_Zonotrichia albicollis_ sent my thoughts thus astray, from Moosilauke
to Delphi. That day and the two following were passed in roaming about
the woods near the hotel. The pretty painted trillium was in blossom, as
was also the dark purple species, and the hobble-bush showed its broad
white cymes in all directions. Here and there was the modest little
spring beauty (_Claytonia Caroliniana_), and not far from the Elephant's
Head I discovered my first and only patch of dicentra, with its delicate
dissected leaves and its oddly shaped petals of white and pale yellow.
The false mitrewort (_Tiarella cordifolia_) was in flower likewise, and
the spur which is cut off Mount Willard by the railroad was all aglow
with rhodora,--a perfect flower-garden, on the monochromatic plan now so
much in vogue. Along the edge of the rocks on the summit of Mount
Willard a great profusion of the common saxifrage was waving in the
fresh breeze:
"Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance."
On the lower parts of the mountains, the foliage was already well out,
while the upper parts were of a fine purplish tint, which at first I was
unable to account for, but which I soon discovered to be due to the fact
that the trees at that height were still only in bud.
A notable feature of the White Mountain forests is the absence of oaks
and hickories. These tough, hard woods would seem to have been created
on purpose to stand against wind and cold. But no; the hills are covered
with the fragile poplars and birches and spruces, with never an oak or
hickory among them. I suspect, indeed, that it is the very softness of
the former which gives them their advantage. For this, as I suppose, is
correlated with rapid growth; and where the summer is very short, speed
may count for more than firmness of texture, especially during the first
one or two years of the plant's life. Trees, like men, lose in one way
what they gain in another; or, in other words, they "have the defects
of their qualities." Probably Paul's confession, "When I am weak, then
am I strong," is after all only the personal statement of a general law,
as true of a poplar as of a Christian. For we all believe (do we not?)
that the world is a universe, governed throughout by one Mind, so that
whatever holds in one part is good everywhere.
But it was June, and the birds, who were singing from daylight till
dark, would have the most of my attention. It was pleasant to find here
two comparatively rare warblers, of whom I had before had only casual
glimpses,--the mourning warbler and the bay-breasted. The former was
singing his loud but commonplace ditty within a few rods of the piazza
on one side of the house, while his congener, the Maryland
yellow-throat, was to be heard on the other side, along with the
black-cap (_Dendroeca striata_), the black-and-yellow, and the
Canadian flycatcher. The mourning warbler's song, as I heard it, was
like this: _Whit whit whit_, _wit wit_. The first three notes were
deliberate and loud, on one key, and without accent. The last two were
pitched a little lower, and were shorter, with the accent on the first
of the pair; they were thinner in tone than the opening triplet, as is
meant to be indicated by the difference of spelling.[8] Others of the
family were the golden-crowned thrush, the small-billed water-thrush,
the yellow-rumped, the Blackburnian (with his characteristic _zillup_,
_zillup_, _zillup_), the black-throated green, the black-throated blue
(the last with his loud, coarse _kree_, _kree_, _kree_), the redstart,
and the elegant blue yellow-back. Altogether, they were a gorgeous
company.
But the chief singers were the olive-backed thrushes and the winter
wrens. I should be glad to know on just what principle the olive-backs
and their near relatives, the hermits, distribute themselves throughout
the mountain region. Each species seems to have its own sections, to
which it returns year after year, and the olive-backed, being, as is
well known, the more northern species of the two, naturally prefers the
more elevated situations. I have found the latter abundant near the
Profile House, and for three seasons it has had exclusive possession of
the White Mountain Notch,--so far, at least, as I have been able to
discover.[9] The hermits, on the other hand, frequent such places as
North Conway, Gorham, Jefferson, Bethlehem, and the vicinity of the
Flume. Only once have I found the two species in the same neighborhood.
