One has only to sit down in the woods or fields, or by the shore of
the river or lake, and nearly everything of interest will come round
to him,--the birds, the animals, the insects; and presently, after his
eye has got accustomed to the place, and to the light and shade, he
will probably see some plant or flower that he had sought in vain for,
and that is a pleasant surprise to him. So, on a large scale, the
student and lover of nature has this advantage over people who gad up
and down the world, seeking some novelty or excitement; he has only to
stay at home and see the procession pass. The great globe swings
around to him like a revolving showcase; the change of the seasons is
like the passage of strange and new countries; the zones of the earth,
with all their beauties and marvels, pass one's door and linger long
in the passing. What a voyage is this we make without leaving for a
night our own fireside! St. Pierre well says that a sense of the
power and mystery of nature shall spring up as fully in one's heart
after he has made the circuit of his own field as after returning from
a voyage round the world. I sit here amid the junipers of the Hudson,
with purpose every year to go to Florida, or to the West Indies, or to
the Pacific coast, yet the seasons pass and I am still loitering, with
a half-defined suspicion, perhaps, that, if I remain quiet and keep a
sharp lookout, these countries will come to me. I may stick it out
yet, and not miss much after all. The great trouble is for Mohammed to
know when the mountain really comes to him. Sometimes a rabbit or a
jay or a little warbler brings the woods to my door. A loon on the
river, and the Canada lakes are here; the sea-gulls and the fish hawk
bring the sea; the call of the wild gander at night, what does it
suggest? and the eagle flapping by, or floating along on a raft of
ice, does not he bring the mountain? One spring morning five swans
flew above my barn in single file, going northward,--an express train
bound for Labrador. It was a more exhilarating sight than if I had
seen them in their native haunts. They made a breeze in my mind, like
a noble passage in a poem. How gently their great wings flapped; how
easy to fly when spring gives the impulse! On another occasion I saw a
line of fowls, probably swans, going northward, at such a height that
they appeared like a faint, waving black line against the sky. They
must have been at an altitude of two or three miles. I was looking
intently at the clouds to see which way they moved, when the birds
came into my field of vision. I should never have seen them had they
not crossed the precise spot upon which my eye was fixed. As it was
near sundown, they were probably launched for an all-night pull. They
were going with great speed, and as they swayed a little this way and
that, they suggested a slender, all but invisible, aerial serpent
cleaving the ether. What a highway was pointed out up there!--an easy
grade from the Gulf to Hudson's Bay.
Then the typical spring and summer and autumn days, of all shades and
complexions,--one cannot afford to miss any of them; and when looked
out upon from one's own spot of earth, how much more beautiful and
significant they are! Nature comes home to one most when he is at
home; the stranger and traveler finds her a stranger and a traveler
also. One's own landscape comes in time to be a sort of outlying part
of himself; he has sowed himself broadcast upon it, and it reflects
his own moods and feelings; he is sensitive to the verge of the
horizon: cut those trees, and he bleeds; mar those hills, and he
suffers. How has the farmer planted himself in his fields; builded
himself into his stone walls, and evoked the sympathy of the hills by
his struggle! This home feeling, this domestication of nature, is
important to the observer. This is the bird-lime with which he catches
the bird; this is the private door that admits him behind the scenes.
This is one source of Gilbert White's charm, and of the charm of
Thoreau's "Walden."
The birds that come about one's door in winter, or that build in his
trees in summer, what a peculiar interest they have! What crop have I
sowed in Florida or in California, that I should go there to reap? I
should be only a visitor, or formal caller upon nature, and the family
would all wear masks. No; the place to observe nature is where you
are; the walk to take to-day is the walk you took yesterday. You will
not find just the same things: both the observed and the observer
have changed; the ship is on another tack in both cases.
[Illustration: A CATSKILL ROADWAY]
I shall probably never see another just such day as yesterday was,
because one can never exactly repeat his observation,--cannot turn the
leaf of the book of life backward,--and because each day has
characteristics of its own. This was a typical March day, clear, dry,
hard, and windy, the river rumpled and crumpled, the sky intense,
distant objects strangely near; a day full of strong light, unusual;
an extraordinary lightness and clearness all around the horizon, as if
there were a diurnal aurora streaming up and burning through the
sunlight; smoke from the first spring fires rising up in various
directions,--a day that winnowed the air, and left no film in the sky.
At night, how the big March bellows did work! Venus was like a great
lamp in the sky. The stars all seemed brighter than usual, as if the
wind blew them up like burning coals. Venus actually seemed to flare
in the wind.
Each day foretells the next, if one could read the signs; to-day is
the progenitor of to-morrow. When the atmosphere is telescopic, and
distant objects stand out unusually clear and sharp, a storm is near.
We are on the crest of the wave, and the depression follows quickly.
It often happens that clouds are not so indicative of a storm as the
total absence of clouds. In this state of the atmosphere the stars are
unusually numerous and bright at night, which is also a bad omen.
