Owl's Head, a mountain which the ladies of the Appalachian Club may be
presumed to look upon as hardly better than a hillock. The guide-book's
"thirty rods" have betrayed me into saying more than I intended. It
would have been enough had I mentioned that the way is in many places
steep, while at the time of my visit the constant rains kept it in a
muddy, treacherous condition. I remember still the undignified and
uncomfortable celerity with which, on one occasion, I took my seat in
what was little better than the rocky bed of a brook, such a place as I
should by no means have selected for the purpose had I been granted even
a single moment for deliberation.
"Hills draw like heaven" (as applied to some of us, it may be feared
that this is rather an under-statement), and it could not have been more
than fifteen minutes after I landed from the Lady of the Lake--the "Old
Lady," as one of the fishermen irreverently called her--before I was on
my way to the summit.
I was delighted then, as I was afterwards, whenever I entered the woods,
with the extraordinary profusion and variety of the ferns. Among the
rest, and one of the most abundant, was the beautiful _Cystopteris
bulbifera_; its long, narrow, pale green, delicately cut, Dicksonia-like
fronds bending toward the ground at the tip, as if about to take root
for a new start, in the walking-fern's manner. Some of these could not
have been less than four feet in length (including the stipe), and I
picked one which measured about two feet and a half, and bore
twenty-five bulblets underneath. Half a mile from the start, or
thereabouts, the path skirts what I should call the fernery; a circular
space, perhaps one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, set in the midst
of the primeval forest, but itself containing no tree or shrub of any
sort,--nothing but one dense mass of ferns. In the centre was a patch of
the sensitive fern (Onoclea sensibilis), while around this, and filling
nearly the entire circle, was a magnificent thicket of the ostrich fern
(_Onoclea struthiopteris_), with _sensibilis_ growing hidden and
scattered underneath. About the edge were various other species, notably
_Aspidium Goldianum_, which I here found for the first time, and
_Aspidium aculeatum_, var. _Braunii_. All in all, it was a curious and
pretty sight,--this tiny tarn filled with ferns instead of water,--one
worth going a good distance to see, and sure to attract the notice of
the least observant traveler.[26]
Ferns are mostly of a gregarious habit. Here at Owl's Head, for
instance, might be seen in one place a rock thickly matted with the
common polypody; in another a patch of the maiden-hair; in still another
a plenty of the Christmas fern, or a smaller group of one of the beech
ferns (_Phegopteris polypodioides_ or _Phegopteris Dryopteris_). Our
grape-ferns or moonworts, on the other hand, covet more elbow-room. The
largest species (_Botrychium Virginianum_), although never growing in
anything like a bed or tuft, was nevertheless common throughout the
woods; you could gather a handful almost anywhere; but I found only one
plant of _Botrychium lanceolatum_, and only two of _Botrychium
matricariæfolium_ (and these a long distance apart), even though, on
account of their rarity and because I had never before seen the latter,
I spent considerable time, first and last, in hunting for them. What can
these diminutive hermits have ever done or suffered, that they should
choose thus to live and die, each by itself, in the vast solitude of a
mountain forest?
It was already the middle of July, so that I was too late for the better
part of the wood flowers. The oxalis (_Oxalis acetosella_), or
wood-sorrel was in bloom, however, carpeting the ground in many places.
