fact of the birds’ breeding. For that I had one day left; and it may
be said at once that I spent the greater share of the next forenoon in
the vicinity of the grapevine thicket, before mentioned, on Lincoln
Heights. A male cerulean was there,--I both heard and saw him,--but no
female showed herself; and when at last my patience ran out, I gave up
the point for good. She had been seen in the diligent collection of
building materials, and that, considered as evidence, was nearly the
same as a discovery of the nest itself. With that I must be content.
The comfortable way of finding birds’ nests is to happen upon them. A
regular hunt--a “dead set,” as we call it--is apt to be a discouraging
business.
My present attempt, it is true, was a quiet, inactive piece of work,
little more than an idle waiting for the lady of the nest to “give
herself away;” and even that was relieved by much looking at mountain
prospects and frequent turns in the surrounding woods. Once a
crossbill called and a cardinal whistled almost in the same breath,--a
kind of northern and southern duet. Then a cuckoo and a dove fell
to cooing on opposite sides of me; very different sounds, though in
our poverty we designate them by the same word. The dove’s voice is
a thousand times more plaintive than the cuckoo’s, and to hear it,
no matter how near, might come from a mile away; as I have known the
little ground dove to be “mourning” from a fig-tree at my elbow while I
was endeavoring to sight it far down the field. The dove’s note is the
voice of the future or of the past, I am not certain which. A few rods
from the spot where I had taken my station, a single deerberry bush
(_Vaccinium stamineum_) was in profuse bloom, and made a really pretty
show; loose sprays of white flaring blossoms all hanging downward, each
with its cluster of long protruding stamens, till the bush, I thought,
was like a miniature candelabrum of electric lights. As Thoreau might
have said, for so homely a plant the deerberry is very handsome. Either
from association or for some other reason, it wears always a certain
common look. When we see an azalea shrub or even an apple-tree in
bloom, we seem to see the very object of its being. The flower calls
for no ulterior result, though it may have one; its fruit is in itself.
But a blossoming blueberry bush, no matter of what kind, looks like a
plant that was made to bear something edible, a plant whose end is use
rather than beauty.
If the forenoon had been indolent, the noonday hour was more so. I
descended the hill by a way different from any I had yet taken, and
found myself at the foot in a public road running through a cultivated
valley. The day was peculiarly comfortable, with a bright sun and a
temperate breeze,--ideal weather for such inactivities as I was engaged
in. Coming to an old cherry-tree, I rested awhile in its shadow. A
farmhouse was not far off, with apple-trees before it, a barn across
the way, and two or three men at work in the sloping ploughed field
beyond. To one as lazy as I then was, it is almost a luxury to see
other men hoeing or ploughing, so they be far enough off to become a
part of the landscape. Near the barn stood a venerable weeping willow,
huge of girth, a very patriarch, yet still green as youth itself. Here
were good farm-loving birds, a pleasant society. A pair of house wrens
came at once to look at the stranger, and one of them interested me by
dusting itself in the road.
Two kingbirds were about the apple-trees (apple-tree flycatchers would
be my name for them, if a name were in order), now sitting quiet
for a brief space, now scaling the heavens, as if to see how nearly
perpendicular a bird’s flight could be made, and then tumbling about
ecstatically with rapid vociferations, after the half-crazy manner of
their kind. The kingbird is plentifully endowed not only with spirit,
but with spirits. A goldfinch sang and twittered in the softest voice,
and a catbird mewed. From a quince bush, a little farther off, a wild
bobolinkian strain was repeated again and again,--an orchard oriole, I
thought most likely. I went nearer (to the shade of a low cedar), and
soon had him in sight,--a young male in yellow plumage, with a black
throat-patch. The song was extremely taking, and the more I heard it,
the more it seemed to have the true bobolink ring. The quince bushes
were in pale pink bloom, and the branches of a tall snowball-tree in
the unfenced front yard of the house fairly drooped under their load
of white globular clusters. Just opposite was a sweet-brier bush, “the
pastoral eglantine,” half dead like others that I had noticed here,
and like the whole tribe of its New England brothers and sisters. Here
as in Massachusetts a blight was upon them; they were living with
difficulty. It would be good, I thought, to see the sweet-brier once
where it flourishes; where the beauty of the plant matches the beauty
and sweetness of the rose it bears. Can it be that it is not quite
hardy even in Virginia?