I find this observation confirmed by Humboldt. "It appears," he says,
"that the transparency of the air is prodigiously increased when a
certain quantity of water is uniformly diffused through it." Again, he
says that the mountaineers of the Alps "predict a change of weather
when, the air being calm, the Alps covered with perpetual snow seem on
a sudden to be nearer the observer, and their outlines are marked with
great distinctness on the azure sky." He further observes that the
same condition of the atmosphere renders distant sounds more audible.
There is one redness in the east in the morning that means storm,
another that means wind. The former is broad, deep, and angry; the
clouds look like a huge bed of burning coals just raked open; the
latter is softer, more vapory, and more widely extended. Just at the
point where the sun is going to rise, and some minutes in advance of
his coming, there sometimes rises straight upward a rosy column; it is
like a shaft of deeply dyed vapor, blending with and yet partly
separated from the clouds, and the base of which presently comes to
glow like the sun itself. The day that follows is pretty certain to be
very windy. At other times the under sides of the eastern clouds are
all turned to pink or rose-colored wool; the transformation extends
until nearly the whole sky flushes, even the west glowing slightly;
the sign is always to be interpreted as meaning fair weather.
The approach of great storms is seldom heralded by any striking or
unusual phenomenon. The real weather gods are free from brag and
bluster; but the sham gods fill the sky with portentous signs and
omens. I recall one 5th of March as a day that would have filled the
ancient observers with dreadful forebodings. At ten o'clock the sun
was attended by four extraordinary sun-dogs. A large bright halo
encompassed him, on the top of which the segment of a larger circle
rested, forming a sort of heavy brilliant crown. At the bottom of the
circle, and depending from it, was a mass of soft, glowing,
iridescent vapor. On either side, like fragments of the larger circle,
were two brilliant arcs. Altogether, it was the most portentous
storm-breeding sun I ever beheld. In a dark hemlock wood in a valley,
the owls were hooting ominously, and the crows dismally cawing. Before
night the storm set in, a little sleet and rain of a few hours'
duration, insignificant enough compared with the signs and wonders
that preceded it.
To what extent the birds or animals can foretell the weather is
uncertain. When the swallows are seen hawking very high it is a good
indication; the insects upon which they feed venture up there only in
the most auspicious weather. Yet bees will continue to leave the hive
when a storm is imminent. I am told that one of the most reliable
weather signs they have down in Texas is afforded by the ants. The
ants bring their eggs up out of their underground retreats, and expose
them to the warmth of the sun to be hatched. When they are seen
carrying them in again in great haste, though there be not a cloud in
the sky, your walk or your drive must be postponed: a storm is at
hand. There is a passage in Virgil that is doubtless intended to
embody a similar observation, though none of his translators seem to
have hit its meaning accurately:--
"Sæpius et tectis penetralibus extulit ova
Angustum formica terens iter:"
"Often also has the pismire making a narrow road brought forth her
eggs out of the hidden recesses" is the literal translation of old
John Martyn.
"Also the ant, incessantly traveling
The same straight way with the eggs of her hidden store,"
is one of the latest metrical translations. Dryden has it:--
"The careful ant her secret cell forsakes
And drags her eggs along the narrow tracks,"
which comes nearer to the fact. When a storm is coming, Virgil also
makes his swallows skim low about the lake, which agrees with the
observation above.
The critical moments of the day as regards the weather are at sunrise
and sunset A clear sunset is always a good sign; an obscured sun, just
at the moment of going down after a bright day, bodes storm. There is
much truth, too, in the saying that if it rain before seven, it will
clear before eleven. Nine times in ten it will turn out thus. The
best time for it to begin to rain or snow, if it wants to hold out, is
about mid-forenoon. The great storms usually begin at this time. On
all occasions the weather is very sure to declare itself before eleven
o'clock. If you are going on a picnic, or are going to start on a
journey, and the morning is unsettled, wait till ten and one half
o'clock, and you shall know what the remainder of the day will be.
Midday clouds and afternoon clouds, except in the season of
thunderstorms, are usually harmless idlers and vagabonds. But more to
be relied on than any obvious sign is that subtle perception of the
condition of the weather which a man has who spends much of his time
in the open air. He can hardly tell how he knows it is going to rain;
he hits the fact as an Indian does the mark with his arrow, without
calculating and by a kind of sure instinct. As you read a man's
purpose in his face, so you learn to read the purpose of the weather
in the face of the day.
In observing the weather, however, as in the diagnosis of disease, the
diathesis is all-important. All signs fail in a drought, because the
predisposition, the diathesis, is so strongly toward fair weather; and
the opposite signs fail during a wet spell, because nature is caught
in the other rut.
Observe the lilies of the field. Sir John Lubbock says the dandelion
lowers itself after flowering, and lies close to the ground while it
is maturing its seed, and then rises up. It is true that the dandelion
lowers itself after flowering, retires from society, as it were, and
meditates in seclusion; but after it lifts itself up again the stalk
begins anew to grow, it lengthens daily, keeping just above the grass
till the fruit is ripened, and the little globe of silvery down is
carried many inches higher than was the ring of golden flowers. And
the reason is obvious. The plant depends upon the wind to scatter its
seeds; every one of these little vessels spreads a sail to the breeze,
and it is necessary that they be launched above the grass and weeds,
amid which they would be caught and held did the stalk not continue to
grow and outstrip the rival vegetation. It is a curious instance of
foresight in a weed.