I plucked a blossom now and then to admire the loveliness of the white
cup, with its fine purple lines and golden spots. If each had been
painted on purpose for a queen, they could not have been more daintily
touched. Yet here they were, opening by the thousand, with no human eye
to look upon them. Quite as common (Wordsworth's expression, "Ground
flowers in flocks," would have suited either) was the alpine enchanter's
night-shade (_Circæa alpina_); a most frail and delicate thing, though
it has little other beauty. Who would ever mistrust, to see it, that it
would prove to be connected in any way with the flaunting willow-herb,
or fire-weed? But such incongruities are not confined to the "vegetable
kingdom." The wood-nettle was growing everywhere; a juicy-looking but
coarse weed, resembling our common roadside nettles only in its
blossoms. The cattle had found out what I never should have
surmised,--having had a taste of its sting,--that it is good for food;
there were great patches of it, as likewise of the pale touch-me-not
(_Impatiens pallida_), which had been browsed over by them. It seemed to
me that some of the ferns, the hay-scented for example, ought to have
suited them better; but they passed these all by, as far as I could
detect. About the edges of the woods, and in favorable positions well up
the mountain-side, the flowering raspberry was flourishing; making no
display of itself, but offering to any who should choose to turn aside
and look at them a few blossoms such as, for beauty and fragrance, are
worthy to be, as they really are, cousin to the rose. On one of my
rambles I came upon some plants of a strangely slim and prim aspect;
nothing but a straight, erect, military-looking, needle-like stalk,
bearing a spike of pods at the top, and clasped at the middle by two
small stemless leaves. By some occult means (perhaps their growing with
_Tiarella_ had something to do with the matter) I felt at once that
these must be the mitrewort (_Mitella diphylla_). My prophetic soul was
not always thus explicit and infallible, however. Other novelties I saw,
about which I could make no such happy impromptu guess. And here the
manual afforded little assistance; for it has not yet been found
practicable to "analyze," and so to identify plants simply by the stem
and foliage,--although I remember to have been told, to be sure, of a
young lady who professed that at her college the instruction in botany
was so thorough that it was possible for the student to name any plant
in the world from seeing only a single leaf! But her college was not
Harvard, and Professor Gray has probably never so much as heard of such
an admirable method.
On the whole, it is good to have the curiosity piqued with here and
there a vegetable stranger,--its name and even its family relationship a
mystery. The leaf is nothing extraordinary, perhaps, yet who knows but
that the bloom may be of the rarest beauty? Or the leaf is of a gracious
shape and texture, but how shall we tell whether the flower will
correspond with it? No; we must do with them as with chance
acquaintances of our own kind. The man looks every inch a gentleman; his
face alone seems a sufficient guaranty of good-breeding and
intelligence; but none the less,--and not forgetting that charity
thinketh no evil,--we shall do well to wait till we have heard him talk
and seen how he will behave, before we put a final label upon him. Wait
for the blossom and the fruit (the blossom _is_ the fruit in its first
stage); for the old rule is still the true one,--alike in botany and in
morals,--"By their fruits ye shall know them."
What a world within a world the forest is! Under the trees were the
shrubs,--knee-high rock-maples making the ground verdant for acres
together, or dwarf thickets of yew, now bearing green acorn-like
berries; while below these was a variegated carpet, oxalis and the
flower of Linnæus, ferns and club-mosses (the glossy _Lycopodium
lucidulum_ was especially plentiful), to say nothing of the true mosses
and the lichens.
Of all these things I should have seen more, no doubt, had not my head
been so much of the time in the tree-tops. For yonder were the birds;
and how could I be expected to notice what lay at my feet, while I was
watching intently for a glimpse of the warbler that flitted from twig to
twig amid the foliage of some beech or maple, the very lowest branch of
which, likely enough, was fifty or sixty feet above the ground. It was
in this way (so I choose to believe, at any rate) that I walked four or
five times directly over the acute-leaved hepatica before I finally
discovered it, notwithstanding it was one of the plants for which I had
all the while been on the lookout.
I said that the birds were in the tree-tops; but of course there were
exceptions. Here and there was a thrush, feeding on the ground; or an
oven-bird might be seen picking his devious way through the underwoods,
in paths of his own, and with a gait of studied and "sanctimonious"
originality. In the list of the lowly must be put the winter wrens also;
one need never look skyward for _them_. For a minute or two during my
first ascent of Owl's Head I had lively hopes of finding one of their
nests. Two or three of the birds were scolding earnestly right about my
feet, as it were, and their cries redoubled, or so I imagined, when I
approached a certain large, moss-grown stump. This I looked over
carefully on all sides, putting my fingers into every possible hole and
crevice, till it became evident that nothing was to be gained by further
search. (What a long chapter we could write, any of us who are
ornithologists, about the nests we did not find!) It dawned upon me a
little later that I had been fooled; that it was not the nest which had
been in question at all. That, wherever it was, had been forsaken some
days before; and the birds were parents and young, the former
distracting my attention by their outcries, while at the same moment
they were ordering the youngsters to make off as quickly as possible,
lest yonder hungry fiend should catch and devour them. If wrens ever
laugh, this pair must have done so that evening, as they recalled to
each other my eager fumbling of that innocent old stump. This opinion as
to the meaning of their conduct was confirmed in the course of a few
days, when I came upon another similar group. These were at first quite
unaware of my presence; and a very pretty family picture they made, in
their snuggery of overthrown trees, the father breaking out into a song
once in a while, or helping his mate to feed the young, who were already
able to pick up a good part of their own living. Before long, however,
one of the pair caught sight of the intruder, and then all at once the
scene changed. The old birds chattered and scolded, bobbing up and down
in their own ridiculous manner (although, considered by itself, this
gesture is perhaps no more laughable than some which other orators are
applauded for making), and soon the place was silent and to all
appearance deserted.
