made it longer,--in that respect it had been successful; but the
“collection” I was to have made, my little store of “first-hand
knowledge,” had fared but poorly. As far as ravens were concerned, I
was bringing home a lean bag,--a brace of interrogation points.
A MOUNTAIN POND
Stewart’s Pond, on the Hamburg road a mile or so from the village of
Highlands, served me, a visiting bird-gazer, more than one good turn:
selfishly considered, it was something to be thankful for; but I never
passed it, for all that, without feeling that it was a defacement of
the landscape. The Cullasajah River is here only four or five miles
from its source, near the summit of Whiteside Mountain; and already a
land-owner, taking advantage of a level space and what passes among
men as a legal title, has dammed it (the reader may spell the word as
he chooses--“dammed” or “damned,” it is all one to a mountain stream)
for uses of his own. The water backs up between a wooded hill on one
side and a rounded grassy knoll on the other, narrows where the road
crosses it by a rude bridge, and immediately broadens again, as best it
can, against the base of a steeper, forest-covered hill just beyond.
The shapelessness of the pond and its romantic surroundings will in
the course of years give it beauty, but for the present everything
is unpleasantly new. The tall old trees and the ancient rhododendron
bushes, which have been drowned by the brook they meant only to drink
from, are too recently dead. Nature must have time to trim the ragged
edges of man’s work and fit it into her own plan. And she will do it,
though it may take her longer than to absorb the man himself.
When I came in sight of the pond for the first time, in the midst of
my second day’s explorations, my first thought, it must be confessed,
was not of its beauty or want of beauty, but of sandpipers, and in a
minute more I was leaning over the fence to sweep the water-line with
my opera-glass. Yes, there they were, five or six in number, one here,
another there; solitary sandpipers, so called with only a moderate
degree of appropriateness, breaking their long northward journey beside
this mountain lake, which might have been made for their express
convenience. I was glad to see them. Without being rare, they make
themselves uncommon enough to be always interesting; and they have,
besides, one really famous trait,--the extraordinary secrecy of their
breeding operations. Well known as they are, and wide as is their
distribution, their eggs, so far as I am aware, are still unrepresented
in scientific collections except by a single specimen found almost
twenty years ago in Vermont; a “record,” as we say in these days, of
which _Totanus solitarius_ may rightfully be proud.
About another part of the pond, on this same afternoon (May 8), were
two sandpipers of a more ordinary sort: spotted sandpipers, familiar
objects, we may fairly say, the whole country over. Few American
schoolboys but have laughed at their absurd teetering motions. In
this respect the solitary sandpiper is better behaved. It does not
teeter--it _bobs_; standing still, as if in deep thought, and then
dipping forward quickly (a fanciful observer might take the movement
for an affirmative gesticulation, an involuntary “Yes, yes, now I
have it!”) and instantly recovering itself, exactly in the manner of
a plover. This is partly what Mr. Chapman means, I suppose, when he
speaks of the solitary sandpiper’s superior quietness and dignity;
two fine attributes, which may have much to do with their possessor’s
almost unparalleled success in eluding the researches of oölogical
collectors. Nervousness and loquacity are poor hands at preserving a
secret.
Although my first brief visit to Stewart’s Pond made three additions
to my local bird list (the third being a pair of brown creepers), I
did not go that way again for almost a fortnight. Then (May 21) my
feet were barely on the bridge before a barn swallow skimmed past
me. Swallows of any kind in the mountains of North Carolina are like
hen-hawks in Massachusetts,--rare enough to be worth following out of
sight. As for barn swallows, I had not expected to see them here at
all. I kept my eye upon this fellow, therefore, with the more jealousy,
and happily for me he seemed to have found the spot very much to
his mind. If he was a straggler, as I judged likely in spite of the
lateness of the season, he was perhaps all the readier to stay for an
hour or two on so favorable a hunting-ground. With him were half a
dozen rough-wings,--probably not stragglers,--hawking over the water;
feeding, bathing, and now and then, by way of variety, engaging in some
pretty spirited lovers’ quarrels. In one such encounter, I remember,
one of the contestants received so heavy a blow that she quite lost her
balance (the sex was matter of guesswork) and dropped plump into the
water; and more than once the fun was interrupted by an irate phœbe,
who dashed out upon the makers of it with an ugly snap of his beak, as
much as to say, “Come, now, this is my bridge.” Mr. Stewart himself
could hardly have held stricter notions about the rights of property.