I wish I could read as clearly this puzzle of the button-balls
(American plane-tree). Why has Nature taken such particular pains to
keep these balls hanging to the parent tree intact till spring? What
secret of hers has she buttoned in so securely? for these buttons will
not come off. The wind cannot twist them off, nor warm nor wet hasten
or retard them. The stem, or peduncle, by which the ball is held in
the fall and winter, breaks up into a dozen or more threads or
strands, that are stronger than those of hemp. When twisted tightly
they make a little cord that I find it impossible to break with my
hands. Had they been longer, the Indian would surely have used them to
make his bow-strings and all the other strings he required. One could
hang himself with a small cord of them. (In South America, Humboldt
saw excellent cordage made by the Indians from the petioles of the
Chiquichiqui palm.) Nature has determined that these buttons should
stay on. In order that the seeds of this tree may germinate, it is
probably necessary that they be kept dry during the winter, and reach
the ground after the season of warmth and moisture is fully
established. In May, just as the leaves and the new balls are
emerging, at the touch of a warm, moist south wind, these spherical
packages suddenly go to pieces--explode, in fact, like tiny bombshells
that were fused to carry to this point--and scatter their seeds to the
four winds. They yield at the same time a fine pollen-like dust that
one would suspect played some part in fertilizing the new balls, did
not botany teach him otherwise. At any rate, it is the only deciduous
tree I know of that does not let go the old seed till the new is well
on the way. It is plain why the sugar-berry-tree or lotus holds its
drupes all winter: it is in order that the birds may come and sow the
seed. The berries are like small gravel stones with a sugar coating,
and a bird will not eat them till he is pretty hard pressed, but in
late fall and winter the robins, cedar-birds, and bluebirds devour
them readily, and of course lend their wings to scatter the seed far
and wide. The same is true of juniper-berries, and the fruit of the
bitter-sweet.
In certain other cases where the fruit tends to hang on during the
winter, as with the bladder-nut and the honey-locust, it is probably
because the frost and the perpetual moisture of the ground would rot
or kill the germ. To beechnuts, chestnuts, and acorns the moisture of
the ground and the covering of leaves seem congenial, though too much
warmth and moisture often cause the acorns to germinate prematurely. I
have found the ground under the oaks in December covered with nuts,
all anchored to the earth by purple sprouts. But the winter which
follows such untimely growths generally proves fatal to them.
One must always cross-question nature if he would get at the truth,
and he will not get at it then unless he frames his questions with
great skill. Most persons are unreliable observers because they put
only leading questions, or vague questions.
Perhaps there is nothing in the operations of nature to which we can
properly apply the term intelligence, yet there are many things that
at first sight look like it. Place a tree or plant in an unusual
position and it will prove itself equal to the occasion, and behave in
an unusual manner; it will show original resources; it will seem to
try intelligently to master the difficulties. Up by Furlow Lake, where
I was camping out, a young hemlock had become established upon the end
of a large and partly decayed log that reached many feet out into the
lake. The young tree was eight or nine feet high; it had sent its
roots down into the log and clasped it around on the outside, and had
apparently discovered that there was water instead of soil immediately
beneath it, and that its sustenance must be sought elsewhere and that
quickly. Accordingly it had started one large root, by far the largest
of all, for the shore along the top of the log. This root, when I saw
the tree, was six or seven feet long, and had bridged more than half
the distance that separated the tree from the land.
Was this a kind of intelligence? If the shore had lain in the other
direction, no doubt at all but the root would have started for the
other side. I know a yellow pine that stands on the side of a steep
hill. To make its position more secure, it has thrown out a large root
at right angles with its stem directly into the bank above it, which
acts as a stay or guy-rope. It was positively the best thing the tree
could do. The earth has washed away so that the root where it leaves
the tree is two feet above the surface of the soil.
Yet both these cases are easily explained, and without attributing any
power of choice, or act of intelligent selection, to the trees. In
the case of the little hemlock upon the partly submerged log, roots
were probably thrown out equally in all directions; on all sides but
one they reached the water and stopped growing; the water checked
them; but on the land side, the root on the top of the log, not
meeting with any obstacle of the kind, kept on growing, and thus
pushing its way toward the shore. It was a case of survival, not of
the fittest, but of that which the situation favored,--the fittest
with reference to position.
So with the pine-tree on the side of the hill. It probably started its
roots in all directions, but only the one on the upper side survived
and matured. Those on the lower side finally perished, and others
lower down took their places. Thus the whole life upon the globe, as
we see it, is the result of this blind groping and putting forth of
Nature in every direction, with failure of some of her ventures and
the success of others, the circumstances, the environments, supplying
the checks and supplying the stimulus, the seed falling upon the
barren places just the same as upon the fertile. No discrimination on
the part of Nature that we can express in the terms of our own
consciousness, but ceaseless experiments in every possible direction.
