till night, and should never have found myself at Turtlepond. I passed
one more house, it is true, but there was no one visible about it, and
when at last I reached the log schoolhouse, standing all by itself deep
in the woods, it was locked and empty, and the “road to the right”
was so obscure, so utterly unlike a road, that only for my last man’s
emphatic warning (how I blessed him for his good sense!) I should
have passed it without a suspicion that it was or ever had been a
thoroughfare. As it was, I looked at it and wondered. Could that be my
course? There was no sign that horse or wheel had turned that corner
for an indefinite period. Still, my instructions were explicit. This
was certainly the schoolhouse, and at the schoolhouse I was to turn to
the right. Lest I should be interpreting a preposition too strictly,
nevertheless, I kept on for a piece in the way I had been traveling.
No, there was no other cross-road, and I came back to the schoolhouse,
rested awhile under a big tree, and then took the blind trail. Happily,
it very soon became more distinct, more evidently a road in use; and
being now on a downward grade, I jogged along in good spirits.
It was drawing near noon, and unless my jaunt was to measure more than
eight miles I must be somewhere near the end of it. The mountain forest
was especially inviting here, with a brook now and then and a profusion
of ground flowers, beside the laurel and the azaleas; but I must not
linger, I said to myself, as I might be obliged to spend an hour or
two at Turtlepond. It was hardly to be assumed that the ravens would
be waiting for me, to greet me on the instant. Meanwhile, a pileated
woodpecker set up a lusty shout just in advance, and in another moment
went dashing off among the trees, still shouting as he flew. He
was no rarity in these parts, but it did me good to see his flaming
crest and the flash of his white wing-spots. Then, when I had gone a
little farther and could already discern the open valley, a kingfisher
rattled and showed himself. He was the first of his kind, and went down
straightway as Number 62. Perhaps Number 63 would be the raven!
Well, I emerged from the forest, the road turning rather sharply at
the last and making down the valley with a brook on its left hand; and
here I pretty soon approached a house. The two opposite doors were open
(mosquitoes are unknown in this happy country), and inside, looking out
of the back door in the direction of the brook, stood a woman and a
brood of children. They were talking pretty loudly, as people may who
live so far from human neighbors, and a hound stood silent behind them.
I drew near, but they did not hear me. Then, rather than startle them
rudely with a strange voice, I touched the fence-rail with my umbrella.
Instantly the hound turned and began baying, and the woman, bidding
him be quiet, came to the front door and answered my good-morning.
Could she tell me where Zeb McKinney lived? I inquired. Yes, it was
the next house down the road, “about a quarter.” Hereabouts, as I
knew, a “quarter” means a quarter of a mile. In Yankee land it means
twenty-five cents. The character of a people may be judged in part by
the ellipses of their daily speech,--the things that are taken for
granted by every one as present in the minds of others.
I believe I did not raise the question of ravens at this first house.
For the instant it was enough to know that I had arrived at Turtlepond.
But my eye was open and my ear alert. And surely this was a place for
ravens and every wild thing: a narrow valley, tightly shut in, with
nothing in sight but the crowding walls and a patch of sky. Aloft in
the distance, in the direction of Hickory Gap (so I heard it called
afterward, and wished that all place-names were equally euphonious),
some large bird, hawk or eagle, was sailing out of sight. What a
groveling creature is man, in the comparison! Along the brookside
grew splendid halesia-trees, full of white bells, and a more splendid
crab-apple tree,--one of the glories of America,--just now a perfect
cloud of pink buds and blooms and tender green leaves. Here sang
catbirds, thrashers, wood thrushes, robins, rose-breasted grosbeaks, a
blue golden-winged warbler, and I forget what else. I had not traveled
so far, half disabled as I was, to listen to birds of their quality.
And the ravens? Well, at that moment they must have an engagement
elsewhere. Perhaps they were still instructing their young in the art
of volitation.
And now, having walked “about a quarter,” I was at Zeb McKinney’s.
There was no need to inquire if he were at home. Through the open door
I could see that the only occupants of the house were two women: one
young, one very old and stiff. The latter, as was meet, came to speak
to the stranger. No, Mr. McKinney was not at home; he had gone down to
the sawmill. Ravens? Yes, they saw them once in a while, but she did
not remember noticing any for some time back. The spring was just below
the house; I should find a gourd to drink from.