The rough-wings frequently perched in the dead trees, and once, at
least, the barn swallow did likewise; something which I never saw a
bird of his kind do before, to the best of my recollection. For to-day
he was in Rome, and had fallen in with the Roman customs.
As I have said already, his presence was unexpected. His name is not
included in Mr. Brewster’s North Carolina list, and I saw no other bird
like him till I was approaching Asheville, a week later, in a railway
train. Then I was struck almost at the same moment by two things--a
brick chimney and a barn swallow. My start at the sight of red bricks
made me freshly aware with what quickness the mind puts away the past
and accustoms itself to new and strange surroundings. Man is the
slave of habit, we say; but how many of us, even in middle age, have
altered our modes of living, our controlling opinions, or our daily
occupations, and in the shortest while have forgotten the old order
of things, till it has become all like a dream,--a story heard long
ago and now dimly remembered. Was it indeed we who lived there, and
believed thus, and spent our days so? This capacity for change augurs
well for the future of the race, and not less for the future of the
individual, whether in this world or in another.
In a previous chapter I have mentioned as provocative of astonishment
the ignorance of a North Carolina man, my driver from Walhalla, who
had no idea of what I meant by “swallows.” His case turned out to
be less singular than I thought, however, for when I spoke of it to
an exceptionally bright, well-informed farmer in the vicinity of
Highlands, he answered that he saw nothing surprising about it; _he_
didn’t know what swallows were, neither. Martins he knew,--purple
martins,--though there were none hereabout, so far as I could discover,
but “swallow,” as a bird’s name, was a novelty he had never heard of.
Here on Stewart’s bridge I might have tested the condition of another
resident’s mind upon the same point, but unfortunately the experiment
did not occur to me. He came along on horseback, and I called his
attention to the swallows shooting to and fro over the water, a pretty
spectacle anywhere, but doubly so in this swallow-poor country. He
manifested no very lively interest in the subject; but he made me a
civil answer,--which is perhaps more than a hobby-horsical catechist,
who travels up and down the world cross-examining his busy fellow
mortals, has any good reason for counting upon in such a case. With
so many things to be seen and done in this short life, it is obvious
that all men’s tastes cannot run to ornithology. “Yes,” the stranger
said, glancing at the swallows, “I expect they have their nests under
the bridge.” A civil answer I called it, but it was better than that;
indicating, as it did, some acquaintance with the rough-wing’s habits,
or a shrewd knack at guessing. But the man knew nothing about a bird
that nested in barns.
A short distance beyond the bridge, in a clearing over which lay
scattered the remains of a house that had formerly stood in it (for
even this new country is not destitute of ruins), a pair of snowbirds
were chipping nervously, and near the same spot my ear caught the
lisping call of my first North Carolina brown creeper. No doubt it was
breeding somewhere close by, and my imagination at once fastened upon
a loose clump of water-killed trees, from the trunks of which the dry
bark was peeling in big sun-warped flakes, as the site of its probable
habitation. This was on my first jaunt over the road, and during the
busy days that followed I planned more than once to spend an hour here
in spying upon the birds. A brown creeper’s nest would be something new
for me. Now, therefore, on this bright morning, when I was done with
the swallows, I walked on to the right point and waited. A long time
passed, or what seemed a long time. With so many invitations pressing
upon one from all sides in a vacation country, it is hard sometimes to
be leisurely enough for the best naturalistic results. Then, suddenly,
I heard the expected _tseep_, and soon the bird made its appearance.