The only thing inexplicable is the inherent impulse to experiment, the
original push, the principle of Life.
[Illustration: BEECHNUTS
(Mr. Burroughs's boyhood home seen in the distance)]
The good observer of nature holds his eye long and firmly to the
point, as one does when looking at a puzzle picture, and will not be
baffled. The cat catches the mouse, not merely because she watches for
him, but because she is armed to catch him and is quick. So the
observer finally gets the fact, not only because he has patience, but
because his eye is sharp and his inference swift. Many a shrewd old
farmer looks upon the milky way as a kind of weathercock, and will
tell you that the way it points at night indicates the direction of
the wind the following day. So, also, every new moon is either a dry
moon or a wet moon, dry if a powder-horn would hang upon the lower
limb, wet if it would not; forgetting the fact that, as a rule, when
it is dry in one, part of the continent it is wet in some other part,
and _vice versa_. When he kills his hogs in the fall, if the pork be
very hard and solid he predicts a severe winter; if soft and loose,
the opposite; again overlooking the fact that the kind of food and
the temperature of the fall make the pork hard or make it soft. So
with a hundred other signs, all the result of hasty and incomplete
observations.
One season, the last day of December was very warm. The bees were out
of the hive, and there was no frost in the air or in the ground. I was
walking in the woods, when as I paused in the shade of a hemlock-tree
I heard a sound proceed from beneath the wet leaves on the ground but
a few feet from me that suggested a frog. Following it cautiously up,
I at last determined upon the exact spot from whence the sound issued;
lifting up the thick layer of leaves, there sat a frog--the wood frog,
one of the first to appear in the marshes in spring, and which I have
elsewhere called the "clucking frog"--in a little excavation in the
surface of the leaf-mould. As it sat there the top of its back was
level with the surface of the ground. This, then, was its
hibernaculum; here it was prepared to pass the winter, with only a
coverlid of wet matted leaves between it and zero weather. Forthwith I
set up as a prophet of warm weather, and among other things predicted
a failure of the ice crop on the river; which, indeed, others, who had
not heard frogs croak on the 31st of December, had also begun to
predict. Surely, I thought, this frog knows what it is about; here is
the wisdom of nature; it would have gone deeper into the ground than
that if a severe winter was approaching; so I was not anxious about my
coal-bin, nor disturbed by longings for Florida. But what a winter
followed, the winter of 1885, when the Hudson became coated with ice
nearly two feet thick, and when March was as cold as January! I
thought of my frog under the hemlock and wondered how it was faring.
So one day the latter part of March, when the snow was gone, and there
was a feeling of spring in the air, I turned aside in my walk to
investigate it. The matted leaves were still frozen hard, but I
succeeded in lifting them up and exposing the frog. There it sat as
fresh and unscathed as in the fall. The ground beneath and all about
it was still frozen like a rock, but apparently it had some means of
its own of resisting the frost. It winked and bowed its head when I
touched it, but did not seem inclined to leave its retreat. Some days
later, after the frost was nearly all out of the ground, I passed
that way, and found my frog had come out of its seclusion, and was
resting amid the dry leaves. There was not much jump in it yet, but
its color was growing lighter. A few more warm days, and its fellows,
and doubtless itself too, were croaking and gamboling in the marshes.
This incident convinced me of two things; namely, that frogs know no
more about the coming weather than we do, and that they do not retreat
as deep into the ground to pass the winter as has been supposed. I
used to think the muskrats could foretell an early and a severe
winter, and have so written. But I am now convinced they cannot; they
know as little about it as I do. Sometimes on an early and severe
frost they seem to get alarmed and go to building their houses, but
usually they seem to build early or late, high or low, just as the
whim takes them.
In most of the operations of nature there is at least one unknown
quantity; to find the exact value of this unknown factor is not so
easy. The wool of the sheep, the fur of the animals, the feathers of
the fowls, the husks of the maize, why are they thicker some seasons
than others; what is the value of the unknown quantity her? Does it
indicate a severe winter approaching? Only observations extending over
a series of years could determine the point. How much patient
observation it takes to settle many of the facts in the lives of the
birds, animals, and insects! Gilbert White was all his life trying to
determine whether or not swallows passed the winter in a torpid state
in the mud at the bottom of ponds and marshes, and he died ignorant of
the truth that they do not. Do honey-bees injure the grape and other
fruits by puncturing the skin for the juice? The most patient watching
by many skilled eyes all over the country has not yet settled the
point. For my own part, I am convinced that they do not. The honey-bee
is not the rough-and-ready freebooter that the wasp and bumblebee are;
she has somewhat of feminine timidity, and leaves the first rude
assaults to them. I knew the honey-bee was very fond of the locust
blossoms, and that the trees hummed like a hive in the height of their
flowering, but I did not know that the bumblebee was ever the sapper
and miner that went ahead in this enterprise, till one day I placed
myself amid the foliage of a locust and saw him savagely bite through
the shank of the flower and extract the nectar, followed by a
honey-bee that in every instance searched for this opening, and probed
long and carefully for the leavings of her burly purveyor. The
bumblebee rifles the dicentra and the columbine of their treasures in
the same manner, namely, by slitting their pockets from the outside,
and the honey-bee gleans after him, taking the small change he leaves.
