To many, a swamp or marsh brings only the very practical thought of
whether it can be readily drained. Let us rejoice, however, that many
marshes cannot be thus easily wiped out of existence, and hence they
remain as isolated bits of primeval wilderness, hedged about by farms and
furrows. The water is the life-blood of the marsh,--drain it, and reed and
rush, bird and batrachian, perish or disappear. The marsh, to him who
enters it in a receptive mood, holds, besides mosquitoes and
stagnation,--melody, the mystery of unknown waters, and the sweetness of
Nature undisturbed by man.
The ideal marsh is as far as one can go from civilisation. The depths of a
wood holds its undiscovered secrets; the mysterious call of the veery
lends a wildness that even to-day has not ceased to pervade the old wood.
There are spots overgrown with fern and carpeted with velvety wet moss;
here also the skunk cabbage and cowslip grow rank among the alders. Surely
man cannot live near this place--but the tinkle of a cowbell comes faintly
on the gentle stirring breeze--and our illusion is dispelled, the charm is
broken.
But even to-day, when we push the punt through the reeds from the clear
river into the narrow, tortuous channel of the marsh, we have left
civilisation behind us. The great ranks of the cat-tails shut out all view
of the outside world; the distant sounds of civilisation serve only to
accentuate the isolation. It is the land of the Indian, as it was before
the strange white man, brought from afar in great white-sailed ships, came
to usurp the land of the wondering natives. At any moment we fancy that we
may see an Indian canoe silently round a bend in the channel.
The marsh has remained unchanged since the days when the Mohican Indians
speared fish there. We are living in a bygone time. A little green heron
flies across the water. How wild he is; nothing has tamed him. He also is
the same now as always. He does not nest in orchard or meadow, but holds
himself aloof, making no concessions to man and the ever increasing spread
of his civilisation. He does not come to his doors for food. He can find
food for himself and in abundance; he asks only to be let alone. Nor does
he intrude himself. Occasionally we meet him along our little meadow
stream, but he makes no advances. As we come suddenly upon him, how
indignant he seems at being disturbed in his hunting. Like the Indian, he
is jealous of his ancient domain and resents intrusion. He retires,
however, throwing back to us a cry of disdain. Here in the marsh is the
last stand of primitive nature in the settled country; here is the last
stronghold of the untamed. The bulrushes rise in ranks, like the spears of
a great army, surrounding and guarding the colony of the marsh.
There seems to be a kinship between the voices of the marsh dwellers. Most
of them seem to have a muddy, aquatic note. The boom of the frog sounds
like some great stone dropped into the water; the little marsh wren's song
is the "babble and tinkle of water running out of a silver flask."
The blackbird seems to be the one connecting link between the highlands
and the lowlands. Seldom does one see other citizens of the marsh in the
upland. How glorious is the flight of a great blue heron from one
feeding-ground to another! He does not tarry over the foreign territory,
nor does he hurry. With neck and head furled close and legs straight out
behind, he pursues his course, swerving neither to the right nor the
left.
"Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As darkly painted on the crimson sky
Thy figure floats along."
The blackbirds, however, are more neighbourly. They even forage in the
foreign territory, returning at night to sleep.
In nesting time the red-wing is indeed a citizen of the lowland. His voice
is as distinctive of the marsh as is the croak of the frog, and from a
distance it is one of the first sounds to greet the ear. How beautiful is
his clear whistle with its liquid break! Indeed one may say that he is the
most conspicuous singer of the marshlands. His is not a sustained song,
but the exuberant expression of a happy heart.
According to many writers the little marsh wren is without song. No song!
As well say that the farmer boy's whistling as he follows the plough, or
the sailor's song as he hoists the sail, is not music! All are the songs
of the lowly, the melody of those glad to be alive and out in the free
air.
When man goes into the marsh, the marsh retires within itself, as a turtle
retreats within his shell. With the exception of a few blackbirds and
marsh wrens, babbling away the nest secret, and an occasional frog's
croak, all the inhabitants have stealthily retired. The spotted turtle has
slid from the decayed log as the boat pushed through the reeds. At our
approach the heron has flown and the little Virginia rail has scuttled
away among the reeds.
Remain perfectly quiet, however, and give the marsh time to regain its
composure. One by one the tenants of the swamp will take up the trend of
their business where it was interrupted.
All about, the frogs rest on the green carpet of the lily pads, basking in
the sun. The little rail again runs among the reeds, searching for food in
the form of small snails. The blackbirds and wrens, most domestic in
character, go busily about their home business; the turtles again come up
to their positions, and a muskrat swims across the channel. One hopes that
the little colony of marsh wren homes on stilts above the water, like the
ancient lake dwellers of Tenochtitlan, may have no enemies. But the habit
of building dummy nests is suggestive that the wee birds are pitting their
wits against the cunning of some enemy,--and suspicion rests upon the
serpent.
As evening approaches and the shadows from the bordering wood point long
fingers across the marsh, the blackbirds straggle back from their
feeding-grounds and settle, clattering, among the reeds. Their clamour
dies gradually away and night settles down upon the marsh.
* * * * *
All sounds have ceased save the booming of the frogs, which but emphasises
the loneliness of it all. A distant whistle of a locomotive dispels the
idea that all the world is wilderness. The firefly lamps glow along the
margin of the rushes. The frogs are now in full chorus, the great bulls
beating their tom-toms and the small fry filling in the chinks with
shriller cries. How remote the scene and how melancholy the chorus!
To one mind there is a quality in the frogs' serenade that strikes the
chord of sadness, to another the chord of contentment, to still another it
is the chant of the savage, just as the hoot of an owl or the bark of a
fox brings vividly to mind the wilderness.
Out of the night comes softly the croon of a little screech owl--that cry
almost as ancient as the hills. It belongs with the soil beneath our
towns. It is the spirit of the past crying to us. So the dirge of the frog
is the cry of the spirit of river and marshland.
Our robins and bluebirds are of the orchard and the home of man, but who
can claim neighbourship to the bittern or the bullfrog? There is nothing
of civilisation in the hoarse croak of the great blue heron. These are all
barbarians and their songs are of the untamed wilderness.
The moon rises over the hills. The mosquitoes have become savage. The
marsh has tolerated us as long as it cares to, and we beat our retreat.
The night hawks swoop down and boom as they pass overhead. One feels
thankful that the mosquitoes are of some good in furnishing food to so
graceful a bird.
A water snake glides across the channel, leaving a silver wake in the
moonlight. The frogs plunk into the water as we push past. A night heron
rises from the margin of the river and slowly flops away. The bittern
booms again as we row down the peaceful river, and we leave the marshland
to its ancient and rightful owners.
And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose and silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun!
The creeks overflow; a thousand rivulets run
'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh grass stir;
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr.
Sidney Lanier.