My seat under the snowball-tree (to the coolness of which I had moved
from under the cedar) had presently to be given up. The women of the
house became aware of me, and out of a bashful regard for my own
comfort I took the road again. Soon I passed a double house, with
painted doors and two-sash windows! And in one of the windows were lace
curtains! It was wonderful,--I was obliged to confess it, in spite of a
deep-seated masculine prejudice against all such contrivances,--it was
wonderful what an air of elegance they conferred, though the paint of
the doors was to be considered, of course, in the same connection.
By this time the road was approaching the slope of Buck Hill, and high
noon as it was, I must run up for another half-hour among the old
trees at the top,--with no special result except to disturb a summer
tanager, who fired off volley after volley of objurgatory expletives,
and altogether seemed to be in a terrible state of mind. His excitement
was all for nothing; unless--what was likely enough--it served to give
him favor in the eyes of his mate, who may be presumed to have been
somewhere within hearing. Lovers, I believe, are supposed to welcome an
opportunity to play the hero.
My last afternoon at the Bridge was devoted to a longish tramp into
a new piece of country, where for an hour I had hopes of adding at
least a name or two to my Virginia bird list, which for twenty-four
hours had been at a standstill. I came unexpectedly upon a mill, and
what was of greater account, a millpond,--“a long, dirty pond,” as my
uncivil pencil describes it. Here were swallows, as might have been
foreseen, but the most careful scrutiny revealed nothing beyond the two
species already catalogued,--the barn swallow and the rough-wing. Here,
too, in an apple orchard, were a Baltimore oriole gathering straws, a
phœbe, a golden warbler, and several warbling vireos, the only ones
so far noticed with the exception of a single bird at Pulaski. About
the border of the pond were spotted sandpipers (no solitaries, to my
disappointment) and two male song sparrows. This last species I saw but
twice in Virginia,--along the bushy shore of the creek at Pulaski, and
here beside this millpond. Wherever the song sparrow is scarce, it is
likely to be restricted to the immediate neighborhood of water. Even
in Massachusetts it is pretty evident that such places are its first
choice. As I sometimes say, the song sparrow likes a swamp as well as
the swamp sparrow; but the species being so exceedingly abundant, there
are not swampy spots enough to go round, and the majority of the birds
have to shift as they can, along bushy fence-rows and in pastures and
scrub-lands.
The building interested me almost as much as the sandpipers and the
sparrows. It was painted red, and served not only as a mill, but as
a post-office (“Red Mills”) and a “department store,” with its sign,
“Dry Goods, Groceries, &c.” A tablet informed the passer-by that the
mill had been “established” in 1798, destroyed in 1881, and reopened in
1891; and on the same tablet, or another, was the motto, “Laborare est
orare.” I regretted not to meet the proprietor, but he was nowhere in
sight, and I felt a scruple about intruding upon the time of a man who
was at once postmaster, miller, farmer, storekeeper, and scholar. With
that motto before me,--“Apologia pro vita sua,” he might have called
it,--such an intrusion would have seemed a sacrilege.
What I remember best about the whole establishment is the song of
a blue-gray gnatcatcher, to which I stopped to listen under a low
savin-tree on a bluff above the mill. He was directly over my head,
singing somewhat in the manner of a catbird, but I had almost to hold
my breath to hear him. It was amazing that a bird’s voice could be spun
so fine. A mere shadow of a sound, I was ready to say. It was only by
the happiest accident that I did not miss it altogether. Then, when the
fellow had finished his music, he began squeaking in that peculiarly
teasing manner of his, and kept it up till I was weary. The gnatcatcher
is a creature by himself, a miniature bird, wonderfully slender, with a
strangely long tail, which he carries jauntily and makes the most of on
all occasions. But if he only knew it, his chief claim to distinction
is his singing voice. If the humming-bird’s is attenuated in the same
proportion (and who can assert the contrary?), he may be the finest
vocalist in the world, and we none the wiser.