In the case of the locust, however, she usually obtains the honey
without the aid of the larger bee.
Speaking of the honey-bee reminds me that the subtle and
sleight-of-hand manner in which she fills her baskets with pollen and
propolis is characteristic of much of Nature's doings. See the bee
going from flower to flower with the golden pellets on her thighs,
slowly and mysteriously increasing in size. If the miller were to take
the toll of the grist he grinds by gathering the particles of flour
from his coat and hat, as he moved rapidly about, or catching them in
his pockets, he would be doing pretty nearly what the bee does. The
little miller dusts herself with the pollen of the flower, and then,
while on the wing, brushes it off with the fine brush on certain of
her feet, and by some jugglery or other catches it in her pollen
basket. One needs to look long and intently to see through the trick.
Pliny says they fill their baskets with their fore feet, and that they
fill their fore feet with their trunks, but it is a much more subtle
operation than this. I have seen the bees come to a meal barrel in
early spring, and to a pile of hardwood sawdust before there was yet
anything in nature for them to work upon, and, having dusted their
coats with the finer particles of the meal or the sawdust, hover on
the wing above the mass till the little legerdemain feat is performed.
Nature fills her baskets by the same sleight-of-hand, and the observer
must be on the alert who would possess her secret. If the ancients had
looked a little closer and sharper, would they ever have believed in
spontaneous generation in the superficial way in which they did; that
maggots, for instance, were generated spontaneously in putrid flesh?
Could they not see the spawn of the blow-flies? Or, if Virgil had been
a real observer of the bees, would he ever have credited, as he
certainly appears to do, the fable of bees originating from the
carcass of a steer? or that on windy days they carried little stones
for ballast? or that two hostile swarms fought each other in the air?
Indeed, the ignorance, or the false science, of the ancient observers,
with regard to the whole subject of bees, is most remarkable; not
false science merely with regard to their more hidden operations, but
with regard to that which is open and patent to all who have eyes in
their heads, and have ever had to do with them. And Pliny names
authors who had devoted their whole lives to the study of the subject.
But the ancients, like women and children, were not accurate
observers. Just at the critical moment their eyes were unsteady, or
their fancy, or their credulity, or their impatience, got the better
of them, so that their science was half fact and half fable. Thus, for
instance, because the young cuckoo at times appeared to take the head
of its small foster mother quite into its mouth while receiving its
food, they believed that it finally devoured her. Pliny, who embodied
the science of his times in his natural history, says of the wasp that
it carries spiders to its nest, and then sits upon them until it
hatches its young from them. A little careful observation would have
shown him that this was only a half truth; that the whole truth was,
that the spiders were entombed with the egg of the wasp to serve as
food for the young when the egg shall have hatched.
What curious questions Plutarch discusses, as, for instance, "What is
the reason that a bucket of water drawn out of a well, if it stands
all night in the air that is in the well, is more cold in the morning
than the rest of the water?" He could probably have given many reasons
why "a watched pot never boils." The ancients, the same author says,
held that the bodies of those killed by lightning never putrefy; that
the sight of a ram quiets an enraged elephant; that a viper will lie
stock still if touched by a beechen leaf; that a wild bull grows tame
if bound with the twigs of a fig-tree; that a hen purifies herself
with straw after she has laid an egg; that the deer buries his
cast-off horns; that a goat stops the whole herd by holding a branch
of the sea-holly in his mouth, etc. They sought to account for such
things without stopping to ask, Are they true? Nature was too novel,
or else too fearful, to them to be deliberately pursued and hunted
down. Their youthful joy in her, or their dread and awe in her
presence, may be better than our scientific satisfaction, or cool
wonder, or our vague, mysterious sense of "something far more deeply
interfused;" yet we cannot change with them if we would, and I, for
one, would not if I could. Science does not mar nature. The railroad,
Thoreau found, after all, to be about the wildest road he knew of, and
the telegraph wires the best æolian harp out of doors. Study of nature
deepens the mystery and the charm because it removes the horizon
farther off. We cease to fear, perhaps, but how can one cease to
marvel and to love?
The fields and woods and waters about one are a book from which he may
draw exhaustless entertainment, if he will. One must not only learn
the writing, he must translate the language, the signs, and the
hieroglyphics. It is a very quaint and elliptical writing, and much
must be supplied by the wit of the translator. At any rate, the lesson
is to be well conned. Gilbert White said that that locality would be
found the richest in zoölogical or botanical specimens which was most
thoroughly examined. For more than forty years he studied the
ornithology of his district without exhausting the subject. I thought
I knew my own tramping ground pretty well, but one April day, when I
looked a little closer than usual into a small semi-stagnant lakelet
where I had peered a hundred times before, I suddenly discovered
scores of little creatures that were as new to me as so many nymphs
would have been. They were partly fish-shaped, from an inch to an inch
and a half long, semi-transparent, with a dark brownish line visible
the entire length of them (apparently the thread upon which the life
of the animal hung, and by which its all but impalpable frame was held
together), and suspending themselves in the water, or impelling
themselves swiftly forward by means of a double row of fine, waving,
hair-like appendages, that arose from what appeared to be the back,--a
kind of undulating, pappus-like wings. What was it? I did not know.
