of years ago planed off the rougher surface of eastern New England
dropped their chips in a vast terminal moraine of sand and gravel,
whose northern declivity is so steep that you may throw a stone from
its rim to the top of a pine growing on the level, eighty or ninety
feet below. I know many terminal moraines in New England; but I know no
other at once so high and so abrupt in its declivity. A few rods back
from its summit the trolley car clangs incessantly, and the speed-mad
automobilist tears hooting through.
Along the crest, in spite of this, sleep peacefully the forefathers
of the hamlet. I like to feel that they neither note nor heed the
uproar of the highway; that they now and then cock a pleased ear to
the rumble of a passing hay-cart or the jog of a farmer’s horse, but
that the bedlam of modern hurry whangs by them unperceived. Rather they
turn their faces to the sough of the summer winds in the century-old
pines which shade the steep and sleep on, happy in the benediction
that descends from the spreading branches. Wonderful pines, these, so
shading the whole declivity that not more than a dapple of sunlight has
touched the ground beneath them for a century.
Here the hepatica finds the cool, dry seclusion that it loves and lifts
shy blue eyes to you while yet the winter ice nestles beside it among
the pine roots. Here while the July sun distills pitchy aroma from the
great trees the partridge berry carpets favored spots with the rich
green of its little round leaves,--leaves no bigger than the pink nail
of your sweetheart’s little finger, a green figured with the scarlet
of last year’s berries and the white of its wee starry twin flowers.
Here, too, in July the pyrola lifts its spike of bells like a woodland
lily-of-the-valley and the pipsissewa shows its waxy flowers to the
questing bee.
A butterfly, especially a large butterfly, rarely bothers with these
low-growing herbs, though each has its own delicious fragrance--and a
butterfly’s scent is keen. So my black white admiral alternately danced
and soared on down through the richly perfumed areas of the wood while
I plunged eagerly after, glissading the needle-carpeted slope, making
station from trunk to trunk lest a too headlong flight plunge me to
oblivion in what I knew was at the foot of the hill.
Without, the perfervid July sun beat upon the landscape till the dust
of its concussion rose in a blue haze that loomed the nearby hills
into misty mountain tops and glamoured the whole world with tropical
illusion. To our hard-cornered, clear-cut New England it is the
midsummer which brings the atmosphere of romance. The swoon of Arabian
Nights is upon the landscape, and it is through such heat and through
such misty evasion that the Caliph of Bagdad was accustomed to set
forth incognito to meet strange adventures.
At the foot of the hill, almost at the borderland which separates
this under-pine world from another far different, the resinous air is
shut in like the genie in the bottle. You feel the oppression of its
restraint and wonder, if like the fisherman you might uncork it, if it
would loom aloft in a dense cloud that would speak to you in a mighty
voice. Here my butterfly paused for the first time and lighted upon the
trunk of a pine, head high.
Quietly I drew near. His wings were rising and falling in rhythmic
unconscious motion that was tremulous with what seemed eagerness. One
of them, I noted, had a little triangular bit snipped out of it with a
clean cut. Some insect-eating bird had snapped at him not long before,
and he had come within a half-inch of death. Yet this did not trouble
him; very likely he never knew it. It was something else which absorbed
him so that he took no notice of my close approach. And now I could see
that his proboscis was uncoiled and apparently he was eating rapidly.
Now the proboscis of any butterfly is simply a double-barrelled
tube through which he sucks honey or other moist nutriment. That a
_Basilarchia astyanax_, or any other butterfly for that matter, should
be able to draw nourishment from the dry, rough bark of a pine-tree was
sufficient cause for astonishment, and I drew eagerly nearer to see
what he was getting.
It was a humid day and I was thirsty myself. What woodland brew could
be on tap here? In Ireland it used to be true that the Leprechauns,
the little men of the hedge, could make good beer of heath, and if you
could only catch and hold one he would tell you how. Here might be a
similar chance. My nose was within six inches of the white admiral’s
now and my eyes were bulging out with surprise as much as his do
naturally, for behold he had what butterfly never had before,--a little
red tongue on the tip of his proboscis, and with it he was nervously
licking the bark in its roughest places as hard as he could.
