on
your entrance into this vale of sorrows. We
take time to do everything that we must do, to
live ; and why not allow time for your coat to
settle to a realization of what is expected of it ?
Occasionally a mania for that which is old takes
strong possession of a community, and many a
mortal wishes first and then swears that he does
belong to an old family; so why not extend
this merit of age to more of life's minor con-
siderations than we do. We prattle in a childish
way about old friends and old associations, as
if necessity was a common feature of mankind ;
so why not some other matters. Grandfather's

The Comfort of Old Clothes. 241

clock tells the hours more musically than does
a cheap Yankee rattle-trap that ticks in a way
suggestive of Walt Whitman's barbaric yawp, —
so, I say, why so impatient when old clothes are
mentioned? Scott, in the "Surgeon's Daugh-
ter," makes a character in the story remark, " Old
recollections are like old clothes and should be
sent off wholesale." I do not believe it. The
future is unknowable, we live only in the present,
but we have come out of the past, and so long
as I keep dragging myself out of this past I pur-
pose pulling my old coat with me, nor ask when
I shall let go my hold and renew the vexations
incident to the putting on of a new garment.

Not long since I was poking about in the
mud, tracing the course of a mole that had
burrowed and uplifted the earth directly after
a prolonged midwinter rain, when I was im-
periously hailed by a stranger and asked who
lived at the end of the lane, pointing with his
carriage whip directly towards my house. I
meekly replied " I do," and watched the move-
ments of a black-hawk that was sailing past.

" I don't mean the tenant house," the stranger
replied, impatiently.

10

242 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

"There is none on the place," I remarked,
poking into a hole in the ground, where pos-
sibly lurked a meadow-mouse.

"This is where Dr. Abbott lives, is it not?"
the stranger then asked in a more natural tone,
for I saw he had been putting on airs.

" It is," I replied.

" Do you know if he is home ?" he asked.

" I know that he is not," was my answer.

The stranger looked much disappointed ; and
as he had evidently hired a horse at the livery
and was not some nearby chatterbox, I felt
moved to tell him all the truth, and so, after a
pause, added, " I am the man you wish to see."

His "Oh !" still rings in my ears.

We had a pleasant afternoon, and I learned
more from him than he gathered from my words,
and I do not feel mortified to have been found
in a mud-bespattered coat. It is astonishing
how constantly some people are "mortified,"
but I have noted that the process never goes
even skin deep, for now these many years, it is
not yet to be detected beyond mere words,
which I hold as lightly as I value the comfort
of old clothes.

,-«rt- iiiis,- • .,"«'J

In Deep, Dark Woods.

FEW men and a forest ; many men and a
desert. So it seems, to the regret of those who
have a greater liking for Nature than for arti-
ficiality ; for the earth with Nature as a caretaker
rather than endless fields under man's super-
vision. Woods both deep and dark are not of
necessity a matter of long ago, known to us but
by hearsay, nor need they be boundless in ex-
tent or the growth of centuries. Nature can
readily rebuild when man relinquishes his hold,
and though the farmer has drained the last drop
of life-blood from the long-suffering soil, Nature
knows where the overlooked springs of fertility
lie hidden, and, seeking their aid, by her chemic
art distils vigor from earth and air that defy
man's efforts. Let him withdraw, and, on the
barren soil amid the few foul weeds that stand,
suggestive grave-marks to departed worth, anew
will spring up the pine and beach and oak. I

243

244 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

have seen a flourishing mulberry that had forced
its way through a neglected pavement. A deep
dark woods may be a new forest ; clustered
trees, not older than the rambler that lingers in
their shade, yet literally dark and deep, for a
narrow strip of woodland may be both if you
stand at one end and only look towards the
other. We need a little tact when giving a
loose rein to the imagination. As children say,
we must "make believe," and by so doing a
dozen acres are as suggestive as that many square
miles. We must concern ourselves with what
is near at hand and distinctly in view, not bother
about the boundaries ; study the hub and spokes
of the wheel, and not wonder about the mud
on the tire.

It may be well to realize, before you enter,
that here, as in the open, you are not a lord of
creation, but one of many in a mixed crowd,
and not a very important one at that. No tree
steps aside at your approach nor moves a limb
from your path if it happens to obstruct it.
You must pick and push your way through, and
if a bended branch can fly back and strike
you, it will do so and stands unmoved however

In Deep, Dark Woods. 245

fiercely you may frown. It lessens the conceit
that mars every man to walk in the woods.
The fact that these trees are here by right and
you are an intruder is very forcibly set before
you. Nevertheless a forest is not inhospitable.
A dead tree may fall and crush you, but that
was because you were not forelearned in wood-
lore. If killed or maimed, it was not through
malice aforethought Satisfaction, in this world,
is too rare to miss any opportunity to acquire
even a trace of it, so take what you can from
the gruesome thought that a dead branch of a
tree may fall on you, but the result is purely
accidental. There is really something in the
thought, if it cannot mend a broken head.

On the excellent principle of " contented wi'
little and cantie wi' mair," I have been wander-
ing in the woods, and here, let me say, even a
single tree means a vast deal on a hot, sunny
summer day. The difference in temperature
from sunshine to shade is often startling.
Under some lone amid-field oak the coolness
of October lingers, though it is tropical beyond
the tree's shadow. What a tree means is not
to be realized in a moment, so, how hopeless,

246 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

even in a lifetime, to attempt to solve the
problems of a forest ! It is far more satisfactory
to study ten oaks for ten years than gallop
on horseback through a grove of ten thousand.
If you must satisfy the modern mania for num-
bers, take to counting the leaves. It needs but
a few trees to give you one million or more.
What has just been said of content is something
more than a catchy phrase.

There are other than laboratory methods of
studying Nature, and he is lacking who can sit
at the foot of an old tree and get no hints of
what the tree signifies as part of the world's
stupendous whole. It is something more than
fuel or lumber, for it is the living tree with
which he is or ought to be dealing. How very
different, as a specimen impression, one of a
hundred, are the trunks of our deciduous forests!
It is only the oaks that offer me a comfortable
resting-place on their roots. They offer both
seats and backs of a very easy chair, but the
beeches and birches, backs only. The curiously
twisted roots, with deeply grooved bark, like
models of the Colorado canon, extend in many
directions from the oaks of my home hill-side,

In Deep, Dark Woods. 247

and might readily be classified as the furniture
dealer does the chairs, sofas, and couches of his
stock in trade. I have them all here, and if
not elaborately upholstered, they are at least
strongly put together, equal to all reasonable
demands upon them, and can we say this of all
the joiner-work that finds place in houses ? No
oak-root chairs have ever creaked because I sat
down too suddenly, but if they did there would
follow no black looks from the hostess because
of my lack of care. To sit in the woods, then,
and on a safe and sound seat, has this additional
merit, we do not sit in silence, even if we so
elect. If no living creature comes to at least
so much as look at you, your own thoughts will
keep you company. The wind that gently stirs
the branches of a forest will make you think,
however assiduously you may court dreamless
sleep, and thoughts born in such a place, at
such a time, are never unworthy of your better
self. Is it true that you cannot, however hard
you try, think when alone in deep, dark woods ?
Be careful how you admit it, lest it be wondered
if you ever think at all.

So suggestive is every woodland tract that

248 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

the approach thereto is not to be overlooked be-
cause we are bent upon penetrating its recesses.
Against the dark background of my present
outlook, formed by the rim of a small but
ancient wood, I see the restless herons that
look black as crows, passing from their nesting
trees in an upland sink-hole to the meadows.
They make so pretty a picture that I forget the
background for a time, and am reminded of it
when a wary crow dashes impetuously by or
darts from sight through some slight opening
in the leafy wall, or a woodland bird seeks the
upper air and then sinks into the green depths
beneath it. As usual, when out of doors I am
indebted to some bird for what I most value of
out-door knowledge, and I remember that be-
fore me, though hidden as yet, is a winding
roadway, gloomy and long neglected, but a
roadway still, though those who habitually used
it have been dead for a century. While yet
afield, I always notice with more than idle curi-
osity any long forest wall. Somewhat strangely,
it does not give the impression of an obstruction
to progress in that direction, as does your neigh-
bor's fence with "keep off" dotted over it.

In Deep, Dark Woods. 249

The woods you come to, seen from the open
fields, is not a mere barrier to further fieldward
progress, but the beginning of a new order of
things, and, much as I love the open fields, I
am moved to say, a better order. It is with a
sense of relief I enter a woodland tract. The
trace of the primeval savage, still lingering in
human nature, comes to the surface when we
breathe the woodsy air with its subtle distillation
of undiscoverable sweets, and then leaving the
mossy ground, and taking a seat on some ex-
tended limb, what endless fancies in the brief
hour of an arboreal existence ! The passion
for tree-climbing so pronounced in youth is a
serious loss when discarded in our maturer
years. The whole face of the country changes
at fifty feet from the ground, but who at fifty
ventures to climb a tree ? More's the pity, for
pleasures are not too many that even one can
be spared.

