Like most others it grows in streaks. A few paces from where your
attention is monopolized by violets or arbutus, it is arrested by the
claytonia, growing in such profusion that it is impossible to set the
foot down without crushing the flowers. Only the forenoon walker sees
them in all their beauty, as later in the day their eyes are closed,
and their pretty heads drooped in slumber. In only one locality do I
find the ladies'-slipper,--a yellow variety. The flowers that overleap
all bounds in this section are the houstonias. By the 1st of April
they are very noticeable in warm, damp places along the borders of the
woods and in half-cleared fields, but by May these localities are
clouded with them. They become visible from the highway across wide
fields, and look like little puffs of smoke clinging close to the
ground.
On the 1st of May I go to the Rock Creek or Piny Branch region to hear
the wood-thrush. I always find him by this date leisurely chanting his
lofty strain; other thrushes are seen now also, or even earlier, as
Wilson's, the olive-backed, the hermit,--the two latter silent, but
the former musical.
Occasionally in the earlier part of May I find the woods literally
swarming with warblers, exploring every branch and leaf, from the
tallest tulip to the lowest spice-bush, so urgent is the demand for
food during their long Northern journeys. At night they are up and
away. Some varieties, as the blue yellow-back, the chestnut-sided, and
the Blackburnian, during their brief stay, sing nearly as freely as in
their breeding haunts. For two or three years I have chanced to meet
little companies of the bay-breasted warbler, searching for food in an
oak wood, on an elevated piece of ground. They kept well up among the
branches, were rather slow in their movements, and evidently disposed
to tarry but a short time.
The summer residents here, belonging to this class of birds, are few.
I have observed the black and white creeping warbler, the Kentucky
warbler, the worm-eating warbler, the redstart, and the gnatcatcher,
breeding near Rock Creek.
Of these the Kentucky warbler is by far the most interesting, though
quite rare. I meet with him in low, damp places in the woods, usually on
the steep sides of some little run. I hear at intervals a clear, strong,
bell-like whistle or warble, and presently catch a glimpse of the bird
as he jumps up from the ground to take an insect or worm from the under
side of a leaf. This is his characteristic movement. He belongs to the
class of ground warblers, and his range is very low, indeed lower than
that of any other species with which I am acquainted. He is on the
ground nearly all the time, moving rapidly along, taking spiders and
bugs, overturning leaves, peeping under sticks and into crevices, and
every now and then leaping up eight or ten inches, to take his game from
beneath some overhanging leaf or branch. Thus each species has its range
more or less marked. Draw a line three feet from the ground, and you
mark the usual limit of the Kentucky warbler's quest for food. Six or
eight feet higher bounds the usual range of such birds as the
worm-eating warbler, the mourning ground warbler, the Maryland
yellow-throat. The lower branches of the higher growths and the higher
branches of the lower growths are plainly preferred by the black-throated
blue-backed warbler, in those localities where he is found. The thrushes
feed mostly on and near the ground, while some of the vireos and the true
fly-catchers explore the highest branches. But the Sylviadæ, as a rule,
are all partial to thick, rank undergrowths.
The Kentucky warbler is a large bird for the genus, and quite notable
in appearance. His back is clear olive-green; his throat and breast
bright yellow. A still more prominent feature is a black streak on the
side of the face, extending down the neck.
Another familiar bird here, which I never met with in the North, is
the gnatcatcher, called by Audubon the blue-gray fly-catching warbler.
In form and manner it seems almost a duplicate of the cat-bird, on a
small scale. It mews like a young kitten, erects its tail, flirts,
droops its wings, goes through a variety of motions when disturbed by
your presence, and in many ways recalls its dusky prototype. Its color
above is a light, gray blue, gradually fading till it becomes white on
the breast and belly. It is a very small bird, and has a long, facile,
slender tail. Its song is a lisping, chattering, incoherent warble,
now faintly reminding one of the goldfinch, now of a miniature
cat-bird, then of a tiny yellow-hammer, having much variety, but no
unity, and little cadence.
