[Illustration]
OUTINGS
AT ODD TIMES
BY
CHARLES C. ABBOTT, M. D.
AUTHOR OF A NATURALIST’S RAMBLES ABOUT HOME,
DAYS OUT OF DOORS, ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1890
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COPYRIGHT, 1890,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
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PREFATORY.
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Nature, and Books about it.
Often, during a long and dusty walk in midsummer, I have chanced
suddenly upon a wayside spring, and stooping drank directly from the
bosom of Mother Earth. Filled with the pleasant recollections of such
moments, how tame is all other tipple, even though the crystal is a
marvel of art, with “beady bubbles winking at the brim”!
So, too, I find it with matters of graver import. I would that no one
should aid me in gathering my stores, but with my own hands I would
delve at the fountain-head. The spirit of such an aim is a spur to
youth, but becomes a source of amusement rather than a more serious
matter in our maturer years. I am more than willing now to take nature
at second hand. But is this safe? How far can we trust another’s eyes,
ears, and sense of touch and smell? There are critics scattered as
thickly as motes in a sunbeam, veritable know-alls, who shriek “Beware!”
when nature is reported; but, for all this, outdoor books are very
tempting to a host of people, and in the long run educate rather than
misinform. That ever two naturalists should wholly agree, after careful
study of an animal, is not probable. There will be the same differences
as exist between two translations of the same book. What a crow, a
mouse, or a gorgeous cluster of blooming lotus is to me, these will
never be to another; but, because of this, do not persist that your
neighbor is blind, deaf, or stupid. I recently had a horse ask me to let
down the bars; to another it would have been merely the meaningless fact
that the horse neighed.
Having an outdoor book in hand, when and how should it be read? It is no
doubt very tempting to think of a shady nook, or babbling brook, or
both, in connection with the latest outdoor volume. Possibly, as you
start out for a quiet day, you string together a bit of rhyme concerning
the book, as Leigh Hunt did and others have done since. It is a common
practice to carry a book into the fields, but not a logical one. How can
a book, even one of outdoor topics, compete with Nature? Certainly if
Nature is to the reader but a convenient room, a lighter and more airy
one than any at home, does it not signify a serious lack in the mind of
that person? From a notice of a recent publication I clip the following:
“A capital book to slip into one’s pocket when taking an outing.” If,
because of its size, it could be readily slipped into one’s pocket, then
it was a capital way of getting rid of it. What sort of an outing can
one have who reads all the while? Is not the cloud-flecked sky something
more than a ceiling, the surrounding hills more than mere walls, the
grass and flowers more than carpet? There is one pleasure even greater
than that of reading, and that is being out of doors. To read at such a
time seems to imply one of two things: either that the reader knows
Nature thoroughly, or is indifferent to such knowledge. The former
phenomenon the world has never seen; the latter, to speak mildly,
deserves our pity. To escape ridicule, which is something, to insure
happiness, which is more, to avoid great dangers, which is of even
greater importance, one must know something of Nature. In one sense she
is our persistent foe. She mantles with inviting cover of rank grass her
treacherous quicksands; she paints in tempting colors her most poisonous
fruits; she spreads unheralded the insidious miasma from the meadow and
the swamp; but neither the quicksand, the unwholesome fruit, nor noxious
vapors is an unmixed evil. Let us take them as they are, see them as
parts and parcels of a complete whole, and each hour of every outing is
an unclouded joy. Nature never excuses our ignorance.
Whatever one’s position in life, does a knowledge of Nature prove
unneeded? Should we not know that potatoes grow beneath the sod, as well
as apples grow upon trees? Gather a crowd at random on the streets, or
corner a half-dozen at some social gathering, and how many can tell you
the life-history of a mushroom or a truffle? “Do potatoes grow upon
bushes?” was asked not long since. This was positively painful, but
worse things have happened. A young lady, from a city renowned for its
schools, startled her country cousins by asking, while toying with an
ear of corn, “Which end, when you plant, do you put in the ground, the
blunt or the pointed one?” If botany is impracticable in the curriculum
of the public schools, ought not, at least, the natural history of our
common articles of food to be taught? Can not such ignorance as this
implied be banished from the land?
But I have wandered; let us come back to books. If books, even those
descriptive of nature, are out of place in the woods, meadows, or by the
brook-side, when should they be read? Clearly, when the scenes they
treat of are not accessible. Why should we be entertained with a
description of a bird or flower, when they are both before us? It seems
incredible that any one should be better pleased with another’s
impressions, however cunningly told, than with those of his own senses.
It is a strange mental condition that can delight in the story of a
bird, and yet have no desire to see the creature; to be a witness to all
the marvelous cunning that this bird exhibits. Few are those among us
whose outings cover a lifetime; and when the happy days of freedom come
to us, let books be kept behind, and with untrammeled eyes and ears let
us drink in the knowledge that comes to us at no other time. Summer is
all too short a season for other occupation than enthusiastic
sight-seeing and sound-hearing.
Long before autumn most of us must be back to the busy town. Business
demands our work-day hours; and now, during the leisure of long winter
evenings, with what delight one may recall vacation-days, reading
outdoor books! The library now becomes the mountain, lake, or river.
With Thoreau, Burroughs, or Jeffries at hand, one can hear the summer
birds in the shrill whistle of the wind, and the babbling of summer
brooks in the rattle of icy rain.
For permission to reprint, in this collected form, the brief essays here
brought together, the author is indebted to Messrs. Harper & Bros., D.
Appleton & Co., the editors of the Christian Union, Christian at Work,
and of Garden and Forest, of New York; and to the editor of the
American, of Philadelphia Pa.
C. C. A.
TRENTON, NEW JERSEY, _September 1, 1890_.
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CONTENTS.
_PART I.—IN WINTER._
PAGE
A WINTER SUNRISE 1
MIDWINTER MINSTRELSY 8
A COLD WAVE 14
THE WOODS IN WINTER 22
OLD ALMANACS 29
A QUAKER CHRISTMAS 41
A NEW PLACE TO LOAF 46
ROUND ABOUT A SPRING IN WINTER 51
A BAY-SIDE OUTING 60
FREE FOR THE DAY 66
AN OPEN WINTER 82
A FOGGY MORNING 89
THE OLD FARM’S WOOD-PILE 96
_PART II.—IN SPRING._
THE APRIL MOON 105
CONCERNING SMALL OWLS 111
A HIDDEN HIGHWAY 117
WEATHERCOCKS 127
APPLE-BLOSSOMS 133
THE BUILDING OF THE NEST 139
A MEADOW MUD-HOLE 147
AN OPEN WELL 164
_PART III.—IN SUMMER._
A NOISOME WEED 171
A WAYSIDE BROOK 178
WAYSIDE TREES 183
SKELETON-LIFTING 186
WHY I PREFER A COUNTRY LIFE 190
A MIDSUMMER OUTING 197
A WORD ABOUT KNOWLEDGE 203
THE NIGHT-SIDE OF NATURE 207
THE HERBS OF THE FIELD 215
_PART IV.—IN AUTUMN._
A LAKE-SIDE OUTING 221
DEW AND FROST 227
A HERMIT FOR THE DAY 232
SNOW-BIRDS 243
BLUE JAYS 249
THE GROWTH OF TREES 257
FOSSIL MAN IN THE DELAWARE VALLEY 260
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PART I.