Occasionally an exploratory impulse takes
hold of me and I lose myself in a wilderness
of tangled underbrush, having only so much
sky above me as the interlacing of tree-tops
permits. Nor is this child's play. We have

250 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

but to consider for a moment the depth, height,
and width of our ignorance even of the garden's
gooseberry hedge to effectually cure us of walk-
ing with the air of a philosopher in the deep,
dark woods. When an oak has whispered all
the secrets of the plant world we can hope to
ramble understandingly in field or forest, and
not before.

Having entered the woods, the new atmos-
phere revives the sluggish senses that have
wearied of sunny fields. Appreciation of de-
tails takes the place of vague generalization.
At this point stands a sentinel tulip-tree, a land-
mark for miles around it No human structure
commands such instant attention. A procession
winding among cathedral pillars is but a tawdry
imitation of the vine clinging to its towering
trunk, and wheezy music from a loft a sorry
echo of the morning breeze. Yet how meagre
a congregation has even an aged tree, even one
that has sheltered the homestead for generations.
Rarely do we see two or three even gathered to
consider it, and when such gathering occurs it
is not always fit audience though few. When
Philander Pointblank, a quaint character of

In Deep, Dark Woods. 251

years ago, persisted in sitting in the shade of
the old oak in the meeting-house yard, while
the Friends were gathered in the building, he
was not so illogical as his people thought him.
He maintained that the shade of a living oak
was as fit a spot wherein to worship as " a pen
made of the carcasses of a hundred dead ones."
Philander was long a concern upon the minds
of his co-religionists, and it is rather noteworthy
that he alone of his contemporaries is remem-
bered. Not like so many, too near to nothing
to be friends or foes. Extremely ignorant, men
call him ; but I hold him as a real philosopher.
Not because of his fancy for the old oak, but
because of that infatuation which will not admit
that in all things art is an improvement over
Nature. Philander Pointblank knew both inti-
mately and remained loyal to the out-door
world. The tears that he shed when the light-
ning destroyed the favorite oak of his little
woodland tract were more honest than many
his neighbors have shed at funerals. When I
said as much in my address at Philander's
funeral, there was a great raising of eyebrows
and some shuffling of feet, but no one was

252 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

candid enough to admit the truth of my asser-
tion ; strong negative evidence that what I said
was true.

Beyond the entrance to this ancient wood,
where grass gives way to patches of gray moss,
to sphagnum ; where the water lies in pools,
and lichens so wrinkled and dead white they
suggest fragments of cast-off skin rather than a
living growth ; underbrush, shrubs of a dozen
species, and a bewildering array of tree-trunks.
The latter are as individual as men upon a
crowded street. It is more difficult to find two
alike than to note a marked resemblance among
people. Then, never to be overlooked, in every
sense, is the leafy canopy, effectual against the
direct rays of the sun to such degree that a dim
but not obscuring light prevails ; one that opens
your eyes and leads to quicker perception of
the objects crowded about you. Less escapes
one's notice now than in the glaring sunshine
of the open fields. The white of many a wood-
land blossom fairly glows, and every purple or
rosy bloom likewise glows with a warmth not
common to the flowers of the meadow or the
roadside. Dogwood, in May, when the foliage

In Deep, Dark Woods. 253

is fully grown, fairly glitters with stars that
may be seen half a mile away. The pink azalea,
when seen against a background of dark mosses,
stands out so boldly that not the deepest shadows
of densest forest growth obscures their outline,
and what jolly sport to trace a grape-vine from
its anchorage to the airy terminations in some
distant tree-top ! It is not well to give the
measurements that I have recorded in note-
books. Let him who is curious solve the prob-
lem of a grape-vine's whereabouts when lost
among the branches of old trees, and determine,
too, the length of the vine as it twists and turns
and returns, and shoots upward again. This
following of a long serpent-like growth leads to
curious places and unsuspected conditions, and
the truth is brought to us that trees are some-
thing more than trunk and branches. If it is
in early summer, the chances are that you will
be led to some cunningly concealed nest of a
vireo, and it was while tracing a grape-vine
that I found my first nest of a blue-gray
gnatcatcher — a rare find here — high up in a
tulip-tree. Before I saw the nest I had neither
seen nor heard the birds, although passing near

254 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

by, for weeks, almost every day ; and, of course,
this is likely to prove true of other vines, a fact
all too apt to be overlooked. The poison-ivy
climbs to the very top of many a large tree and
in time appears to smother it. This growth,
like a huge hairy serpent, clings so tenaciously
to some oaks I have seen that all my strength
was necessary to detach it. It certainly ap-
pears, in time, to kill the tree it encircles, but I
am not positive ; but this is not true of the
Virginia creeper. Near my home is a sassafras,
just seventy feet high, and for twenty years the
creeper has mingled its leaves with those of the
tree's outermost and uppermost twigs. When
the autumnal coloring occurs, there is a min-
gling of dark red and yellow that is worth a
day's journey to see.

The dim light of deep, dark woods has been
much written about, but it is dimness that does
not obscure. I have found it a developing light
that brings the minor details into satisfactory
prominence. If color is important in determin-
ing the identity of an object, we can be sure in
the woods, when it would be a matter of doubt
in the open fields. This is peculiarly true of

In Deep, Dark Woods. 255

the birds about us. I have seen many a cardi-
nal, tanager, and rose-breasted grosbeak that
looked black as night in the open fields, but
there is no mistaking their colors when flitting
across our path here in the woods. Let a car-
dinal red-bird perch on a low branch, in full
view, and red he will appear, as he proves to
your delighted ear his claim to past master in
the art of whistling. The brown and white of
the melancholy thrush, even of the little tree-
creeper, can be traced feather by feather, and
the passing warblers, spotted and streaked like
the harlequins, show themselves in their true
colors when in the woods. There is no glare
of the sun's direct light to bewilder you, to
blind you for the moment, when you could best
have seen the restless bird. So accurately ad-
justed are your senses to their surroundings
that life and the world take on a new meaning.
The song of a bird is so delightful that it might
seem at first thought that the conditions under
which it is heard were quite immaterial. Sitting
on a porch, in an easy-chair, with the purple
light of the dying day making fairy-land alike
of all the outlook, the matchless strains of the

256 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

thrush's evening song heard upon the upland
lawn may seem the climax of kind Nature's
melody ; but wander at this time to the nearest
woodland tract ; rest by the trunks of majestic
time-honored beeches, known as " the Three
Beeches" so long ago as 1689, where the shade
at noontide is scarcely less sombre than the
shadows of night, and hear this same song of
the evening thrush, or listen to the rosebreast
as he breathes his love strain to his hidden
mate ; yes, hear even the* forest peewee or the
dream song of a sparrow, and there will be re-
vealed to you what magic, that spurs to full
activity our every sense, lies in the dim but
searching light of deep, dark woods.

I suppose the woods in winter figure more
in literature than in the actual experiences of
readers. These same woods are just as deep,
but not so dark, during the pleasant days of
January, and particularly after a deep snow.
The arctic conditions are now all underfoot or
immediately about us, and a thoroughly cheer-
ful, if not exactly summery, condition overhead.
Certainly there is no suggestion of gloom Tar-
tarian which few can rid of hobgoblins ; this is

Woods during pleasant January days.

In Deep, Dark Woods. 257

a matter more natural to leafy June, absurd as
it really is, but now, even if forced to wallow in
deep snow that blots out the familiar beaten

path, still your reward is certain. The woods
in winter ! There is a ring in the very words
that is exhilarating. The individuality of every
tree is now pronounced. The smooth, wrinkled,
17

258 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

dark and light barks are distinct, and each asks
for consideration based on its own merits, and
not as an humble factor in the production of
a general effect. The lichened, mottled gray of
oaks suggesting comfort rather than conformity
to fashion ; the tight-fitting uniform of the
stately beech ; the ragged yellow birch that
flaunts its tatters as if proud to wear them ;
here, surely, are variety and proud independence
worthy of your attention. Here, now, are these
trees as we see gatherings of men. They are
not bare in the sense of nakedness ; the leaves
are gone, but this is simply the doffing of hat
and cloak. In winter, in the woods, with snow
a foot deep, I can talk to a tree as I would to
my neighbor, meeting him at his ease, in-doors.
It may seem a childish whim to talk to trees ;
literally, it is ; but trees can tell us a great deal ii
we will only stop by them for a moment This
hollow oak has a nest ol squirrels twenty feet
above me, a fact worth knowing, and the tree
has this same fact written out upon its trunk.
The snow is scattered about, but not by wind,
and everywhere is foot-marked in a tell-tale
way. This gnarly old sour gum-tree has an

In Deep, Dark Woods. 259

opossum sleeping soundly among its roots, and
the creature's curiosity in looking out in the
night to judge of the weather has been re
corded. You might not have noticed this, but
some eyes are keener than others, and a hunter
would have marked the spot. It seems that
not every chestnut burr was opened and fell to
the ground months ago. Here is one that has
been dropped since the snow fell, and yet no
chestnut-tree is very near. Squirrels again, and
somewhere there is a hoard of food ; but no,
burrs are not gathered, and the animals have
found this burr lodged among the branches and
tossed it down in play. After a snow-storm, if
there has been no wind, whatsoever lies upon it
comes there through some animal's intervention.
As to every tree in the woods, it is desirable
to look at it from all points of view to learn all
it has to tell you. To look up only is to see
the under side of every branch, but what of the
upper side ? Resting there may be some in-
teresting creature peeping shyly over the edge
and watching you. If you climb to the tops
of trees and look down, the woods will tell you
quite another story. The chances are you can-

260 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

not do this, but do not say a tree or any cluster
of them has little or nothing to tell until you
have done so. The silent man is not necessarily
he who has least to say.