I might have seen more had not my foot slipped on the glossy pine
needles, and while I clutched the trunk of the pine to save myself the
butterfly danced away, thinking, I dare say, that I was an abnormally
developed wood peewee and had just missed getting him for luncheon.
Evidently the south wind had blown up from the gulf more than an
Arabian Night’s atmosphere; it had sent along portions of the fauna as
well. A butterfly with a tongue on the end of his proboscis belongs in
the land where rocs pick up elephants in their talons and soar away
with them!
Eagerly I sought to follow my _Basilarchia astyanax_ and learn more,
but it was not so easy. To follow his flight without care as to the
setting of my feet might well be to reach a country undiscovered
indeed, for from the very bottom of the northern declivity of the
terminal moraine well the springs of the fountain head, and out across
these he lightly floated, toward the sphagnum-bottom pasture swamp
beyond.
I suppose it is well settled, geologically, that a river of pure water
flows from some distant northern point, Labrador perhaps, under the
eastern portion of Massachusetts. Driven wells find this water almost
everywhere. In places it rises to the surface in clear ponds which have
no apparent inlet, and from which little water flows, but which are
clear and sparkling at a good level the year round. Houghton’s Pond, in
the Blue Hill Reservation, is one of these nearest Boston. Walden Pond
is another, and there are plenty more.
In other places still the water boils out of springs through quicksands
of unknown depths, flowing in clear streams through surrounding swamps
where trees have made firm ground alternating with bits of quaking
bog and open pools, where a misstep will drop you over your head in a
clinging mud that never gives up what it once gets.
Such is the fountain head, and you would know you were coming to it
of a hot day even were your eyes shut, for the ice-cold water makes
its own atmosphere. We read of bodies of ice that have lasted since
the glacial age buried under these terminal moraines whence well such
cooling springs; I do not know about the ice, but I can testify to the
cold, sparkling water and the grateful atmosphere which it disseminates
on these our Arabian days. Yet you must mark well your going. Just
under the slope the water boils up through fine sand that dances in the
up current. A few feet farther down it wells more silently, and the
decayed vegetation of centuries has made a mud bank over the quicksand.
You may sink to the knee here and find bottom. A few steps farther on
you may drive a twenty-foot pole down through mud and sand and find
nothing to obstruct it.
Yet Nature always provides the remedy. Mosses and swamp grass have
grown on the surface of this liquid mud and alders and swamp maple have
rooted in these and encouraged wild rose and elder and many another
shrub, till their intertwined roots have formed a surface which is in
part safe to the foot. And here is a world of itself in this hidden
pasture corner, for here linger the trout and the water-cress, and
many another shy woodland thing, driven to bay by the encroachments of
surrounding civilization.
In early July you will find the water-cress in bloom in the open pools,
surrounded by quaking bog and alder shade. Toward this my butterfly
had gone, and I followed, balancing warily from clump to clump in the
grateful coolness, testing each foothold lest it drop me into the
clinging depths below whence nothing but a derrick might lift me. The
arethusa, daintiest of orchids, nodded its pink head at me from the
quaking sphagnum, daintily bowing me on, but I paused a moment.
In the water right between my feet was a spotted turtle that had just
captured an appetizing, but by no means dainty morsel. This was a
terrapin-like bug that was more than a mouthful. His body, indeed, was
already out of sight, but claw-like legs protruded from both sides
of that isosceles triangle which a turtle’s mouth makes when it is
closed, and waved a frantic farewell to the passing under-water world.
The turtle was a long time in masticating his terrapin, but it was
a happy time. His whole body blinked contentedly, and he waved his
forelegs with a caressing out-push, a motion exactly like that of a
child at the breast. Then he wagged his head solemnly from side to side
as a wise turtle might who feels that such good lunches are put up by
fate only for the knowing ones of this watery world, and pushed himself
half way under the roots of a tussock for a nap. Soon the nether half
circle of his shell was motionless, with his hind legs drawn up within.
