WITCHES' BROOMS
The school committee finally decided that Master Brench's curious
methods of punishment were not actually dangerous. He was advised,
however, to discontinue them; and school went on again Monday morning.
Six or seven of the older boys refused to come back; but the old Squire
thought we would better attend, for example's sake, if for no other
reason, and we did so. During Christmas week, however, we were out
several days, on account of an order for Christmas trees which had come
up to us from Portland. I still remember that order distinctly. It ran
as follows:
"Bring us one large Christmas tree, a balsam fir, fifteen feet tall, at
least, and wide-spreading. Do not allow the tips of the boughs or the
end buds to get broken or rubbed off.
"Bring six smaller firs, ten feet tall, to set in a half circle on each
side of the large tree.
"Bring us also a large box of 'lion's-paw,' as much as four or five
bushels of the trailing vines. And another large box of holly, carefully
packed in more of the same soft vines, so that the berries shall not be
shaken off.
"And, if you can find them, bring a dozen witches' brooms."
The order was from the superintendent of a Sunday school at Portland.
This was the winter after our first memorable venture in selling
Christmas trees in the city, when we had left the two large firs that we
could not sell on the steps of two churches. The _Eastern Argus_ had
printed an item the next day, saying that the Sunday-school children
wished to thank the unknown Santa Claus who had so kindly remembered
them.
I suppose we should hardly have given away those two trees if we could
have sold them; and my cousin Addison, who was always on the lookout to
earn a dollar, sent a note afterward to the Sunday schools of both
churches, informing them that we should be very glad to furnish them
with Christmas trees in future, at fair rates. Not less than five
profitable orders came from that one gift, which did not really cost us
anything.
"What in the world are 'witches' brooms'?" Addison exclaimed, after
reading the order. Theodora echoed the query. We had heard of witches'
broom-sticks, but witches' brooms were clearly something new in the way
of Christmas decorations. But what? We looked in the dictionary; no help
there. We asked questions of older people, and got no help from them.
Finally we went to the old Squire, who repeated the query absently,
"Witches' brooms? Witches' brooms? Why, let me see. Aren't they those
great dense masses of twigs you sometimes see in the tops of fir trees?
It is a kind of tree disease, some say tree cancer. At first they are
green, but they turn dead and dry by the second year, and may kill that
part of the tree. Often they are as large as a bushel basket. I saw one
once fully six feet in diameter, a dry globe of closely packed twigs."
We knew what he meant now, but we had never heard those singular growths
called "witches' brooms" before. Unlike mistletoe, the broom is not a
plant parasite, but a growth from the fir itself, like an oak gall, or a
gnarl on a maple or a yellow birch; but instead of being a solid growth
on the tree trunk, it is a dense, abnormal growth of little twigs on a
small bough of the fir, generally high up in the top.
The next day we went out along the borders of the farm wood lot and cut
the seven firs; then, thinking that there might be a sale for others, we
got enough more to make up a load for our trip to Portland.
While we were thus employed, Theodora and Ellen gathered the
"lion's-paw," on the knolls by the border of the pasture woods; and in
the afternoon we cut an immense bundle of holly along the wall by the
upper field.
Holly is a word of many meanings; but in Maine what is called holly is
the winterberry, a deciduous shrub that botanists rank as a species of
alder. The vivid red berries are very beautiful, and resemble coral.
All the while we had been on the lookout for witches' brooms. In the
swamp beyond the brook we found six, only two of which were perfect
enough to use as decorations; at first we were a little doubtful of
being able to fill this part of the order. There was one place, however,
where we knew they could be found, and that was in the great fir swamp
along Lurvey's Stream, on the way up to the hay meadows. Addison
mentioned it at the supper table that evening; but the distance was
fully thirteen miles; and at first we thought it hardly worth while to
go so far for a dozen witches' brooms, for which the Sunday school would
probably be unwilling to pay more than fifty cents apiece.
"And yet," Addison remarked, "if this Sunday school wants a dozen, other
schools may want some after they see them. What if we go up and get
seventy-five or a hundred, and take them along with the rest of our
load? They may sell pretty well. Listen: 'Witches' brooms for your
Christmas tree! Very sylvan! Very odd! Something new and unique! Only
fifty cents apiece! Buy a broom! Buy a witches' broom!'"
The girls laughed. "What a peddler you would make, Ad!" Ellen cried; and
we began to think that the venture might be worth trying.
It snowed hard that night, and instead of going up the stream on the ice
with two hand sleds, as we had at first planned, Addison and I set a
hayrack on two traverse sleds, and with two of the work-horses drove up
the winter road. Axes and ropes were taken, feed for the team, and food
enough for two days.