None of my friends or scientific acquaintances knew. I wrote to a
learned man, an authority upon fish, describing the creature as well
as I could. He replied that it was only a familiar species of
phyllopodous crustacean, known as _Eubranchipus vernalis_.
I remember that our guide in the Maine woods, seeing I had names of my
own for some of the plants, would often ask me the name of this and
that flower for which he had no word; and that when I could recall the
full Latin term, it seemed overwhelmingly convincing and satisfying to
him. It was evidently a relief to know that these obscure plants of
his native heath had been found worthy of a learned name, and that the
Maine woods were not so uncivil and outlandish as they might at first
seem: it was a comfort to him to know that he did not live beyond the
reach of botany. In like manner I found satisfaction in knowing that
my novel fish had been recognized and worthily named; the title
conferred a new dignity at once; but when the learned man added that
it was familiarly called the "fairy shrimp," I felt a deeper pleasure.
Fairy-like it certainly was, in its aerial, unsubstantial look, and in
its delicate, down-like means of locomotion; but the large head, with
its curious folds, and its eyes standing out in relief, as if on the
heads of two pins, were gnome-like. Probably the fairy wore a mask,
and wanted to appear terrible to human eyes. Then the creatures had
sprung out of the earth as by magic. I found some in a furrow in a
plowed field that had encroached upon a swamp. In the fall the plow
had been there, and had turned up only the moist earth; now a little
water was standing there, from which the April sunbeams had invoked
these airy, fairy creatures. They belong to the crustaceans, but
apparently no creature has so thin or impalpable a crust; you can
almost see through them; certainly you can see what they have had for
dinner, if they have eaten substantial food.
[Illustration: BY THE STUDY FIRE]
All we know about the private and essential natural history of the
bees, the birds, the fishes, the animals, the plants, is the result of
close, patient, quick-witted observation. Yet Nature will often elude
one for all his pains and alertness. Thoreau, as revealed in his
journal, was for years trying to settle in his own mind what was the
first thing that stirred in spring, after the severe New England
winter,--in what was the first sign or pulse of returning life
manifest; and he never seems to have been quite sure. He could not get
his salt on the tail of this bird. He dug into the swamps, he peered
into the water, he felt with benumbed hands for the radical leaves of
the plants under the snow; he inspected the buds on the willows, the
catkins on the alders; he went out before daylight of a March morning
and remained out after dark; he watched the lichens and mosses on the
rocks; he listened for the birds; he was on the alert for the first
frog ("Can you be absolutely sure," he says, "that you have heard the
first frog that croaked in the township?"); he stuck a pin here and he
stuck a pin there, and there, and still he could not satisfy himself.
Nor can any one. Life appears to start in several things
simultaneously. Of a warm thawy day in February the snow is suddenly
covered with myriads of snow fleas looking like black, new powder just
spilled there. Or you may see a winged insect in the air. On the
selfsame day the grass in the spring run and the catkins on the alders
will have started a little; and if you look sharply, while passing
along some sheltered nook or grassy slope where the sunshine lies warm
on the bare ground, you will probably see a grasshopper or two. The
grass hatches out under the snow, and why should not the grasshopper?
At any rate, a few such hardy specimens may be found in the latter
part of our milder winters wherever the sun has uncovered a sheltered
bit of grass for a few days, even after a night of ten or twelve
degrees of frost. Take them in the shade, and let them freeze stiff as
pokers, and when thawed out again they will hop briskly. And yet, if a
poet were to put grasshoppers in his winter poem, we should require
pretty full specifications of him, or else fur to clothe them with.
Nature will not be cornered, yet she does many things in a corner and
surreptitiously. She is all things to all men; she has whole truths,
half truths, and quarter truths, if not still smaller fractions. The
careful observer finds this out sooner or later. Old fox-hunters will
tell you, on the evidence of their own eyes, that there is a black fox
and a silver-gray fox, two species, but there are not; the black fox
is black when coming toward you or running from you, and silver gray
at point-blank view, when the eye penetrates the fur; each separate
hair is gray the first half and black the last. This is a sample of
nature's half truths.