Another bird which has interested me here is the Louisiana water-thrush,
called also large-billed water-thrush, and water-wagtail. It is one of a
trio of birds which has confused the ornithologists much. The other two
species are the well-known golden-crowned thrush (_Sciurus aurocapillus_)
or wood-wagtail, and the Northern, or small, water-thrush (_Sciurus
noveboracensis_).
The present species, though not abundant, is frequently met with along
Rock Creek. It is a very quick, vivacious bird, and belongs to the
class of ecstatic singers. I have seen a pair of these thrushes, on a
bright May day, flying to and fro between two spring runs, alighting
at intermediate points, the male breaking out into one of the most
exuberant, unpremeditated strains I ever heard. Its song is a sudden
burst, beginning with three or four clear round notes much resembling
certain tones of the clarionet, and terminating in a rapid, intricate
warble.
This bird resembles a thrush only in its color, which is olive-brown
above, and grayish-white beneath, with speckled throat and breast. Its
habits, manners, and voice suggest those of the lark.
I seldom go the Rock Creek route without being amused and sometimes
annoyed by the yellow-breasted chat. This bird also has something of
the manners and build of the cat-bird, yet he is truly an original.
The cat-bird is mild and feminine compared with this rollicking
polyglot. His voice is very loud and strong and quite uncanny. No
sooner have you penetrated his retreat, which is usually a thick
undergrowth in low, wet localities, near the woods or in old fields,
than he begins his serenade, which for the variety, grotesqueness,
and uncouthness of the notes, is not unlike a country _skimmerton_.
If one passes directly along, the bird may scarcely break the silence.
But pause a while or loiter quietly about, and your presence stimulates
him to do his best. He peeps quizzically at you from beneath the
branches, and gives a sharp feline mew. In a moment more he says very
distinctly, _who, who_. Then in rapid succession follow notes the most
discordant that ever broke the sylvan silence. Now he barks like a
puppy, then quacks like a duck, then rattles like a kingfisher, then
squalls like a fox, then caws like a crow, then mews like a cat. Now
he calls as if to be heard a long way off, then changes his key, as if
addressing the spectator. Though very shy, and carefully keeping himself
screened when you show any disposition to get a better view, he will
presently, if you remain quiet, ascend a twig, or hop out on a branch
in plain sight, lop his tail, droop his wings, cock his head, and become
very melodramatic. In less than half a minute he darts into the bushes
again, and again tunes up, no Frenchman rolling his r's so fluently.
_C-r-r-r-r-r,--whrr,--that's it,--chee,--quack, cluck,--yit-yit-yit,--now
hit it,--tr-r-r-r,--when,--caw, caw,--cut, cut,--tea-boy,--who, who,--mew,
mew_,--and so on till you are tired of listening. Observing one very
closely one day, I discovered that he was limited to six notes or changes,
which he went through in regular order, scarcely varying a note in a
dozen repetitions. Sometimes, when a considerable distance off, he will
fly down to have a nearer view of you. And such a curious, expressive
flight,--legs extended, head lowered, wings rapidly vibrating, the whole
action piquant and droll!
The chat is an elegant bird both in form and color. Its plumage is
remarkably firm and compact. Color above, light olive-green; beneath,
bright yellow; beak, black and strong.
The cardinal grossbeak, or Virginia redbird, is quite common in the
same localities, though more inclined to seek the woods. It is much
sought after by bird-fanciers, and by boy gunners, and consequently is
very shy. This bird suggests a British red-coat; his heavy, pointed
beak, his high cockade, the black stripe down his face, the expression
of weight and massiveness about his head and neck, and his erect
attitude, give him a decided soldierlike appearance; and there is
something of the tone of the fife in his song or whistle, while his
ordinary note, when disturbed, is like the clink of a sabre.
Yesterday, as I sat indolently swinging in the loop of a grape-vine,
beneath a thick canopy of green branches, in a secluded nook by a
spring run, one of these birds came pursuing some kind of insect, but
a few feet above me. He hopped about, now and then uttering his sharp
note, till, some moth or beetle trying to escape, he broke down
through the cover almost where I sat. The effect was like a firebrand
coming down through the branches. Instantly catching sight of me, he
darted away much alarmed. The female is tinged with brown, and shows
but little red except when she takes flight.