I have said that when the sun shone it was
almost summery above our heads, if not about
our feet. Many a bird finds it so, and as every
sound comes to you now peculiarly distinct, it
is something worth the while to hear a bird sing,
even to hear a passing snow-bird chirp, and, too,
what endless amusement in that ceaseless com-
edy of the persecuting crows and the patient
hawk ; an unused opportunity for some orni-
thological Shakespeare. A word more of these
unfailing friends of mine, the clamorous crows.
"Occasionally," writes Lucretius, "the long-
lived generations of crows . . . change their
hoarse notes with the weather, when they are
said (sometimes) to call for rain and showers and
sometimes to cry for gales of wind." Of a
clear, sunny, midwinter day, as they pass over
these woods or alight in the branches of the
trees, they seem to be moved by pure joy in
the fact of living, so rich, so content-full and
eager is their every utterance. I call my winter

In Deep, Dark Woods. 261

crows good company ; friends that meet me
half-way, and speak from their hearts ; no mere
mouthing of meaningless formalities. Then, as
if to shame poor, shivering humanity that all too
likely hugs the stove all day, a kinglet, almost
our smallest bird, may come and chirp so cheer-
fully that you are moved to whistle in reply.
Surely it is of some significance that shrews,
our smallest mammals, and kinglets and winter
wrens and the blessed chickadee, are as full of
fun in January, with the mercury at zero, as ever
a summer songster in the month of June.

Summer or winter, my love of trees is un-
alterable, ineradicable.

"The purple color of the murex so blends
in one body with wool that it can never be ex-
tracted from it ; not even if you should strive
to restore the wool to its whiteness with all the
waves of the sea ; not even if the whole ocean,
with all its floods, should be disposed to cleanse
it."

Correspondents and Critics.

ON the last day of the year, unless plagued
with the feeling that I have something better to
do, I clear the cavernous pigeon-holes of my
desk of the letters that have, for a twelve-
month, been accumulating. It is not an alto-
gether amusing way of passing an hour. A
good many annoying thoughts return, for not
every correspondent is reasonable or critic fair.
I never have called back a dead year with un-
mixed satisfaction ; the sky is only clear in
places, and ghosts of many clouds, some very
black indeed, float by, with all the distinctness
of the actual happening. But, in the long run,
I feel as if a load was lifted from my shoulders
when, having seen the accumulation of letters
turned to ashes, I take a brisk walk over the
meadows and return to my empty desk. I re-
turn, remembering, "You shall have time to
wrangle in when you have nothing else to do,"
262

Correspondents and Critics. 263

and the new year comes swiftly, as I determine
to " cease to lament for that thou canst not
help, and study help for that which thou la-
ment' st."

Indulging, this New Year's eve, in retro-
spection before putting good resolutions to a
practical test, I have thought that it is not an
unmixed blessing that postage is so cheap. In
that far-off day when to send a letter, if pre-
paid, meant an expenditure of twenty-five cents,
most people thought twice or thrice before sit-
ting down to announce that they took their pens
in hand, and the world was happy then : per-
haps happy as now. Many people were forced,
because of the expense, to keep themselves
unto themselves, and I would that this were now
more true of them. We cannot limit our cor-
respondents as we can our acquaintances, and I
have occasionally wondered, with, I think, good
reason, why I am singled out as the victim of
queer correspondents, as they appear to me.
Never intentionally have I forced myself upon
any stranger's attention, but strangers have
found me out, and an occasional remarkable
letter is the result. Why I keep these com-

264 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

munications, I do not know. Why I answered
any of them is beyond explanation, but before
burning the accumulation of the year I have
been reading each one anew ; a contradictory
procedure perhaps, but who is consistent among
us ? I should add that my queer correspond-
ents have found me out wholly because there
have been publishers venturesome enough to
print certain manuscripts of mine. This was a
matter that concerned only the publishers, but
it has been made the concern of other people
also, especially the writers of certain letters, to
which I have referred. A book is public prop-
erty, but does the author also become public in
the same sense ? My correspondents are mostly
women. Why are they so inquisitive? I once
asked, and have since regretted my indiscretion.
One prominent American authoress assures me
man is nothing if not curious. His happiness
consists in asking questions. He verges on in-
sanity if he is not satisfied, and his persistence
is in proportion to the matter in question being
none of his business. I stand corrected and very
humble, but puzzled too, when I remember that
nearly all of my queer correspondents are women.

Correspondents and Critics. 265

Let me particularize. Seven of my corre-
spondents have inquired anxiously about my
religion. Now, I take it that if there is one
subject above another that is a purely personal
matter, it is a man's way of thinking on re-
ligious subjects. Much as he may delight in
hearing sermons or following the intricacies of
more or less elaborate rituals, and generally as
he may approve of this, that, or the other sect,
he is, if truly religious, a law unto himself, and
if he is astray and ultimately misses heaven, it
is his loss and not a reflection on his more for-
tunate neighbors. It is scarcely going too far
to say, if any one sees fit to ignore the whole
subject and take the chances, it is not the busi-
ness of his neighbors to interfere. I write this
without a trace of impatience or ill nature. The
world thinks otherwise. I took the trouble once
to say what I have just written, and what a raking
over the coals was the result ! My correspond-
ent claimed to have "a call" to change the
current of my thoughts and turn me into an
unfamiliar path, and her peace of mind was
only acquired by a second communication, still
insisting I was religiously incorrect. Particularly

266 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

do the Friends find fault with me, which is most
strange of all. I would an honest jury could try
the case, for I think I am more a Foxite than
foxy. It is humiliating to think that, having lived
for more than half a century in a Quaker atmos-
phere, I am still a stranger in a strange land.

Next is a little packet of five letters, all of
which are devoted to the subject of tobacco.
Do I use it in any form ? One woman antici-
pates my reply by hoping I will not indulge in
platitudes on use and abuse of the vile weed,
saying, " no one can use it without its abusing
the user." It is idle to combat fanaticism. It is
best defeated by allowing it to work out its own
destruction. "Thee admits being a smoker, so
I cannot purchase another of thy books." This
seems incredible, but it is true ; and I wonder
how many readers would be lost by a tirade
against tobacco. Seriously, does the smoke
from my cigar travel indefinitely far and offend
the nostrils of an unknown correspondent?
Why should my example for evil be more
potent than that of the individual who finds, or
fails to find, his livelihood in other lines of ac-
tivity? I have never advised budding man-

Correspondents and Critics. 267

hood to commence the use of tobacco, and
would banish cigarettes from the world, — per-
haps fanaticism on my part, — but it is simply
silly for well-intentioned fanatics to ask grown
men to cease to do that which does them no
harm because youth may follow in their foot-
steps on reaching years of discretion. I feel
that I am venturing a little too far, am treading
on treacherous ground and calling down ven-
geance on my head when I suggest that a little
too much stress is put upon this matter of ex-
posure to temptation. Any youth of any intel-
lect worthy the name knows that he is playing
with fire when he reaches the age at which the
so-called temptations become such to him, and
downfall means full often merely a weak intel-
lect, for however " brainy" a man may be, he
is intellectually weak if he cannot draw the line
between use and abuse. My feeling is, that
while it may be very noble to be self-sacrificing,
the fact has not been established that the world
has evolved in this direction. It may turn to
such a channel, but before it does I must con-
tinue to offend some queer correspondents by
indulging in an occasional good cigar.

268 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

It is a much more difficult matter to com-
ment, without loss of temper, upon the thirteen
letters received concerning rum. Here again,
as in the use of tobacco, it seems to me that the
writers of these letters had better have spent
their energies among people nearer their own
homes, and let me, an unoffending stranger,
alone. Certainly my opinion on the subject of
the use of wine is absolutely of no importance.
Because I have wandered by the brookside
watching little fishes or listening to little birds
in the bushes above the water, is apparently no
reason why strangers should be curious as to
what appears upon my table. These same
people do not question their butcher and baker,
but swallow their wares without comment, but
hesitate to swallow mine until assured there is
no alcohol in my drink. I will not say of all
this that it matters nothing, for it does. It shows
that fanaticism can, like ambition, overleap itself.
The author of a book is not, more than another,
his brother's keeper, and the would-be reader
who wishes to know in advance whether or not
I use wine is a reader not worth having. I
have never felt it a duty to devote a page or

Correspondents and Critics. 269

two, now and then, to temperance! My critical
correspondents should first wait until I have
advocated some practice objectionable to them
before assuming what is my attitude towards it,
and commenting thereupon.

" What stand hast thou taken with reference
to liquor? I fear thee does not look upon it
with unalterable disapproval, from a remark in
one of thy books." Here is an instance of a
solid shot sent point-blank into my unsuspecting
self. The page or chapter is not given, so I
know not where to look, and would not take
the trouble if I did. I do not make a practice
of asking people for advice or information, if I
can get the former through experience or the
latter from the encyclopaedia, but here is some-
thing different. I would that some one would
tell me, and give me logical reasons, why I
should forego my glass of currant wine on
Christmas eve, to which I have been accustomed
from my youth up. That glass never led me
to empty the bottle any more than the accom-
panying bit of fruit-cake led to the demolition,
by me, of the whole loaf. I note that my cor-
respondent is a Friend, and I further note that

270 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

not all Friends have yet ceased to make cur-
rant wine, nor do they manipulate it in such a
way that it is non-alcoholic.