Which are our sweet-scented wild flowers? Put your nose to every
flower you pluck, and you will be surprised how your list will swell
the more you smell. I plucked some wild blue violets one day, the
_ovata_ variety of the _sagittata_, that had a faint perfume of sweet
clover, but I never could find another that had any odor. A pupil
disputed with his teacher about the hepatica, claiming in opposition
that it was sweet-scented. Some hepaticas are sweet-scented and some
are not, and the perfume is stronger some seasons than others. After
the unusually severe winter of 1880-81, the variety of hepatica called
the sharp-lobed was markedly sweet in nearly every one of the hundreds
of specimens I examined. A handful of them exhaled a most delicious
perfume. The white ones that season were largely in the ascendant; and
probably the white specimens of both varieties, one season with
another, will oftenest prove sweet-scented. Darwin says a considerably
larger proportion of white flowers are sweet-scented than of any other
color. The only sweet violets I can depend upon are white, _Viola
blanda_ and _Viola Canadensis_, and white largely predominates among
our other odorous wild flowers. All the fruit-trees have white or
pinkish blossoms. I recall no native blue flower of New York or New
England that is fragrant except in the rare case of the arrow-leaved
violet, above referred to. The earliest yellow flowers, like the
dandelion and yellow violets, are not fragrant. Later in the season
yellow is frequently accompanied with fragrance, as in the evening
primrose, the yellow lady's-slipper, horned bladderwort, and others.
My readers probably remember that on a former occasion I have mildly
taken the poet Bryant to task for leading his readers to infer that
the early yellow violet was sweet-scented. In view of the
capriciousness of the perfume of certain of our wild flowers, I have
during the past few years tried industriously to convict myself of
error in respect to this flower. The round-leaved yellow violet was
one of the earliest and most abundant wild flowers in the woods where
my youth was passed, and whither I still make annual pilgrimages. I
have pursued it on mountains and in lowlands, in "beechen woods" and
amid the hemlocks; and while, with respect to its earliness, it
overtakes the hepatica in the latter part of April, as do also the
dog's-tooth violet and the claytonia, yet the first hepaticas, where
the two plants grow side by side, bloom about a week before the first
violet. And I have yet to find one that has an odor that could be
called a perfume. A handful of them, indeed, has a faint, bitterish
smell, not unlike that of the dandelion in quality; but if every
flower that has a smell is sweet-scented, then every bird that makes a
noise is a songster.
On the occasion above referred to, I also dissented from Lowell's
statement, in "Al Fresco," that in early summer the dandelion blooms,
in general, with the buttercup and the clover. I am aware that such
criticism of the poets is small game, and not worth the powder.
General truth, and not specific fact, is what we are to expect of the
poets. Bryant's "Yellow Violet" poem is tender and appropriate, and
such as only a real lover and observer of nature could feel or
express; and Lowell's "Al Fresco" is full of the luxurious feeling of
early summer, and this is, of course, the main thing; a good reader
cares for little else; I care for little else myself. But when you
take your coin to the assay office it must be weighed and tested, and
in the comments referred to I (unwisely perhaps) sought to smelt this
gold of the poets in the naturalist's pot, to see what alloy of error
I could detect in it. Were the poems true to their last word? They
were not, and much subsequent investigation has only confirmed my
first analysis. The general truth is on my side, and the specific
fact, if such exists in this case, on the side of the poets. It is
possible that there may be a fragrant yellow violet, as an exceptional
occurrence, like that of the sweet-scented, arrow-leaved species above
referred to, and that in some locality it may have bloomed before the
hepatica; also that Lowell may have seen a belated dandelion or two in
June, amid the clover and the buttercups; but, if so, they were the
exception, and not the rule,--the specific or accidental fact, and not
the general truth.
Dogmatism about nature, or about anything else, very often turns out
to be an ungrateful cur that bites the hand that reared it. I speak
from experience. I was once quite certain that the honey-bee did not
work upon the blossoms of the trailing arbutus, but while walking in
the woods one April day I came upon a spot of arbutus swarming with
honey-bees. They were so eager for it that they crawled under the
leaves and the moss to get at the blossoms, and refused on the instant
the hive-honey which I happened to have with me, and which I offered
them. I had had this flower under observation more than twenty years,
and had never before seen it visited by honey-bees. The same season I
saw them for the first time working upon the flower of bloodroot and
of adder's-tongue. Hence I would not undertake to say again what
flowers bees do not work upon. Virgil implies that they work upon the
violet, and for aught I know they may. I have seen them very busy on
the blossoms of the white oak, though this is not considered a honey
or pollen yielding tree. From the smooth sumac they reap a harvest in
midsummer, and in March they get a good grist of pollen from the
skunk-cabbage.
I presume, however, it would be safe to say that there is a species of
smilax with an unsavory name that the bee does not visit, _herbacea_.
The production of this plant is a curious freak of nature. I find it
growing along the fences where one would look for wild roses or the
sweetbrier; its recurving or climbing stem, its glossy, deep-green,
heart-shaped leaves, its clustering umbels of small greenish-yellow
flowers, making it very pleasing to the eye; but to examine it closely
one must positively hold his nose. It would be too cruel a joke to
offer it to any person not acquainted with it to smell. It is like the
vent of a charnel-house. It is first cousin to the trilliums, among
the prettiest of our native wild flowers, and the same bad blood crops
out in the purple trillium or birthroot.
Nature will include the disagreeable and repulsive also. I have seen
the phallic fungus growing in June under a rosebush. There was the
rose, and beneath it, springing from the same mould, was this
diabolical offering to Priapus. With the perfume of the roses into the
open window came the stench of this hideous parody, as if in mockery.