By far the most abundant species of woodpecker about Washington is the
red-headed. It is more common than the robin. Not in the deep woods,
but among the scattered dilapidated oaks and groves, on the hills and
in the fields, I hear, almost every day, his uncanny note, _ktr-rr,
ktr-r-r_, like that of some larger tree-toad, proceeding from an oak
grove just beyond the boundary. He is a strong scented fellow, and
very tough. Yet how beautiful, as he flits about the open woods,
connecting the trees by a gentle arc of crimson and white! This is
another bird with a military look. His deliberate, dignified ways, and
his bright uniform of red, white, and steel-blue, bespeak him an
officer of rank.
Another favorite beat of mine is northeast of the city. Looking from
the Capitol in this direction, scarcely more than a mile distant, you
see a broad green hill-slope, falling very gently, and spreading into
a large expanse of meadow-land. The summit, if so gentle a swell of
greensward may be said to have a summit, is covered with a grove of
large oaks; and, sweeping back out of sight like a mantle, the front
line of a thick forest bounds the sides. This emerald landscape is
seen from a number of points in the city. Looking along New York
Avenue from Northern Liberty Market, the eye glances, as it were, from
the red clay of the street, and alights upon this fresh scene in the
distance. It is a standing invitation to the citizen to come forth and
be refreshed. As I turn from some hot, hard street, how inviting it
looks! I bathe my eyes in it as in a fountain. Sometimes troops of
cattle are seen grazing upon it. In June the gathering of the hay may
be witnessed. When the ground is covered with snow, numerous stacks,
or clusters of stacks, are still left for the eye to contemplate.
The woods which clothe the east side of this hill, and sweep away to
the east, are among the most charming to be found in the District. The
main growth is oak and chestnut, with a thin sprinkling of laurel,
azelia, and dogwood. It is the only locality in which I have found the
dog-tooth violet in bloom, and the best place I know of to gather
arbutus. On one slope the ground is covered with moss, through which
the arbutus trails its glories.
Emerging from these woods toward the city, one sees the white dome of
the Capitol soaring over the green swell of earth immediately in
front, and lifting its four thousand tons of iron gracefully and
lightly into the air. Of all the sights in Washington, that which will
survive longest in my memory is the vision of the great dome thus
rising cloud-like above the hills.
[Illustration: Pewee.]
[Illustration: Cardinal Grossbeak.]
BIRCH BROWSINGS.
The region of which I am about to speak lies in the southern part of
the State of New York, and comprises parts of three counties,--Ulster,
Sullivan, and Delaware. It is drained by tributaries of both the
Hudson and Delaware, and, next to the Adirondac section, contains more
wild land than any other tract in the State. The mountains which
traverse it, and impart to it its severe northern climate, belong
properly to the Catskill range. On some maps of the State they are
called the Pine Mountains, though with obvious local impropriety, as
pine, so far as I have observed, is nowhere found upon them. "Birch
Mountains" would be a more characteristic name, as on their summits
birch is the prevailing tree. They are the natural home of the black
and yellow birch, which grow here to unusual size. On their sides
beech and maple abound; while mantling their lower slopes, and
darkening the valleys, hemlock formerly enticed the lumberman and
tanner. Except in remote or inaccessible localities, the latter tree
is now almost never found. In Shandaken and along the Esopus, it is
about the only product the country yielded, or is likely to yield.
Tanneries by the score have arisen and flourished upon the bark, and
some of them still remain. Passing through that region the present
season, I saw that the few patches of hemlock that still lingered high
up on the sides of the mountains were being felled and peeled, the
fresh white bowls of the trees, just stripped of their bark, being
visible a long distance.
Among these mountains there are no sharp peaks, or abrupt declivities,
as in a volcanic region, but long, uniform ranges, heavily timbered to
their summits, and delighting the eye with vast, undulating horizon
lines. Looking south from the heights about the head of the Delaware,
one sees, twenty miles away, a continual succession of blue ranges,
one behind the other. If a few large trees are missing on the sky
line, one can see the break a long distance off.