That was near the Breezy Point House, on the side of Mount Moosilauke;
but this place is so peculiarly romantic, with its noble amphitheatre of
hills, that I could not wonder neither species was willing to yield the
ground entirely to the other; and even here it was to be noticed that
the hermits were in or near the sugar-grove, while the Swainsons were in
the forest, far off in an opposite direction.[10]
It is these birds, if any, whose music reaches the ears of the ordinary
mountain tourist. Every man who is known among his acquaintances to have
a little knowledge of such things is approached now and then with the
question, "What bird was it, Mr. So-and-So, that I heard singing up in
the mountains? I didn't see him; he was always ever so far off; but his
voice was wonderful, so sweet and clear and loud!" As a rule it may
safely be taken for granted that such interrogatories refer either to
the Swainson thrush or to the hermit. The inquirer is very likely
disposed to be incredulous when he is told that there are birds in his
own woods whose voice is so like that of his admired New Hampshire
songster that, if he were to hear the two together, he would not at
first be able to tell the one from the other. He has never heard them,
he protests; which is true enough, for he never goes into the woods of
his own town, or, if by chance he does, he leaves his ears behind him in
the shop. His case is not peculiar. Men and women gaze enraptured at New
Hampshire sunsets. How glorious they are, to be sure! What a pity the
sun does not sometimes set in Massachusetts!
As a musician the olive-back is certainly inferior to the hermit, and,
according to my taste, he is surpassed also by the wood thrush and the
Wilson; but he is a magnificent singer, for all that, and when he is
heard in the absence of the others it is often hard to believe that any
one of them could do better. A good idea of the rhythm and length of his
song may be gained by pronouncing somewhat rapidly the words, "I love, I
love, I love you," or, as it sometimes runs, "I love, I love, I love you
truly." How literal this translation is I am not scholar enough to
determine, but without question it gives the sense substantially.
The winter wrens were less numerous than the thrushes, I think, but,
like them, they sang at all hours of the day, and seemed to be well
distributed throughout the woods. We can hardly help asking how it is
that two birds so very closely related as the house wren and the winter
wren should have been chosen haunts so extremely diverse,--the one
preferring door-yards in thickly settled villages, the other keeping
strictly to the wildest of all wild places. But whatever the
explanation, we need not wish the fact itself different. Comparatively
few ever hear the winter wren's song, to be sure (for you will hardly
get it from a hotel piazza), but it is not the less enjoyed on that
account. There is such a thing as a bird's making himself too common;
and probably it is true even of the great _prima donna_ that it is not
those who live in the house with her who find most pleasure in her
music. Moreover, there is much in time and circumstance. You hear a song
in the village street, and pass along unmoved; but stand in the silence
of the forest, with your feet in a bed of creeping snowberry and oxalis,
and the same song goes to your very soul.
The great distinction of the winter wren's melody is its marked rhythm
and accent, which give it a martial, fife-like character. Note tumbles
over note in the true wren manner, and the strain comes to an end so
suddenly that for the first few times you are likely to think that the
bird has been interrupted. In the middle is a long in-drawn note, much
like one of the canary's. The odd little creature does not get far away
from the ground. I have never seen him sing from a living tree or bush,
but always from a stump or a log, or from the root or branch of an
overturned tree,--from something, at least, of nearly his own color.[11]
The song is intrinsically one of the most beautiful, and in my ears it
has the further merit of being forever associated with reminiscences of
ramblings among the White Hills. How well I remember an early morning
hour at Profile Lake, when it came again and again across the water from
the woods on Mount Cannon, under the Great Stone Face!
Whichever way I walked, I was sure of the society of the snow-birds.
They hopped familiarly across the railroad track in front of the
Crawford House, and on the summit of Mount Washington were scurrying
about among the rocks, opening and shutting their pretty white-bordered
fans. Half-way up Mount Willard I sat down to rest on a stone, and after
a minute or two out dropped a snow-bird at my feet, and ran across the
road, trailing her wings. I looked under the bank for her nest, but, to
my surprise, could find nothing of it. So I made sure of knowing the
place again, and continued my tramp. Returning two hours later, I sat
down upon the same bowlder, and watched for the bird to appear as
before; but she had gathered courage from my former failure,--or so it
seemed,--and I waited in vain till I rapped upon the ground over her
head. Then she scrambled out and limped away, repeating her innocent but
hackneyed ruse. This time I was resolved not to be baffled. The nest was
there, and I would find it. So down on my knees I got, and scrutinized
the whole place most carefully. But though I had marked the precise
spot, there was no sign of a nest. I was about giving over the search
ignominiously, when I descried a slight opening between the overhanging
roof of the bank and a layer of earth which some roots held in place
close under it. Into this slit I inserted my fingers, and there,
entirely out of sight, was the nest full of eggs. No man could ever have
found it, had the bird been brave and wise enough to keep her seat.