The sun had come out bright and warm; there was enough snow to make the
sleds run easily, and we got on well until past three in the afternoon,
when we were made aware of a very unusual change of temperature, for
Maine in December. It grew warm rapidly; clouds overspread the sky; a
thunderpeal rumbled suddenly. Within ten minutes a thundershower was
falling, and almost as if by magic, all that snow melted away. We were
left with our rack and traverse sleds, scraping and bumping over logs
and stones. Never before or since have I seen six inches of snow go out
of sight so suddenly. When we started, the earth was white on every
hand, and the firs and spruces were like huge white umbrellas. In a
single hour earth and forest were black again.
But matters more practical than scenery engaged our attention. It was
eight miles farther to the fir swamp. The good sledding had vanished
with the snow; every hole and hollow was full of water; it was hard to
get on with our team; and for a time we hardly knew what course to
follow.
On a branch trail, about half a mile off the winter road, there was
another camp, known to us as Brown's Camp, which had been occupied by
loggers the winter before. Addison thought that we had better go there
and look for witches' brooms the next day. We reached the camp just at
dusk, after a hard scramble over a very rough bit of trail.
Brown's Camp consisted of two low log houses, the man camp and the ox
camp, and dreary they looked, standing there silent and deserted in the
dark, wet wilderness of firs.
The heavy door of the ox camp stood ajar, and I think a bear must
recently have been inside, for it was only with the greatest difficulty
that we could lead or pull the horses in. Buckskin snorted constantly,
and would not touch his corn; and the sweat drops came out on Jim's
hair. We left them the lantern, to reassure them, and closing the door,
went to the man camp, kindled a fire in the rusted stove, then warmed
our food, and tried to make ourselves comfortable in the damp hut, with
the blankets and sleigh robes that we had brought on the sleds.
Tired as we were, neither of us felt like falling asleep that night. It
was a dismal place. We wished ourselves at home. Judging by the
outcries, all the wild denizens of the wilderness were abroad. For a
long time we lay, whispering now and then, instead of speaking aloud. A
noise at the ox camp startled us, and, fearful lest one of the horses
had thrown himself, Addison went hastily to the door to listen. "Come
here," he whispered, in a strange tone.
I peeped forth over his shoulder, and was as much bewildered as he by
what I saw. Cloudy as was the night, glimpses of something white
appeared everywhere, going and coming, or flopping fitfully about. There
were odd sounds, too, as of soft footfalls, and now and then low,
petulant cries.
"What in the world are they?" Addison muttered.
Soon one of the mysterious white objects nearly bounced in at the door,
and we discovered it was a hare in its white winter coat. The whole
swamp was full of hares, all on the leap, going in one direction.
Seizing a pole, Addison knocked over three or four of them; still they
came by; there must have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, all
going one way.
At a distance we heard occasionally loud, sharp squealings, as of
distress, and presently a lynx that seemed to be on the roof of the ox
camp squalled hideously. Addison took the gun that we had brought, and
while the hares were still flopping past, tried to get a shot at the
lynx. But he was unable to make it out in the darkness, and it escaped.
I brought in one of the hares. I had an idea that we might add a bunch
of them to our load for Portland; but it and the others that we had
knocked over were too lank and light to be salable.
For an hour or more hares by the dozen continued to leap past the camp.
We repeatedly heard lynxes, or other beasts of prey, snarling at a
distance, as if following the mob of hares. Where all those hares came
from, or where they went, or why they were traveling by night, we never
knew. That is a question for naturalists. The next morning, when we went
out to look for witches' brooms, there was not a hare in sight, except
those that Addison had killed.
The witches' brooms were plentiful in the fir swamp along the stream;
and as they were usually high up in the tree tops and not easily reached
by climbing, we began to cut down such firs as had them. At that time
and in that remote place, a fir-tree was of no value whatever.
Firs are easy trees to fell, for the wood is very soft, but they are bad
to climb or handle on account of the pitch. We cut down about fifty
trees that day, and left them as they fell, after getting the one or
more witches' brooms in the top. Of those, we got eighty-two, all told;
with the green fir boughs that went with them, they pretty nearly filled
the rack. All were sear and dry, for they were just a densely interwoven
mass of little twigs, but they contained a great many yellow flakes of
dried pitch. In two of them we found the nests of flying squirrels; but
in both cases the squirrels "flew" before the tree fell, and sailed away
to other firs, standing near.
Altogether, it was a day of hard work. We were very tired--all the more
so because we had slept hardly ten minutes the preceding night. But
again we were much disturbed by the snarling of lynxes and the
uneasiness of our horses at the ox camp. In fact, it was another dismal
night for us; we hitched up at daybreak, and after a fearfully rough
drive over bare logs and stones, and several breakages of harness, we
reached the old Squire's, thoroughly tired out, at four o'clock in the
afternoon.