IN WINTER.
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A Winter Sunrise.
The waning moon was scarcely visible in the western sky and not a star
shone overhead, when I ventured out of doors, at the call of the
gathering crows. These noisy scavengers of the river’s shore had
evidently slept with one eye open, and at the first faint glimmering of
the dawn signaled, in no uncertain tones, the coming day. Across the
brown meadows floated their clamorous cries and roused me when my own
slumber was most profound; but I responded promptly, willing at least,
if not wildly anxious, to witness a winter sunrise.
I have said the meadows were brown; such was their color when I saw them
last; but now, every wrinkled blade of last year’s grass was daintily
feathered with pearly frost. A line, too, of steel-gray crystals topped
every rail of the old worm fence, and capped the outreaching branches of
the scattered trees. The glint of splintered glass filled the landscape.
Knowing the view would there be least obstructed, I walked leisurely to
a high knoll in the lower meadows, leaving a curiously dark streak
behind me where I brushed away the frost as I passed. Not a bird greeted
me. The sparrows and chickadees of yesterday were still asleep. The
crackling of brittle twigs beneath my feet was the only sound I heard,
save, of course, the blended voices of the distant crows. The
brightening of the eastern sky proceeded slowly. Cloud above cloud
threatened to shut out the light until the day had well advanced; while
from the river rose a filmy bank of smoke-like fog that settled in huge
masses over the intervening marshes. But still the crows were clamorous,
and I had been told that their songs at sunrise augured a fair day; so,
’twixt hope and fear, I reached the high knoll in my neighbor’s meadow.
It was at the nick of time. Without a heralding ray in the whole
horizon, a flood of rosy light leaped through a rift in the clouds and
every cold gray crystal of the frost glowed with ruddy warmth. Then
deafening loud was the din of the foraging crows, as though they exulted
at the fullfillment of their prediction; and from that moment on, the
day was beautiful.
And if crows could be so enthusiastic over a bright winter day, why not
other birds? What of that host of arctic finches that tarry with us
until spring? I listened in vain for the foxie sparrow’s warble, the
call of the Peabody bird, and whistling of the purple finch. These were
all here yesterday and making merry; now every one was mute. The
ceaseless cawing of the crows may have drowned their voices, but I think
not. However, in other ways and no less cheerful ones, the vivifying
effect of sunrise was soon apparent everywhere about me.
My friends, the meadow mice, were in their glory. Their grass-walled
runways were roofed with ice, and not a breath of the chilly breeze that
fretted the outer world could reach them. I quite forgot the increasing
beauty of the eastern sky in my eagerness to watch the mice. I could
look down upon them, through the transparent roofs of their crystal
palaces, and wonder what might be their errands. Every one was in a
hurry, and none stopped to nibble at a blade of grass or tarried at a
cluster of seed-pods. Was it the mere pleasure of activity that prompted
them? It was very warm beneath the ice and far from cold above it. But
all the while I might be frightening the poor creatures, so I withdrew,
at the thought, to the cover of a clump of bushes. Quiet then seemed
partially restored, and soon one mouse came from an opening in the roof,
where many runways met. It picked its painful way over the frost, as
though every crystal was a pricking needle. I moved and away it darted,
but not to tell its fellows. Another and another came, and, like the one
first seen, they simply ran from post to pillar and back from pillar to
post. Perhaps a weasel was on their track—but, if we commence surmising,
there will never be an end to it. Let me declare dogmatically, these
mice were taking a sun bath, and with this thought, leave them.
As I looked about me, the crows again became the most prominent feature
of the landscape. They hovered in a loose flock over all the meadows;
literally, in thousands, and as the rays of the sun struck them, they
too glistened as though the frost crystals had incased their feathers.
Higher and higher they rose into the misty air and soon dispersed in
every direction; but they will gather again as the day closes, for over
the river, somewhere in the woods, they have a roosting-place. I have
seen this knoll, now thickly tenanted by mice, black with crows, day
after day, within a fortnight. What then became of the mice? Surely
their cunning stood them well in need to escape these ravenous birds,
and yet they have done so. Stupid as they seem when studied
individually, these mice must have a modicum of mother-wit, to thrive in
spite of so many odds against them.
But now, as the day advanced, the wooded bluff a mile away and the
willows on the river-shore gave evidence that not alone were the crows
and mice awake to the beauty and warmth of a winter sunrise. The
feathered world was now astir and music from a hundred throats filled
the crisp air. There was, it is true, not that volume of sound that
greets the daybreak in June, and no one voice was as tuneful as a
thrush. This mattered not. The essential feature of a pleasant stroll,
evidence that I was not alone, was present; for I can not keep company
with meadow mice. I call it a dead day, when there are no birds, and he
who would know what such a day is should be on the marshes or the river
when not a sound rises from the wild waste about him.
I stood long listening to the afar-off choir, and then, turning my steps
homeward, fancied I could distinguish the different birds that now made
the woods fairly ring. There was a ditch to cross before reaching the
hillside, and right glad am I that I looked before leaping it, for I saw
a lazy frog slowly responding to the increasing warmth of the sunshine.
All night long this creature had been sleeping in a cosy nook, a foot
deep in the soft mud which was protected here from the north and west
and has never been known to freeze. One eye and a small fraction of the
frog’s head were visible, but the former was bright, and I was sure that
no accident had happened to bring it even so far above the surface. I
stood very still, expecting much, but it was like watching the hour-hand
of a clock. In time the whole head was exposed, then the fore-limbs, and
this, for many minutes, was the extent of the frog’s activity. I
ventured finally to assist, and lifting up the clammy creature, placed
it on a floating fence rail, whereon the sun shone as in summer. The
frog was happy. Its expression showed this, its pulsing sides proved it,
and could I have heard it croak, my own satisfaction would have been
complete; but this it would not do. But let it be remembered, the
croaking can not be forced, either in June or January, and the voices of
frogs have been heard frequently during the latter month. Even when the
winter has been very severe, a typical January thaw has led them to give
tongue, to croak unmistakably, although in thinner tones than during a
summer’s night chorus.
There were hours yet before noon, and my little adventure with the
languid frog prompted me to explore the ditch in a rude way. All forms
of aquatic life seemed as active as in spring. Fish, salamanders,
snakes, turtles, and insects, were not only active but alert, and as
difficult to capture as I had ever found them. Actual sluggishness
characterized the frogs only, and yet these creatures are supposed to be
less susceptible to cold than all the others. The truth is, the winter
habits of every form of life are little known, and what impressions, if
any, most have upon the subject are more or less erroneous. We have had
no winter as yet, but the same conditions that I found to-day were true
of the ditch-dwellers last year and the year before, when we had not
only winter, but winter intensified.