However, I had before this noticed that the snow-bird, while often
extremely clever in choosing a building site, is seldom very skillful in
keeping a secret. I saw him one day standing on the side of the same
Mount Willard road,[12] gesticulating and scolding with all his might,
as much, as to say, "Please don't stop here! Go straight along, I beg of
you! Our nest is right under this bank!" And one glance under the bank
showed that I had not misinterpreted his demonstrations. For all that, I
do not feel like taking a lofty tone in passing judgment upon Junco. He
is not the only one whose wisdom is mixed with foolishness. There is at
least one other person of whom the same is true,--a person of whom I
have nevertheless a very good opinion, and with whom I am, or ought to
be, better acquainted than I am with any animal that wears feathers.
The prettiest snow-bird's nest I ever saw was built beside the Crawford
bridle path, on Mount Clinton, just before the path comes out of the
woods at the top. It was lined with hair-moss (a species of
_Polytrichum_) of a bright orange color, and with its four or five
white, lilac-spotted eggs made so attractive a picture that I was
constrained to pause a moment to look at it, even though I had three
miles of a steep, rough footpath to descend, with a shower threatening
to overtake me before I could reach the bottom. I wondered whether the
architects really possessed an eye for color, or had only stumbled upon
this elegant bit of decoration. On the whole, it seemed more charitable
to conclude the former; and not only more charitable, but more
scientific as well. For, if I understand the matter aright, Mr. Darwin
and his followers have settled upon the opinion that birds do display an
unmistakable fondness for bright tints; that, indeed, the males of many
species wear brilliant plumage for no other reason than that their mates
prefer them in that dress. Moreover, if a bird in New South Wales adorns
her bower with shells and other ornaments, why may not our little
Northern darling beautify her nest with such humbler materials as her
surroundings offer? On reflection, I am more and more convinced that the
birds knew what they were doing; probably the female the moment she
discovered the moss, called to her mate, "Oh, look, how lovely! Do, my
dear, let's line our nest with it!"
This artistic structure was found on the anniversary of the battle of
Bunker Hill, a day which I had been celebrating, as best I could, by
climbing the highest hill in New England. Plunging into the woods within
fifty yards of the Crawford House, I had gone up and up, and on and on,
through a magnificent forest, and then over more magnificent rocky
heights, until I stood at last on the platform of the hotel at the
summit. True, the path, which I had never traveled before, was wet and
slippery, with stretches of ice and snow here and there; but the
shifting view was so grand, the atmosphere so bracing, and the solitude
so impressive that I enjoyed every step, till it came to clambering up
the Mount Washington cone over the bowlders. At this point, to speak
frankly, I began to hope that the ninth mile would prove to be a short
one. The guide-books are agreed in warning the visitor against making
this ascent without a companion, and no doubt they are right in so
doing. A crippling accident would almost inevitably be fatal, while for
several miles the trail is so indistinct that it would be difficult, if
not impossible, to follow it in a fog. And yet, if one is willing to
take the risk (and is not so unfortunate as never to have learned how to
keep himself company), he will find a very considerable compensation in
the peculiar pleasure to be experienced in being absolutely alone above
the world. For myself, I was shut up to going in this way or not going
at all; and a Bostonian must do something patriotic on the Seventeenth
of June. But for all that, if the storm which chased me down the
mountains in the afternoon, clouding first Mount Washington and then
Mount Pleasant behind me, and shutting me in-doors all the next day, had
started an hour sooner, or if I had been detained an hour later, it is
not impossible that I might now be writing in a different strain.