I drank from the spring, pondered the woman’s “once in a while,”
took a look about me, and then retraced my steps, having in mind a
comfortable nooning-place, out of sight of the houses, where I would
eat my luncheon, and observe the ravens at my leisure as they crossed
from one mountain to another above my head. For all the unexpectedness
of the old woman’s dubious phrase, I was not discouraged. Why should I
be? Mr. Burroughs did not find the English nightingale all at once, nor
did M. Tartarin kill a lion on his first day in the Algerian desert;
and if these men had exercised patience, so could I.
At the right spot, therefore, where the shade fell upon a handy stump,
I took my seat. First a line or two in my notebook, and then I would
dispose of my luncheon. At that instant, however, two boys came down
the road; and when I spoke to them, they waited for no more explicit
invitation, but planted themselves on the ground, one on each side of
me. If I asked them a question, they answered it; if I kept silence,
they sat and looked at me. For aught that appeared, they meant to
spend the afternoon thus engaged. Pleasant as popularity is, its
manifestations were just now a trouble. The ravens might fly over at
any moment, and it was important that I should be undisturbed,--to say
nothing of my dinner. I remembered the saying of Poor Richard,--“Love
your neighbor, but don’t pull down your hedge;” and at last, seeing
that something must be done, I rose, moved a few rods, and then,
dropping suddenly upon the grass, said, “Good-by.” The boys took the
hint, and ten minutes later I saw them beside the brook, trying their
luck with the fish. The quality of selfishness had proved itself
twice blest, as happens oftener than we think, it may be, in this
“unintelligible world.”
This part of the story need not be prolonged. The reader has already
foreseen that my luncheon was finished without interruption. No
raven’s wing darkened the air. I lingered till the case began to seem
hopeless. Then I loitered as slowly as possible up the valley, and
at last took the ascending road through the mountain woods toward
the log schoolhouse. By this time there were signs of rain, but with
a three-hour jaunt before me it was useless to hurry. So at the
schoolhouse corner I rested again,--partly to enjoy the sight of Rabun
Bald, a noble Georgia peak, which showed grandly from this point,--and
then, all at once, thinking of nothing but the landscape, I heard a
far-away cry, hoarse, loud, utterly strange, utterly unlike a crow’s,
and yet unmistakably coracious! That surely was a raven’s voice. It
could be nothing else. If I were out of the woods, where I could look
about me! The bird, whatever it was, was evidently on the wing; the
sound was now here, now there; but alas, it was receding. Fainter and
fainter it became at each repetition, and then all was silent, till a
heavy clap of thunder and a sudden blackness recalled me to myself,
and I resumed the march homeward. Soon it rained. Then came a general
pother of the elements,--wind, hail, lightning and thunder. Not far
beyond me, as I now called to mind, there was a house, the only one
I had seen on the mountain. I hastened forward, therefore, and took
shelter on the piazza. A dog was cowering inside, too badly frightened
to resent my intrusion or to bid me welcome. And there we stayed till
the clouds broke. Then, refreshing myself with big hailstones, which
lay white in the grass, I took the road again for the long diagonal
descent to the valley.
I was well fagged by the time I reached Highlands; but I had been to
Turtlepond, and in my memory were some confused recollections of a
few distant notes, probably a bird’s, and possibly a raven’s. To that
complexion had the matter already come. It is marvelous how quickly
certainty loses its color when once the breath of doubt touches it.
Two days afterward, finding myself not yet acclimated, I joined a
company who were making a day’s wagon-trip to Whiteside, the highest
peak in the immediate vicinity of Highlands; a real mountain, said to
be five thousand feet in height, but looking considerably lower to my
eye, its surroundings being all so elevated, and the southern latitude,
as I suppose, giving to it a more richly wooded, and consequently less
rugged and alpine appearance than belongs to New England mountains
of a corresponding rank. On the southerly side it breaks off into a
huge perpendicular light-colored cliff, said to be eighteen hundred
feet in depth, from which it derives its name and much of its local
distinction. Above this cliff rises its knob of a summit, with the
sight of which I had grown familiar as one of the principal points in
the landscape from the hotel veranda.