I was to start northward by the next noonday train, and had already
laid out my forenoon’s work. Before breakfast I took my last look at
the famous bridge, and my last stroll through Cedar Creek ravine. I had
been there every day, I think, and had always found something new. This
time it was a slippery-elm-tree by the saltpetre cave. I had brought
away a twig, and was sitting in my door putting a lens upon it and upon
a sedum specimen, when the veranda was suddenly taken possession of
by a dozen or more of young men. They were just up from the railway
station, and were deep in a discussion of ways and means,--tickets,
luncheons, and time-tables. Then, in a momentary lull in the talk, I
heard a quiet voice say, “Sedum.” They were a company of Johns Hopkins
men out upon a geological trip. So I learned at noon when we met at the
railway station; and a pleasant botanical hour I had with one or two
of them as we rode northward. Now, on the piazza, they did not tarry
long; time was precious to them also; and as soon as they had gone down
to the bridge I set off in the opposite direction. My final ramble was
to be to Lincoln Heights, to see once more that magnificent avenue of
trees and that beautiful mountain prospect. The cerulean warbler was
singing as usual, but there was no sign of his mate, though I could
not do less than to wait a little while by the grapevine thicket in a
vain hope of her appearance. Here, as in the ravine, I had not yet seen
everything. Straight before me stood a locust tree, every branch hung
with long, fragrant white clusters. I had overlooked it completely till
now. If I learned nothing else in Virginia, I ought to have learned
something about my limitations as an “observer.” But I need not have
traveled so far for such a purpose. Wisdom so common as that may be
picked up any day in a man’s own dooryard.
INDEX
Anemone, 153, 216.
Arbor-vitæ, 217.
Arbutus, trailing, 133, 148, 153, 158, 205.
Asplenium Ruta-muraria, 227.
Azalea:--
arborescens, 138.
calendulacea, 138.
nudiflora, 137, 206.
vaseyi, 137.
viscosa, 138.
Barren strawberry, 153, 178.
Blackbird:--
crow, 202.
red-winged, 123.
Bladder-nut, 216.
Bloodroot, 153, 160, 178, 216.
Bluebird, 125, 266.
Blue-eyed grass, 244.
Bobolink, 208.
Box turtle, 248.
Butterflies, 218.
Buzzard, turkey, 126, 132, 159, 271.
Cancer-root, 260.
Carolina hemlock, 93.
Catbird, 51, 173, 198, 275.
Catchfly, scarlet, 244.
Chat, 5, 126, 203, 239, 247, 257.
Checkerberry, 133.
Cheilanthes vestita, 229.
Chewink, 132, 159.
Chickadee, Carolina, 126, 148, 184, 196, 239.
Chinaberry-tree, 8.
Chokeberry, 132.
Clintonia, white-flowered, 46.
Columbine, 214, 218.
Cowslip, 264.
Crab-apple tree, 50.
Cranesbill, 216.
Creeper:--
black-and-white, 148, 155, 196, 264.
brown, 41, 74, 78, 126.
Crossbill, red, 159, 180, 249, 272.
Cuckoo, 273.
Cystopteris bulbifera, 228.
Deerberry, 273.
Dogwood, flowering, 208, 257.
Dove:--
Carolina, 196, 273.
ground, 273.
Draba, ramosissima, 214.
Finch, purple, 230.
Fish-hawk, 209.
Flycatcher:--
Acadian, 125, 239.
least, 45.
olive-sided, 41, 94, 126.
Fringed polygala, 160.
Galax, 134, 154.