My reception at the top was none of the heartiest. The hotel was tightly
closed, while a large snow-bank stood guard before the door. However, I
invited myself into the Signal Service Station, and made my wants known
to one of the officers, who very kindly spread a table with such things
as he and his companions had just been eating. It would be out of place
to say much about the luncheon: the bread and butter were good, and the
pudding was interesting. I had the cook's word for it that the latter
was made of corn-starch, but he volunteered no explanation of its color,
which was nearly that of chocolate. As a working hypothesis I adopted
the molasses or brown-sugar theory, but a brief experiment (as brief as
politeness permitted) indicated a total absence of any saccharine
principle. But then, what do we climb mountains for, if not to see
something out of the common course? On the whole, if this department of
our national government is ever on trial for extravagance in the matter
of high living, I shall be moved to offer myself as a competent witness
for the defense.
A company of chimney-swifts were flying criss-cross over the summit, and
one of the men said that he presumed they lived there. I took the
liberty to doubt his opinion, however. To me it seemed nothing but a
blunder that they should be there even for an hour. There could hardly
be many insects at that height, I thought, and I had abundant cause to
know that the woods below were full of them. I knew, also, that the
swifts knew it; for while I had been prowling about between Crawford's
and Fabyan's, they had several times shot by my head so closely that I
had instinctively fallen to calculating the probable consequences of a
collision. But, after all, the swift is no doubt a far better
entomologist than I am, though he has never heard of Packard's Guide.
Possibly there are certain species of insects, and those of a peculiarly
delicate savor, which are to be obtained only at about this altitude.
The most enjoyable part of the Crawford path is the five miles from the
top of Mount Clinton to the foot of the Mount Washington cone. Along
this ridge I was delighted to find in blossom two beautiful Alpine
plants, which I had missed in previous (July) visits,--the diapensia
(_Diapensia Lapponica_) and the Lapland rose-bay (_Rhododendron
Lapponicum_),--and to get also a single forward specimen of _Potentilla
frigida_. Here and there was a humblebee, gathering honey from the small
purple catkins of the prostrate willows, now in full bloom. (Rather
high-minded humblebees, they seemed, more than five thousand feet above
the sea!) Professional entomologists (the chimney-swift, perhaps,
included) may smile at my simplicity, but I was surprised to find this
"animated torrid zone," this "insect lover of the sun," in such a
Greenland climate. Did he not know that his own poet had, described him
as "hot midsummer's petted crone"? But possibly he was equally surprised
at my appearance. He might even have taken his turn at quoting
Emerson:--
"Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South Cove and City Wharf"?[13]
Of the two, he was unquestionably the more at home, for he was living
where in forty-eight hours I should have found my death. So much is
_Bombus_ better than a man.
In a little pool of water, which seemed to be nothing but a transient
puddle caused by the melting snow, was a tiny fish. I asked him by what
miracle he got there, but he could give no explanation. He, too, might
well enough have joined the noble company of Emersonians:--
"I never thought to ask, I never knew;
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me here brought you."
Almost at the very top of Mount Clinton I was saluted by the familiar
ditty of the Nashville warbler. I could hardly believe my ears; but
there was no mistake, for the bird soon appeared in plain sight. Had it
been one of the hardier-seeming species, the yellow-rumped for example,
I should not have thought it very strange; but this dainty
_Helminthophaga_, so common in the vicinity of Boston, did appear to be
out of his latitude, summering here on Alpine heights. With a good pair
of wings, and the whole continent to choose from, he surely might have
found some more congenial spot than this in which to bring up his little
family. I took his presence to be only an individual freak, but a
subsequent visitor, who made the ascent from the Glen, reported the same
species on that side also, and at about the same height.
These signs of life on bleak mountain ridges are highly interesting and
suggestive. The fish, the humblebees, the birds, and a mouse which
scampered away to its hole amid the rocks,--all these might have found
better living elsewhere. But Nature will have her world full. Stunted
life is better than none, she thinks. So she plants her forests of
spruces, and keeps them growing, where, with all their efforts, they
cannot get above the height of a man's knee. There is no beauty about
them, no grace. They sacrifice symmetry and everything else for the sake
of bare existence, reminding one of Satan's remark, "All that a man hath
will he give for his life."
