the daily conversations, is an apple orchard, and in the distance are
the rounded summits of the Catskills--a view as peaceful and refreshing
as the one from the house. Here Mr. Burroughs is never lonely. One day a
junco, or slate-colored snowbird, came on a tour of inspection. She
decided to build her nest in the hay. She scorned all the materials so
close at hand and brought everything from outside. Her instinct had
taught her to find certain materials for a nest, and she could not
suddenly learn to make use of the convenient hay. Mr. Burroughs, in
speaking of this, told me of a phoebe who built her nest over the window
of his house. She brought moss to conceal it, but as the moss did not
match the color of the house, she succeeded only in making her nest more
conspicuous. Since the evolution of the species, phoebes have built
their nests on the sides of cliffs, using moss of the color of the rocks
to conceal them. The little bird who, like the junco, followed her
instincts, failed to note the difference between the house and the
rocks.
In conversation of this kind, Mr. Burroughs turned the hours into
minutes, and I was surprised to look up and see the team approaching
which was to carry me away. After a reluctant farewell, we drove over
the brow of a hill and stopped for a few moments before the farmhouse
which was the birthplace of John Burroughs. A comical incident took
place. It was raining hard when we arrived and we drove into the barn,
directly across the road from the house. An old dog and a young one
were here, keeping themselves dry from the shower. I set up my camera in
the barn, to take a picture of the house. As I did so, I noticed the old
dog walk deliberately out in the rain and perch himself upon the
doorstep, where he turned around once or twice as if trying to strike
the right attitude. This point determined, he stood perfectly still
until I had taken the picture, and when I started to put away the
camera, came trotting back to the barn. I do not know what instinct, if
any, prompted the dog to wish his picture to be taken, but he was no
more foolish than many people,--men, women, and children,--who have
insisted upon getting into my pictures, though they knew there was no
possibility of their ever seeing them.
Mr. Burrough's permanent home is at West Park, on the Hudson River, a
few miles south of Kingston. Here he has a farm mostly devoted to the
cultivation of grapes. He occupies a comfortable stone house, pleasantly
situated and nearly surrounded by trees of various kinds. Back of the
house and near the river is the study or den, a little rustic building
on the slope of the hill, where Mr. Burroughs can write undisturbed by
the business of the farm. The walls are partly lined with bookshelves,
well crowded with favorite volumes. Near by is a small rustic summer
house from which a delightful view of the river may be seen for miles
to the north and to the south. This is why the place is called
"Riverby"--simply "by-the-river." It has been the author's home for many
years.
Even the study, however, did not satisfy Mr. Burroughs's longing for
quiet, and so he built another retreat about a mile and a half west of
the village which he calls "Slabsides." It is reached by walking up a
hill and passing through a bit of hemlock woods which I found quite
charming. Slabsides is a rustic house like many camps in the
Adirondacks. It is roughly built, but sufficiently comfortable, and has
a pleasant little porch, at the entrance to which a climbing vine gives
a picturesque effect which is greatly enhanced by a stone chimney, now
almost completely clothed with foliage. It is in an out-of-the-way
hollow of the woods where nobody would be likely to come except for the
express purpose of visiting Mr. Burroughs. For several summers this was
his favorite retreat. He would walk over from his home at Riverby and
stay perhaps two or three weeks at a time, doing his own cooking and
housekeeping. Of late years, however, Slabsides has been less frequently
used, Woodchuck Lodge having received the preference.
All of these abodes, whether you see them within or without, reveal the
secret of John Burroughs's strength. They coincide with his personal
appearance, his dress, his conversation, his manner. It is the strength
of absolute simplicity. Everything is sincere. Nothing is superfluous.
There is no such thing as "putting on airs." Fame and popularity have
not spoiled him. He is genuine. You feel it when you see his workshops.
You know it when you meet the man.