Gaylussacia ursina, 133.
Ginger, wild, 216.
Gnatcatcher, blue-gray, 21, 23, 231, 269, 279.
Goldfinch, 132, 211, 230, 275.
Grackle, bronzed, 202.
Grosbeak:--
blue, 249.
cardinal, 125, 224, 272.
rose-breasted, 51, 119, 128, 132, 180, 187, 258.
Grouse, ruffed, 155, 159, 267.
Halesia-tree, 38, 50.
Hepatica, 153, 160, 178, 216.
Houstonia, 153.
Huckleberry, 132.
Humming-bird, 23, 203, 235, 241, 268, 280.
Indigo-bird, 231, 255.
Iris, vernal, 134, 160, 205, 266.
Judas-tree, 146, 208, 257.
Killdeer, 199.
Kingbird, 275.
Kingfisher, 49, 208.
Lady’s-slipper, yellow, 46.
Laurel, mountain, 140.
Lungwort, 172.
Magnolia Fraseri, 93.
Mandrake, 216.
Maryland yellow-throat, 122, 209.
Mitrewort, 178, 216.
Night-hawk, 231, 271.
Nuthatch:--
red-breasted (Canadian), 40, 126, 159.
white-breasted, 196, 239.
Orchis spectabilis, 216.
Oriole:--
Baltimore, 124, 202, 278.
orchard, 275.
Osprey, 209.
Oven-bird, 132, 157, 195, 196, 223, 230.
Painted-cup, 94, 134.
Pellæa atropurpurea, 227.
Pewee, wood, 203, 239.
Phalarope, Wilson’s, 95.
Phœbe, 75, 123, 224, 230, 278.
Potentilla tridentata, 133.
Ragwort, 216.
Raven, 22, 68.
Redstart, 240.
Rhododendron:--
Catawbiense, 137, 141.
maximum, 137.
punctatum, 136.
Robin, 51, 198.
Rose acacia, 134.
Sand myrtle, 134.
Sandpiper:--
solitary, 72.
spotted, 73, 199, 278.
Shadbush, 153, 160.
Shortia galacifolia, 93.
Snowbird, Carolina, 78, 115, 126, 132.
Sparrow:--
chipping, 148, 230.
field, 132, 148, 159, 205.
lark, 190.
song, 128, 199, 278.
white-throated, 30, 157, 196, 239, 255.
Spring beauty, 216.
Stone-crop, 216.
Sumach, fragrant, 260.
Swallow:--
barn, 74, 75, 201, 278.
rough-winged, 32, 75, 201, 218, 278.
Sweetbrier (Eglantine), 67, 276.
Swift, chimney, 132, 145, 201, 230.
Tanager:--
scarlet, 132, 203.
summer, 23, 231, 240, 277.
Thrasher, brown, 30, 51, 126, 148, 196, 198.
Thrush:--
Louisiana water, 66, 126, 203, 219, 230.
olive-backed (Swainson), 23, 240, 247, 253, 267.
wood, 51, 247.
Trillium:--
grandiflorum, 215.
stylosum, 56.
Tufted titmouse, 126, 196, 223.
Tulip-tree, 160, 166, 217.
Violets, 133, 160, 161, 162, 166, 177, 214.
Vireo:--
mountain solitary, 118.
red-eyed, 119, 195, 223, 230, 255.
warbling, 202, 278.
white-eyed, 127.
yellow-throated, 196, 230, 255.
Walking fern, 217.
Warbler:--
Blackburnian, 126, 128, 195, 240, 255.
blackpoll, 127, 196.
black-throated blue, 121, 126, 180, 240, 254, 255.
black-throated green, 23, 195, 255.
blue yellow-backed (parula), 45, 123, 195, 223, 230, 248, 258, 265.
Canadian, 121, 126, 240.
Cape May, 261.
cerulean, 236, 251, 255, 258, 265, 267, 268, 271, 281.
chestnut-sided, 126, 132, 195, 196, 255.
golden-winged, 21, 51, 126, 193, 195.
hooded, 125, 155, 254.
