harvest, May and June; or in the fall after the crops are gathered.
The work has its picturesque features,--the prying of rocks; supple
forms climbing or swinging from the end of the great levers; or the
blasting of the rocks with powder, the hauling of them into position
with oxen or horses, or with both; the picking of the stone from the
greensward; the bending, athletic forms of the wall-layers; the snug
new fence creeping slowly up the hill or across the field, absorbing
the wind-row of loose stones; and, when the work is done, much
ground reclaimed to the plow and the grass, and a strong barrier
erected.
It is a common complaint that the farm and farm life are not
appreciated by our people. We long for the more elegant pursuits, or
the ways and fashions of the town. But the farmer has the most sane
and natural occupation, and ought to find life sweeter, if less
highly seasoned, than any other. He alone, strictly speaking, has a
home. How can a man take root and thrive without land? He writes his
history upon his field. How many ties, how many resources, he
has,--his friendships with his cattle, his team, his dog, his trees,
the satisfaction in his growing crops, in his improved fields; his
intimacy with nature, with bird and beast, and with the quickening
elemental forces; his cooperations with the clouds, the sun, the
seasons, heat, wind, rain, frost! Nothing will take the various
social distempers which the city and artificial life breed out of a
man like farming, like direct and loving contact with the soil. It
draws out the poison. It humbles him, teaches him patience and
reverence, and restores the proper tone to his system.
Cling to the farm, make much of it, put yourself into it, bestow
your heart and your brain upon it, so that it shall savor of you and
radiate your virtue after your day's work is done!
"Be thou diligent to know the state of thy flocks, and look well to
thy herds.
"For riches are not forever; and doth the crown endure to every
generation?
"The hay appeareth, and the tender grass showeth itself, and herbs
of the mountains are gathered.
"The lambs are for thy clothing, and the goats are the price of the
field.
"And thou shalt have goat's milk enough for thy food, for the food
of thy household, and for the maintenance for thy maidens."
IV
IN THE HEMLOCKS
Most people receive with incredulity a statement of the number of
birds that annually visit our climate. Very few even are aware of
half the number that spend the summer in their own immediate
vicinity. We little suspect, when we walk in the woods, whose
privacy we are intruding upon,--what rare and elegant visitants from
Mexico, from Central and South America, and from the islands of the
sea, are holding their reunions in the branches over our heads, or
pursuing their pleasure on the ground before us.
I recall the altogether admirable and shining family which Thoreau
dreamed he saw in the upper chambers of Spaulding's woods, which
Spaulding did not know lived there, and which were not put out when
Spaulding, whistling, drove his team through their lower halls. They
did not go into society in the village; they were quite well; they
had sons and daughters; they neither wove nor spun; there was a
sound as of suppressed hilarity.
I take it for granted that the forester was only saying a pretty
thing of the birds, though I have observed that it does sometimes
annoy them when Spaulding's cart rumbles through their house.
Generally, however, they are as unconscious of Spaulding as
Spaulding is of them.
Walking the other day in an old hemlock wood, I counted over forty
varieties of these summer visitants, many of them common to other
woods in the vicinity, but quite a number peculiar to these ancient
solitudes, and not a few that are rare in any locality. It is quite
unusual to find so large a number abiding in one forest,--and that
not a large one,--most of them nesting and spending the summer
there. Many of those I observed commonly pass this season much
farther north. But the geographical distribution of birds is rather
a climatical one. The same temperature, though under different
parallels, usually attracts the same birds; difference in altitude
being equivalent to the difference in latitude. A given height above
the sea-level under the parallel of thirty degrees may have the same
climate as places under that of thirty-five degrees, and similar
flora and fauna. At the headwaters of the Delaware, where I write,
the latitude is that of Boston, but the region has a much greater
elevation, and hence a climate that compares better with the
northern part of the State and of New England. Half a day's drive to
the southeast brings me down into quite a different temperature,
with an older geological formation, different forest timber, and
different birds,--even with different mammals. Neither the little
gray rabbit nor the little gray fox is found in my locality, but the
great northern hare and the red fox are. In the last century a
colony of beavers dwelt here, though the oldest inhabitant cannot
now point to even the traditional site of their dams. The ancient
hemlocks, whither I propose to take the reader, are rich in many
things besides birds. Indeed, their wealth in this respect is owing
mainly, no doubt, to their rank vegetable growths, their fruitful
swamps, and their dark, sheltered retreats.