The wagon carried us by a roundabout course to the base of this rocky
knob, and there the majority of the party remained, while two ladies
and myself clambered up a steep pitch to the summit, to take the
prospect and to feel that we had been there,--and perhaps to see a
raven; for Whiteside had from the beginning been held up to me as one
of that bird’s particular resorts. “Wait till you go to Whiteside,” I
had been told again and again.
What had looked like a pyramidal rock turned out to be the end of a
long ridge, over which we marched in Indian file for a mile or more,
picking flowers (the nodding _Trillium stylosum_, especially, of
which each new specimen seemed pinker and prettier than the last) and
admiring the landscape,--a boundless woodland panorama, with clearings
and houses in Whiteside valley, and innumerable hazy mountains rising
one beyond another in every direction. The world of new leafage
below us, now darkened by cloud shadows, now shining in the sun, was
beautiful far beyond any skill of mine to picture it.
We were still walking and quietly enjoying--my fellow tourists being,
fortunately, of the non-exclamatory type--when the silence was broken
by loud screams. “Ravens!” I thought,--for when the mind is full it is
liable to spill over at any sudden jar,--and, dropping my umbrella,
I sprang to the edge of the cliff. The bird was only a hawk, soaring
and screaming, too far away to be made out; a duck-hawk, perhaps, but
certainly not a raven. “How you frightened me!” said one of the ladies.
“I thought you were going to throw yourself over the precipice.” My
hobby-horse amused her,--as it did me also,--but she was herself
too sound an enthusiast to be really unsympathetic. A New Jersey
grandmother, she made nothing of a thirteen-mile tramp, a thorough
drenching, and a pedestrian’s blister, when rare flowers were in
question, and the next morning would be off again before breakfast,
scouring the country for new trophies. Like Mme. Trépof, she would
have gone to Sweden in search of a match-box, had the notion taken
her. As for ravens, she had already seen one, only a few days before
my arrival. It flew directly over the hotel, and she recognized it at
once, not as a raven, to be sure, but as “the blackest crow she had
ever seen.” A man who happened to be doing some carpenter’s work about
the house heard her exclamation, and told her what it was, and by good
luck he was to-day our driver. It was wonderful how much encouragement
I received in my amusing pursuit. If only there were fewer stories and
more ravens! I was ready to say.
Yet if I said so, it was only in a fit of impatience. In point of
fact, I received with thankfulness every such bit of evidence that Dr.
----’s gloomy prognostications were ill founded. On the very morning
after this expedition to Whiteside, for example, I was on my way to the
summit of Satulah,--an easy jaunt, and a capital observatory,--when
I met a young man carrying a gun, and proposed to him the inevitable
inquiry. Oh yes, he saw ravens pretty often; he had seen some within a
month, he thought. They never flew over without calling out; which, as
I interpreted it, might mean only that when they kept silence he failed
to notice them. Here was more proof of the birds’ presence; but the
words “within a month” kept down any tendency to undue exhilaration.
That noon, at the hotel, I had an interesting ornithological conference
with two residents of the town, both of them already well informed as
to the nature of my crotchet. For a beginning, one of them told me that
he had seen a raven that very forenoon,--and as usual it was “flying
over.” Then the talk somehow turned upon the whippoorwill, of which
I had thus far found no trace hereabout, and they agreed that it was
not uncommon at certain seasons. It was often called the bullbat, they
added. They had seen it, both of them, I think, flying far up in the
air in broad daylight, and crying _whippoorwill_! “Good!” said I. “I
would rather have seen that than all the ravens in North Carolina.”
Here was a really novel addition to the familiar legend about the
identity of the whippoorwill and the night-hawk,--a legend whose
distribution is perhaps almost as wide as that of the birds themselves.
But wonders were not to stop here. One of the men, the one who had that
forenoon seen a raven, proceeded to inform me that catbirds passed the
winter in the mud, in a state of hibernation. William ---- had dug them
up, and they had come to and flown away. He himself had never seen
this, but he knew, as everybody else did, that catbirds disappeared
in the autumn, there was no telling how or when, and reappeared in
the spring in a manner equally mysterious. I hinted some incredulity,
to his great surprise, intimating for one thing that it was well
known that catbirds migrated farther south; whereupon he appealed to
his companion. “Wouldn’t you believe it, if William ---- told you he
had seen it?” he asked; and there was a shout of laughter from the
bystanders when the second man, after a minute’s reflection, answered
bluntly, “No.”