I did not enumerate the many birds aright as I approached the hillside.
My attention was suddenly called from the ditch to the green-brier
thicket beyond by a familiar sound, yet which now, late in January,
seemed quite out of place if not out of tune and harsh. It was the
querulous cry of a cat-bird. This familiar thrush is no _rara avis_ at
such a time, although probably in Audubon’s day few if any remained in
New Jersey during the winter. No author makes mention, I believe, of
such an occurrence. The number seen each winter gradually increases, and
the disposition to remain affects apparently these birds over a steadily
extending area. So, at least, from correspondence, I am led to believe.
I found but three flowers as I neared my home—a dandelion, a violet, and
a pale spring beauty; but earlier in the month, a friend had been more
successful, and gathered not only those I have named, but others.
Doubtless these superlatively early blossomings have to do with the
present extraordinary winter, now more than half gone, but not
altogether, perhaps. Many a plant is more vigorous than we suspect, and
stray flowers are hidden beneath the fallen leaves more often than we
know.
When, in the forbidding gloom of a winter dawn, I ventured out of doors,
it was with the anticipation of a cheerless walk, if not fear of actual
discomfort; but the brilliant sunrise promptly dispelled all this, my
fears giving way to hopes that were more than realized.
Midwinter Minstrelsy.
It is a common impression, I find, that when the Northern song-birds
come in autumn from Canada to the Middle and Southern States, they leave
their music behind them, and during their sojourn here they only chirp
and twitter at best, and far oftener are moody and silent. This
absurdity is not readily explained, unless it be that lovers of birds
are persistently indoors from November until May. I do not pretend to
say that a keen, cold, frosty morning is rendered the more charming by
reason of the best efforts of the winter wren, purple finch, or
white-crowned sparrow, but that not one of them is necessarily mute
because the mercury is down to zero. Indeed, temperature alone seems to
have almost nothing to do with the movements or habits generally of our
birds, either the resident or migratory species. All depends upon the
food-supply, and a feast in winter is followed by a merry heart as
surely as a successful wooing in May results in ecstatic song. I think
this is borne out by the fact that during the present season—as yet
winter only in name—there has been really less activity and disposition
on the part of all our birds to sing than when we have had snow and ice
in abundance. I worked my way recently through a tangled, trackless bit
of swamp, and, while climbing over the prostrate trunk of a huge tree,
startled a winter wren as it crept from beneath a smaller log near by.
It seemed as astonished that I should have ventured so far from the open
meadow as I was to see any bird less mopish than an owl. The wren stood
contemplating me for at least one minute—a long time for a wren to
remain in one spot—and then gave vent to its astonishment by, not a
chirp, but a short series of sweet notes, that well repaid me for my
recent labors. Then, darting into the thicket, the wren was gone, but I
was not left alone. At the same moment, a troop of tree-sparrows settled
upon the clustered water-birches, and their united voices rose to the
dignity of a bird’s song. Such it evidently was intended to be, for the
chattering of birds, when they merely chirp or twitter—which is but
their conversation—is never so softly modulated, but pitched in a
hundred different keys. This became noticeable directly afterward, for
the birds scattered among the undergrowth, and the short, quick
utterances that I soon continually heard bore no resemblance to the two
or three notes, which, before they had separated, they uttered in
concert.
And as I returned home, while crossing a wide meadow where the rank
grasses afforded excellent cover, I found many small brown birds that
ran through them as aimlessly as frightened mice; they were titlarks, as
it proved. None sang until I was near at hand, when one after the other
rose a short distance from the ground, flew a few feet, and uttered,
while on the wing, a sharp, but bell-like note that was truly musical.
Another and another started up, at almost every step, but only to alight
again directly. At times there were four or five in sight at once, and
then their united voices sounded sweetly in the still air. Quickening my
steps, the flock finally rose in a body, and, so fitful and irregular
was their progress, had there been a stiff breeze at the time they might
have been mistaken for drifting autumn leaves. I need not pursue this
feature of winter bird life further, so far as the migratory species are
concerned; but a word with reference to those birds which are here
throughout the year—the resident species. The robin, Carolina wren,
song-sparrow, and thistle-bird sing, I am sure, with unabated ardor, in
spite of the cold. A miserably damp, foggy, or even windy day has a
depressing effect, and at such a time I usually find the woods, meadows,
and the river shore quite silent, unless, indeed, there be crows in
abundance. During the last week in January, 1889, when much of the time
there was a chilly northwest wind and often a clouded sky, the
song-sparrows thronged the willow hedges, and sang their May-day
melodies. I heard them soon after sunrise, at midday, and once after the
sun had gone down and it was fast growing dark.
There is yet another feature of bird music which is characteristic of
winter—the singing of passing flocks when high in the air. Day after
day, of late, soon after sunrise, a merry company of bluebirds fly over
the house, and each one sings as he passes by. Toward sunset they return
to the cedar and pine woods across the river, and then, too, they may be
heard. Their movements are as regular as those of the crows that roost
somewhere in the same neighborhood. I have often failed to see them,
they flew at so great an elevation, but their song is not to be
confounded with that of any other bird; nor are they like the
chats—ventriloquists. Somewhere in the upper regions they were floating
along, and their music, drifting earthward, brightens the winter
landscape until we think of early spring. But the bluebirds are not
always so unsociable. There is a rick of cornstalks not far away, about
which I find a pair almost daily, and did not the pestiferous
house-sparrows worry them so much, I am sure they would sing more
frequently. They appear to realize that their songs may be heard, and so
bring down upon them an attack; so, if they warble at all, it is very
softly, as though not quite discouraged, and hopeful of better times.
They have held their little fort, however, since early autumn, and I am
in hopes will outwit their enemies when nesting time arrives.
No, it is not true that the country is desolate, even in midwinter. I
heard a bluebird sing during the great storm of March, 1888, and since
then have been hopeful, although for more than one mile, during my
recent outings, comparative silence reigned. And now, what of to-day,
the last one of the month? I heard the crested tit whistling in the
far-off woods before the sun had risen, and not less musical was the
distant cawing of the myriad crows that were just leaving their roost.
Overhead, in the tops of the tall pines, were nuthatches and chicadees,
and shortly after a host of pine finches. They were all fretting, as I
fancied, because the wide reaches of meadow near by were still shut from
view, but it was not harsh scolding, after all; and as the day
brightened, their voices cleared, until later, when the birds had
scattered among the hedges, they all sang sweetly; for at such a time
the ear is not critical, and even the plaint of the nuthatch is not out
of tune. On and on I walked, expecting in the wilder woods and about the
marshy meadows to find birds and birds—many that sang and others that
would interest by virtue of their ways. I confidently looked for the
host of winter finches and the overstaying herons, but I saw none, heard
none. By noon the whole country was sadly silent, and not even a crow
passed by. Yet the day was perfect; save a little cooler, it was typical
Indian-summer weather. Plant life responded to the inviting sunshine,
and I gathered violets and spring beauty. Even the saxifrage shone
through the brown leaves, its white buds almost unfolded. It is in vain
to conjecture what had become of the birds of the early morning. Let it
suffice to say that I was greatly disappointed, and had I not been astir
so very early would have been the more sorely puzzled. As it was, the
birds had not utterly forsaken us, and proved in their own way and in
their own time that midwinter minstrelsy is not a myth.