Only his little spike tail protruded, waving to a wee passing trout
the news that the millennium was at hand, and the turtle and the
bug-terrapin had lain down together in peace and prosperity, with the
bug-terrapin inside.
I looked up for the butterfly. He was nowhere to be seen. Yet my trip
was to be worth while, for right in front of me was an open pool
surrounded by a quaking bog, a pool twenty feet across packed almost
solid with the white panicled heads of water-cress blooms in which
swarmed a myriad of bees. Their drone was like that at the front door
of a hive on a hot July day, yet it was not a monotone as that is. It
was rather like a grand chorus singing many parts, for these were all
wildwood bees of a dozen varieties. There was not a hive tender among
them.
Lifting my admiring gaze from the pool with its white panicles and
swarming bees I saw further beauty beyond. On firmer ground nestling
lovingly against an old chestnut post was a great, glorious spike
of habenaria, the purple-fringed orchis. It is not uncommon, the
habenaria, in peaty meadows, but no man sees it for the first time in
the season without a great glow of delight, and I hastened over to give
it nearer greeting. Just as I reached it the butterfly came dancing
up, but not to sip the sweets of the wonderful great orchid. Instead
he lighted, right under my nose, on the roughest part of the old fence
post and began to lick this as he had the pine trunk.
[Illustration: There was the swish of wings, the snip-snap of a bird’s
beak, and it was all over]
I watched him again, hearing subconsciously the voice of a great
crested flycatcher over on a nearby tree, crying “Grief,” “Grief.” A
moment and the little red tongue which I had noted before seemed to
catch on the roughest part of the old fence post, and with a sudden
scrape the Basilarchia scraped it off. I looked in amaze, for now I saw
what it was. From the honey heart of some flower a little red worm had
become attached to the tip of the butterfly’s proboscis, and all this
licking of rough surfaces had been merely to get rid of him.
Up into the bright sunshine danced my black white admiral. There was
the swish of wings, the snip-snip of a bird’s beak, and it was all
over. The cry of the great crested flycatcher had been a prophecy
indeed, and the white admiral had danced blithely out of existence.
But the equatorial haze had more tropical enchantment in store, for
the midday sun was suddenly wiped out by an ominous figure. Some one
had uncorked that bottle which held the heat genie confined, and he
was looming from a black nimbus below into white piles of cumulus at
the zenith. His eyes flashed red lightnings and he spoke in thunder
tones. Somewhere over yonder I heard the great crested flycatcher
crying “Grief,” “Grief,” again. It might be my turn next, and I patted
the great orchid good-by and tiptoed through the sphagnum and climbed
the hill again. It had been a brief but pleasant trip. A butterfly
that found a tongue and a turtle that ate terrapin with a happy smile
may belong with the genie in the Arabian Nights, or with Alice in
Wonderland, or both. I know that I found them at the fountain head,
under the grove of immemorial pines, below the brow of the terminal
moraine where sleep the fathers of the hamlet.
DOWN STREAM
DOWN STREAM
If you have ever known fishing, real fishing, not the guide-book
kind, where you “whip” streams for fancy fish that bite mainly in
fancy--there will come a day in late July when it will be necessary for
you to go down stream. The excessive heat and humidity which has been
killing you off by inches and other people by wholesale for weeks will
suddenly vanish before a cool, dry northwester, a gladsome reminder to
the New Englander that there is such a thing as winter after all; thank
Heaven!
You know that the drought diminished waters still fizz out from under
the dam and purl into the pool below the roadside where the sunfish
congregate under the water weeds. Beyond this they prattle down the
meadow under banks where the hard-hack stands pink and prim, where the
meadow-sweet loves the stream so much that it bends toward it and half
caresses, and where the meadow grasses in complete abandonment whisper
of it in every wind and bend down and surreptitiously kiss it as it
dimples by. Farther down where the woodland maples troop up to meet
it and the willows sit and bathe pink toes in the current is the big
rock, under which the current has dug a sandy cave in which linger big
yellow perch, ready to rush out and snatch the worm that comes floating
down stream. Here you will hesitate but finally pass on, for there is a
lure which you cannot withstand in the deep pool farther down.