When the first ciderless mince-pie came upon
a certain farmer's table, the good man remarked,
" Martha, thee has certainly made some mis-
take. I will take a piece of the pumpkin."
As I view it, Martha had made a very big mis-
take, and so do some of my correspondents.

But let us to a more cheerful subject Here
is a pile of begging letters that reached me
soon after the appearance of a little book. The
impression seems to be in every case that an
"author's copy" costs nothing. That happy
individual has but to direct the sending of the
volume to So-and-So, and there the matter ends.
One correspondent, an Indiana schoolmistress,
tells me as much, and her letter in particular is
worthy of a moment's consideration. She in-
forms me that she does not suppose my copy-
right interest is more than ten per cent, and
so the book was only worth fifteen cents to me,
and she did not think that too much to ask for.
Where under the sun, as thus viewed, does the
publisher come in? I asked her as much,

'Correspondents and Critics. 271

promising the book on receipt of a satisfactory
reply, for which, I will add, I am still waiting.
Publishers cannot say henceforth that I have
not been duly alive to their interests. So far
as I am aware, merchants are not plagued with
letters asking a gift of the wares in which they
deal. Schoolmistresses, even, do not beg, but
buy their candy and clothing, so why not the
books they desire ? To single out the product
of an author's brain from all other material
things as objects not coming under commercial
considerations is, from the author's point of
view, inexplicable. It is sadly true there is
precious little money in the average book, but
then, just so much the more reason for the
author wishing to receive the whole of that
little. I do not know if publishers are as pes-
tered as are authors in this way ; probably not ;
and certainly the former are not sentimental
to the point of startling generosity unless some
how or way they are roundly well paid for it.
May the Indiana schoolmistress never see my
concluding sentence : what wonderful people
do we have in this world, truly !

One letter — from a man this time — asks me

272 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

how I interpret Nature, and goes on to say he
cannot for the life of him see very much when
he takes a walk. " I know a tree's a tree and
a rock's a rock, but then I'm stuck." He is not
one whit more stuck than I am in trying to
reply. I have been trying for six months to
formulate some sort of answer and have only
gotten so far as " Dear Sir." "The Interpre-
tation of Nature" is a very pretty title for an
essay, but who dare tackle it ? Thoreau might
have done so, but our home fields have been
left without a master-hand since his day.

I have nothing to say upon the art of inter-
preting Nature, for that is really what my cor-
respondent means, but here are thoughts that I
have had upon the subject ; disjointed think-
ing, as I rambled all too aimlessly down the
wood-path and over the ever-suggestive mead-
ows. I cull these brevities from many note-
books, picking here and there among the many
mentionings of bird and beast and flower.

Life is short at best, and to no one is given
intellectual range to cover the whole field of
knowledge. We are necessarily dependent upon
others for the greater part of what we acquire

Correspondents and Critics. 273

in the way of information, and how disheartening
to find a cherished fact gathered from one source
asserted to be but a fancy in another. What
are we to believe ? This is a gloomy question
that dogs our steps, harries our nerves, and
proves hopelessly confusing from early manhood
to life's close.

The interpretation of Nature ! She yet needs
to be interpreted in many directions and the
cloud lifted that still renders misty what should
be clear as noonday. It is true, as bright rain-
drops come from murky clouds, so crystal clear
facts are born of doubt and wrangling, but is
such a birth a necessity ? Nature does not with-
hold the truth, but into what strange vessels do
the precious facts occasionally fall ! Vessels that
have some malign power by which the plain
is rendered obscure ; the clear made murky ; the
direct and straight made aimless and crooked.
He is the exception, we are almost led to think,
who can carry from the laboratory to the world
at large a newly acquired fact without marring
its beauty or befogging its significance. Can it
be that the remedy lies within ourselves ? This
is much like making every one the superior of
18

274 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

his neighbor in his own estimation, and leads to
what is thoroughly to be deplored, a very low
estimate of our neighbor's capabilities. On the
other hand, too great confidence in our own
powers as surely leads to so grave an error as to
underestimate the strength of others. We have
need to be very humble when self-measurement
is called for, but do not let the pendulum swing
too far in the other direction. I long ago
elected myself the entire faculty of a college
whereat my own conscience is the only student.
Success calls for rational confidence in our own
powers, and the development of these powers
must not be left wholly with others. We should
be reasonably ambitious to express our own
views, and not merely reflect the impressions
and beliefs of others. We need not cultivate
incredulity, but a statement being made, verify
it where possible rather than blindly accept,
and particularly is this called for in the inter-
pretation of Nature's near-at-hand and readily
approached phenomena. We cannot all own
telescopes, and must accept our astronomy from
the fortunate few who nightly read the starry
skies and trace the comet's course ; but we can

Correspondents and Critics. 275

own microscopes and use unaided eyes to our
own advantage ; correcting, it may be, others'
errors and adding not only to our own stock of
knowledge but to that of the world's. Do not,
as is so often the case, believe that it is always
your neighbor and never yourself whom Nature
selects as her interpreter. Do not, above all
things, tremble in the presence of learned great-
ness, but ask yourself how it comes that they
know so much and you so little. Solve that
problem and you have bridged the yawning
chasm between you.

There is no career for man, or none worth
following, that does not bring him into more or
less close contact with Nature, so why all your
life a stranger to her? Your indifference will
not yield you any extra dollars. Ignorance
may be lucky at times, but in the long run
knowledge comes out ahead. Why, for in-
stance, be not as weather-wise as your neighbor?
If the wind or clouds can be read, why not read
for yourself and not listen to another? One
newspaper would not meet the needs of a vil-
lage even, yet one naturalist is not to be found
among ten thousand men. Even if mere trail-

276 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

sient pleasures is our life's aim, do we attain to
the fulness thereof shut up within our little
selves ? We need not fear that we shall lose out
precious selves because we wander in thought
beyond the shadows of our door-yard trees. I
pity those who look with admiration at the
bird's-eye maple or wrinkled oak that make the
sideboard and see in them only a pretty back-
ground for sparkling glass and glittering silver :
see this only, and are never carried in imagi-
nation or actually go to the forest where the oak
and maple grow. How frequently the soul of
honesty robs itself! How generally, I fancy,
women would cease to be murderers if they
traced back the history of the plumes in their
hats ! Is what Nature vouchsafes them of so
poor a quality, unattractive or repulsive, that
the skin of a bird is called for as an offset to
their ugliness ? Woman may think so, but her
plainness is only the more apparent when
crowned with an evidence of heartlessness. Be
she ever so careful, no housekeeper can prevent
animal life from crossing the door-sill or darting
through an open window. Around the evening
lamp curiously marked moths will flutter at

Correspondents and Critics. 277

times, and usually only call forth mild execra-
tion, as they annoy us, while reading. Have
you frequently, indeed, ever, met with the man
or woman who laid aside newspaper or embroid-
ery for a time to see how many species were
to be gathered by merely extending an arm ? I
never met with such a one save once ; yet it is
an incontrovertible fact that no more profitable
evening can be spent than in an artless way
studying the entomology of the library table.
No one is so free of the earth, earthy, as not to
"cuss" a mosquito, but how often are they in-
telligently discussed ?

It is not an exaggeration to say that conster-
nation fills the room if a spider drops from the
ceiling, and through fear the room is emptied
if a mouse runs from a corner. Had we, even
if ever so little, interpreted Nature or even
tried to do so and failed, would not such exhi-
bitions of our silliness be impossible? We
read in the daily papers — too often vehicles of
distorted facts — harrowing accounts of blood-
poisoning following bites of mice, spiders, and
even the scratch of kitty's claws, but what are
the chances really of being bitten by a mouse

278 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

or spider, or scratched by a cat ; perhaps one
in a million, and not one in a million bites are
poisonous. Too, if we were more disposed to
attend to Nature we would lessen our suscepti-
bility to blood-poisoning. Clear your brain
and your blood will take care of itself.

