the afternoon sun was blinking through a million gleaming tears, and the
storm was rumbling far away, behind the swamp. A robin lighted upon a
branch over me, and set off its load of drops, which rattled down on my
boat's bottom like a charge of shot. I glided into the stream. Down the
pond where I had seen the sullen clouds was now an indescribable freshness
and glory of shining hills and shining sky. The air had been washed and
was still hanging across the heavens undried. The maple-leaves showed
silver; the flock of chimney-swifts had returned, and among them,
twinkling white and blue and brown, were tree-swallows and barn-swallows
squeaking in their flight like new harness; a pair of night-hawks played
back and forth across the water, too, awakened, probably, by the thunder,
or else mistaken in the green darkness of the storm, thinking it the
twilight; and the creek up and down as far as I could hear was ringing
with bird-calls.
There had been a perceptible rise and quickening of the current. It was
slightly roiled and carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, with
here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, like the broken wings of
butterflies.
I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. The swamp and the storm were at
my back. Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the roofs of a human
village--all bathed in the splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had
not been a perfect day, but these closing hours were perfect, so perfect
that they redeemed the whole, and not that day only: they were perfect
enough to have redeemed the whole of creation travailing till then in
pain.
Because I turned from all this sunset glory to find out what little bird
was making the very big fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of
an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite pleasure into the nest of a
white-eyed vireo, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some
reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning
color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle--the same relief
felt in descending from a mountain-top to the valley; in turning from the
sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving
over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys.
How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance.
"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I
peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket,
rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and
fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and
suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above
the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but
the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched
the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the
bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the
leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side.
Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the
little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the pond.
Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs
came a little green heron--the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of
elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off
with a rapid stroke up the creek.
As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the
rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be
credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch
of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern.
I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and
anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the
skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to
touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground,
clucking and growling at me.
It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there
was more of eggs than of nest--a great deal more. A few sticks had been
laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate
platform was literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs. The hen had
to stand on the bushes straddling the nest in order to brood. How she ever
got as close to the nest as that without spilling its contents was hard to
see; for I took an egg out and had the greatest difficulty in putting it
back, so little room was there, so near to nothing for it to rest upon.
Working back into the channel, I gave the skiff to the easy current and
drew slowly along toward the foot of the pond.
The sun had gone down behind the hill; the flame had faded from the sky,
and over the rim of the circling slopes poured the soft, cool twilight,
with a breeze as soft and cool, and a spirit that was prayer. Drifting
across the pond as gently as the gray half-light fell a shower of lint
from the willow catkins. The swallows had left; but from the leafy
darkness of the copse in front of me, piercing the dreamy, foamy roar of
the distant dam, came the notes of a wood-thrush, pure, sweet, and
peaceful, speaking the soul of the quiet time. My boat grated softly on
the sandy bottom of the cove and swung in. Out from the deep shadow of the
wooded shore, out over the pond, a thin white veil was creeping--the
mist, the breath of the sleeping water, the spirit of the stream. And away
up the creek a distorted, inarticulate sound--the hoarse, guttural croak
of the great blue heron, the weird, uncanny cry of the night, the mock,
the menace of the tangled, untamed swamp!
THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE
[Illustration]
THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE
My path to Cubby Hollow ran along a tumbling worm-fence, down a gravelly
slope, and across a strip of swale, through which flowed the stream that
farther on widened into the Hollow. A small jungle of dog-roses, elder,
and blackberry tangled the banks of the stream, spreading into flanks of
cinnamon-fern that crept well up the hillsides.
As I descended the gravelly slope, my path led through the ferns into a
tunnel of vines, to a rail over the water, and on up to the woods. By the
middle of June the tangle, except by the half-broken path, was almost
rabbit-proof. The rank ferns waved to my chin, and were so thick that
they left little trace of my passing until late in the summer.
This bit of the swale from the lower edge of the gravelly slope to the
edge of the woods on the opposite slope was the lair of a dragon. My path
cut directly across it.
Perhaps the dragon had been there ever since I had known the swale, and
summer after summer had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I
only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me--the longest,
ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about
home.
It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken
trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of
the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot
were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and
before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl--then
stirless silence.
I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three
animals, but the lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a
swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of
uncommon size.
The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass.
Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with
a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy
whistle that made me cold--a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin
that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake,
up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head.
I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was
held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so
coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its
lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring.
The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of
white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin,
for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not
a large head; it lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the
rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and
neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and
erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of
aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard.
Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few
persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have
tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if
one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so
unlocked for as always to be unnerving. But let a huge one whip about you
in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly
rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister! You will be
abashed. I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness.
It was a big snake. I had not been mistaken in its size. There is nothing
on earth that shrinks as a _dead_ snake; and this one, so far as I know,
is still alive; yet, allowing generously for my imagination, I am sure
the creature measured six feet. His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly
the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in
the ferns behind. It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the
air, an odor like cut cucumbers.
Fully a minute we eyed each other. Then I took a step forward. The
glittering head rose higher. Off in the ferns there beat a warning
tattoo--the loud whir of the snake's tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf.