Notwithstanding Owl's Head is in Canada, the birds, as I soon found,
were not such as characterize the "Canadian Fauna." Olive-backed
thrushes, black-poll warblers, crossbills, pine linnets, and Canada
jays, all of which I had myself seen in the White Mountains, were none
of them here; but instead, to my surprise, were wood thrushes, scarlet
tanagers, and wood pewees,--the two latter species in comparative
abundance. My first wood thrush was seen for a moment only, and although
he had given me a plain sight of his back, I concluded that my eyes must
once more have played me false. But within a day or two, when half-way
down the mountain path, I heard the well-known strain ringing through
the woods. It was unquestionably that, and nothing else, for I sat down
upon a convenient log and listened for ten minutes or more, while the
singer ran through all those inimitable variations which infallibly
distinguish the wood thrush's song from every other. And afterward, to
make assurance doubly sure, I again saw the bird in the best possible
position, and at short range. On looking into the subject, indeed, I
learned that his being here was nothing wonderful; since, while it is
true, as far as the sea-coast is concerned, that he seldom ventures
north of Massachusetts, it is none the less down in the books that he
does pass the summer in Lower Canada, reaching it, probably, by way of
the valley of the St. Lawrence.
A few robins were about the hotel, and I saw a single veery in the
woods, but the only members of the thrush family that were present in
large numbers were the hermits. These sang everywhere and at all hours.
On the summit, even at mid-day, I was invariably serenaded by them. In
fact they seemed more abundant there than anywhere else; but they were
often to be heard by the lake-side, and in our apple orchard, and once
at least one of them sang at some length from a birch-tree within a few
feet of the piazza, between it and the bowling alley. As far as I have
ever been able to discover, the hermit, for all his name and consequent
reputation, is less timorous and more approachable than any other New
England representative of his "sub-genus."
On this trip I settled once more a question which I had already settled
several times,--the question, namely, whether the wood thrush or the
hermit is the better singer. This time my decision was in favor of the
former. How the case would have turned had the conditions been reversed,
had there been a hundred of the wood thrushes for one of the hermits, of
course I cannot tell. So true is a certain old Latin proverb, that in
matters of this sort it is impossible for a man to agree even with
himself for any long time together.
The conspicuous birds, noticed by everybody, were a family of hawks. The
visitor might have no appreciation of music; he might go up the mountain
and down again without minding the thrushes or the wrens,--for there is
nothing about the human ear more wonderful than its ability not to hear;
but these hawks passed a good part of every day in screaming, and were
bound to be attended to by all but the stone-deaf. A native of the
region pointed out a ledge, on which, according to his account, they had
made their nest for more than thirty years. "We call them mountain
hawks," he said, in answer to an inquiry. The keepers of the hotel,
naturally enough, called them eagles; while a young Canadian, who one
day overtook me as I neared the summit, and spent an hour there in my
company, pronounced them fish-hawks. I asked him, carelessly, how he
could be sure of that, and he replied, after a little hesitation, "Why,
they are all the time over the lake; and besides, they sometimes dive
into the water and come up with a fish." The last item would have been
good evidence, no doubt. My difficulty was that I had never seen them
near the lake, and what was more conclusive, their heads were
dark-colored, if not really black. A few minutes after this conversation
I happened to have my glass upon one of them as he approached the
mountain at some distance below us, when my comrade asked, "Looking at
that bird?" "Yes," I answered; on which he continued, in a
matter-of-fact tone, "That's a crow;" plainly thinking that, as I
appeared to be slightly inquisitive about such matters, it would be a
kindness to tell me a thing or two. I made bold to intimate that the
bird had a barred tail, and must, I thought, be one of the hawks. He did
not dispute the point; and, in truth, he was a modest and well-mannered
young gentleman. I liked him in that he knew both how to converse and
how to be silent; without which latter qualification, indeed, not even
an angel would be a desirable mountain-top companion. He gave me
information about the surrounding country such as I was very glad to
get; and in the case of the hawks my advantage over him, if any, was
mainly in this,--that my lack of knowledge partook somewhat more fully
than his of the nature of Lord Bacon's "learned ignorance, that knows
itself."