Sure enough, it flew against one of the very trees that my imagination
had settled upon, ducked under a strip of dead bark, between it and
the bole, remained within for half a minute, and came out again. By
this time the second bird had appeared, and was waiting its turn for
admission. They were feeding their young; and so long as I remained
they continued their work, going and coming at longer or shorter
intervals. I made no attempt to inspect their operations more nearly;
the tree stood in rather deep water, and the nest was situated at an
altitude of perhaps twenty feet; but I was glad to see for myself, even
at arm’s length, as it were, this curious and highly characteristic
abode of a bird which in general I meet with only in its idle season. I
was surprised to notice that the pair had chosen a strip of bark which
was fastened to the trunk at the upper end and hung loose below. The
nest was the better protected from the weather, of course, but it must
have been wedged pretty tightly into place, it seemed to me, unless it
had some means of support not to be guessed at from the ground. The
owners entered invariably at the same point,--in the upper corner. The
brown creeper has been flattening itself against the bark of trees
for so many thousand years that a very narrow slit suffices it for a
doorway.
While I was occupied with this interesting bit of household economy, I
heard a clatter of wheels mingled with youthful shouts. Two boys were
coming round a bend in the road and bearing down upon me, seated upon
an axle-tree between a pair of wheels drawn by a single steer, which
was headed for the town at a lively trot, urged on by the cries of the
boys, one of whom held the single driving-rope and the other a whip.
“How fast can he go?” I asked, as they drew near. I hoped to detain
them for a few minutes of talk, but they had no notion of stopping.
They had never timed him, the older one--not the driver--answered,
with the merriest of grins. I expressed wonder that they could manage
him with a single rein. “Oh, I can drive him without any line at all.”
“But how do you steer him?” said I. “I yank him and I pull him,” was
the laconic reply, which by this time had to be shouted over the boy’s
shoulder; and away the crazy trap went, the wobbling wheels describing
all manner of eccentric and nameless curves with every revolution; and
the next minute I heard it rattling over the bridge. Undoubtedly the
young fellows thought me a green one, not to know that a yank and a
steady pull are equivalent to a gee and a haw. “Live and learn,” said I
to myself. It was a jolly mode of traveling, at all events, as good as
a circus, both for the boys and for me.
On my way through the village, at noon, I passed the steer turned out
to grass by the roadside, and had a better look at the harness, a
simple, home-made affair, including a pair of hames. The driving-rope,
which in its original estate might have been part of a clothes-line
or a bed-cord, was attached to a chain which went round or over the
creature’s head at the base of the horns. The lads themselves were
farther down the street, and the younger one nudged the other’s elbow
with a nod in my direction as I passed on the opposite sidewalk. They
seemed to have sobered down at a wonderful rate since their arrival in
the “city.” I should hardly have known them for the same boys; but no
doubt they would wake the echoes again on the road homeward. I hoped
so, surely, for I liked them best as I saw them first.
As far as the pleasure of life goes, boys brought up in this primitive
mountain country have little to complain of. They may lack certain
advantages; in this imperfect world, where two bodies cannot occupy
the same space at once, the presence of some things necessitates the
absence of others; but most certainly they have their full quota of
what in youthful phrase are known as “good times.” The very prettiest
sight that I saw in North Carolina, not excepting any landscape or
flower,--and I saw floral displays of a splendor to bankrupt all
description,--was a boy whom I met one Sunday morning in a steep,
disused road outside of the town. I was descending the hill, picking
my steps, and he was coming up. Eleven or twelve years old he might
have been, cleanly dressed, fit for any company, but bare-legged to
the knee. I wished him good-morning, and he responded with the easiest
grace imaginable. “You are going to church?” said I. “Yes, sir,” and on
he went up the hill, “progressing by his own brave steps;” a boy, as
Thoreau says, who was “never drawn in a willow wagon;” straight as an
arrow, and with motions so elastic, so full of the very spirit of youth
and health, that I stood still and gazed after him for pure delight.
His face, his speech, his manner, his carriage, all were in keeping. If
he does not make a good and happy man, it will be an awful tragedy.