Kentucky, 125, 127, 156.
magnolia, 235, 263.
myrtle, 127, 195, 196, 255.
Nashville, 269.
pine, 23, 195.
prairie, 23, 127, 206, 230, 266.
redpoll, 195.
summer yellow (golden), 127, 195, 278.
worm-eating, 178, 195.
Whippoorwill, 5, 59, 231, 247.
Woodpecker:--
downy, 196.
hairy, 241.
golden-winged, 159, 196.
pileated, 32, 48, 180, 246, 250.
red-headed, 241.
yellow-bellied, 180.
Wren:--
Bewick, 126, 148, 198, 202.
Carolina, 126, 231.
house, 150, 198, 203, 275.
winter, 155, 198.
Xanthorrhiza, 189.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “Do come” and “did come” are proper enough; why not “done come”?
And in point of fact, this common Southern use of “done” with the past
participle has its warrant in at least two lines of Chaucer: in _The
Knightes Tale_ (1055):--
“Hath Theseus doon wrought in noble wise,”
and in _The Tale of the Man of Lawe_ (171):--
“Thise marchants han doon fraught her shippes newe.”
If a ship is “done loaded,” why may not a carriage have “done come”?
Idiom is long-lived. As Lowell said of the Yankee vernacular, so
doubtless may we say of the Carolinian, that it “often has antiquity
and very respectable literary authority on its side.”
[2] If I seem to have said too much about the vulgar question of
something to eat, let it be my apology that for a Northern traveler
in the rural South the food question is nothing less than the health
question. A few years ago, two Boston ornithologists, who had
undertaken an extensive tour among the North Carolina mountains,
returned before the time. Sickness had driven them home, it turned out;
and when they came to publish the result of their investigations, they
finished their narrative by saying, “Few Northern digestions could
accomplish the feat of properly nourishing a man on native fare.”
On my present trip, a resident physician assured me that the native
mountaineers, living mostly out of doors and in one of the best of
climates, are almost without exception dyspeptics.
[3] See especially an article by Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller in _The
Atlantic Monthly_ for June, 1896.
[4] All things go by comparison. “I always lived in the country till I
came here,” said my driver to me one day.
[5] The great “war governor” and senator of North Carolina was born
among the mountains of the State; and from what I heard, he seems to
have left his name
“to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear country,”
as truly as Wallace ever did in Scotland.
[6] The case is recorded in _The Auk_, vol. vi. page 68.
[7] On a different road, and on a Sunday morning, I met a young colored
woman,--an unusual sight, colored people being _personæ non gratæ_ in
the mountains. _We_ bade each other good-morning, as Christians should.
My notebook, I see, records her as dressed in her best clothes,--a blue
gown, I think,--with a handsome light-colored silk parasol in one hand,
and a tin pail in the other.
[8] _The Auk_, vol. iii. pp. 108 and 111.
[9] My first impression was correct. Mr. Brewster, as I now notice,
says of the nest that it is “larger and composed of coarser material”
than that of _Junco hyemalis_.
[10] “At Highlands I saw a single male,--an unusually brilliant
one,--which I was told was the only bird of the kind in the vicinity.”
[11] According to a publication of the State Board of Agriculture,
North Carolina contains forty-three peaks more than 6000 feet high,
eighty-two others more than 5000 feet high, and an “innumerable”
multitude the altitude of which is between 4000 and 5000 feet.
[12] Pulaski, or Pulaski City (the place goes by both names,--the
second a reminiscence of its “booming” days, I should suppose), is so
intermediate in size and appearance that I find myself speaking of it
by turns as village, town, and city, with no thought of inconsistency
or special inappropriateness.
[13] Mr. H. W. Henshaw once told me about a flock that appeared in
winter in the grounds of the Smithsonian Institution, so exhausted that
they could be picked off the trees like apples.
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