Mr. Charles Wagner, the apostle of "the simple life," has said, "All the
strength of the world and all true joy, everything that consoles, that
feeds hope, or throws a ray of light along our dark paths, everything
that makes us see across our poor lives a splendid goal and a boundless
future, comes to us from people of simplicity, those who have made
another object of their desires than the passing satisfaction and
vanity, and have understood that the art of living is to know how to
give one's life."
John Burroughs is one of these "people of simplicity," and his
contribution to our happiness lies in his rare power of bringing to his
reader something of his own enjoyment of Nature--an enjoyment which he
has been able to obtain only through the living of a simple life. He is
the complete embodiment of Emerson's "forest seer":--
"Many haps fall in the field
Seldom seen by wishful eyes;
But all her shows did Nature yield,
To please and win this pilgrim wise.
He saw the partridge drum in the woods;
He heard the woodcock's evening hymn;
He found the tawny thrushes' broods;
And the shy hawk did wait for him;
What others did at distance hear,
And guessed within the thicket's gloom,
Was shown to this philosopher
And at his bidding seemed to come."
IX
GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE
IX
GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE
The Yellowstone National Park is Nature's jewel casket, in which she has
kept her choicest gems for countless generations. Securely sheltered by
ranges of rugged mountains they have long been safe from human
depredations. The red man doubtless knew of them, but superstition came
to the aid of Nature and held him awe-struck at a safe distance. The
first white man who came within sight of these wonders a century ago
could find no one to believe his tales, and for a generation or two the
region of hot springs and boiling geysers which he described was
sneeringly termed "Colter's Hell." Only within the last half-century
have the generality of mankind been permitted to view these precious
jewels, and even then jealous Nature, it would seem, did not consent to
reveal her treasures until fully assured that they would have the
protection of no less powerful a guardianship than that of the National
Government.
On the 18th of September, 1870, a party of explorers, headed by General
Henry D. Washburn, then Surveyor-General of Montana, emerged from the
forest into an open plain and suddenly found themselves not one hundred
yards away from a huge column of boiling water, from which great rolling
clouds of snow-white vapor rose high into the air against the blue sky.
It was "Old Faithful" in action. Then and there they resolved that this
whole region of wonders should be made into a public park for the
benefit of all the people, and renouncing any thought of securing the
lands for personal gain, these broad-minded men used their influence to
have the National Congress assume the permanent guardianship of the
place. And now that protection is fully assured these jewels of Nature
may be seen by you and me.
Those who have traveled much will tell you that Nature is prodigal of
her riches, and, indeed, this would seem to be true to one who has spent
a summer among the snow-clad peaks of the Alps, or dreamed away the days
amid the blue lakes of northern Italy, or wandered about in the green
forests of the Adirondacks, where every towering spruce, every fragrant
balsam, every dainty wild flower and every mossy log is a thing of
beauty. But these are Nature's full-dress garments, just as the
broad-spreading wheatfields of the Dakotas are her work-a-day clothes.
Her "jewels" are safely locked up in places more difficult of access,
where they may be seen by only a favored few; and one of these
safe-deposit boxes, so to speak, is the Yellowstone National Park.
[Illustration: HYMEN TERRACE]
The first collection of these natural gems is at Mammoth Hot Springs,
and here my camera, as if by instinct, led me quickly to the daintiest
in form and most delicate in colorings of them all, a beautiful
formation known as Hymen Terrace. A series of steps, covering a circular
area of perhaps one hundred feet in diameter, has been formed by the
overflow of a hot spring. The terraces consist of a series of
semicircular and irregular curves or scallops, like a combination of
hundreds of richly carved pulpits, wrought in a soft, white substance
resembling coral. Little pools of glistening water reflect the sunlight
from the tops of the steps, while a gently flowing stream spreads
imperceptibly over about one half the surface, sprinkling it with
millions of diamonds as the altar of Hymen ought to be. The pools are
greens and blues of many shades, varying with the depth of the water.
The sides of the steps are pure white in the places where the water has
ceased to flow, but beneath the thin stream they range in color from a
rich cream to a deep brown, with all the intermediate shades
harmoniously blended. From the highest pools, and especially from the
largest one at the very summit of the mound, rise filmy veils of steam,
softening the exquisite tints into a rich harmony of color against the
azure of the sky.