"But Nature is so uninteresting," exclaims
some one in your hearing. When we meet
with uninteresting people, we generally remem-
ber them as such and avoid frequent meetings
in the future ; but these uninteresting people
have some sense and do not force themselves
into your presence. Nature never intrudes, —
please remember that, ye devotees of artifi-
ciality. Nature is all too often uninteresting,
and why? Because we are taught to turn
our backs upon her at the very outsets of
our careers. The curious child, attracted by a
gaudy caterpillar, stops in its play to admire the
creature creeping before him and is suddenly
and violently snatched away by the fool of a
nurse, who assures the disappointed and now
bewildered child that the caterpillar will bite or
sting. A lie is crammed down the child's throat,
and it will be years before the mischief done in

Correspondents and Critics. 279

a moment can be repaired. I have put this
upon the ignorant nurse, but the supposedly
well educated parents are not one whit better.
Educated ! Yes, by courtesy, we say so, but
what a deviation from the exact state of affairs !
Can any one be considered educated who has
absolutely no knowledge of Nature ? To daily
handle objects and yet know nothing of their
origin, to know a brick and never to have
heard of clay, is not to be worthily educated.
If a child's mind is led in the right direction
at the very start and inquisitiveness, which is
natural, is judiciously encouraged rather than
savagely repressed, there will be obviated the
great defect now so prominent, when we survey
the minds of the masses, indifference as to
Nature. Strangely enough, in later years, the
mistake of neglecting natural knowledge is rec-
ognized by many, and yet no pains are taken to
prevent the children from undergoing their own
sad experiences. This is culpable. To see a
child taught a downright lie and not lift a finger
to prevent it occurs every day, yet the bystander
knows that the child will suffer as he or she has
done. There never was a child of sound mind

280 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

that was not at one time a naturalist, and how
far this tendency of the intellect is to be en-
couraged is a question of importance. Not
every one can be a professional zoologist and
devote a lifetime thereto to the exclusion of
all else, but interest in such subjects should
never be chilled. As such matters are now
regulated, we find a silly mother afraid of a
mouse, and the child must run no imaginary
dangers. The very mention of snakes blanches
many a cheek, yet probably not one dangerous
snake is within miles of the speaker. Disad-
vantageous prejudice is inherited, has been since
the days of distant ancestry, and we make no
effort to look coolly at the facts and endeavor to
uproot the silly whims that have such a clutch
upon us. When our remote ancestry lived in
trees and were in positive danger from the
attacks of poisonous serpents, a fear of snakes
was rational. That was the origin of the men-
tal status that still enthralls the majority of the
people we meet, but is it rational to let an im-
pression like this go unstudied for some hundred
thousand years ! It is not true that snakes chase
people. If the two happen to take the same

Correspondents and Critics. 281

direction, there is no evidence of one pursuing
and the other being pursued. If the frightened
man will stop, the snake will keep straight on,
and the conditions reversed, the man continuing
his course will pursue the snake. The present
great art of lying would be one of the minor
accomplishments if there had been no snakes
in the world. Fish have never damaged man's
veracity like the poor, much maligned serpents.
Is there, then, no good reason for rational inter-
pretation of Nature ?

The secret of successful interpretation is very
largely the determination of the inter-relation
of phenomena. Isolated facts are merely parts
of a great whole, the recognition of which con-
stitutes knowledge. The mere gathering of
dissociated facts has been so long considered
the acquiring of an education, it is not to be
wondered at that we have so many learned
ignoramuses among us. Bald statements but
emphasize our ignorance. The robin builds a
mud-lined nest, the oriole a pendent one, the
bank-swallow burrows in the cliff; why? What
is our mere statement but evidence that we have
taken the first step and could not or will not

282 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

take a second ? Occasionally we have evidence
in a volume that many steps have been taken,
as in " Origin of Species," but how generally
are the books set before us but bundles of
finger-posts, and these not always set in the
right directions ! To tell yourself or another
that frogs leap and snakes creep is to publish
yourself as yet in an infant class, if you cannot
back your assertion with at least the mechanics
of leaping and creeping. If your own desire
leads no farther than the witnessing of the act,
you can never hope to be a naturalist. Strange
indeed are some of the entries made in note-
books. A list of forty birds seen in one day is
now lying before me, with not one word of
comment concerning a single specimen. Better
to have spent the whole day with an English
sparrow. " It is a contribution to geographical
distribution," says one. " The date shows that
these birds are summer residents, if not all-the-
year-round birds," says another. "Forty birds
seen and nothing more," I reply. As to geo-
graphical distribution, it has been done to death,
and always will be, seeing it is easy and the list-
makers outnumber observers in a wide sense ;

Correspondents and Critics. 283

and as to our birds, the subject can never be
forever set at rest, seeing that the birds will not
obey the rules, and only laugh at notices to effect
that this field belongs to another species : No
trespassing. Unfortunately, birds are the arch-
trespassers of wild life. There is no barrier
that they cannot surmount if they choose to do
so ; no solid sheets of air, like plate-glass par-
titions, through which they cannot go. That
they do not overstep far more than they do is
to be wondered at, and that geographical distri-
bution is so much of a factor of our ornithology
is strange, seeing that some of our weaker-
winged birds travel north and south for an
enormous distance twice a year. That faunal
lines can be drawn where there are no mountain
ranges even to be crossed is a remarkable feature
of this subject as applied to my own neighbor-
hood. A man can walk from Maine to Florida ;
any bird can fly that distance. Some do so ;
why not all ? Perhaps, why do any ? We have
not yet solved the problem of migration, and
now the question rises, Has it varied since the
earlier records of the phenomenon ? We know
that some birds have left us that were once

284 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

abundant, the crane, pelican, and even some
inland song-birds, as the mocker and summer
tanager. Why ? Better determine this than kill
the innocents to measure the curve of their toe-
nails. Given a real problem, we shrink from the
undertaking and fall back upon egg-measure-
ments. In one direction migration has changed,
it is losing its regularity, and we are blessed with
longer visits from some migrants, and others are
plucky as ourselves and face the winter with
even better grace. I would like to grow en-
thusiastic over winter catbirds and chewinks at
Christmas, but they have as yet developed no
peculiarities over these same birds of summer.
They find more berries than insects, but the
latter are not wholly wanting. There is never
a day when loose leaves and unfrozen ground are
not to be found, and here there are creeping
things in numbers, if not innumerable. I did
think that the winter catbird lived exclu-
sively on the berries of our greenbrier ; now
I know better. He hobnobs gracefully with
chewinks, and they toss over the dead leaves in
company, dividing the spoils and never thinking
of quarrelling. No birds are less associated in

Correspondents and Critics. 285

summer. So warm are many nooks and shel-
tered ravines that the Maryland yellow-throat
forgets to consult the almanac, and seems to
mistake November's Indian summer for Sep-
tember sunshine. Not always, not often, but
then not rarely. Will it become a fixed habit
in time ? It is such with the catbird, the che-
wink, and to less extent the brown thrasher.
They can almost always be found in the pine
woods or dense oak-growths curtained with
usnea ; places where they are not apt to be in
summer. Are these pointers in the direction
of migratorial change of habit ? And what of
the southward flight of swallows of several
species that occurs in November, weeks after
our residents have taken their departure. This
occurs two, perhaps three, years in every five.
These are matters that any one can study, and
the untrained observer is as well fitted to the
task as many a theory-crushed professional orni-
thologist. The facts gathered, the little at-
tendant circumstances that may mean so much,
are less likely to be overlooked by those curious
as to such matters and who have not their senses
taken away because the birds are out of place,

286 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

out of season, playing hookey instead of being
at school. Knowledge is retarded by calling
an over-staying bird a "straggler," as it is
learnedly pronounced to be. It is a pestiferous
word that covers ignorance, like "malaria" so
constantly upon the tongue of the physician
when diagnosis is beyond his skill. The bald
fact is, birds more and more are spending their
winters far north of where they did some years
ago, or else we are just finding out that the old
observers were in error. The latter case is not
probable, and now, recognizing a change, we
are given an opportunity to test our skill in
solving a problem. We are saved vain specu-
lation as to influence exerted by a change of
climate, because we have meteorological tabu-
lations showing that no change has taken place
thermometrically. It is just as cold now in
January as when the pilgrims landed or, proba-
bly, when the Norsemen sighted our shores, but
there is a difference that may have its bearing
upon the subject, we have less snow. Can it be
that the absence of snow, making the finding of
food more practicable, has its influence? It
will doubtless be urged that the birds leave

Correspondents and Critics. 287

long before the time for snow. This would be
a weighty argument did the birds leave so early
in the autumn, but they do not My own
records, covering many years, go to show that
over-staying birds have been observed most
frequently when the ground was bare, and on
many occasions when the weather was about as
cold as at any time during the winter. Promptly
on the occurrence of a snow-storm these birds
disappear. I can never find them, but when
the snow is melted they return. Where are
they in the mean time? People who do not
hourly consult the thermometer are unaware to
a great extent of the ups and downs of the
mercury, and birds having no such contrivance
are equally ignorant of the proximity, at times,
to zero of the sensitive metal. Judging from
their actions, at least, we are logically led to
presume so. Whether birds feel the cold or the
extreme heat is altogether another matter. It
is whether or not they are influenced by it
Finding it less formidable than they supposed,
they have stayed occasionally, years ago, and
one after another has followed the example set
until now it is not unusual. But was this over-

288 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

staying habit spread by example ? It may seem
a childish question to ask, but what of direct
communication of ideas? Here, certainly, Na-
ture has not been exhaustively interpreted. I
am not aware that any number of ornithologists
have studied bird-language as something sepa-
rate and apart from bird-song. Does it exist ?
How are we to determine ? I have long been
familiar with a man who has lived all his days
within sight and hearing of crows. He claims
to understand their language and can repeat the
"words" that make up their vocabulary. Cer-
tainly, they seem to talk, but do they ? Does
a certain sound made by them have a uniform
significance? Year after year I have listened
and watched, watched and listened, and won-
dered if my friend was right. He believes it. I
believe it. Is an ultimate positive assurance a
hopeless expectation ? Are there limitations to
ornithological interpretation? We know that
crows are cunning, and by their mother wit
have withstood the persecutions of mankind ;
we know that they have a wide range of utter-
ances and not one is intended to merely gratify
the ear, and yet we hesitate to say plainly that