This boy was not a “cracker’s” child, I think. Probably he belonged
to one of the Northern families, that make up the village for the
most part, and have settled the country sparsely for a few miles
round about. The lot of the native mountaineers is hard and pinched,
and although flocks of children were playing happily enough about
the cabin doors, it was impossible not to look upon them as born to
a narrow and cheerless existence. Possibly the fault was partly in
myself, since I have no very easy gift with strangers, but I found
them, young and old alike, rather uncommunicative.
I recall a family group that I overtook toward the end of an afternoon;
a father and mother, both surprisingly young-looking, hardly out of
their teens, it seemed to me, with a boy of perhaps six years. They
were resting by the roadside as I came up, the father poring over
some written document. “You must have been to the city,” said I; but
all the man could answer was “Howdy.” The woman smiled and murmured
something, it was impossible to tell what. They started on again at
that moment, the grown people each with a heavy bag, which looked as
if it might contain meal or flour, and the little fellow with a big
bundle. They had four miles still to go, they said; and the road, as I
could see for myself, was of the very worst, steep and rugged to the
last degree. Partly to see if I could conquer the man, and partly to
please myself, I beckoned the youngster to my side and put a coin into
his hand. The shot took effect at once. Father and mother found their
voices, and said in the same breath, “Say thank you!” How natural that
sounded! It is part of the universal language. Every parent will have
his child polite. But the boy, poor thing, was utterly tongue-tied, and
could only smile; which, after all, was about the best thing he could
have done. The father, too, was still inclined to silence, finding
nothing in particular to say, though I did my best to encourage him;
but he took pains to keep along with me, halting whenever I did so,
and making it manifest that he meant to be with me at the turn in the
road, about which I had inquired (needlessly, there is no harm in my
now confessing), so that I should by no possibility go astray. Nothing
could have been more friendly, and at the corner both he and his wife
bade me good-by with simple heartiness. “Good-by, little boy,” said
I. “Tell him good-by,” called both father and mother; but the boy
couldn’t, and there was an end of it. “He’s just as I was at his age;
bashful, that’s all.” This little speech set matters right. The parents
smiled, the boy did likewise, and we went our different ways, I still
pitying the woman, with that heavy bag under her arm, having to make a
packhorse of herself on that tiresome mountain road.
However, it is the mountain woman’s way to do her full share of the
hard work, as I was soon to see farther exemplified; for within half a
mile I heard in front of me the grating of a saw, and presently came
upon another family group, in the woods on the mountain side,--a woman,
three children, and a dog. The woman, no longer young, as we say in
the language of compliment, was at one end of a cross-cut saw, and
the largest boy, ten or eleven years old, was at the other. They were
getting to pieces a huge fallen trunk. “Wood ought to be cheap in this
country,” said I; and the woman, as she and the boy changed hands to
rest themselves, answered that it was. In my heart I thought she was
paying dearly for it; but her voice was cheerful, and the whole company
was almost a merry one, the younger children laughing at their play,
and the dog capering about them in high spirits. The mountain family
may be poor, but not with the degrading, squalid poverty of dwellers
in a city slum; and at the very worst the children have a royal
playground.
Mountain boys, certainly, I could never much pity; for the girls it
was impossible not to wish easier and more generous conditions. Here
at Stewart’s Pond I detained two of them for a minute’s talk: sisters,
I judged, the taller one ten years old, or thereabout. I asked them if
there were many fish in the pond. The older one thought there were. “I
know my daddy ketched five hundred and put in there for Mr. Stewart,”
she said. Just then the younger girl pulled her sister’s sleeve and
pointed toward two snakes which lay sunning themselves on the edge
of the water, where a much larger one had shortly before slipped off
a log into the pond at my approach. “They do no harm?” said I. “No,
sir, I don’t guess they do,” was the answer; a strange-sounding form
of speech, though it is exactly like the “I don’t think so” of which
we all continue to make hourly use, no matter how often some crotchety
amateur grammarian--for whom logic is logic, and who hates idiom as
a mad dog hates water--may write to the newspapers warning us of its
impropriety. Then the girls, barefooted, both of them, turned into a
bushy trail so narrow that it had escaped my notice, and disappeared
in the woods. I thought of the villainous-looking rattlesnake that I
had seen the day before, freshly killed and tossed upon the side of
the road, within a hundred rods of this point, and of the surprise
expressed by a resident of the town at my wandering about the country
without leggins.