The girls, however, were delighted with our lofty load of witches'
brooms. In truth, it was rather picturesque, so many of those great gray
bunches of intermeshed twigs, ensconced amid the green fir boughs that
we had cut with them. A hall or a church would look odd indeed thus
decorated.
Cheered by a good supper, we made ready to start for Portland the next
morning. During the night, however, the weather changed. By daybreak on
the twenty-third considerable snow had fallen, and we were able to
travel this time on snow again. We had the rack piled higher than
before, with the Christmas trees and the boxes of lion's-paw in the
front end, and all those witches' brooms stacked and lashed on at the
rear. The load was actually fourteen feet high, yet far from heavy;
witches' brooms are dry and light. A northwest wind, blowing in heavy
gusts behind us, fairly pushed us along the road. We got on fast, baited
our team at New Gloucester at one o'clock in the afternoon, and by dusk
had reached Welch's Tavern, eleven miles out of Portland.
Here we put up for the night; as our load was too bulky to draw into the
barn, we were obliged to leave it in the yard outside, near the garden
fence--fifty yards, perhaps, from the tavern piazza.
We had supper and were about to go to bed, when in came three fellows
who had driven up from the city, on their way to hunt moose in
Batchelder's Grant. All three were in a hilarious mood; they called for
supper, and said that they meant to drive on to Ricker's Tavern, at the
Poland Spring.
There was a lively fire on the hearth, for the night was cold and windy;
the newcomers stood in front of it--while Addison and I sat back,
looking on. The cause of their boisterousness was quite apparent; they
were plentifully supplied with whiskey. Then, as now, the "Maine law"
prohibited the sale of intoxicants; but this happened to be one of the
numerous periods when the authorities were lax in enforcing the law.
Soon one of the newly arrived moose hunters drew out a large flask, from
which all three drank. Turning to us, he cried, "Step up, boys, and take
a nip!" Addison thanked him, but said that we were just going to bed.
"Oh, you'll sleep all the warmer for it. Come, take a swig with us."
We made no move to accept the invitation.
"Aw, you're temperance, are you?" one of the three exclaimed. "Nice
little temperance lads!"
"Yes," Addison said, laughing. "But that's all right. We thank you just
the same."
The three stood regarding us in an ugly mood, ready to quarrel. "If
there's anything I hate," one of them remarked with a sneer, "it's a
young fellow who's too much a mollycoddle to take a drink with a friend,
and too stingy to pay for one."
We made no reply, and he continued to vent offensive remarks. The
landlord came in, and Addison asked him to show us to our room. The
hilarious trio called out insultingly to us as we ascended the stairs,
and when the hotel keeper went down, we heard them asking him who we
were and what our lofty load consisted of.
Half an hour or more later, we heard the moose hunters drive off,
shouting uproariously; hardly three minutes afterward there was a sudden
alarm below, and the window of our room was illuminated with a ruddy
light.
"Fire! The place is afire!" Addison exclaimed.
We jumped up and looked out. The whole yard was brilliantly illuminated;
then we saw that our load by the garden fence was on fire, and burning
fiercely.
Throwing on a few clothes, we rushed downstairs. The hotel keeper and
his hostler were already out with buckets of water, but could do little.
The load was ablaze, and those dry, pitchy witches' brooms flamed up
tremendously. Fortunately, the wind carried the flame and sparks away
from the tavern and barns, or the whole establishment might have burned
down. The crackling was terrific; the firs as well as the witches'
brooms burned. Great gusts of flame and vapor rose, writhing and
twisting in the wind. Any one might have imagined them to be witches of
the olden time, riding wildly away up toward the half-obscured moon!
So great was the heat that it proved impossible to save the rack and
sleds, or even the near-by garden fence, which had caught fire.
That disaster ended the trip. It was now too near Christmas Day to get
more large firs, to say nothing of witches' brooms; and we were obliged
to send word to this effect to our Portland patrons. The next morning
Addison and I rode home on old Jim and Buckskin, with their harness tied
up in a bundle before us. The wind was piercing and bleak; we were both
so chilled as to be ill of a cold for several days afterward. The story
that we had to tell at home was far from being an inspiriting one. Not
only had we lost our load, traverse sleds and rack, but in due time we
had a bill of ten dollars to pay the hotel keeper for his garden fence.
We always supposed that those drunken ruffians touched off our load just
before driving away; but of course it may have been a spark from the
chimney.
That was our first and last experience with witches' brooms.