Correspondents and Critics. 289

crow talketh unto crow and take counsel to-
gether. There is no reason why this should not
be the case ; there is abundant evidence point-
ing in that direction, but no actual demonstration
has taken place. Probably none can be had,
and we must be content with inferential inter-
pretation. This is not as useless as has been
claimed, and is readily set aside when a mathe-
matical demonstration is forthcoming. Long
association with living birds results in acquiring
impressions that are far worthier of credence
than the theories of holiday excursionist bird-
men ; and the insulting charge of " investing
birds with imaginary attributes" is silly beyond
comparison, but not surprising considering its
source. The farmer that has had to battle with
crows and purple grackles and outwit the cun-
ning of a pigeon-hawk has interpreted these
birds' mental status with a higher average of
correctness than any professional ornithologist
possibly could do. The farmer reaches the goal
of reasonable recognition without having any
such intention ; he is taught without a desire to
be informed, and with freedom from theoretical
bias comes proportionate certainty. He is con-

290 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

vinced long before the ornithologist comes to
a definite conclusion. When there is agree-
ment, the question is settled forever ; when a
divergence, the element of probability lies in the
farmer's direction. The birds about a farm-
house door-yard are not always the birds in the
books, and for one I prefer the former and what
they have to teach us. The bittern that goes
fishing, at Christmas, in the open water of the
home meadow is more interesting to me than
those of its kind that seek their comfort in far
southern swamps. I love a bird at all times,
but none more dearly than the myrtle warbler,
that chirps in its own cheerful way as it threads
the tangled tree-tops when winter winds are
blowing ; and when the Carolina wren comes to
my window and shouts its joy, though a storm
be raging, I cease to work and listen.

But the world is not merely a big bird-cage.
What is the meaning of the meadow-mouse
that leaps away, bounding like a kangaroo, yet
with no exaggerated hind legs like that animal ?
Why does it not run merely and keep hidden
in the weeds ? Here is a chance to get a closer
view of the workings of Nature than the scalpel

Correspondents and Critics. 291

alone will lead you to. Indeed, the action con-
tradicts the knife ; the mouse doing that which
it has not, in one sense, the ability to do, or
not the facilities wherewith to do it. It has an
emergency to meet, and must we cover up our
ignorance by prattle about instinct? These
mice are everywhere in the meadows, and not a
punky log in the marsh but has been tunnelled
by them and made a snug harbor against attacks
from enemies, and he is rash who claims full
knowledge of all the dangers to which they are
subjected. We have stopped short in our in-
vestigations of the habits of our most familiar
forms of wild life, and continually forget that
the constantly changing surroundings must have
some effect upon an animal's mentality. Less
closely observed, mammals have given rise to
some wrong impressions, and the untechnical
observer is irritating because of his obstinacy.
Many farmers insist, and probably always will,
that our common mole eats sweet potatoes and
the seed of watermelons that have so often to
be replanted. Appearances are against the
moles, for they do go through the very spots
where the seeds and plants are placed, and how

292 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

generally, from man to the mole, does condem-
nation descend with unpitying severity, and the
truth never regarded, even though trumpet-
tongued ! Ignorant farmer, in this case ; but
let the learned mammalogist be very sure that
he has never blundered.

To return to the meadow-mouse. By merest
chance I got what I think is an inkling of why it
jumps ; or is it a case of misinterpreted appear-
ances ? There was a full-grown garter-snake in
pursuit. Did the mouse keep closely to the
ground and depend upon running only it would
prove a short chase, but when the pursued crea-
ture leaps above the grass, now in one direction,
now in another, the snake is bewildered, and the
mouse gains sufficient headway to reach some
safely sheltering spot. Of course the mouse
would soon become exhausted and the snake
ultimately overtake it So, at least, I interpreted
what I had witnessed. Possibly many another
explanation might be brought forward, but I
am satisfied with my own effort to make clear
the purpose of the mouse I watched, and do
not obstruct the ultimate acquisition of the
truth so long as I am willing to be set right

Correspondents and Critics. 293

where unquestionably wrong. We can have
abundant faith in ourselves without losing faith
in others, and we wrong ourselves when we let
others lead us wheresoever we go, as if blind
from birth. Our eyes and ears were not in-
tended solely for a few purely personal con-
siderations. We dwarf our powers when we
survey a parlor or a kitchen but never the land-
scape, as we do, also, when we discourse learn-
edly over the merits, as food, of Delaware shad
or trout of the mountain brook, yet never see a
silvery minnow in the muddy mill-pond. There
is not a person living, perhaps, who will not
claim to know a minnow when he sees it, but
you will look in vain through the entire range
of ichthyological literature for information as to
just when and where these same little minnows
lay their eggs. We are as ignorant to-day of
the habits of our most widely spread species as
was the Delaware Valley's palaeolithic man of
X-rays.

Thoreau records that he felt better acquainted
with a pretty purple grass when he learned its
scientific name. Before then it stood aloof;
something separate and apart from the sur-

294 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

rounding objects seen in his daily walks ; but
learning the names of strangers, do we know
enough? So far as humanity is concerned,
often it is enough, you will say ; but so unfor-
tunate a feeling should not apply to the wild
life about us. Not a creature that we see but
serves some purpose, but if we are asked what
that purpose is, the chances are against our
ability to make a worthy reply. Man is not
only in the world, but of it. He proudly claims
to know his own place ; but he is best informed
who knows not only where he himself belongs,
but where every bird that flies, fish that swims,
and creeping creature crawls also belongs.
He that knows this sees with a clearer eye,
hears with a quicker ear, and walks with a
steadier gait ; from his youth, upward and on-
ward, to the end.

Critics ! One of them stands forth for pro-
fessional inerrancy and says he has no quarrel
with amateurs. As the latter are everywhere a
vast concourse to one, what if the army of
amateurs proclaim their indifference to this self-
conscious professional, who can be tripped on
many a page ? The fatal mistake of the pro-

Correspondents and Critics. 295

fessional is that the life-long amateur has neces-
sarily spent his days in vain ; that he has merely
tickled his fancy and pleased himself during
leisure hours, but never gained much knowl-
edge or acquired skill ; in short, merely hovered
about the skirts of the omniscient professional,
ever looking at the unattainable with longing
eyes and ultimately dying in despair. This, I
say, is the view of the professional, and just so
far as it is true the professional is apt to make
himself ridiculous. There are men learned in
the law who are not lawyers ; men who are
deeply versed in theological discussion, yet are
neither bishop, priest, nor deacon ; men who
know more than the rudiments of medicine,
though this matters not, seeing every man is
a fool or physician at forty, yet lay no claim
to M.D. after their names. So, too, it is in
the study of Nature. There are many men,
amateurs or lovers, let us say, of birds, that are
better authorities, so far as their own neighbor-
hoods are concerned, than the petulant profes-
sional who calmly announces that he has no
quarrel with amateurs. Who under the broad
canopy of heaven cares if he has? What the

296 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

world wants is familiarity with the life about it ;
an intelligent knowledge of beast, bird, and in-
sect, and this is sometimes, yes, often, to be
had from the pages of amateurs, or literally,
lovers or enthusiasts of the subjects treated,
rather than from the technical pages of the pro-
fessional. Certainly it cannot be said that the
knowledge of the latter is necessarily accurate,
or why should these self-elected wiseacres differ
so among themselves? The earnest amateur
has as clear vision, as acute ears, and as critical
a mind as any professional that ever lived. An
artist, on having his attention called to a brilliant
sunset, exclaimed, impatiently, that the colors
were ill arranged ; a musician, on being asked
his opinion of the sunset song of a thrush, re-
plied that the discord jarred upon his nerves ;
so the professional ornithologist seeing a bird
out of place, nesting out of time, or singing
when it was expected to be silent, shrugs his
shoulders and mutters, " It is not recorded so in
any book." Happy amateurs ! that are moved
to take Nature as they find it and see beauty in
the sunset sky, hear melody in the wild-bird's
song, and only wish they too had been equally

Correspondents and Critics. 297

fortunate when their fellows find roses in Janu-
ary and ice in June. To the world at large, I
fancy, this enthusiasm of amateurs is ever as
welcome and not less instructive than the tech-
nicalities of the professional.

But it has been claimed with much argument,
if not always with logic, that critics should never
be criticised. That, in other words, they were a
privileged class to whom was allotted the privi-
lege of saying what they chose, but must not
be answered ; their decisions borne in meek-
ness. It may be very foolish, when called a
name, to call back, but sometimes to do so
abounds in deep satisfaction.

If there was no more life and suggestiveness
in the bird-world than is recorded in the recent
hand-books, outlines and nondescript dilutions
of ornithology, then the new Audubon societies
have no cause for organization ; the birds are
of no use that warrant their protection. Song-
birds that do not sing, and all birds that cut no
capers and have too little soul to animate their
feathers, would never draw us out of our houses
to know what happens in the field or forest.
To know the anatomy of birds down to the re-

298 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

motest details is most desirable, but this is the
beginning, not the end, of knowledge ; a fact
that the professional perpetually forgets. A
man may have an astonishing knowledge of
men yet know nothing of human anatomy ; and
so, too, the amateur may know exhaustively the
birds that throng his path from year to year,
yet not the number of feathers in their tails or
whether they are more properly classified in
section C than D of Grand Division A or B.
That knowledge that comes to us directly from
the field, through eyes and ears, has a value
equal to any we can derive from books, even
though professionals have written them.