I removed it, and another appeared in the same place shortly
afterward. The earthman was rampant and insulting. Pan is not dead
yet. At least he still makes a ghastly sign here and there in nature.
The good observer of nature exists in fragments, a trait here and a
trait there. Each person sees what it concerns him to see. The
fox-hunter knows pretty well the ways and habits of the fox, but on
any other subject he is apt to mislead you. He comes to see only fox
traits in whatever he looks upon. The bee-hunter will follow the bee,
but lose the bird. The farmer notes what affects his crops and his
earnings, and little else. Common people, St. Pierre says, observe
without reasoning, and the learned reason without observing. If one
could apply to the observation of nature the sense and skill of the
South American _rastreador_, or trailer, how much he would track home!
This man's eye, according to the accounts of travelers, is keener than
a hound's scent. A fugitive can no more elude him than he can elude
fate. His perceptions are said to be so keen that the displacement of
a leaf or pebble, or the bending down of a spear of grass, or the
removal of a little dust from the fence are enough to give him the
clew. He sees the half-obliterated footprints of a thief in the sand,
and carries the impression in his eye till a year afterward, when he
again detects the same footprint in the suburbs of a city, and the
culprit is tracked home and caught. I knew a man blind from his youth
who not only went about his own neighborhood without a guide, turning
up to his neighbor's gate or door as unerringly as if he had the best
of eyes, but who would go many miles on an errand to a new part of the
country. He seemed to carry a map of the township in the bottom of his
feet, a most minute and accurate survey. He never took the wrong road,
and he knew the right house when he had reached it. He was a miller
and fuller, and ran his mill at night while his sons ran it by day. He
never made a mistake with his customers' bags or wool, knowing each
man's by the sense of touch. He frightened a colored man whom he
detected stealing, as if he had seen out of the back of his head. Such
facts show one how delicate and sensitive a man's relation to outward
nature through his bodily senses may become. Heighten it a little
more, and he could forecast the weather and the seasons, and detect
hidden springs and minerals. A good observer has something of this
delicacy and quickness of perception. All the great poets and
naturalists have it. Agassiz traces the glaciers like a _rastreador_;
and Darwin misses no step that the slow but tireless gods of physical
change have taken, no matter how they cross or retrace their course.
In the obscure fish-worm he sees an agent that has kneaded and
leavened the soil like giant hands.
One secret of success in observing nature is capacity to take a hint;
a hair may show where a lion is hid. One must put this and that
together, and value bits and shreds. Much alloy exists with the truth.
The gold of nature does not look like gold at the first glance. It
must be smelted and refined in the mind of the observer. And one must
crush mountains of quartz and wash hills of sand to get it. To know
the indications is the main matter. People who do not know the secret
are eager to take a walk with the observer to find where the mine is
that contains such nuggets, little knowing that his ore-bed is but a
gravel-heap to them. How insignificant appear most of the facts which
one sees in his walks, in the life of the birds, the flowers, the
animals, or in the phases of the landscape, or the look of the
sky!--insignificant until they are put through some mental or
emotional process and their true value appears. The diamond looks like
a pebble until it is cut. One goes to Nature only for hints and half
truths. Her facts are crude until you have absorbed them or
translated them. Then the ideal steals in and lends a charm in spite
of one. It is not so much what we see as what the thing seen suggests.
We all see about the same; to one it means much, to another little. A
fact that has passed through the mind of man, like lime or iron that
has passed through his blood, has some quality or property superadded
or brought out that it did not possess before. You may go to the
fields and the woods, and gather fruit that is ripe for the palate
without any aid of yours, but you cannot do this in science or in art.
Here truth must be disentangled and interpreted,--must be made in the
image of man. Hence all good observation is more or less a refining
and transmuting process, and the secret is to know the crude material
when you see it. I think of Wordsworth's lines:--
"The mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create and what perceive;"
which is as true in the case of the naturalist as of the poet; both
"half create" the world they describe. Darwin does something to his
facts as well as Tennyson to his. Before a fact can become poetry, it
must pass through the heart or the imagination of the poet; before it
can become science, it must pass through the understanding of the
scientist. Or one may say, it is with the thoughts and half thoughts
that the walker gathers in the woods and fields, as with the common
weeds and coarser wild flowers which he plucks for a bouquet,--wild
carrot, purple aster, moth mullein, sedge, grass, etc.: they look
common and uninteresting enough there in the fields, but the moment he
separates them from the tangled mass, and brings them indoors, and
places them in a vase, say of some choice glass, amid artificial
things,--behold, how beautiful! They have an added charm and
significance at once; they are defined and identified, and what was
common and familiar becomes unexpectedly attractive. The writer's
style, the quality of mind he brings, is the vase in which his
commonplace impressions and incidents are made to appear so beautiful
and significant.
Man can have but one interest in nature, namely, to see himself
reflected or interpreted there; and we quickly neglect both poet and
philosopher who fail to satisfy, in some measure, this feeling.