The Terrace of Hymen is the most exquisite of the formations, but there
are others much larger and more magnificent. Minerva Terrace gave me a
foreground for a charming picture. Beyond its richly colored steps and
sparkling pools were the splendid summits of the Gallatin Range towering
more than ten thousand feet above the level of the sea and seeming, in
the clear mountain air, to be much nearer than they really are. Hovering
above their peaks were piles upon piles of foamy clouds, through which
could be seen a background of the bluest of skies, while down below were
the gray stone buildings with their bright red roofs that form the
headquarters of the army guarding the park.
Jupiter Terrace, the most imposing of all these formations, extends a
quarter of a mile along the edge of a brilliantly colored mound, rising
about three hundred feet above the plain upon which Fort Yellowstone is
built. Pulpit Terrace, on its eastern slope, reproduces upon a larger
scale the rich carvings and exquisite tints of Hymen, though without the
symmetry of structure. The springs at its summit are among the most
strikingly beautiful of these unique formations which I like to call the
"jewels" of Nature. Two large pools of steaming water lie side by side,
apparently identical in structure, and separated only by a narrow ridge
of lime. The one on the left is a clear turquoise blue, while its
neighbor is distinctly Nile green. Surrounding these springs are several
smaller pools, one a rich orange color, another light brown, and a third
brown of a much darker hue. The edges of all are tinted in yellow,
brown, and gold of varied shades. The pools are apparently all a part of
the same spring or group of springs, and subject to the same conditions
of light; yet I noticed at least five distinct colors in as many pools.
The water itself is colorless and the different hues must be imparted by
the colorings of the lime deposits, influenced by the varying depth and
temperature of the water.
What is known as "the formation" of the Mammoth Hot Springs covers
perhaps fifty or sixty acres on the slope of Terrace Mountain. It is a
heavy deposit of lime or travertine, essentially the same as the
stalagmites and stalactites which one sees in certain caverns. When dry
it is white and soft like chalk. The colorings of the terraces are of
vegetable origin, caused by a thin, velvety growth, botanically classed
as algae, which flourishes only in warm water. The heat of rocks far
beneath the surface warms the water of the springs, which, passing
through a bed of limestone, brings to the surface a deposit of pure
calcium carbonate. Wherever the flow of water remains warm the algae
appear and tint the growing formation with as many shades of brown as
there are varying temperatures of the water. When the water is diverted,
as is likely to happen from one season to the next, the algae die and the
surfaces become a chalky white.
Leaving the Hot Springs, the road passes through the Golden Gate, where,
on one side, a perpendicular wall of rock rises to a height of two
hundred feet or more, and on the other are the wooded slopes and rocky
summit of Bunsen Peak--a beautiful canon, where the view suggests the
greater glories of Swiss mountain scenery, but for that very reason is
not to be mentioned here among the rare gems of the park. Nor shall I
include the "Hoodoos," which, though distinctly unusual, are far from
beautiful. An area of many acres is covered with huge fragments of
massive rocks, piled in disorderly confusion, as though some Cyclops, in
a fit of ugly temper, had torn away the whole side of a mountain and
scattered the pieces. Through these rocks project the whitened trunks of
thousands of dead trees,--a sort of ghostly nightmare through which we
were glad to pass as quickly as possible.
[Illustration: PULPIT TERRACE]
We stopped for lunch at the Norris Geyser Basin, and here saw some
miniature geysers, as a kind of preparation for the greater ones beyond.
The "Constant," true to its name, throws up a pretty little white
fountain so often that it seems to prepare for a new eruption almost
before the previous one has subsided. The "Minute Man" is always on duty
and pops up his little spray of hot water, fifteen feet high, every
minute or two. The "Monarch," near by, is much larger, but not at all
pretty. It throws up a stream of black, muddy water seventy-five to one
hundred feet high about every forty minutes.