Because you are wise with the remembered wisdom of boyhood, you have
left at home the expensive rod and reel. Just back from the swamp edge
is a birch jungle where young trees stand as thick as canes in a Cuban
brake. Here you find your pole; as large as your thumb at the butt,
tapering, straight, clean and strong, fifteen feet to the tip. Cut it
and trim the limbs from it and bend to it your ten feet of stout line
at the end of which is a hook whose curve is as big as that of your
little finger nail. A cork that would fit a quart bottle will fit your
line if you gash it with your pocket-knife and slip the line in the
gash. It will hold wherever you put it, yet you may slide it up and
down at will. For the pool you should put it three feet from your
hook, for you will wish to “sink” that deep. Wind a wee bit of lead
about your line an inch above the hook, then pull out your bait box and
select a fat angle-worm. Break him in two in the middle and string him
on the hook so that the point is just inside the tip of his nose. Now
you are ready for what adventure may lurk under the bubbly foam of the
surface.
A willow and a maple lean together in loving embrace over the entrance
to the deep pool. Above, their arms stretch toward one another and
intertwine; below, their roots meet under water and sway down stream,
forming a slippery steep down which the amber yellow water, singing
a happy little song to itself, coasts into the amber black depths of
the pool. Black alders stand cooling their feet all about the edge.
Crowding them into the water are the great oaks and maples whose
limbs yearn above the pool till they shut out the sun. Along one
side the current has cut deep to the rough rocks and the water flows
black and swift. On the other the back-wash circles leisurely and the
bottom shallows to a bank of sand where the sunfish build their nests
and the fresh-water clams burrow and put up suppliant mouths to the
food-bearing current. Inshore it lifts to a sand bar, where you may
stand and swing your pole without interference from the surrounding
trees.
All day long the brook sings itself to sleep as it slips down the
slide into the slumberous depths of the pool. All day long the vivid
green dragon-flies flutter by with vivid black wings to bring luck
to your fishing, and the red-eyed vireo pipes his sleepy note in the
trees above. And all day long you shall catch fish if you will but
bait your hook and drop it in. First you will thin out the sunfish,
for they are the most alert and gamy of all. Talk about trout! You
should try landing a half-pound sunfish on a gossamer tackle and
a very slender pole. The sunfish is the _Lepomis gibbosus_ of the
ichthyologists and is a close relative of the rock bass, and just as
game. He has been irreverently dubbed “pumpkin seed” in some places,
from his shape, which is that of a pumpkin seed set up on edge. Here in
eastern Massachusetts he is just plain “kiver,” which is the old-time
uneducated New Englander’s pronunciation of the word “cover,” given
him, no doubt, because he is round and flat. He is as freckled as a
street urchin and as lively. He has business with your bait the moment
it drops near him, and the bobbing cork will show that it is he by the
jaunty vigor of its bobs.
[Illustration: The way of the “kiver” is this. There is a single,
snappy, business-like bob, then another, then three in quick
succession]
In fact, if you have learned the ways of the down-stream country you
will know every fish that takes your bait long before you have brought
him to the surface from the amber depths, just by the way in which he
bobs that floating cork. The way of the “kiver” is this. There is a
single, snappy, business-like bob, then another, then three in quick
succession in which he drags the cork half under. If you strike just
at the right time during the succession of three, when the line below
is taut with the strain of the float against the pull of the fish, you
shall have him. Otherwise your cork will lift from the water with a
humorous snort and you will hear little trills of derisive laughter in
the song of the stream cascading down the willow root chute. It will be
safer not to try him on the three bobs, but wait till the cork begins
to bore into the water and glide off across stream, showing that the
sunfish has made up his mind that it is a worm, a good one, and one
that he really wants.