A Cold Wave.
When Mr. Isaac Norris, of Philadelphia, merchant and man of observation,
recorded the weather in the vicinity of that city, 1749 and earlier, he
did not mention “cold waves,” as such, but remarked that there was
greater irregularity then than formerly, adding the significant
statement, “at present it is warm, even the very next day after a severe
cold, and sometimes the weather changes several times a day.”
Whether since 1749 these sudden changes of temperature have become more
frequent or not, I have no satisfactory means of determining, but am
inclined to think such to be the case; but new or old as a
meteorological freak, a cold wave is worthy of the rambler’s study, in
spite of the discomforts sure to be encountered, for it necessarily
affects all animal life that was astir before it reached us. Yesterday,
there were birds in the woods and about the meadows; even spiders had
spread their webs in the sunny glades, and stray flies hummed in the
sheltered hollows of the hill; so that thoughts of an early spring came
continually to the fore, as I watched and listened to the busy life
about me, myself reclining at full length, on a prostrate tree.
Had there been no intimation of the cold wave’s coming in the morning
paper, it would have been suspected as on its way, for all day the
barometer was suspiciously low, and soon after sunset a faint moaning in
the chimney corner and a far shriller sound among the tree-tops
suggested a coming change. The sudden up-leaping of sparks, too, from
the back-log counts for something. For an hour or more the coals had
been red or purple and scarcely a flame, however small, shot from the
glowing mass; then, at the whisper of the fretful wind, suddenly long
trains of brilliant sparks flew upward, and again, both the back-log and
the black fore-sticks were ablaze. Doubtless, in the good old times,
this never passed unnoticed and every one ventured a prediction when
there was no likelihood of erring. So he who spake first, in the days of
our grandfathers, became the greater weather-prophet.
During the night the cold wave came. As I write, we are having the first
ice-making weather of the season, although February is well advanced.
The chill, gray clouds scarcely concealed the sun as it rose, and later,
when the sky was clear, a rosy blush tinted the drifted snow upon the
fields. What now of the busy birds, the spiders, and humming flies of
yesterday? Have they folded their tents like Arabs and silently
disappeared?
Facing the north wind, I pushed through brake and brier, listening at
every step for the chirp of a startled bird. For some time I neither saw
nor heard a living creature, nor, indeed, did I wonder at their absence.
At last a solitary crow struggled against the fierce wind and uttered at
times a most melancholy plaint. It was all but sufficient to send me
home, and I stood for a moment pitifully undecided; but the crow, I saw,
did make some headway, and I took a hint of it. The icy gusts that swept
the hillside soon forced me, however, to seek shelter, and I crept for
some distance along the bed of a deep dry ditch overhung by blackberry
canes and smilax. Here I found a more spring-like temperature, and was
not surprised when from the clusters of dead grass blue jays hopped
before me. They were evidently startled at my appearance in their snug
retreat, but still were not timid, as when in the open woods. I often
approached within a few paces, and they hid, I am sure, in the tangled
vines and bushes on the banks of the ditch, instead of flying out into
the meadow. But if jays, there should be other birds I thought, and I
stopped again and again to listen. It was the same old story—nothing was
to be heard but the roar of the wind overhead. Weary at last with
creeping through such cramped quarters, I sat down to rest at a
convenient point, and never have I been so fortunate in the choice of an
outlook.
It is clearly evident that our resident birds and mammals soon know
every nook and corner of their chosen haunts, and more, that they pass
from point to point in accordance with fixed plans and do not wander
aimlessly about. If you overtake in broad daylight, as sometimes
happens, any animal larger than a mouse, it is not likely to be
confused, not knowing which way to turn. Such indecision would
invariably prove fatal. Their actions under such circumstances indicate
full knowledge of their surroundings, and convince one of this fact. If
not true, then every surprised animal must take in at a glance every
tree, burrow, ditch, and path, and select between them, in the twinkling
of an eye. My own observations lead me to conclude that our mammals,
which are largely nocturnal, survey at night the whole country and know
every inch of the ground. Every tanglewood is to them a city with its
main thoroughfares and side alleys, and it is this knowledge that
enables them to outwit their foes. Within a few days, a skunk came
boldly into the yard, in broad daylight; defied the dog by assuming a
bold front, and was making for the only near place of safety within easy
reach, when in the yard, an opening under a side porch. By mere accident
only it was run down and killed. This dreaded creature had evidently
been belated, and coming home after sunrise used wonderful tactics when
it encountered the dog. It played with him. It ran this way and that,
but never far, and always faced the half-timid mastiff. It shook its
huge tail, bristled its long fur, snapped, squeaked, and all the while
approached in short stages the porch. At last, seeing more than an even
chance of reaching it, the cunning creature bolted, and I am almost
sorry that it did not escape.
So, too, with our birds. Not all of them act upon foreknowledge of a
coming cold wave, and temporarily migrate. On the other hand, had they
no places of refuge, the majority would perish. No bird could have
weathered the cold cutting winds that prevailed last night, with the
air, too, at times, filled with stinging sleet. Yet, hunt the country
over, after such a night, and how seldom will you find a dead bird lying
upon the ground. Even after such a storm as the historic blizzard of a
year ago, birds that had succumbed through exposure, were comparatively
few. The fact that the alien sparrows in our cities were destroyed in
large numbers, strengthens my previous assertion, for they, unlike wild
life, are largely deprived of the advantage of snug harbors, such as the
country affords our native birds; and their semi-domesticated condition
has rendered them less provident and observing. Such, at least, was the
tenor of my thoughts while resting in my sheltered outlook.
Before many minutes had elapsed the expected chirping of winter finches
was heard; at first in the distance, but directly almost overhead; then,
everywhere about me. A moment later, and a dozen were in full view.
Myself, a shapeless mass upon a mossy log, the birds mistook me for a
part of it, and I had but to look and listen. Foxie sparrows threaded
the tangled maze of vine and cane, singing a few sweet notes at times,
as the wind lulled and the warm sunshine flooded the shelter with a
brighter glow; white-throats warbled in their listless way, and one
fearless winter wren peered into every cranny of the hollowed earth,
spider-hunting wherever the waters of the last freshet had caverned the
overhanging banks. As it drew near, I almost held my breath, hoping it
would venture to creep over me. Once it came very near, stopped and
looked me squarely in the face, but without its suspicions being
aroused. Probably I needed but a few cobwebs to have brought it even
closer.
For long the light-hearted birds, in joyous mood, passed up and down
this hidden highway, often within arm’s reach, and not one recognized
me. It was much like being alone in a strange city, where the feeling of
desolate isolation can best be realized. Much as I might desire it, I
could in no sense become a part of the happy world about me. Here, at
times, is the shadow that rests upon the rambler’s path—to feel that at
best he is but tolerated, and to know that had these happy creatures the
power they would drive him into the bleak world beyond.