Some of these geysers are steady old fellows who have found their
appointed task in life and have settled down to perform it with
commendable regularity. The Norris Basin, however, seems to be the
favorite playground of the youngsters,--a frisky lot of geysers of no
fixed habits and a playful disposition to burst out in unexpected
places. Such is the New Crater, which asserted itself with a great
commotion in 1891, bursting forth with the violence of an earthquake.
Another erratic young fellow is the "Fountain Geyser," in the Lower
Basin. In July, 1899, he was seized with a fit of the "sulks" and for
three months refused to play at all. In October he decided to resume
operations and behaved quite well for ten years, when he suddenly took a
notion to abandon his crater for the apartments of his neighbor next
door. Apparently the furnishings of his new abode did not suit him, for
he began at once to throw them out with great violence, hurling huge
masses of rock with volcanic force to a height of two hundred feet. Amid
terrific rumblings and the hissing of escaping steam, this angry
outburst continued for several days, and did not wholly cease for nearly
two months. Since then the "Fountain" has settled down to the ordinary
daily occupation of a self-respecting geyser. When I saw him he was as
calm and serene as a summer's day, and to all appearances had never been
guilty of mischief, nor even exhibited a ruffled temper in all his life.
Indeed, had I not known his history (inconceivable in one of the gentler
sex), I should have personified this geyser in the feminine gender,
because of his exquisite beauty. A great jewel seemed to be set into the
surface of the earth. Its smooth upper face, about thirty feet in
diameter, was level with the ground upon which we stood. Its color, at
first glance, seemed to be a rich turquoise blue, but as we looked into
the clear, transparent depths there seemed to be a hundred other shades
of blue, all blending harmoniously. In the farthest corner, beneath a
shelf or mound of geyserite, appeared the opening of a fathomless cave.
All around its edges, and continuing in wavy lines of delicate tracery
around the bottom of the bowl, were marvelous patterns of exquisite
lacework, every angle seeming to catch and throw back its own particular
ray of bluish light. There was not a ripple to disturb the surface, not
a bubble to foretell the violent eruption which a few hours would bring
forth, and only a thin film of vapor to suggest faintly the
extraordinary character of this beautiful pool.
Only a few hundred feet away is another curious phenomenon in this
region of surprises. It is a cauldron of boiling mud, measuring forty
or fifty feet in diameter, known as the "Mammoth Paint Pots," where a
mass of clay is kept in a state of continuous commotion. Millions of
bubbles rise to the surface and explode, sputtering like a thick mess of
porridge kept at the boiling point. The color is a creamy white where
the ebullition is greatest, but thick masses thrown up around the edges
and allowed to cool have assumed a delicate shade of pink. A smaller but
more beautiful formation of the same kind is seen near the Thumb Station
on the Yellowstone Lake.
As we proceeded, Nature's jewels seemed to increase in number and
magnificence. Turquoise Spring, a sheet of water one hundred feet wide,
has all the beauty of the Fountain Geyser in the latter's quiet state,
with an added reputation for tranquillity, for it is not a geyser at
all. Near by is Prismatic Lake, about four hundred feet long and two
hundred and fifty feet wide. Its center is a very deep blue, changing to
green of varying shades, and finally, in the shallowest parts, to
yellow, orange, and brown. It is a great spring from the center of which
the water flows in delicate, wavy ringlets. The mineral deposits have
formed countless scallops, like miniature terraces, a few inches high,
sculpturing a wonderful pattern in hues of reds, purples, and browns,
delicately imposed upon a background of gray. A thin veil of rising
steam was carried away by the wind just enough to reveal the wonderful
colorings to our eyes, while the sun added to the bewildering beauty of
the spectacle by changing the vapor into a million prisms reflecting all
the colors of the rainbow.
In this connection I must not fail to mention the Morning-Glory Spring,
where the action of a geyser has carved out a deep bowl, twenty feet in
diameter. It would seem as though Nature had sunk a gigantic
morning-glory into the earth, leaving its rim flush with the surface and
yet retaining, clearly visible beneath the smooth surface of the
transparent water, all the delicate shades of the original flower.