The mother sunfish just at this time of year has her nest in the
sand at the upper end of the bar, in shallow water. It is a circular
depression which she has scooped out and from which she has carefully
removed all pebbles and sticks. Here she has laid her eggs, and here,
day and night, she stands guard over them. If any other fish comes
along, even of her own kind, she will chase it away with a brustling
courage which is like that of a mother hen defending her chicks. So,
after you have caught the freelance sunfish of the pool, those which
have no family cares, do not drop your bait near her nest, for if
you do she will dart out and take it, and it is a pity to have the
brook lose her. She has made her nest in the one shallow spot where
the bright sunlight plays, and you may see every dapple of her lovely
sides as the light glances on them. Her every fin quivers as she floats
there, slowly turning from side to side, her bright eyes roving in
search of enemies to her offspring. She is a whole torpedo boat of
mother love and pent-up energy, and so let us leave her, for she makes
the whole pool seem homelike and hospitable.
The yellow perch will come next to your hook, his tawny yellow sides
marked by bands of dark green, his back a darker green yet, and his
fins a rich red. He is the aristocrat of the pool, his family being one
of the very oldest in the fish domesday book. He lies in deeper water
than the sunfish, and his bite varies from a gentle nibble to a good
strong succession of pulls which finally end in the cork going down out
of sight altogether. Yet when he is at the bait you shall not mistake
any motion of that bob for the ones made by the sunfish. The perch has
a daintier, more gentlemanly touch. It is sure and strong, but it lacks
the roistering vitality of the sunfish. It is an aristocratic bite,
and you will recognize it as such without clearly knowing why,--which
is proof of his aristocracy. You will recognize it, too, from the
elegance of his figure and the chaste beauty of his attire. He gleams
in the sunlight. His yellow and green markings are as vivid as those of
the sunfish, yet arranged in exquisite taste, and he is dapper where
the other is bourgeois.
Sink a little deeper now, for it is time you caught horn-pouts. The
horn-pout is also “bull-head,” and, irreverently I fear, “minister,”
because of the severity of his black attire, which is relieved only
by a white vest. But horn-pout is the best name, for his horns stick
out fierce and straight from either side of his gills like the waxed
mustachios of a stage Frenchman. They are sharp as needles and set as
firm as daggers in their sockets. When you outrage the dignity of a
horn-pout by pulling him out of the water he waggles these fins of
dagger-bone and makes a peculiar grumbling sound with them. It is as if
he said, “What! what! What’s all this? Who dares disturb my comfort?”
Then when you reach to take him off the hook he flips that nimble black
tail of his and jabs his dagger into your hand. It makes an ugly wound,
and the boys claim that it conceals venom; a sort of poisoned dagger.
The horn-pout bobs your floating cork usually twice or three times,
a very different bob from either that of the sunfish or the yellow
perch. It is a steady, solid down pull each time, taking the cork half
under water. Then he takes hold in earnest, and the float goes steadily
down and out, as if this were a matter of no child’s play, but meaning
something that is solid and substantial on the other end of the line.
Oftentimes this is true indeed, for the black-coated one may weigh a
pound or two and double your birch rod into a good half-circle before
he lets go his grip on the water.
When you get down to the horn-pouts you have fishing indeed, but
all the time the climax of your day’s career is lurking down in the
cavernous depths where the stream has gullied far beneath the ledge,
for there, as thick as your wrist and three feet long, weighing a pound
to the foot of solid white flesh and muscle, is an eel.
The eel is the strange misanthrope of the brooks and fresh-water ponds.
You may peer into the sunlit shallows and see the other fishes at their
work or play. They are companionable. If you will live on the pond
edge you may train the minnows, the sunfish, the yellow perch even,
to come up and eat out of your hand. I have watched a big horn-pout
lumbering about in the shady depths for an hour and seen him carefully
inspect a hookless worm which I had dropped to him, before he ate it,
noting with glee the gravity and self-importance with which he finally
decided that it was all right and that he would confer a favor upon it
by swallowing it whole. Yet never once have I seen or laid hands on an
eel in fresh water. There he goes his own mysterious way among the rock
crevices and along the mud of the ultimate depths. The other fishes
of the brook travel in schools; he goes alone. They were spawned up
stream; he was born on the sands of the fishing banks, a hundred miles
off shore. He came up stream as a young eel squirming through dams that
shut out other fishes. When the time comes for him to go back he will
go back the same way, waxed fat indeed, but still unseen, devious,
self-possessed, and uncannily shrewd.