[Illustration: AT THE HEADWATERS OF THE DELAWARE
Overlooking Mr. Burroughs's boyhood home]
Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished and torn by the tanner
in his thirst for bark, preyed upon by the lumberman, assaulted and
beaten back by the settler, still their spirit has never been
broken, their energies never paralyzed. Not many years ago a public
highway passed through them, but it was at no time a tolerable road;
trees fell across it, mud and limbs choked it up, till finally
travelers took the hint and went around; and now, walking along its
deserted course, I see only the footprints of coons, foxes, and
squirrels.
Nature loves such woods, and places her own seal upon them. Here she
shows me what can be done with ferns and mosses and lichens. The
soil is marrowy and full of innumerable forests. Standing in these
fragrant aisles, I feel the strength of the vegetable kingdom, and
am awed by the deep and inscrutable processes of life going on so
silently about me.
No hostile forms with axe or spud now visit these solitudes. The
cows have half-hidden ways through them, and know where the best
browsing is to be had. In spring, the farmer repairs to their
bordering of maples to make sugar; in July and August, women and
boys from all the country about penetrate the old Barkpeelings for
raspberries and blackberries; and I know a youth who wonderingly
follows their languid stream casting for trout.
In like spirit, alert and buoyant, on this bright June morning go I
also to reap my harvest,--pursuing a sweet more delectable than
sugar, fruit more savory than berries, and game for another palate
than that tickled by trout.
June, of all the months, the student of ornithology can least afford
to lose. Most birds are nesting then, and in full song and plumage.
And what is a bird without its song? Do we not wait for the stranger
to speak? It seems to me that I do not know a bird till I have heard
its voice; then I come nearer it at once, and it possesses a human
interest to me. I have met the gray-cheeked thrush in the woods, and
held him in my hand; still I do not know him. The silence of the
cedar-bird throws a mystery about him which neither his good looks
nor his petty larcenies in cherry time can dispel. A bird's song
contains a clew to its life, and establishes a sympathy, an
understanding, between itself and the listener.
I descend a steep hill, and approach the hemlocks through a large
sugar-bush. When twenty rods distant, I hear all along the line of
the forest the incessant warble of the red-eyed vireo, cheerful and
happy as the merry whistle of a schoolboy. He is one of our most
common and widely distributed birds. Approach any forest at any hour
of the day, in any kind of weather, from May to August, in any of
the Middle or Eastern districts, and the chances are that the first
note you hear will be his. Rain or shine, before noon or after, in
the deep forest or in the village grove,--when it is too hot for the
thrushes or too cold and windy for the warblers,--it is never out of
time or place for this little minstrel to indulge his cheerful
strain. In the deep wilds of the Adirondacks, where few birds are
seen and fewer heard, his note was almost constantly in my ear.
Always busy, making it a point never to suspend for one moment his
occupation to indulge his musical taste, his lay is that of industry
and contentment. There is nothing plaintive or especially musical in
his performance, but the sentiment expressed is eminently that of
cheerfulness. Indeed, the songs of most birds have some human
significance, which, I think, is the source of the delight we take
in them. The song of the bobolink to me expresses hilarity; the song
sparrow's, faith; the bluebird's, love; the catbird's, pride; the
white-eyed flycatcher's, self-consciousness; that of the hermit
thrush, spiritual serenity: while there is something military in the
call of the robin.