Whatever the birds may have been, "mountain hawks," "fish-hawks," or
duck-hawks, their aerial evolutions, as seen from the summit, were
beautiful beyond description. One day in particular three of them were
performing together. For a time they chased each other this way and that
at lightning speed, screaming wildly, though whether in sport or anger I
could not determine. Then they floated majestically, high above us,
while now and then one would set his wings and shoot down, down, till
the precipitous side of the mountain hid him from view; only to reappear
a minute afterward, soaring again, with no apparent effort, to his
former height.
One of these noisy fellows served me an excellent turn. It was the last
day of my visit, and I had just taken my farewell look at the enchanting
prospect from the summit, when I heard the lisp of a brown creeper. This
was the first of his kind that I had seen here, and I stopped
immediately to watch him, in hopes he would sing. Creeper-like he tried
one tree after another in quick succession, till at last, while he was
exploring a dead spruce which had toppled half-way to the ground, a hawk
screamed loudly overhead. Instantly the little creature flattened
himself against the trunk, spreading his wings to their very utmost and
ducking his head until, though I had been all the while eying his
motions through a glass at the distance of only a few rods, it was
almost impossible to believe that yonder tiny brown fleck upon the bark
was really a bird and not a lichen. He remained in this posture for
perhaps a minute, only putting up his head two or three times to peer
cautiously round. Unless I misjudged him, he did not discriminate
between the screech of the hawk and the _ank, ank_ of a nuthatch, which
followed it; and this, with an indefinable something in his manner, made
me suspect him of being a young bird. Young or old, however, he had
learned one lesson well, at all events, one which I hoped would keep him
out of the talons of his enemies for long days to come.
It was pleasant to see how cheerfully he resumed work as soon as the
alarm was over. _This_ danger was escaped, at any rate; and why should
he make himself miserable with worrying about the next? He had the true
philosophy. We who pity the birds for their numberless perils are
ourselves in no better case. Consumption, fevers, accidents, enemies of
every name are continually lying in wait for our destruction. We walk
surrounded with them; seeing them not, to be sure, but knowing, all the
same, that they are there; yet feeling, too, like the birds, that in
some way or other we shall elude them a while longer, and holding at
second hand the truth which these humble creatures practice upon
instinctively,--"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Not far from this spot, on a previous occasion, I had very unexpectedly
come face to face with another of the creeper's blood-thirsty
persecutors. It happened that a warbler was singing in a lofty birch,
and being in doubt about the song (which was a little like the
Nashville's, but longer in each of its two parts and ending with a less
confused flourish), I was of course very desirous to see the singer. But
to catch sight of a small bird amid thick foliage, fifty feet or more
above you, is not an easy matter, as I believe I have already once
remarked. So when I grew weary of the attempt, I bethought myself to
try the efficacy of an old device, well known to all collectors, and
proceeded to imitate, as well as I could, the cries of some bird in
distress. My warbler was imperturbable. He had no nest or young to be
anxious about, and kept on singing. But pretty soon I was apprised of
something in the air, coming toward me, and looking up, beheld a large
owl who appeared to be dropping straight upon my head. He saw me in time
to avoid such a catastrophe, however, and, describing a graceful curve,
alighted on a low branch near by, and stared at me as only an owl can.