It would be too long a story to set down all the answers I received
from the many persons whom I questioned here and there in my daily
peregrinations. One man was sorry he had not heard of me sooner. A cow
had been killed by lightning somewhere on the mountains, a week or two
before. That would have been my opportunity. Ravens are sure to be on
hand at such a time. But it was too late now, as they never touch flesh
after it has begun to spoil. Another man, a German, living some miles
out of the village, said, “Well, in my country we call them ravens, but
here they call them crows.” They were a nuisance; he had to kill them.
He knew smaller black birds, in flocks, but no larger ones. He and the
apothecary--who now and then laughed good-humoredly at my continued
failure, as I stopped to pass the time of day with him, or to ask him
about the way to some waterfall--were, as well as I remember, the only
witnesses for the negative; so that the question was no longer as to
the presence of the birds, but as to the degree of their commonness
and the probability of my seeing them. It would be too much to say
that the whole town was excited over the matter, but at least my few
fellow boarders at the hotel either felt or simulated a pretty constant
interest. “Well,” one or another of them would say, as I dragged my
weary steps up the hill to the door, at the end of a day’s outing,
“well, have you seen any ravĕns yet?”
One day there appeared at the dinner-table a bright, rosy-faced,
clear-eyed, wholesome-looking boy of nine or ten years, and the
gentleman who had brought him in as his guest presently introduced him
to me, with the remark that perhaps “Bob” could give me information
upon my favorite topic. Bob smiled bashfully, and I began my
examination. Yes, he said, he had seen ravens. How often, should he
say? Why, almost every day. When did he see them last? Yesterday. How
many were there? One. It was flying over. Did it call? Yes, they always
did. How much bigger than a crow was it? Not much, but the voice was
very different. This last was a model answer,--not at all the answer of
a dishonest witness, or of an honest witness ambitious to make out a
story. It was impossible to doubt him (his father and his older brother
confirmed his testimony afterward), and yet I had been out of doors
almost constantly for more than two weeks, and so far had not obtained
the first glimpse of a large, wide-ranging, high-flying bird which
this boy--who lived a few miles out of the village, it is true--saw
nearly every day. Verily, as the unsuccessful man’s text has it (and
a comfortable text it is), “the race is not to the swift, ... nor yet
favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.”
I speak unadvisedly. I _had_ seen ravens; I had seen them here at
Highlands. But it was in a dream of the night. There were two, and
they were “flying over,”--yes, and calling as they flew. One of them
was partly white, an albinistic peculiarity at which I do not remember
to have felt the least surprise. But indeed, if I may trust my own
experience, nothing surprises us in dreamland. There, as in fairyland,
everything is natural. Perhaps the same will be true in a world after
this.
Meantime, if my eyes were holden from some things, I saw many others as
I traveled hither and thither, now to a mountain top, now down one of
the roads into the warm lower country, now to some far-away woodland
waterfall. The days were all too short and all too few. Like a sensible
man, to whom years had brought the philosophic mind, I had more than
one string to my bow, and toward the end of my three weeks the very
thought of ravens had mostly ceased to trouble me. Then, on my last day
in the village, I met a barefooted boy near the hotel. “Howdy?” said
I. “Howdy?” he answered; and then he asked, “Did you git to see your
ravĕns?” Who is this, I thought, and how does he know me? For I am not
used to being famous. But I answered No, I had seen no ravens. How did
he know I wanted to see any? “I saw you at Turtlepond,” he said. He
was out there with his cousin, Cling Cabe. With that it all came back
to me. He was one of the boys who had paid me such flattering noonday
attentions, and of whom I had taken so shabby a leave. I was glad to
see him again. But he was not yet done with his story. Probably he
had carried the burden of it for the last fortnight. “Two ravens flew
over just after you left,” he said. Was he sure they were ravens? Yes,
his uncle Zeb[5] saw them, and said they were. Well, it was plainer
and plainer that I had mistaken my game. I must leave it for younger
eyes to see ravens,--in the flesh, at least. “Your old men shall dream
dreams,” said the prophet.
It was May 27 when, after an early breakfast, I left Highlands in a big
mountain wagon, bound for Boston by the way of Dillsboro and Asheville.