The red-eye is classed among the flycatchers by some writers, but is
much more of a worm-eater, and has few of the traits or habits of
the _Muscicapa_ or the true _Sylvia_. He resembles somewhat the
warbling vireo, and the two birds are often confounded by careless
observers. Both warble in the same cheerful strain, but the latter
more continuously and rapidly. The red-eye is a larger, slimmer
bird, with a faint bluish crown, and a light line over the eye. His
movements are peculiar. You may see him hopping among the limbs,
exploring the under side of the leaves, peering to the right and
left, now flitting a few feet, now hopping as many, and warbling
incessantly, occasionally in a subdued tone, which sounds from a
very indefinite distance. When he has found a worm to his liking, he
turns lengthwise of the limb and bruises its head with his beak
before devouring it.
As I enter the woods the slate-colored snowbird starts up before me
and chirps sharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almost
metallic in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not esteemed a
snowbird at all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter,
and returns again in spring, like the song sparrow, and is not in
any way associated with the cold and the snow. So different are the
habits of birds in different localities. Even the crow does not
winter here, and is seldom seen after December or before March.
The snowbird, or "black chipping-bird," as it is known among the
farmers, is the finest architect of any of the ground-builders known
to me. The site of its nest is usually some low bank by the
roadside, near a wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially
concealed entrance, the exquisite structure is placed. Horse and cow
hair are plentifully used, imparting to the interior of the nest
great symmetry and firmness as well as softness.
Passing down through the maple arches, barely pausing to observe the
antics of a trio of squirrels,--two gray ones and a black one,--I
cross an ancient brush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks,
and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed nooks. In the deep
moss I tread as with muffled feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate
in the dim, almost religious light. The irreverent red squirrels,
however, run and snicker at my approach, or mock the solitude with
their ridiculous chattering and frisking.
This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter wren. This is the
only place and these the only woods in which I find him in this
vicinity. His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided by some
marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so
small a bird, and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy and
plaintiveness. I think of a tremulous vibrating tongue of silver.
You may know it is the song of a wren, from its gushing lyrical
character; but you must needs look sharp to see the little
minstrel, especially while in the act of singing. He is nearly the
color of the ground and the leaves; he never ascends the tall
trees, but keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and from root
to root, dodging in and out of his hiding-places, and watching all
intruders with a suspicious eye. He has a very pert, almost
comical look. His tail stands more than perpendicular: it points
straight toward his head. He is the least ostentatious singer I
know of. He does not strike an attitude, and lift up his head in
preparation, and, as it were, clear his throat; but sits there on
a log and pours out his music, looking straight before him, or
even down at the ground. As a songster, he has but few superiors.
I do not hear him after the first week in July.
While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting the pungent
acidulous wood-sorrel, the blossoms of which, large and pink-veined,
rise everywhere above the moss, a rufous-colored bird flies quickly
past, and, alighting on a low limb a few rods off, salutes me with
"Whew! Whew!" or "Whoit! Whoit!" almost as you would whistle for
your dog. I see by his impulsive, graceful movements, and his dimly
speckled breast, that it is a thrush. Presently he utters a few
soft, mellow, flute-like notes, one of the most simple expressions
of melody to be heard, and scuds away, and I see it is the veery, or
Wilson's thrush. He is the least of the thrushes in size, being
about that of the common bluebird, and he may be distinguished from
his relatives by the dimness of the spots upon his breast. The wood
thrush has very clear, distinct oval spots on a white ground; in the
hermit, the spots run more into lines, on a ground of a faint bluish
white; in the veery, the marks are almost obsolete, and a few rods
off his breast presents only a dull yellowish appearance. To get a
good view of him you have only to sit down in his haunts, as in such
cases he seems equally anxious to get a good view of you.
From those tall hemlocks proceeds a very fine insect-like warble,
and occasionally I see a spray tremble, or catch the flit of a wing.