Then away he went, while at the same instant a jay dashed into the
thicket and out again, shouting derisively, "I saw you! I saw you!"
Evidently the trick was a good one, and moderately well played; in
further confirmation of which the owl hooted twice in response to some
peculiarly happy efforts on my part, and then actually came back again
for another look. This proved sufficient, and he quickly disappeared;
retiring to his leafy covert or hollow tree, to meditate, no doubt, on
the strange creature whose unseasonable noises had disturbed his
afternoon slumbers. Likely enough he could not readily fall asleep again
for wondering how I could possibly find my way through the woods in the
darkness of daylight. So difficult is it, we may suppose, for even an
owl to put himself in another's place and see with another's eyes.
This little episode over, I turned again to the birch-tree, and
fortunately the warbler's throat was of too fiery a color to remain long
concealed; though it was at once a pleasure and an annoyance to find
myself still unacquainted with at least one song out of the
Blackburnian's repertory. In times past I had carefully attended to his
music, and within only a few days, in the White Mountain Notch, I had
taken note of two of its variations; but here was still another, which
neither began with _zillup, zillup_, nor ended with _zip, zip_,--notes
which I had come to look upon as the Blackburnian's sign-vocal. Yet it
must have been my fault, not his, that I failed to recognize him; for
every bird's voice has something characteristic about it, just as every
human voice has tones and inflections which those who are sufficiently
familiar with its owner will infallibly detect. The ear feels them,
although words cannot describe them. Articulate speech is but a modern
invention, as it were, in comparison with the five senses; and since
practice makes perfect, it is natural enough that every one of the five
should easily, and as a matter of course, perceive shades of difference
so slight that language, in its present rudimentary state, cannot begin
to take account of them.
The other warblers at Owl's Head, as far as they came under my notice,
were the black-and-white creeper, the blue yellow-backed warbler, the
Nashville, the black-throated green, the black-throated blue, the
yellow-rumped, the chestnut-sided, the oven-bird (already spoken of),
the small-billed water thrush, the Maryland yellow-throat, the Canadian
flycatcher, and the redstart.
The water thrush (I saw only one individual) was by the lake-side, and
within a rod or two of the bowling alley. What a strange, composite
creature he is! thrush, warbler, and sandpiper all in one; with such a
bare-footed, bare-legged appearance, too, as if he must always be ready
to wade; and such a Saint Vitus's dance! His must be a curious history.
In particular, I should like to know the origin of his teetering habit,
which seems to put him among the beach birds. Can it be that such
frequenters of shallow water are rendered less conspicuous by this
wave-like, up-and-down motion, and have actually adopted it as a means
of defense, just as they and many more have taken on a color harmonizing
with that of their ordinary surroundings?[27]
The black-throated blue warblers were common, and like most of their
tribe were waiting upon offspring just out of the nest. I watched one as
he offered his charge a rather large insect. The awkward fledgeling let
it fall three times; and still the parent picked it up again, only
chirping mildly, as if to say, "Come, come, my beauty, don't be quite so
bungling." But even in the midst of their family cares, they still found
leisure for music; and as they and the black-throated greens were often
singing together, I had excellent opportunities to compare the songs of
the two species. The voices, while both very peculiar, are at the same
time so nearly alike that it was impossible for me on hearing the first
note of either strain to tell whose it was. With the voice the
similarity ends, however; for the organ does not make the singer, and
while the blue seldom attempts more than a harsh, monotonous _kree,
kree, kree_, the green possesses the true lyrical gift, so that few of
our birds have a more engaging song than his simple _Trees, trees,
murmuring trees_, or if you choose to understand it so, _Sleep, sleep,
pretty one, sleep_.[28]
I saw little of the blue yellow-backed warbler, but whenever I took the
mountain path I was certain to hear his whimsical upward-running song,
broken off at the end with a smart snap. He seemed to have chosen the
neighborhood of the fernery for his peculiar haunt, a piece of good
taste quite in accord with his general character. Nothing could well be
more beautiful than this bird's plumage; and his nest, which is
"globular, with an entrance on one side," is described as a wonder of
elegance; while in grace of movement not even the titmouse can surpass
him. Strange that such an exquisite should have so fantastic a song.