A serious error on the part of the proud pro-
fessional is his contemptuous reception or ill-
mannered rejection of information offered by
the native of some backwoods region as to the
fauna and flora of the locality. As if all the
books and museums together could be pitted
against the life-long experience of those to the
manor born. It signifies nothing that the pro-
fessional can show the native no end of objects
that he never saw before and can make plain
what previously was a profound mystery. That

Correspondents and Critics. 299

is but one side of the question ; for the native,
if of ordinary wit, can upset the professional's
preconceptions of geographical distribution and
asserted mathematical regularity of habit. It is
not wise to tell the native that this or that crea-
ture is not to be found, or that it is here now
but not then, and all such rubbish. When I
heard, years ago, that mighty hunter, Tin-cup
Tommy, told that there was not an otter in all
Crosswicks Creek, I happened to catch a strange
glitter in his eye and overheard the scarcely
breathed oath that accompanied his comments.
Well, Tin-cup Tommy sold two otter-skins that
winter, and he trapped both animals in Cross-
wicks Creek. When a learned naturalist, some
years later, said in his hearing that English
snipe never nested here, he pinched my arm
in a very meaningful manner, and brought nest,
eggs, and old birds to town to prove that they
did, and he was not again contradicted in that
quarter. When asked if barn-owls were com-
mon, he said he could bring, if wanted, a basket-
full of " monkey faces," and did. I wish I dare
put upon the printed page his own words,
good round oaths and all, when he asked me,

300 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

" What's the matter, anyhow, with them fellers
from town. They know a heap, but somehow
they've missed knowin' it all." That is the
whole matter in a nutshell. They miss know-
ing it all, and he who would be so far accom-
plished— no one ever can be — or approach it,
must give his life as practically to the subject as
did my old friend Tommy. He was as much a
feature of the meadows as any mink or musk-
rat ; ay, as any minnow in the creek.

It is all very well for the closet student of
anatomy and bibliography and the learned ad-
vocates of trinomial nomenclature to pose as the
guardians of our inferior, amateurish intellects,
but they should always remember that they do so
by their own appointment, and not feel aggrieved
if they are occasionally overlooked, or even
asked to stand aside. It is not the geologist
who finds the lump of gold, but the fellow with
pick and shovel ; the geologist comes later, to
tell us how it all came about

The professional, unfortunately for himself,
becomes too theoretical, and, having devised a
system, sees through ill-adjusted spectacles.
Every straight line is crooked, every crooked

Correspondents and Critics. 301

one endlessly angular. He would have the
wild life of the universe as obedient to him as
the tyrant of a school-teacher has or would
have the trembling scholars, but, alas ! wild life
will not be obedient. The poor fellow who
was all upset when he first heard of a batrachian
chorus in November would have gone into
spasms, probably, had he walked over my
meadows on December 17, 1897, when the air
trembled with the croakings of ten thousand
frogs. I do not know what would be his ex-
planation of a barn-owl nesting in October, but
not an old gunner hereabouts but knows that
more than one kind of owl, that live all the year
round in some hollow tree, — a fixture as much
as a man that lives in his own house, — is not at
all regular in its breeding, and young with down
and "hair" have been seen in winter. The
amateur does not know who is to blame, but
snow will fall in April, covering the ground and
drifting as beautifully as ever in January. Very
odd to the people who dwell in town, but very
commonplace to the unprofessional rustic. After
all, it is not strange. Too little attention, for all
these years, has been given to the fact that as

302 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

the surface of the earth was rapidly changing,
forests turned to treeless fields, swamps turned
to dry pastures, streams obliterated or directed
into artificial channels, Nature's handiwork, in
short, swept out of existence ; so, if wild life
was to stay at all, it must face the problem of
a changed surrounding and alter its ways of
living accordingly. The fact that the frog's
epithalamium is a characteristic feature of spring
is no reason for supposing that the creature
must necessarily be mute as an oyster at all
other times ; but to say so seemed so pretty a
statement when originally made by some closet
naturalist, that down into the books it went and
there it stays. I do not know how long a flying-
squirrel lives, but there has been a colony of
them in the attic of my house for more than
half a century. Those now living over my head,
and that turn night into day, are as much crea-
tures of the house as any mouse in the wall.
It is true they go abroad more and have not
lost their flight power, but I am sure they would
feel strangely enough if suddenly taken to a
forest and found themselves with no such shelter
as my house affords. They have learned to

Correspondents and Critics. 303

recognize a human being ; not to the extent
of being dangerously trusty, but not frightened
out of their wits when they meet me face to
face.

Too much has been inferred from a limited
range of observation ; but this is no excuse for
the silly contradictions on the part of profes-
sionals to the assertions of amateurs. My green
herons are not solitary, but distinctly social ; my
wood-ducks do breed regularly and abundantly
near here and have always done so. The Eng-
lish snipe nests in these meadows nearly every
summer. King-rails are abundant in the mucky
meadow, and so a long chapter could be, but
need not be, written about such matters. My
earnest advice to amateurs is to depend upon
their own powers and turn a deaf ear to pro-
fessionals, except where technicalities are re-
quired. Not that the professional is unin-
formed, but in proportion as you depend upon
him you lose confidence in yourself. Rather
be a law unto yourself and only unto yourself.
Place your own ability in the highest place and
look down, not up. The professional, remember,
never invites you to be other than his slave ;

304 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

but so train your own self that you can dare to
make of the professional a servant and not a
master.

The professional has his place, and a pre-
eminently prominent one it is ; so prominent
and elevated indeed, that from the exalted
height the level plains of the amateur's world
are not seen distinctly. Bewildered and be-
dizzied, the professional mars not makes for
dignity by over-estimation of himself. His
great good fortune in reaching professional
rank proves occasionally too great and sober-
ness is over-balanced. Why he so lauds him-
self and smiles with a pitying glance on the
modest amateur is not readily explained. It
does not decrease the amateur's value, and cer-
tainly does not add height or depth or breadth
to professional erudition. The professor of
ornithology can issue no edict forever ending
ornithic irregularities ; cat-bird, heron, snipe,
thrush, and owl will do precisely as they please.
Grasshoppers will caper over the snow, eels
wander overland, and catfish brave the air upon
occasion. Opossums will walk the streets of a
town, raccoons hide in cellars, and weasels attack

Correspondents and Critics. 305

men ; a thousand things occur that are in the
line of unusual occurrence, but not so unusual
as some would have us believe. It is but an
exhibition of ignorance to call anything not in
the line of supposed habits an "accidental oc-
currence," and so of no significance. How do
these offensively bumptious professionals know
that it is "accidental"? Have they been for
years so much abroad, or does every "acci-
dental occurrence" flatly contradict the known
course of any creature's life? The amateur
will ever do himself a service in turning a deaf
ear to these snap judgments of professionals.
Every unusual happening is an added fact for
the amateur of which he can make good use.
The amateur can be happy, and wisely so, with
his few facts or many as the case may be ; but
no professional, be he ever so wise, but has yet
something more to learn. His will not be a
well-rounded and worthy career until he learns
to look with respect upon amateurs and what
they know and do, for all too likely are the
chances that from them his incomplete pro-
fessional knowledge might receive a few finish-
ing touches that lacking, leaves him, at last,

306 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

standing before the world an unfinished monu-
ment to erudition.

An amusing feature of this matter is the
question of veracity. Now, I speak soberly
when I say that the most recklessly inexact
man I ever met is a geologist. He no more
considers facts that jostle his theories than he
does the ground upon which he treads. To be
sure, few people read geological essays, and
surely none of his will find their way to text-
books, so little mischief is done. Lackeys of
government bureaus too often, to make sure of
their salaries, are forced to keep their mouths
shut or to lie ! Now, any amateur, be he ever
so careful, may prove to be mistaken. He may
see one thing and believe it to be another ; but
the professional is treading on very thin ice
when he flatly contradicts the amateur's state-
ment ; particularly when there is no impossi-
bility entering into the case. Fight the ama-
teur's statement as improbable by all means,
but it is a dangerous thing to flatly contra-
dict it, — dangerous, because when the amateur
proves that he is correct these same profes-
sionals invariably decline to take back their

Correspondents and Critics. 307

offensive words, and righteously merit the
occasional castigation they receive. Perhaps,
though, all things considered, such attacks
should not be considered offensive. I believe
the amateur is wise in paying no attention to
them. They reflect only upon those who make
them, and the world gives little heed to such
matters. The people ask for facts, not theories,
when it is a question of natural history. A
notable instance of this is in the recent off-hand
dictum of a world-renowned archaeologist who
has never seen the valley of the Delaware unless
from a car-window, but, accepting the assertions
of an incompetent and reckless theorist, says
that we have no evidence of man's antiquity
hereabouts. I, who have lived here all my life,
say that we have. The world is free to choose
between us. It is just such instances as these
that confuse the mind of the general public and
sometimes dishearten amateurs, who have en-
thusiastically entered upon the investigation of
what Nature has done, and is doing, in their
own neighborhoods.