Approaching this region from the Hudson River side, you cross a rough,
rolling stretch of country, skirting the base of the Catskills, which
from a point near Saugerties sweep inland; after a drive of a few
hours you are within the shadow of a high, bold mountain, which forms
a sort of but-end to this part of the range, and which is simply
called High Point. To the east and southeast it slopes down rapidly to
the plain, and looks defiance toward the Hudson, twenty miles distant;
in the rear of it, and radiating from it west and northwest, are
numerous smaller ranges, backing up, as it were, this haughty chief.
From this point through to Pennsylvania, a distance of nearly one
hundred miles, stretches the tract of which I speak. It is a belt of
country from twenty to thirty miles wide, bleak and wild, and but
sparsely settled. The traveler on the New York and Erie Railroad gets
a glimpse of it.
Many cold, rapid trout streams, which flow to all points of the
compass, have their source in the small lakes and copious mountain
springs of this region. The names of some of them are Mill Brook, Dry
Brook, Willewemack, Beaver Kill, Elk Bush Kill, Panther Kill,
Neversink, Big Ingin, and Callikoon. Beaver Kill is the main outlet on
the west. It joins the Delaware in the wilds of Hancock. The Neversink
lays open the region to the south, and also joins the Delaware. To the
east, various Kills unite with the Big Ingin to form the Esopus, which
flows into the Hudson. Dry Brook and Mill Brook, both famous trout
streams, from twelve to fifteen miles long, find their way into the
Delaware.
The east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware itself takes its rise near
here, in a deep pass between the mountains. I have many times drunk at
a copious spring by the roadside, where the infant river first sees
the light. A few yards beyond, the water flows the other way,
directing its course through the Bear Kill and Schoharie Kill into the
Mohawk.
Such game and wild animals as still linger in the State, are found in
this region. Bears occasionally make havoc among the sheep. The
clearings at the head of a valley are oftenest the scene of their
depredations.
Wild pigeons, in immense numbers, used to breed regularly in the
valley of the Big Ingin and about the head of the Neversink. The
tree-tops for miles were full of their nests, while the going and
coming of the old birds kept up a constant din. But the gunners soon
got wind of it, and from far and near were wont to pour in during the
spring, and to slaughter both old and young. This practice soon had
the effect of driving the pigeons all away, and now only a few pairs
breed in these woods.
Deer are still met with, though they are becoming scarcer every year.
Last winter near seventy head were killed on the Beaver Kill alone. I
heard of one wretch, who, finding the deer snowbound, walked up to
them on his snowshoes, and one morning before breakfast slaughtered
six, leaving their carcasses where they fell. There are traditions of
persons having been smitten blind or senseless when about to commit
some heinous offense, but the fact that this villain escaped without
some such visitation throws discredit on all such stories.
The great attraction, however, of this region, is the brook trout,
with which the streams and lakes abound. The water is of excessive
coldness, the thermometer indicating 44° and 45° in the springs, and
47° or 48° in the smaller streams. The trout are generally small, but
in the more remote branches their number is very great. In such
localities the fish are quite black, but in the lakes they are of a
lustre and brilliancy impossible to describe.
These waters have been much visited of late years by fishing parties,
and the name of Beaver Kill is now a potent word among New York
sportsmen.
One lake, in the wilds of Callikoon, abounds in a peculiar species of
white sucker, which is of excellent quality. It is taken only in
spring, during the spawning season, at the time "when the leaves are
as big as a chipmunk's ears." The fish run up the small streams and
inlets, beginning at nightfall, and continuing till the channel is
literally packed with them, and every inch of space is occupied. The
fishermen pounce upon them at such times, and scoop them up by the
bushel, usually wading right into the living mass and landing the fish
with their hands. A small party will often secure in this manner a
wagon load of fish. Certain conditions of the weather, as a warm south
or southwest wind, are considered most favorable for the fish to run.
Though familiar all my life with the outskirts of this region, I have
only twice dipped into its wilder portions. Once in 1860 a friend and
myself traced the Beaver Kill to its source, and encamped by Balsam
Lake. A cold and protracted rain-storm coming on, we were obliged to
leave the woods before we were ready. Neither of us will soon forget
that tramp by an unknown route over the mountains, encumbered as we
were with a hundred and one superfluities which we had foolishly
brought along to solace ourselves with in the woods; nor that halt on
the summit, where we cooked and ate our fish in a drizzling rain; nor,
again, that rude log-house, with its sweet hospitality, which we
reached just at nightfall on Mill Brook.