I watch and watch till my head grows dizzy and my neck is in danger
of permanent displacement, and still do not get a good view.
Presently the bird darts, or, as it seems, falls down a few feet in
pursuit of a fly or a moth, and I see the whole of it, but in the
dim light am undecided. It is for such emergencies that I have
brought my gun. A bird in the hand is worth half a dozen in the
bush, even for ornithological purposes; and no sure and rapid
progress can be made in the study without taking life, without
procuring specimens. This bird is a warbler, plainly enough, from
his habits and manner; but what kind of warbler? Look on him and
name him: a deep orange or flame-colored throat and breast; the same
color showing also in a line over the eye and in his crown; back
variegated black and white. The female is less marked and brilliant.
The orange-throated warbler would seem to be his right name, his
characteristic cognomen; but no, he is doomed to wear the name of
some discoverer, perhaps the first who rifled his nest or robbed him
of his mate,--Blackburn; hence Blackburnian warbler. The _burn_
seems appropriate enough, for in these dark evergreens his throat
and breast show like flame. He has a very fine warble, suggesting
that of the redstart, but not especially musical. I find him in no
other woods in this vicinity.
I am attracted by another warble in the same locality, and
experience a like difficulty in getting a good view of the author of
it. It is quite a noticeable strain, sharp and sibilant, and sounds
well amid the old trees. In the upland woods of beech and maple it
is a more familiar sound than in these solitudes. On taking the bird
in hand, one cannot help exclaiming, "How beautiful!" So tiny and
elegant, the smallest of the warblers; a delicate blue back, with a
slight bronze-colored triangular spot between the shoulders; upper
mandible black; lower mandible yellow as gold; throat yellow,
becoming a dark bronze on the breast. Blue yellow-back he is called,
though the yellow is much nearer a bronze. He is remarkably delicate
and beautiful,--the handsomest as he is the smallest of the warblers
known to me. It is never without surprise that I find amid these
rugged, savage aspects of nature creatures so fairy and delicate.
But such is the law. Go to the sea or climb the mountain, and with
the ruggedest and the savagest you will find likewise the fairest
and the most delicate. The greatness and the minuteness of nature
pass all understanding.
Ever since I entered the woods, even while listening to the lesser
songsters, or contemplating the silent forms about me, a strain has
reached my ears from out the depths of the forest that to me is the
finest sound in nature,--the song of the hermit thrush. I often hear
him thus a long way off, sometimes over a quarter of a mile away,
when only the stronger and more perfect parts of his music reach me;
and through the general chorus of wrens and warblers I detect this
sound rising pure and serene, as if a spirit from some remote height
were slowly chanting a divine accompaniment. This song appeals to
the sentiment of the beautiful in me, and suggests a serene
religious beatitude as no other sound in nature does. It is perhaps
more of an evening than a morning hymn, though I hear it at all
hours of the day. It is very simple, and I can hardly tell the
secret of its charm. "O spheral, spheral!" he seems to say; "O holy,
holy! O clear away, clear away! O clear up, clear up!" interspersed
with the finest trills and the most delicate preludes. It is not a
proud, gorgeous strain, like the tanager's or the grosbeak's;
suggests no passion or emotion,--nothing personal,--but seems to be
the voice of that calm, sweet solemnity one attains to in his best
moments. It realizes a peace and a deep, solemn joy that only the
finest souls may know. A few nights ago I ascended a mountain to see
the world by moonlight, and when near the summit the hermit
commenced his evening hymn a few rods from me. Listening to this
strain on the lone mountain, with the full moon just rounded from
the horizon, the pomp of your cities and the pride of your
civilization seemed trivial and cheap.