One interesting feature of bird life was to-day very apparent. Never did
two or more individuals meet upon the same twig but a low, scarcely
audible twitter was uttered. I could often see a slight movement of the
beak, without hearing a sound, and notice a gentle tremor of the wings,
that doubtless meant much to them, but can not be interpreted by us.
Then away they would go, following the line of the long ditch without
grazing the tiniest twig that bent above them. Why many a sparrow,
apparently in reckless haste, did not come to grief, is indeed a puzzle;
for never, I thought, had I found thorns so sharp, so slender, and so
thickly set.
But not birds alone had sought shelter here; the mice also had been
driven from the wind-swept meadows, and these ventured into the
sunlight, but were cautious to a marked degree. None came very near, and
when I was in full view they stopped, sat upon their haunches and felt
sure, if I correctly read their thoughts, that all was not quite right.
Not one passed by me. Their keen noses detected what the proverbially
keen sight of the birds had failed to discover, that I was not a
harmless bit of driftwood. Or did the sense of hearing catch the sound
of my breathing? Explain it as one may, meadow-mice were never before so
knowing, and I recall the charge that I have often made, that they are
stupid.
So here I sat for two whole hours, yet not aware that so long a time had
elapsed. It mattered nothing that the fierce wind raged above me; that
the bending oaks echoed its heartless boast:
“I come from the fields of the frozen north,
O’er the waste of the trackless sea,
Where the winter sun looks wearily forth,
And yieldeth his strength to me.”
This lessened not my comfort nor quickened my homeward steps. Wrapping
my cloak the closer, I recalled the day’s adventures as I withdrew,
thinking how true it was that pleasant surprises are ever in store for
the earnest rambler and many a loss for him who is faint-hearted. It is
not well to judge the world through a window.
The Woods in Winter.
When I walk in the woods in summer I think of the trees as a shelter.
They go to form a protection alike against the sun and passing shower.
And if I turn from the old cart-path it is but to enter some one-side
compartment of a great labyrinth of rooms. No one tree calls for
observation. They are as the inner walls of a great house, and what they
surround alone commands attention. It is going out of doors as much to
leave the thick woods as to pass from your dwelling. But now, during
December’s bright, cheery, winter days, every tree in these same woods
becomes my companion. We are exposed to the same sunny sky, and as I
wander from one to another, each has its pleasant greeting for me. This
has been a life-long fancy of mine. Walk up to a century-old oak, and
how promptly it speaks to you of giant strength and sturdy independence;
turn then to a stately liquidambar and you are greeted with exquisite
grace. I can point out in the old woods here at home the counterparts of
many a man I know. The lonely wild apple on a gravelly knoll is as
crabbed as my crusty neighbor who begrudges me a few flint arrow-heads.
I think I should be soured by wandering half a day in a forest of
wild-apple trees. There is no such feeling when with the oaks, beeches,
chestnuts, and silver birch. They recall no unfortunates among one’s
acquaintance. Every tree of them is content with the world as it finds
it, and so too am I when surrounded by them.
The woods were quiet when I entered. Not a twig trembled, and the dead
leaves were too limp to crackle beneath my feet. Dainty frost crystals
were plentifully strown over the dwarfed bushes by the roadside, and a
film of glittering ice with jagged sides reached out from the banks of a
little brook near by. Nowhere did the ice reach wholly across the
stream, and so was the more beautiful by reason of the inky waters that
flowed sluggishly beneath it.
Where, about the roots of a massive beech, the brook had become a little
pool, I stood for many minutes, alternately watching the waters that
here seemed roused to a semblance of activity, and then listening to the
welcome cawing of the over-flying crows. Brooks, birds, and trees! Your
choice of such good company, and yet there are those who would have gone
mad here from loneliness! For the time I gave heed to the brook,
wondering as usual what might be beneath the surface, and all the while,
as ever happens, the creatures of the brook were wondering about myself.
If one turns to the text-books he will find much said of the instinct
that leads the lower forms of life to seek a safe shelter as winter
approaches. The lower forms of life in this brook had no such intention.
First, I detected dainty little frogs—the peeping hylodes—squatted on
dead leaves and yellow pebbles, and so spotted, splotched, and wrinkled
were they that it took sharp eyes to find them. Their idea of a shelter
in winter is from enemies, and not from the frosty air; a little warmer
sunshine to-day would have moved them to sing. Time and again during
November they rattled and “peeped” almost as shrilly as ever in April,
and they will again, if we are treated to a green Christmas.
The spirit of exploration seized me now, and I brushed the shallow
waters with a cedar branch. Lazy mud minnows were whipped from their
retreats, and a beautiful red salamander that I sent whizzing through
the air wriggled among the brown leaves upon the ground. It was only
after a hard chase that I captured it, and, holding it in my hand until
rested, I endeavored to induce it to squeak, for it is one of a very few
that has a voice; but it was not to be coaxed. It suffered many
indignities in silence, and so shamed me by its patience that I gently
placed it in the brook. Soon, black, shining whirligigs—the
gyrinus—suddenly appeared, and a turtle, as if wondering what might be
the cause of the commotion, thrust its head in the air, stared angrily
at me, and returned to its hidden home. There was no dearth of life in
the brook, yet this is a winter day. The ground is frozen, and the
rattle of wagons upon the highway penetrates even to this remote recess
in the deep woods.
As a child soon tires of one toy, so I longed, after an hour’s play, for
a new field and other forms of life, and so much for serious study as
that I might vary my amusement; but let not this apparent aimlessness be
held unworthy of the rambler. Call it play, if you choose, but the
incidents of such a day come back in bold relief when, with or without
an effort, they are recalled. I have found it most fortunate that
unconscious cerebation is so active when I wander about, toying, as here
by the forest brook, with many forms of life. More than half the acts of
every creature I meet are apparently meaningless at the moment of their
occurrence, but their full significance is evident when in thought I
wander a second time over the same ground. Scarcely regarded incidents
come well to the fore and throw a flood of light upon what lacked at the
time any evidence, on the creature’s part, of complicated thought.
Herein, I think, lies the secret of so much disappointment when some
people—and they are many—wander in the fields. Filled with enthusiastic
desire upon laying down the teeming pages of Thoreau and Burroughs, they
expect to see with another’s eyes and appreciate with another’s brain.
They see a bird, a mammal, or a host of butterflies, and then ask
themselves upon the spot, Well! what of them? The bare fact of their
presence is all that the minds of inexperienced ramblers encompass. The
wild life they have met excites a passing thrill and they give no
further heed to it. And it never occurs to many to recall the incidents.
Being a bit disappointed then, why give heed to the subject later? On
the contrary, if at the close of the day, in the hills and hollows of
the blazing wood upon the andirons, if the walk was in winter, we
picture the scenes of the recent ramble, these same birds or mammals, or
whatsoever else we saw, will be seen again in a new light. Why those
birds and not others were where we found them; why the field-mice or
rabbits or a weasel were where we saw them or it, will become evident.