As to the question of snakes and the danger from them, the people here,
as is true everywhere in a rattlesnake country, held widely different
opinions. Everybody recognized the presence of the pest, and most
persons, whatever their own practice might be, advised a measure of
caution on the part of strangers. One thing was agreed to on all hands:
whoever saw a “rattler” was in duty bound to make an end of it; and one
man told me a little story by way of illustrating the spirit of the
community upon this point. A woman (not a mountain woman) was riding
into town, when her horse suddenly stopped and shied. In the road,
directly before her, a snake was coiled, rattling defiance. The woman
dismounted, hitched the frightened horse to a sapling, cut a switch,
killed the snake, threw it out of the road, remounted, and went on
about her business. It is one advantage of life in wild surroundings
that it encourages self-reliance.
In all places, nevertheless, and under all conditions, human nature
remains a paradoxical compound. A mountain woman, while ploughing, came
into close quarters with a rattlesnake. To save herself she sprang
backward, fell against a stone, and in the fall broke her wrist. No
doctor being within call, she set the bone herself, made and adjusted a
rude splint, and now, as the lady who told me the story expressed it,
“has a pretty good arm.” That was plucky. But the same woman suffered
from an aching tooth some time afterward, and was advised to have it
extracted. She would do no such thing. She couldn’t. She had a tooth
pulled once, and it hurt her so that she would never do it again.
Anthropology and ornithology were very agreeably mingled for me on
the Hamburg road,--though it seems impossible for me to stay there,
the reader may say,--where passers-by were frequent enough to keep
me from feeling lonesome, and yet not so numerous as to disturb the
quiet of the place or interfere unduly with my natural historical
researches. The human interview to which I look back with most pleasure
was with a pair of elderly people who appeared one morning in an open
buggy. They were driving from the town, seated side by side in the
shadow of a big umbrella, and as they overtook me, on the bridge, the
man said “Good-morning,” of course, and then, to my surprise, pulled
up his horse and inquired particularly after my health. He hoped I
was recovering from my indisposition, though I am not sure that he
used that rather superfine word. I gave him a favorable account of
myself,--wondering all the while how he knew I had been ill,--whereupon
he expressed the greatest satisfaction, and his good wife smiled in
sympathy. Then, after a word or two about the beauty of the morning,
and while I was still trying to guess who the couple could be, the
man gathered up the reins with the remark, “I’m going after some
_Ilex monticola_ for Charley.” “Yes, I know where it is,” he added,
in response to a question. Then I knew him. I had been at his house
a few evenings before to see his son, who had come home from Biltmore
to collect certain rare local plants--the mountain holly being one of
them--for the Vanderbilt herbarium. The mystery was cleared, but it may
be imagined how taken aback I was when this venerable rustic stranger
threw a Latin name at me.
In truth, however, botany and Latin names might almost be said to be
in the air at Highlands. A villager met me in the street, one day, and
almost before I knew it, we were discussing the specific identity of
the small yellow lady’s-slippers,--whether there were two species, or,
as my new acquaintance believed, only one, in the woods round about. At
another time, having called at a very pretty unpainted cottage,--all
the prettier for the natural color of the weathered shingles,--I
remarked to the lady of the house upon the beauty of _Azalea Vaseyi_,
which I had noticed in several dooryards, and which was said to have
been transplanted from the woods. I did not understand why it was, I
told her, but I couldn’t find it described in my Chapman’s Flora. “Oh,
it is there, I am sure it is,” she answered; and going into the next
room she brought out a copy of the manual, turned to the page, and
showed me the name. It was in the supplement, where in my haste I had
overlooked it. I wondered how often, in a New England country village,
a stranger could happen into a house, painted or unpainted, and by any
chance find the mistress of it prepared to set him right on a question
of local botany.