I have seldom known two of these birds to be singing at the same
time in the same locality, rivaling each other, like the wood thrush
or the veery. Shooting one from a tree, I have observed another take
up the strain from almost the identical perch in less than ten
minutes afterward. Later in the day, when I had penetrated the heart
of the old Barkpeeling, I came suddenly upon one singing from a low
stump, and for a wonder he did not seem alarmed, but lifted up his
divine voice as if his privacy was undisturbed. I open his beak and
find the inside yellow as gold. I was prepared to find it inlaid
with pearls and diamonds, or to see an angel issue from it.
He is not much in the books. Indeed, I am acquainted with scarcely
any writer on ornithology whose head is not muddled on the subject
of our three prevailing song-thrushes, confounding either their
figures or their songs. A writer in the "Atlantic"[1] gravely tells
us the wood thrush is sometimes called the hermit, and then, after
describing the song of the hermit with great beauty and correctness,
coolly ascribes it to the veery! The new Cyclopædia, fresh from the
study of Audubon, says the hermit's song consists of a single
plaintive note, and that the veery's resembles that of the wood
thrush! The hermit thrush may be easily identified by his color; his
back being a clear olive-brown becoming rufous on his rump and tail.
A quill from his wing placed beside one from his tail on a dark
ground presents quite a marked contrast.
[Footnote 1: For December, 1858.]
I walk along the old road, and note the tracks in the thin layer of
mud. When do these creatures travel here? I have never yet chanced
to meet one. Here a partridge has set its foot; there, a woodcock;
here, a squirrel or mink; there, a skunk; there, a fox. What a
clear, nervous track reynard makes! how easy to distinguish it from
that of a little dog,--it is so sharply cut and defined! A dog's
track is coarse and clumsy beside it. There is as much wildness in
the track of an animal as in its voice. Is a deer's track like a
sheep's or a goat's? What winged-footed fleetness and agility may be
inferred from the sharp, braided track of the gray squirrel upon the
new snow! Ah! in nature is the best discipline. How wood-life
sharpens the senses, giving a new power to the eye, the ear, the
nose! And are not the rarest and most exquisite songsters
wood-birds?
Everywhere in these solitudes I am greeted with the pensive, almost
pathetic note of the wood pewee. The pewees are the true
flycatchers, and are easily identified. They are very characteristic
birds, have strong family traits and pugnacious dispositions. They
are the least attractive or elegant birds of our fields or forests.
Sharp-shouldered, big-headed, short-legged, of no particular color,
of little elegance in flight or movement, with a disagreeable flirt
of the tail, always quarreling with their neighbors and with one
another, no birds are so little calculated to excite pleasurable
emotions in the beholder, or to become objects of human interest and
affection. The kingbird is the best dressed member of the family,
but he is a braggart; and, though always snubbing his neighbors, is
an arrant coward, and shows the white feather at the slightest
display of pluck in his antagonist. I have seen him turn tail to a
swallow, and have known the little pewee in question to whip him
beautifully. From the great-crested to the little green flycatcher,
their ways and general habits are the same. Slow in flying from
point to point, they yet have a wonderful quickness, and snap up the
fleetest insects with little apparent effort. There is a constant
play of quick, nervous movements underneath their outer show of
calmness and stolidity. They do not scour the limbs and trees like
the warblers, but, perched upon the middle branches, wait, like true
hunters, for the game to come along. There is often a very audible
snap of the beak as they seize their prey.
The wood pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests
your attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also
in the deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated
strains.
Its relative, the phoebe-bird, builds an exquisite nest of moss on
the side of some shelving cliff or overhanging rock. The other day,
passing by a ledge near the top of a mountain in a singularly
desolate locality, my eye rested upon one of these structures,
looking precisely as if it grew there, so in keeping was it with the
mossy character of the rock, and I have had a growing affection for
the bird ever since. The rock seemed to love the nest and to claim
it as its own. I said, what a lesson in architecture is here! Here
is a house that was built, but with such loving care and such
beautiful adaptation of the means to the end, that it looks like a
product of nature. The same wise economy is noticeable in the nests
of all birds. No bird could paint its house white or red, or add
aught for show.