The various features of every visited spot will be remembered; and the
cheery blaze upon the hearth tells us, as it were, the story that could
not be read when facing Nature’s open page. Some of us inveterate
ramblers read more than others, when in the fields, but no one can
afford to trust to this alone. To extract the whole truth, the past must
be recalled again and again.
As I whiled away the time with the tenants of the brook, so I gave heed
to every passing bird, and what a strange panorama, as one kind after
another flitted by! The happy association of woods and water here, as it
attracted me, drew them to the spot, yet no one loitered long. The busy
brown tree-creeper traced the crannies of the wrinkled oaks; the
nuthatches followed, and their complaining squeaks seemed expressive of
disappointment that so little food was to be found. Was this true? Were
these little birds really complaining? It certainly seemed so. But how
treacherous is this impression of seeming so! Too often, I fear, the
rambler is content with it and goes his way convinced that what was
vaguely apparent was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing more nor
less. I hold it probably true that if every bird which found itself too
late was disposed to complain, there would be a vast deal more
quarreling than actually occurs. How little contention there is in the
bird-world! While it is true that birds of a feather flock together, it
is equally so that widely different species also amicably associate, and
flagrant is the act that calls for punishment. Better luck next time is
the homely proverb that actuates all non-predatorial bird life.
But the merit of birds is their suggestiveness. Promptly following the
nuthatches came the ever-welcome song-sparrow. It hopped, with
springtide liveliness, among the dead leaves near the brook, and then,
flying to a hazel bush near by, it sang that sweet song that not even
the mocking-bird ventures to repeat. The woods vanished, and the old
garden with its gooseberry hedge was before me. I was a wondering child
again, listening and looking at the happy bird, happy as itself.
It is December, the day is cold, the trees are leafless, the ground
frozen; but not a thought of all this had clouded my joy for half a day.
There is the elixir of perpetual summer even in the woods in winter, and
happy is he who can find it.
Old Almanacs.
It is a dilapidated outbuilding now, and the merest ghost of its former
self. Scarcely one of the many marked features of the old kitchen is
left. The cavernous fireplace, the corner cupboard, the narrow box
staircase, the heavy double doors, with their long strap hinges, the
long narrow table by the south windows, have all been removed. And sad,
too, to think that, one by one, the sturdy farmer folk that lived in and
loved this now dark and dingy room have all passed away. For me, it is
the Mecca to which I most fondly turn when indulging in retrospection.
In and about it were passed many of those peculiarly happy days, the
recollection of which grows brighter as the years roll by. From late
autumn until spring, when for five months the nights were long, this
kitchen was the favorite rendezvous, and conversation, rather than
reading, the popular amusement. Not that there were no books in the
house. There were fifty volumes, at least, in the old book-case, but I
can not recall one in the hands of a reader. There are many of them now
on my own shelves—Gibbon, Johnson, Goldsmith, Burns, and the journal of
many a Quaker of colonial times. It would be unfair to say that books
were unpopular, but rather that conversation was held in higher esteem.
Then, certainly, every neighborhood had its characters, and their like
has not been transmitted to the present generation. I saw the last of a
native folk who had occupied my neighborhood since 1680. Now a new
people, and as different as black from white, occupy the land; but
during my early childhood, my grandfather’s help, like himself, had
always lived in the neighborhood. They had been boys together, and
little wonder that, when a day’s work was done, the evening should have
been spent in reminiscent talk. The farmer was not off to his book at
candle-light, and the “hands” left to their thoughts.
How glad, now, am I, that I caught, even in early youth, a glimpse of
simpler times! In one way, however, the world has not changed;
conversation continually turned upon the weather, and there was one book
to which reference was often made and quite frequently consulted—the
almanac. How plainly I can see my grandfather adjust his heavy-rimmed
spectacles and turn to the record of the current month! “Yes, thee is
right, Abijah; the moon changes in the forenoon.” Then the thin pamphlet
was hung again in its place in the chimney corner. Hard-headed and
alertly observant as were the farmers of fifty years ago, they all
deferred to the almanac’s dictum. Men might say, perhaps, what they
pleased; but if he who could write an almanac ventured to predict, who
were they to dispute it? So they thought, and if snow had been foretold
for the Fourth of July, they would have explained the reason why it did
not come, and pity, not scorn, the prophet.
I do not know when the first almanac was hung in the chimney corner, but
the custom, once started, continued to the end, and when the kitchen was
dismantled, a great pile of “Poor Richards” were brought to light from a
dark hole in the cavernous corner cupboard. The wisdom crowded upon
those torn and tattered pages seems to have been lost, and the later
generations were content, if I do not misunderstand them, with the
commonplaces and predictions to which reference has been made. But with
all their unquestioning reliance upon the almanac, the men who were
daily out of doors were prophets unto themselves, and proud of the petty
discoveries they claimed to have made. This it was that spiced their
conversation and made the meeting of two or three in a cozy kitchen an
attractive occurrence to young ears. I do not wonder that books were
ignored, when every laboring man laid claim to peculiar knowledge, and,
of course, formulated weather proverbs, the like of which have never got
into print. For while the neighborhood had, like all others, its common
stock of accepted “sayings,” not a man for miles around but had some two
or three that he had framed for his own guidance. Every discussion
teemed with “according to Joshua,” or “Jeremiah’s saying is,” but every
man was largely a follower of himself. Looking backward, and studying my
grandfather’s “help,” and even my farmer neighbors, I see, in the light
of the present, that these men were both ignorant and wise; having a
rich store of facts from which they drew illogical deductions.
Apropos of this, let me add that of a series of sixteen newspaper
clippings, from papers published in October and November, 1889, fifteen
of them were predictions of a winter of unusual severity in the Middle
States. The one that maintained the coming of a mild winter gave no
reasons for such a conclusion, but stated very briefly that “certain
never-failing signs pointed that way.” It is a pity that such signs were
not generally known, now that the “ground-goose, hog-bone” theory has
proved unreliable.
And so it was, a year earlier. During the autumn of 1888, I gathered, by
the aid of several friends, a considerable number of newspaper clippings
concerning the character of the coming winter. Most of them predicted a
very severe season and a late spring; a few were somewhat more moderate
in the use of superlatives, and one long essay on the breast-bone of the
goose made me shiver to read, although the day was warm, and in spite of
the assurance that each of the “phenomenally cold periods” would be
alternated by “spells of fall-like weather.” Not one hit the nail upon
the head and foretold that December and January would be winter with
winter left out. And only to-day (January 31) I find in a local paper
that the musk-rats are stopping up the entrances to their homes, and
February will be very cold. Perhaps! On the other hand, I have just
received Volume I of the Geological Survey of New Jersey, in which is a
most interesting chapter on the climate of this State. Looking over a
tabulated statement of the weather, as characteristic of seasons, I find
that we have had six notably mild winters in the past forty years, that
of ’81-’82 being “one of the warmest on record.” Armed with these facts,
I hunted up our oldest neighbor, Zephaniah Blank, and plied him with
questions. Of course, as I intended, the conversation turned upon the
weather, as it usually does, and he was very positive that we had had no
such winter as the present for “nigh on to thirty years.” The old
gentleman could recollect the moderately warm winter of ’57-’58, but
that of ’81-’82 had passed from his mind. Had a reporter overheard our
talk upon the subject, the local paper would doubtless have recorded the
present as the warmest winter in thirty years, which is not the fact.
