"A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where, in a little promontory, it stood isolated:
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly spreading them.
"And you, O my soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--
Seeking the spheres to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need be formed--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my soul."
To return a little, September may be described as the month of tall
weeds. Where they have been suffered to stand, along fences, by
roadsides, and in forgotten corners,--redroot, pigweed, ragweed,
vervain, goldenrod, burdock, elecampane, thistles, teasels, nettles,
asters, etc.,--how they lift themselves up as if not afraid to be seen
now! They are all outlaws; every man's hand is against them; yet how
surely they hold their own! They love the roadside, because here they
are comparatively safe; and ragged and dusty, like the common tramps
that they are, they form one of the characteristic features of early
fall.
I have often noticed in what haste certain weeds are at times to
produce their seeds. Redroot will grow three or four feet high when it
has the whole season before it; but let it get a late start, let it
come up in August, and it scarcely gets above the ground before it
heads out, and apparently goes to work with all its might and main to
mature its seed. In the growth of most plants or weeds, April and May
represent their root, June and July their stalk, and August and
September their flower and seed. Hence, when the stalk months are
stricken out, as in the present case, there is only time for a shallow
root and a foreshortened head. I think most weeds that get a late
start show this curtailment of stalk, and this solicitude to reproduce
themselves. But I have not observed that any of the cereals are so
worldly wise. They have not had to think and shift for themselves as
the weeds have. It does indeed look like a kind of forethought in the
redroot. It is killed by the first frost, and hence knows the danger
of delay.
How rich in color, before the big show of the tree foliage has
commenced, our roadsides are in places in early autumn,--rich to the
eye that goes hurriedly by and does not look too closely,--with the
profusion of goldenrod and blue and purple asters dashed in upon here
and there with the crimson leaves of the dwarf sumac; and at
intervals, rising out of the fence corner or crowning a ledge of
rocks, the dark green of the cedars with the still fire of the
woodbine at its heart. I wonder if the waysides of other lands present
any analogous spectacles at this season.
Then, when the maples have burst out into color, showing like great
bonfires along the hills, there is indeed a feast for the eye. A maple
before your windows in October, when the sun shines upon it, will make
up for a good deal of the light it has excluded; it fills the room
with a soft golden glow.
Thoreau, I believe, was the first to remark upon the individuality of
trees of the same species with respect to their foliage,--some maples
ripening their leaves early and some late, and some being of one tint
and some of another; and, moreover, that each tree held to the same
characteristics, year after year. There is, indeed, as great a variety
among the maples as among the trees of an apple orchard; some are
harvest apples, some are fall apples, and some are winter apples, each
with a tint of its own. Those late ripeners are the winter
varieties,--the Rhode Island greenings or swaars of their kind. The
red maple is the early astrachan. Then come the red-streak, the
yellow-sweet, and others. There are windfalls among them, too, as
among the apples, and one side or hemisphere of the leaf is usually
brighter than the other.
The ash has been less noticed for its autumnal foliage than it
deserves. The richest shades of plum color to be seen--becoming by and
by, or in certain lights, a deep maroon--are afforded by this tree.
Then at a distance there seems to be a sort of bloom on it, as upon
the grape or plum. Amid a grove of yellow maple, it makes a most
pleasing contrast.
By mid-October, most of the Rip Van Winkles among our brute creatures
have lain down for their winter nap. The toads and turtles have buried
themselves in the earth. The woodchuck is in his hibernaculum, the
skunk in his, the mole in his; and the black bear has his selected,
and will go in when the snow comes. He does not like the looks of his
big tracks in the snow. They publish his goings and comings too
plainly. The coon retires about the same time. The provident wood-mice
and the chipmunk are laying by a winter supply of nuts or grain, the
former usually in decayed trees, the latter in the ground. I have
observed that any unusual disturbance in the woods, near where the
chipmunk has his den, will cause him to shift his quarters. One
October, for many successive days, I saw one carrying into his hole
buckwheat which he had stolen from a near field. The hole was only a
few rods from where we were getting out stone, and as our work
progressed, and the racket and uproar increased, the chipmunk became
alarmed. He ceased carrying in, and after much hesitating and darting
about, and some prolonged absences, he began to carry out; he had
determined to move; if the mountain fell, he, at least, would be away
in time. So, by mouthfuls or cheekfuls, the grain was transferred to a
new place. He did not make a "bee" to get it done, but carried it all
himself, occupying several days, and making a trip about every ten
minutes.
The red and gray squirrels do not lay by winter stores; their cheeks
are made without pockets, and whatever they transport is carried in
the teeth. They are more or less active all winter, but October and
November are their festal months. Invade some butternut or hickory-nut
grove on a frosty October morning, and hear the red squirrel beat the
"juba" on a horizontal branch. It is a most lively jig, what the boys
call a "regular break-down," interspersed with squeals and snickers
and derisive laughter. The most noticeable peculiarity about the
vocal part of it is the fact that it is a kind of duet. In other
words, by some ventriloquial tricks, he appears to accompany himself,
as if his voice split up, a part forming a low guttural sound, and a
part a shrill nasal sound.
The distant bark of the more wary gray squirrel may be heard about the
same time. There is a teasing and ironical tone in it also, but the
gray squirrel is not the Puck the red is.
Insects also go into winter-quarters by or before this time; the
bumblebee, hornet, and wasp. But here only royalty escapes: the
queen-mother alone foresees the night of winter coming and the morning
of spring beyond. The rest of the tribe try gypsying for a while, but
perish in the first frosts. The present October I surprised the queen
of the yellow-jackets in the woods looking out a suitable retreat. The
royal dame was house-hunting, and, on being disturbed by my
inquisitive poking among the leaves, she got up and flew away with a
slow, deep hum. Her body was unusually distended, whether with fat or
eggs I am unable to say. In September I took down the nest of the
black hornet and found several large queens in it, but the workers
had all gone. The queens were evidently weathering the first frosts
and storms here, and waiting for the Indian summer to go forth and
seek a permanent winter abode. If the covers could be taken off the
fields and woods at this season, how many interesting facts of natural
history would be revealed!--the crickets, ants, bees, reptiles,
animals, and, for aught I know, the spiders and flies asleep or
getting ready to sleep in their winter dormitories; the fires of life
banked up, and burning just enough to keep the spark over till spring.
The fish all run down the stream in the fall except the trout; it runs
up or stays up and spawns in November, the male becoming as
brilliantly tinted as the deepest-dyed maple leaf. I have often
wondered why the trout spawns in the fall, instead of in the spring
like other fish. Is it not because a full supply of clear spring water
can be counted on at that season more than at any other? The brooks
are not so liable to be suddenly muddied by heavy showers, and defiled
with the washings of the roads and fields, as they are in spring and
summer. The artificial breeder finds that absolute purity of water is
necessary to hatch the spawn; also that shade and a low temperature
are indispensable.
Our Northern November day itself is like spring water. It is melted
frost, dissolved snow. There is a chill in it and an exhilaration
also. The forenoon is all morning and the afternoon all evening. The
shadows seem to come forth and to revenge themselves upon the day. The
sunlight is diluted with darkness. The colors fade from the landscape,
and only the sheen of the river lights up the gray and brown distance.