Very admirable are the devices by which vegetation maintains itself
against odds. Everybody notices that many of the mountain species, like
the diapensia, the rose-bay, the Greenland sandwort (called the mountain
daisy by the Summit House people, for some inscrutable reason), and the
phyllodoce, have blossoms disproportionately large and handsome; as if
they realized that, in order to attract their indispensable allies, the
insects, to these inhospitable regions, they must offer them some
special inducements. Their case is not unlike that of a certain mountain
hotel which might be named, which happens to be poorly situated, but
which keeps itself full, nevertheless, by the peculiar excellence of its
_cuisine_.
It does not require much imagination to believe that these hardy
vegetable mountaineers love their wild, desolate dwelling-places as
truly as do the human residents of the region. An old man in Bethlehem
told me that sometimes, during the long, cold winter, he felt that
perhaps it would be well for him, now his work was done, to sell his
"place" and go down to Boston to live, near his brother. "But then," he
added, "you know it's dangerous transplanting an old tree; you're likely
as not to kill it." Whatever we have, in this world, we must pay for
with the loss of something else. The bitter must be taken with the
sweet, be we plants, animals, or men. These thoughts recurred to me a
day or two later, as I lay on the summit of Mount Agassiz, in the sun
and out of the wind, gazing down into the Franconia Valley, then in all
its June beauty. Nestled under the lee of the mountain, but farther from
the base, doubtless, than it seemed from my point of view, was a small
dwelling, scarcely better than a shanty. Two or three young children
were playing about the door, and near them was the man of the house
splitting wood. The air was still enough for me to hear every blow,
although it reached me only as the axe was again over the man's head,
ready for the next descent. It was a charming picture,--the broad, green
valley full of sunshine and peace, and the solitary cottage, from whose
doorstep might be seen in one direction the noble Mount Washington
range, and in another the hardly less noble Franconias. How easy to live
simply and well in such a grand seclusion! But soon there came a thought
of Wordsworth's sonnet, addressed to just such a mood, "Yes, there is
holy pleasure in thine eye," and I felt at once the truth of his
admonition. What if the cottage really were mine,--mine to spend a
lifetime in? How quickly the poetry would turn to prose!
An hour afterwards, on my way back to the Sinclair House, I passed a
group of men at work on the highway. One of them was a little apart from
the rest, and out of a social impulse I accosted him with the remark, "I
suppose, in heaven, the streets never will need mending." Quick as
thought came the reply: "Well, I hope not. If I ever _get_ there, I
don't want to work on the _road_." Here spoke universal human nature,
which finds its strong argument for immortality in its discontent with
matters as they now are. The one thing we are all sure of is that we
were born for something better than our present employment; and even
those who school themselves most religiously in the virtue of
contentment know very well how to define that grace so as not to
exclude from it a comfortable mixture of "divine dissatisfaction." Well
for us if we are still able to stand in our place and do faithfully our
allotted task, like the mountain spruces and the Bethlehemite
road-mender.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] He is said to have another song, beautiful and wren-like; but that I
have never heard.
[9] This is making no account of the gray-cheeked thrushes, who are
found only near the _tops_ of the mountains.
[10] I have since found both species at Willoughby Lake, Vermont and the
veery with them.
[11] True when written, but now needing to be qualified by one
exception. See p. 226.
[12] Beside this road (in June, 1883) I found a nest of the
yellow-bellied flycatcher (_Empidonax flaviventris_). It was built at
the base of a decayed stump, in a little depression between two roots,
and was partially overarched with growing moss. It contained four
eggs,--white, spotted with brown. I called upon the bird half a dozen
times or more, and found her a model "keeper at home." On one occasion
she allowed my hand to come within two or three inches of her bill. In
every case she flew off without any outcry or ruse, and once at least
she fell immediately to fly-catching with admirable philosophy. So far
as I know, this is the only nest of the species ever found in New
England outside of Maine. But it is proper to add that I did not capture
the bird.
[13] But by this time the clerk's appearance was, to say the least, not
reprehensibly "spruce." For one thing, what with the moisture and the
sharp stones, he was already becoming jealous of his shoes, lest they
should not hold together till he could get back to the Crawford House.
PHILLIDA AND CORIDON.
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song.
SPENSER.
Much ado there was, God wot:
He would love, and she would not.
NICHOLAS BRETON.
PHILLIDA AND CORIDON.