Besides, we are not yet out of the woods, for February is often very
cold, and March, to put the best face upon it, exceedingly tricky.
Considering that weather is the most talked-of of subjects, is it not
strange that upon no other is so much ignorance displayed?
It has been said that every man is a fool or a physician at forty.
Whether true or not, every sexagenarian hereabouts is a weather prophet,
and their combined wisdom is, as might be seen, valueless. Every one of
these worthy men, as such, is a delusion and a snare, but all have
faithful followers. Uncle Zephaniah, for instance, was very impatient,
to express it mildly, when I spoke of the winter of 1881-’82. The curl
of his lip, the glitter of his eyes and wave of his hand, when he
remarked, “As if I didn’t know!” spoke volumes. Yet, in spite of his
eighty years, he did not know. There is still another feature of weather
wisdom, if I can call it such, that is even more remarkable—the
proneness to forget the character of a season so soon after it has
passed. It may be hard to believe, but many a person will stop to think
when the question is put whether the great March blizzard was last year
or the year before. Unless such a storm is coupled with some political
event or a great disaster, as fire or shipwreck, it passes almost
directly out of mind, and its magnitude dwindles in comparison to some
lesser event with which the world’s history was connected. And the moral
of all this is: keep a diary, swear only by it, and give nothing more
than a respectful hearing to unlettered historians and weather prophets.
But if the people have changed, the country has not; and from the same
woodland almanac from which they drew their facts we can draw ours. Can
any one read it aright? Verily, is not Nature a tricksy author? There
are the flowers that many a town dweller thinks truly report the
seasons. Pshaw! Away up in Massachusetts, Bradford Torrey found over
seventy plants in bloom during a November afternoon; and full well I
know of a meadow where violets, bluets, dandelions, and blue-curl can be
gathered, even at Christmas, and all the year round, when we have, as
now (1889-’90) a typical open winter.
What of the birds? For of these and blossoms is a naturalist’s year made
up. The woodland almanac goes for little so far as they are
concerned—unless, indeed, you have a trained ear for varying twitters.
Bird music is never lacking, and I have long held it an open question if
we may not spare the thrush, when there are foxy-sparrows among the
briers. So far as weather is concerned, we can not build upon our birds,
and no one of our seasons lacks them. It is the whim of closet
ornithologists and petty critics to assert that winter is comparatively
birdless, but even this is not true. There are not so many species, but
often quite as many individuals, and oftener more. Birdless, indeed!
Redbirds, meadow-larks, song-sparrows, and blue jays at this moment are
making merry in my garden. Notwithstanding all this, there will always
be those who will strive to the end to decipher the woodland almanac,
and where is he who claims not to have solved its meaning? It were well
if every one spelled over a few pages of it every day. It is healthy
exercise, fitting one to duties of all kinds, and never tending to sour
the temper of a sane person if, at the close of threescore years and
ten, he finds that he is sure of but the first lesson—there are four
seasons. Weather wisdom, as we all know, meets us at every turn, and
while usually irritating, occasionally proves a source of amusement.
Some such experience as the following, may have been the fate of many
more than I suppose.
John Blank is one of those unfortunates who desire to be thought a
genius. To float with the current is beneath his dignity. Uz Gaunt
described him well as one who persists in looking toward the west to see
the sun rise. Knowing my love for the open fields, this would-be genius
has kindly treated me, of late, to innumerable accounts of recent
observations of beasts, birds, reptiles, and wild life’s less noble
forms, and certainly the man has remarkable powers in one direction—he
can misinterpret admirably. “Think of it!” he exclaimed excitedly; “here
it is December, and I have heard a frog croak! It was not a springtime
croak, of course, but a cry of pain, and I believe a musk-rat dug it out
of its winter quarters, and the sound I heard was a cry of pain.” It is
a wonder that he did not hear the musk-rat’s chuckle over a good dinner,
also. Here we have three assumptions—that frogs never sing in winter;
that they habitually hibernate; and that musk-rats dig them out of the
mud. The aforesaid John Blank had lived forty-odd years on a farm, and
did not know that frogs voluntarily sang or croaked during mild winter
days. Like many another, finding that it is cold in December, he turns
his back on winter sunshine.
Here are some statistics concerning frogs in winter. Previous to Oct.
20, 1889, there had been white frost, some chilly days as well as
nights, and yet the frogs sang merrily on that date. There was frost,
snow, and ice during the following week, and then these same frogs were
again in full chorus; and later, in November, as late as the 19th, they
rattled and piped, not only in the sheltered marshes, but among the
wilted stalks of lotus in an exposed upland field. Then a long interim,
when I was constantly in town, but at noon, December 19, I heard them
again, and on Jan. 12, 1890, frogs of at least two species were
croaking; and, too, bees were about, snakes were sunning themselves,
turtles crawled from the mud, and salamanders squatted on dead oak
leaves in the full glare of an almost midsummer sun. When John Blank was
told of this he looked his name; but he was not disconcerted. “Did you
ever examine the marshes in winter?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” he replied, and added: “What’s to be found in frozen
mud, cold water, and about dead grass?”
“More life than you ever saw in midsummer,” was the impatient reply, and
with this I moved off.
Blank maintained his reputation and declined to take a hint. “Did you
ever see wild violets at Christmas?” he asked. I laughed, and assuming
good-nature, said, “Come along,” and started with the conceited nuisance
to a sheltered meadow. The grass was not dead, although Christmas was at
hand; there were even green leaves on the sassafras sprouts; the water
was not cold, although its surface had been frozen; the mud was very
soft. Clustered about the roots of a noble tulip tree were claytonias in
bloom; in the moist meadows were pale-blue violets, and beyond, exposed
to the sweep of every chilly breeze from the west, were houstonias, and
scattered here and there were single dandelions. “This,” I remarked, “is
no unusual matter, referable to midwinter, and ought to be familiar to
you; but you have probably not looked in the proper places for these
things”; and, taking my cue from dear old Uz Gaunt, added, “don’t look
in the west to see the sun rise.”
Then, pleading an engagement with solitude, I bade John Blank
“Good-morning.”
The landscape lightened as the bore disappeared. And how an hour’s
outing with nature soothes the irritation of an unwelcome interview! If
I were an editor, I would have a cage of frogs, with a bit of green moss
and a pool of water like that now at my elbow. To this I could turn for
mental refreshment the moment the retiring intruder faced the door of
the sanctum. There is nothing so reviving as to contemplate a frog, or,
better yet, a tree-toad. Here is one from Florida that takes the world
philosophically. When it is too cool on the shady side of his home he
creeps to the sunny side; and as the sun will not stand still, the toad
moves with it; This seems too trivial to mention, but really is not.