The Sapphire Spring, not far away, is another of the little gems of the
region. It is a small, pulsating spring, and the jewel itself is not
less remarkable than its extraordinary setting, resembling coral. The
constant flow of the waters from a center to all directions has caused
the formation of a series of irregular concentric circles, broken into
little knobs or mounds, from which the vicinity takes its name of the
"Biscuit Basin."
As we approached the Upper Geyser Region, the number and variety of
these highly colored pools, hot springs, geysers, and strange formations
increased steadily, until at last we stood in the presence of "Old
Faithful," the crown jewel of the collection, the Koh-i-noor of Nature's
casket.
A strong breeze from the north was blowing as I stood before the geyser
for the first time, and for that reason, I decided to place my camera
directly to the west. A small cloud of steam was rising, which seemed
gradually to increase in volume. Then, as I watched, a small spray of
water would shoot up occasionally above the rim of the crater. Then a
puff of steam and another spray, breaking into globules as the wind
carried it away. Then silence. Suddenly a large, full stream shot up a
distance of twenty or thirty feet and fell back again, and the crater
remained quiet for at least five minutes. Is that all? I thought. Does
its boasted regularity only mean that while it plays once in sixty-five
minutes, yet the height of some of the eruptions may be only trifling? I
began to feel doubtful, not to say disappointed. The column of steam
seemed smaller, and I wondered if I should have to wait another hour for
a real eruption, when suddenly the lazily drifting cloud became a giant,
like the genie in the Arabian Nights. Up into the air shot a huge column
of water, followed instantly by another still higher, then another,
until in a moment or two there towered above the earth a gigantic column
of boiling water one hundred and fifty feet high. Straight as a
flagstaff it seemed on the left, while to the right rolled the waving
folds of a huge white banner, obscuring the blue of the sky in one great
mass of snowy vapor. For several minutes the puffs of steam rolled up,
and the fountain continued to play. Then, little by little, its form
grew less, its force weakened, and at last there was only the little
lazy pillar of vapor outlined against the distant hills.
Again and again during the day I watched it with an ever-increasing
sense of fascination, which reached its climax in the evening, when the
eruption was lighted by the powerful search-light on the hotel. As the
great clouds of steam rolled up, the strong light seemed to impart a
vast variety of colors, ranging from rich cream to yellow, orange,
brown, and purple, blended harmoniously but ever changing like the rich
silk robes of some Oriental potentate,--a spectacle of bewildering
beauty, defying the power of pen to describe or brush to paint.
[Illustration: OLD FAITHFUL]
There are other geysers greater than "Old Faithful." "The Giant" plays
to a height of two hundred and fifty feet, and the "Grand" and "Beehive"
nearly as high; the "Grotto" has a more fantastic crater; the "Castle"
has the largest cone, and with its beautifully colored "Castle Well" is
more unique; and the "Riverside," which plays a stream diagonally across
the Firehole River, makes a more striking scenic display. But all of
these play at irregular intervals and with far less frequency, varying
from a few hours to ten or twelve days between eruptions. On the other
hand, the regularity with which "Old Faithful" sends his straight,
magnificent column to the skies is fascinating beyond description. Every
sixty-five or seventy minutes, never varying more than five minutes, day
and night, in all seasons and every kind of weather, "Old Faithful" has
steadily performed his task since first discovered in 1870 until the
present time, and no man can tell for how many centuries before.
"O! Fountain of the Wilderness! Eternal Mystery!
Whence came thy wondrous power?
For ages,--long before the eye of Man
Found access to thy charm, thou'st played
Thy stream of marvelous beauty.
In midnight dark no less than glorious day,
In wintry storms as well as summer's calm,
Oblivious to the praise of men,
Each hour to Heaven thou hast raised
Thine offering pure, of dazzling white.
Thy Maker's eye alone has seen
The tribute of thy faithfulness,
And thou hast been content to play thy part
In Nature's solitude."