I had come into the mountains from the south, and was going out in a
northerly direction. The road was not highly recommended; it would be
a rough, all-day drive, but it would take me through a new piece of
country; and as for the jolting, I fancied that by this time I had
become hardened to all that the steepest and stoniest of roads could
inflict upon a passenger. On that point, I may as well confess, though
it does not concern the present story, I was insufficiently informed.
It had been agreed that I should take my own time, making the trip
as natural-historical as I pleased. “It fares better with sentiments
not to be in a hurry with them,” says Sterne, and the same is true of
sciences and other pleasures. Again and again I ordered the horses
stopped as we came to some likely piece of cover, but little or nothing
resulted. There were singers in plenty, but no new voices. After
all, I said to myself, one does not study ornithology to any great
advantage from a wagon-seat. Yet I remember one lesson--an old one
rehearsed--that the morning brought me.
Soon after getting out of the village we passed Stewart’s Pond. This
had been one of my most frequent resorts. A considerable part of
several half-days had been idled away beside it, and more than once I
had commented upon the singular fact that its shores, birdy as they
were, harbored no water thrushes, while in several similar places I
had heard them singing for more than a fortnight. There was something
really mysterious about it, I was inclined to think. The place seemed
made for them, unless, perhaps, the damming of the stream had rendered
the current too sluggish to suit their taste. Now, however, as we
drove past, and just as I was bidding the place good-by, a water thrush
struck up his simple, lazily emphatic tune. “Here I am, stranger,” he
might have been saying. Had he been there all the time? I did not know.
One’s investigations are never complete, even in the most limited area.
We had not gone many miles farther before we took what was for me a
new road, which turned out presently to be like all the others: a road
running mostly through the forest, uphill and downhill by turns, with
here and there, at long distances, a solitary cabin, unpainted, perhaps
unwindowed, yet pretty certainly with a patch of sweet-william and
other old-fashioned flowers in the “front yard.” The rudest one of all,
in the very lonesomest of clearings, had before the door a magnificent
eglantine bush that would have made the fortune of any Northern
gardener. The mountain side might be all aflame with azalea and laurel,
but the woman’s heart must have a bit of garden, something planted and
tended, to make the cabin more like a home.
For some hours we had been traveling thus, and were now come to an
open place in the town of Hamburg, so the driver told me. Here, all
at once, I nudged him with a quick command to stop. “There it is!” I
cried, as I whipped out my opera-glass. “There’s a raven!” “Yes,” said
the driver, “that’s the bird.” He was flying from us in a diagonal
course, making toward a hill or mountain,--at a comfortable distance,
in the best of lights, and most admirably disposed to show us his
dimensions; but he was silent and in tremendous haste.
“Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he.”
If you would only _say_ something! I thought. But he did not “call
out,” perhaps because he was not “flying over.” I held the glass on him
till he passed out of sight,--a really good look, as time counts under
such circumstances. Yes, at the last moment I had seen a raven! Would
the driver, when he got back to Highlands to-morrow evening, have the
goodness so to inform Dr. ---- for his comfort?
Another thing I had accomplished: I had supplied three male Hamburgers
with abundant material for a week’s gossip; for even in my excitement
I had been aware that we had halted almost directly in front of a
house,--the only one for some miles, I think,--in the yard of which
three men were lounging. I looked at the bird, and the men looked at
me. It gave me pleasure afterward to think what a story it must have
made. “Yes, sir, it’s gospel truth: he pulled out a spy-glass and sat
there looking at a raven. I reckon he never see one before.”
I speak of excitement, but it was a wonder to me how temperate my
emotions were, and how quickly they subsided. Within a half-mile our
progress was blocked by a large oak-tree, which the wind had twisted
partly off and thrown squarely across the road. The driver had brought
no axe along, and was obliged to go back to the house for help,
leaving me to care for the team. Straight before me loomed the Balsam
Mountains, a dozen peaks, gloriously high and mountainous; not too far
away, yet far enough to be blue, with white clouds veiling their lower
slopes and so lifting the tops skyward. I looked at them and looked at
them, and between the looks I put the raven into my notebook.
For the day it kept its place unquestioned. Then, long before I reached
Massachusetts, I punctuated the entry with a question mark. The bird
had been silent; its apparent size might have been an illusion; and my
assurance of the moment, absolute though it was, would not bear the
test of time and cold blood.