In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the
holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside. If one thing more than another
will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch. Expecting
to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into
the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose. But he
did not jump or budge. He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to
side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better
his position.
The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of
more than one set expression. Can hate and fear show there? They
certainly can, at least to my imagination. If ever hate and fear mantled a
face, they did this one in the grass. The sound of the switch only
maddened the creature. He had too long dictated terms in this part of the
swale to crawl aside for me.
Nor would I give way to him. But I ceased switching, drew back a step, and
looked at him with more respect than I ever before showed a snake.
The curved neck straightened at that, the glinting head swayed forward,
and shivering through me as the swish of a stick never shivered through a
snake, sounded that unearthly hissing whistle. For a second--for just the
fraction of a second that it takes to jump--I was, not scared, but
shocked; and I slipped on something underfoot. In three directions I
wallowed the ferns before I got to my feet to watch the snake again, and
by that time the snake was gone.
I found myself somewhat muddy and breathing a little hard; but I was not
wholly chagrined. I had heard and seen a black-snake whistle. I had never
even known of the habit before.
Since then I have seen one other snake do it, and I think I have heard
the sound three or four times. It is almost indescribable. The jaws were
closed as it was made, not even the throat moving, that I could see. The
air seemed to be blown violently through the nostrils, though sounding as
if driven through the teeth--a shrilling hiss, fine and piercing, which
one not so much hears as feels, crisping cold along his nerves.
It may seem strange, but I believe this whistle is a mating-call. Even the
forked tongue (or maybe the nose) of a snake grows vocal with love. If
only the Sphinx had not possessed a heart of stone! No matter about its
lips; with a heart to know the "spring running" we should have heard its
story long ago. Perhaps, after all, the college sophomore was not mixing
his observations and Sunday-school memories when he wrote, describing the
dawn of a spring morning (I quote from his essay): "Beneath in the water
the little fishes darted about the boat; above the little birds twittered
in the branches; while off on a sunny log in the pond the soft, sibilant
croak of the mud-turtle was heard on the shore." If we could happen upon
the mud-turtle mad with love, I am sure we should find that he had a
voice--a "soft, sibilant croak," who knows?
I had long known the tradition among the farmers of the black-snake's
trailing its mate, following her by scent through grass and brush,
persistent and sure as a sleuth-hound, until at last she is won. I had
been told of this by eyewitnesses over and over, but I had always put it
down as a snake story, for these same witnesses would also tell me the
hoop-snake story, only it was their grandfathers, always, who had seen
this creature take its tail in its mouth and roll, and hit and kill a
fifty-dollar apple-tree (the tree was invariably worth fifty dollars). I
had small faith in the trailing tale.
One day, the summer after my encounter in the ferns, I was sitting upon a
harrow at the edge of the gravelly field that slopes to the swale, when a
large black-snake glided swiftly across the lane and disappeared in the
grass beyond. It had been gone perhaps a minute, when I heard another stir
behind me, and turning, saw high above the weeds and dewberry-vines the
neck and head of a second black-snake.
He was coming swiftly, evenly, carrying his gleaming head over a foot from
the ground, and following hard upon the trail of the first snake. He hit
very near the smooth, flowing mark in the dust of the lane. Here she had
crossed. Here he was about to cross when he caught sight of me.
For a startled instant he stiffened, threw himself on the defensive, and
showed a white patch under his chin, an ugly, blazing light in his eye,
and a peculiarly aggressive attitude that there was no mistaking. I had
seen this snake before. I knew him. He was the dragon of the swale.
Only pausing, he whirled, struck the track, and sped on, his round black
body stretching from rut to rut of the lane. A hundred feet beyond in the
grass I saw his glittering head rise and sway with a swimming motion as he
trailed the long, lithe beauty that was leading him this lightning race
across the fields.
This was not the last time he crossed my path. He never withstood me
again; but he thwarted me several times. Once as I was descending the
slope I saw him gliding down from a low cedar. The distressing cries of
two chippies told me what he had been doing in the tree; I did not need to
look at the half-dislodged nest. Then and there I vowed to kill him, but
from that moment I never set eyes on him again. His evil work, however,
went on. In a clump of briers across the stream was the nest of a pair of
redbirds that I was watching. One day just before the young could fly they
were carried off. I knew who did it. On the same side, up under the fence
by the woods, a litter of rabbits was destroyed. The snake killed them. It
was he, too, who ate the eggs of the bluebirds in the old apple-tree along
the fence in the adjoining field.
There must be a dragon in the way, I suppose--in the way even of nature
study. There are unpleasant, perhaps unnecessary, and evil
creatures--snakes!--in the fields and woods, which we must be willing to
meet and tolerate for the love within us. Tick-seeds, beggar-needles, mud,
mosquitos, rain, heat, hawks, and snakes haunt all our paths, hindering us
sometimes, though never really blocking the way.
But the dragon in the swale--ought I to tolerate him? No. There are
moments when I should be glad to kill him, yet I doubt if the swale would
be quite so wild and thrilling a spot if I knew there was no dragon to
meet me as I crossed. But the redbirds, bluebirds, rabbits? I see no
shrinking in their numbers because of the snake. A few of them breed as
they always have along the swale. There are worse enemies than the dragon,
though he is bad enough.