In 1868 a party of three of us set out for a brief trouting excursion,
to a body of water called Thomas's Lake, situated in the same chain of
mountains. On this excursion, more particularly than on any other I
have ever undertaken, I was taught how poor an Indian I should make,
and what a ridiculous figure a party of men may cut in the woods when
the way is uncertain and the mountains high.
We left our team at a farm-house near the head of the Mill Brook, one
June afternoon, and with knapsacks on our shoulders struck into the
woods at the base of the mountain, hoping to cross the range that
intervened between us and the lake by sunset. We engaged a good-natured,
but rather indolent young man, who happened to be stopping at the house,
and who had carried a knapsack in the Union armies, to pilot us a
couple of miles into the woods so as to guard against any mistakes at
the outset. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to find the lake.
The lay of the land was so simple, according to accounts, that I felt
sure I could go to it in the dark. "Go up this little brook to its
source on the side of the mountain," they said. "The valley that
contains the lake heads directly on the other side." What could be
easier! But on a little further inquiry, they said we should "bear well
to the left" when we reached the top of the mountain. This opened the
doors again; "bearing well to the left" was an uncertain performance in
strange woods. We might bear so well to the left that it would bring us
ill. But why bear to the left at all, if the lake was directly opposite?
Well, not quite opposite; a little to the left. There were two or three
other valleys that headed in near there. We could easily find the right
one. But to make assurance doubly sure, we engaged a guide, as stated,
to give us a good start, and go with us beyond the bearing-to-the-left
point. He had been to the lake the winter before and knew the way. Our
course, the first half-hour, was along an obscure wood-road which had
been used for drawing ash logs off the mountain in winter. There was
some hemlock, but more maple and birch. The woods were dense and free
from underbrush, the ascent gradual. Most of the way we kept the voice
of the creek in our ear on the right. I approached it once, and found
it swarming with trout. The water was as cold as one ever need wish.
After a while the ascent grew steeper, the creek became a mere rill that
issued from beneath loose, moss-covered rocks and stones, and with much
labor and puffing we drew ourselves up the rugged declivity. Every
mountain has its steepest point, which is usually near the summit, in
keeping, I suppose, with the providence that makes the darkest hour just
before day. It is steep, steeper, steepest, till you emerge on the
smooth, level or gently rounded space at the top, which the old ice-gods
polished off so long ago.
We found this mountain had a hollow in its back where the ground was
soft and swampy. Some gigantic ferns, which we passed through, came
nearly to our shoulders. We passed also several patches of swamp
honeysuckles, red with blossoms.
Our guide at length paused on a big rock where the land began to dip
down the other way, and concluded that he had gone far enough, and
that we would now have no difficulty in finding the lake. "It must lie
right down there," he said, pointing with his hand. But it was plain
that he was not quite sure in his own mind. He had several times
wavered in his course, and had shown considerable embarrassment when
bearing to the left across the summit. Still we thought little of it.
We were full of confidence, and, bidding him adieu, plunged down the
mountain-side, following a spring run that we had no doubt led to the
lake.
In these woods, which had a southeastern exposure, I first began to
notice the wood-thrush. In coming up the other side I had not seen a
feather of any kind, or heard a note. Now the golden _trillide-de_ of
the wood-thrush sounded through the silent woods. While looking for a
fish-pole about half-way down the mountain, I saw a thrush's nest in a
little sapling about ten feet from the ground.
After continuing our descent till our only guide, the spring run,
became quite a trout brook, and its tiny murmur a loud brawl, we began
to peer anxiously through the trees for a glimpse of the lake, or for
some conformation of the land that would indicate its proximity. An
object which we vaguely discerned in looking under the near trees and
over the more distant ones, proved, on further inspection, to be a
patch of ploughed ground. Presently we made out a burnt fallow near
it. This was a wet blanket to our enthusiasm. No lake, no sport, no
trout for supper that night. The rather indolent young man had either
played us a trick, or, as seemed more likely, had missed the way. We
were particularly anxious to be at the lake between sundown and dark,
as at that time the trout jump most freely.