Not a syllable of comment on the savants of
the day. There are many such, and never one

308 Clear Skies and Cloudy.

too many ; but these real students of any sub-
ject are students at heart always, and never turn
a deaf ear to the suggestions of some humble
thinker to whom Nature may have made a sug-
gestion. Certainly, it is incumbent upon every
right thinking man to give every novel sug-
gestion a respectful hearing. Ideas that were
stamped as absurd at their birth have survived
the unjust assaults and later revolutionized the
world of thought.

The dividing line between amateur and
professional has never been quite satisfactorily
drawn. Some sudden change in worldly cir-
cumstance may induce the amateur to make his
studies his life-work, and, Presto ! Change ! he
is from that moment professional ; and what a
change it sometimes proves to be ! Ashamed,
it would seem, of his former self, he actually
looks down upon amateurish work with disdain ;
yet an unbiassed observer cannot discover by
so much as the breadth of a hair how he of to-
day differs from him of yesterday.

The amateur naturalist has everything to be
thankful for and few reasons for serious sorrow.
Far removed from a controversial atmosphere,

Correspondents and Critics. 309

it is his to breathe the unpolluted air of the field
and forest ; to see and hear, to taste and smell
and touch, yet never to be weighted with the
doubts with which the wrangling professionals
befog the pleasant landscape. Their knowledge
may be untechnical, but so far as it extends it
is not untrue, and that, and that only, is the
worthy aim, the honorable ambition, of the
honest amateur.

Index.

A.

Alder, black, 201.

Animals, aquatic, in winter,

26.

Ants, 115.
April showers, 70.
Audubon Societies, 152.
Autumn leaves, 36.
Azalea, 253.

B.
Bear, 219.

tooth of, 30.
Beaver, 30.
Beech, 238, 243.
" Beeches, Three," great age

of, 256.
Birch, silvery, 30.

yellow, 258.

Bird-nesting, blunders in, 76.
Birds, flight of, 90.

geographical distribution
of, 282.

Birds, language of, 288.

migration of, 92, 283.

protection of, 133.

song of, 288.

' ' stragglers' ' among,
286.

value of, 134.
Bittern, 290.

least, 183.

Black-birds, red-winged, 69.
Blue-bird, 149, 154.
Boa-constrictor, 195.
Boneset, 195.
Buzzard, turkey, 130.

C.

Cardinal, 173, 255.

Cat-bird, 45, 156, 284, 304.

Catfish, 304.

Cat, "wild," 6l.

Cedar, 23.

Chat, yellow-breasted, 124.

Chewink, 284.

3"

312

Index.

Chickadee, 21, 33, 38, 65,

69, 206, 261.
friendly disposition of, 45.
Chippy, 93, 154.
Clay, 219.

Colorado, canons of, 246.
Condor, 127.
Coot, 187.
Cougar, 191.
Creek, Crosswicks, 186, 233,

299.
Creeks, archaeological traces

of, 118.

geological traces of, 117.
Creeper, tree, 21, 175.

Virginia, 254.
Crosswicks creek, 186, 233,

299.

age of, 117.
Crow, 31, 35, 37, 42, 56, 68,

101, 148, 164, 180, 248.
Crows, conversation among,
43-

D.

Dabchick, 187.
Deer, 219.

Delaware Valley, archaeology
of, 307.

Dodder, 137, 195.
Dogwood, 252.
Duck, wood, no.

E.

Eagle, bald, 184.
Education, incompleteness of
ordinary, 279.

F.

Falcon, black, 59.

Fish, ignorance of habits of,

281.
silvery, seen in water,

142.

voracity of, 28.
Flicker, 69.

Flowers, skeletons of, 17, 36.
Flycatcher, great-crested, 52,

101.

Fox, cunning of, 50.
Friends, Society of, 266.
Frost, curious effects of, 17.

G.

Glacial drift, 189.
period, 115.

Index.

Gnat-catcher, blue-gray, 253.
Golden rod, 137.
Goldfinch, 172.
Grape-vine, strange growth

of, 253.

Grasshoppers, 304.
Green brier, 195.
Grosbeak, rose-breasted, 52,
87, 92, 132, 255.
song of, 99, 1 20.
Grouse, ruffed, 198.
Gull, sea, 56, 68.
Gum-tree, 258.

H.

Hair bird, 92.
Hawk, black, 241.

cries of, 56.
Hawks in winter, 59.
Hazel bush, 138.
Heron, great blue, 183, 304.

green, 88, 130, 303,

3°4-

Hickory, shellbark, 149.
Holly, 201.
Homer, 218.
Humming-bird, 104.
Hyssop, 195.

I.

Ice, 25.

Indian camp-site, 30, 59.

summer, 285.

trail, 190.
Indigo bird, 92.
Inexact, charm of the, 208.
Insect life, 113.
Iron weed, 137, 195.
Ivy, poison, 254.

J-

Jay, blue, 22, 31, 65, 69, 88,
148.

K.

Kalm, Peter, mentioned,

191.
Kelvin, Lord, on age of earth,

117.

Kingfisher, 88.
Kinglet, golden crowned, 21,

261.

L.

Lark, meadow, 69.

whistle of, 56.
Lobelia, scarlet, 141.

3H

Index.

Lotus, 138, 178.

Lowell, J. R. quoted, 19,

82.
Lucretius, quoted, 260.

If.

Man, glacial, 18.
Mice, fear of, 280.

meadow, 30, 59.
Milestone, an old, 189.
Mink, 27, III.
Minnows, 29, 219, 293.
Mist, frozen, effects of, 19.
Mistletoe, 201.
Mole, common, 291.
Mosquito, 277.
Mouse, meadow, 290.

white-footed, 66, 157.
Mud minnow, 26.
Mulberry, 244.
Murex, color of, 261.
Musk-rat, 26, 30, 37, 59.

winter houses of, 40.

N.

Nature, interpretation of, 272.

why uninteresting, 278.
Nuthatches, 21, 38.

Oaks, 138, 226, 243.

Opossum, 61, 304.

Oriole, Baltimore, 78, 92, 122,

200, 281.

Otter, 27, 30, 299.
Owl, barn, 178, 299, 304.
nest-robbing, 80.

P.

Pee-wee, 45, 70, 92, 256.
Pike, 26, 219.
Pine, 243.
Pipsissewa, 202.
Plant-life, aquatic, 25.
Pointblank, Philander,quoted,

251.
Prince's pine, 202.

Q.

Qua bird, 88.
Quail, 176, 198, 219.

R.

Rabbits, 220.
Raccoon, 30, 61, 304.

Index.

Rail, king, abundance of,

303.
Red-bird, 69.

call of, 56, IOI.
Redstart, 101.
Rhododendrons, 58.
Riker, John, agility of, 152.
Robin, 69, 78, 82, 87, 114,

124, 128, 281.
Rose-mallow, 137, 178.

S.

Sassafras, 57, 238, 254.
Savage, primeval, traces of,

249.

Shad, 293.
Shakespeare, 218.
Shelter, poetry of, 107.
Showers, summer, 109.
Shrew, 261.
Skunk, 61.
Snail, 144.

Snake, garter, 195, 292.
Snakes, fear of, 280.
Snipe, English, nesting of,

299, 303> 304-
Snowbirds, 20, 197, 260.
Sparrow, English, 45, 149,

282.

Sparrow, field, 71.

song, 27, 31, 62, 69, 77,
124, 256.

tree, 20, 21, 33, 38.

vesper, 69.

white-throated, 65.
Sphagnum, 252.
Spicewood, 73.
Spider, 115.

webs, 156.

Squirrel, gray, 60, 65.
Squirrels, hoarding of nuts

by, 259.
Strawberry, 95.
Sucker, 26.
Sunfish, 27.
Sunrise, merits of, 96.
Swallow, bank, nest of. 281.
Swallows, late migration of,

285.

Swift, chimney, 92.
Sycamore, hollow, as shelter,
109.

T.

Tanager, 255.
Teal, 223.

Thoreau, H. D., mentioned,
35, 65.

316

Index.

Thrush, wood, 45, 82, 98,

220, 255, 304.
Tit, crested, 21, 45, 69, 147,

172.

Tobacco, use of, 266.
Tree-sparrow, 20, 21, 33,38.
Trout, 293.
Tulip-tree, 250, 253.
Turtles, 28.

V.

Vireos, 87, 104, 124.

W.

Warbler, myrtle, 290.

summer, 101.
Warblers, migrating, 70, 82,

87.
Wax-wings, 58.

Weasel, 304.
Whippoorwill, 130, 177.
Wild life, sudden appearance

of, ill.
Willow, hollow, as shelter,

"5-
weeping, 141.

Wine, use of, 269.
Woodcock, 176, 220.
Woodpecker, 36.

red-headed, 176.
Wren, Carolina, 31, 63, 69,
101, 103, 173, 201,
290.

house, 79, 82, 92. 127.
winter, 21, 261.

Y.

Yellow-throat, Maryland,
101, 285.

A 000 051 987 6