There are people in my neighborhood who growl because the sun does not
shine through the north windows, and more than one old farmer who
persists in shivering in the wagon-house, under protest, of course,
while the woodshed is warm and sunny. There is a chance for every man
born in the world, but this same world is not to be molded to every
crank’s convenience. Even my tree-toad knows that a fly may be on the
wrong side of the glass for him; although it took months of vain bumping
of his precious head before the idea reached his brain, and even now he
sometimes forgets the lesson so painfully learned. On the other hand,
there is little reason to believe that John Blank will look in the sunny
meadows next year for belated blossoms. If he finds one by accident in a
corner of a cold upland field, it will be heralded as a great discovery.
There is another tree-toad in the frog-pen that is a happy philosopher.
Of late, either the food offered is not the proper sort, or the creature
habitually fasts at this time of year, which is not improbable. Be this
as it may, there is no giving way to despondency because of an empty
stomach, and when his companions are taking noonday naps, or recalling
the outer world that once they knew, this little fellow, from the door
of his mossy cave, or perched upon a dead twig near by, sings merrily.
There are doubtless some who would be stupid enough to declare it the
cry of despair; but there is no trace of trouble in the sound; no
tremulous quaver as though fraught with grief. It is the clear, joyous
exultation of supreme content, as we hear it in the woods during bright
October days. Again, perhaps those gifted with an ear for music would
call the tree-toad’s song a “squeak.” This matters not, for when that
tree-toad pipes his single note, I take an outing. My study walls
vanish; the hillside and meadow, the winding creek, rolling field, and
shady orchard are again, as of old, the playground of my rambling life.
A Quaker Christmas.
The winters seemed colder, whether they were or not, when I was a boy;
and some thirty years ago there was one Christmas week when it seemed as
if the glacial period had suddenly returned. There was snow on the
ground, and thick blue-black ice on the creeks and flooded meadows. One
had not to take a circuitous route to reach whatever point he wished,
and this to the boys of the neighborhood made the outdoor world more
attractive. Not an old hollow tree, even, in the treacherous swamps, but
could now be reached, and so the home of every owl, coon, or opossum,
was at every boy’s mercy. What, then, if it were cold! Boots and
overcoat were equal to every need, and the wide and wild world was
before us. There was a skeleton in my closet, nevertheless. Christmas
was approaching, but never a sign of it within the walls of the old
farm-house. For years it had come and gone with scarcely a mention made
of the fact; and now, having heard something of holiday festivities from
city cousins, I vowed I would revolutionize the family custom in one
respect. But how? A hundred plans came as if by magic, but each was
handicapped by impracticability—a condition of affairs that is very
common to most men’s maturer years. It must be a secret, of course. The
opposition would prove formidable indeed if the matter were openly
discussed. Never a Christmas had been celebrated for a full century in
the old house, and why now? But I was determined, and so it came about
that I had a merry Christmas.
It was a simple matter, after all; and how often it happens that, after
days of puzzling over the impossible, an easy solution of a difficulty
comes at the proper moment! When it was time to act, all was plain
enough. On one plea or another, I went from house to house, as if the
call was by mere accident, and made known my wishes to a judicious
member of each family visited. All agreed to broach the subject, and so
it resulted that two or more members of five families, each group in
blissful ignorance of his neighbor’s movements, determined to spend the
day with my grandfather. It was the first surprise party in that staid
Quaker neighborhood, and never before so merry a Christmas. Of course
the originator was all innocence; but the puzzled expression on his
grandfather’s face and the perplexity of the women-folk were fun indeed
to him. “There’s company coming,” I remarked, as a carriage turned in
the lane. “Sure enough!” remarked my aunt, who, turning to her sister,
added, “And there is almost nothing for dinner.” I grinned. Before the
first carriage drove up to the house, a second was in sight, and the
third was not far behind.
“Truly,” remarked neighbor A to neighbor B, “we did not expect to meet
thee here. We’ve been intending to drive over for some time, but the
work at home prevented.”
“And that is what I was about to remark; the same impulse has moved us
both.” A certain small boy smiled.
“This is quite a Christmas celebration,” the somewhat bewildered host
replied, and no sooner had the sound of his voice died away than
neighbor C was announced; and neighbors D and E followed in his wake. I
lingered to hear the result, but did not dare show myself. My face was
very red, for poor sedate grandfather was stuttering! “Really, truly;
this is, treally, ruly”—I heard no more, but made a dash for the back
yard. Unlucky dash! I collided with my portly aunt, and both sprawled
upon the entry floor. The company came streaming from the parlor, but
what came of it I never learned. I was up and away before the mystery
was solved. A rest on the far side of the barn finally restored me. Joy
and fear made it a merry and mad Christmas both, but the point was
gained. The monotony of winter farm-life was broken—very much broken, in
fact—for now the tables were turned, and voices were calling for me,
some in persuasive, some in authoritative, tones. At last I responded;
and oh! what relief, when the one thing needed was to run down chickens.
“How many?” I quietly asked, “a dozen?” It was an unfortunate question.
A glitter, full of meaning, flashed in the eyes of my portly aunt. She
held me responsible for the day’s excitement and extra labor, and I knew
it; but I grinned whenever I caught glimpses of the gathered neighbors,
who could not cease to wonder over the strange coincidence.
Dinner was served in due time. It took two tables to seat the guests,
and the old kitchen was full for once. All went well until the portly
lady, who still smarted from her fall, asked of me “what all this
meant?”
“What does what mean?” I asked in reply.
“That all these friends should happen here to-day?”
“How should I know?” I asked.
“Thee does know all about it,” the old lady insisted, and so a
confession was forced. What else could I do? Twenty curious faces were
centered upon me, and the truth came out.
“Never mind, never mind!” chimed in my good grandfather, at the proper
moment. “I was sure a committee was about to take me to task for some
offense, and as I have come off so well, so shall he.”
“That boy will make something some of these days,” remarked one
long-headed man; but, alas! his usual good judgment failed for once.
That boy, so far as he is aware, has not made much since then—much worth
the making; but has, no end of blunders.
Who cares? It was my first jolly Christmas and a complete success; and
would that the same season could once again be jolly!
A New Place to Loaf.
One must plow deeply nowadays to unearth novelty. The world has been
written up, and that which we now read is but the echo of some well-nigh
forgotten author. Many will be quick to question this, and battle for
their originality, but a few days of honest search on their part among
really old books will bring them to confusion. It is with living writers
as with the “oldest inhabitants” who declare they never knew such
weather—they had better not face statistics. Blooming orchards in
January are on record, and February roses gladdened our
great-grandmothers.
“Is there nothing more to be said?” I had been asking of myself as I
daily tramped about the farm, or, on rainy days, ruminated in the attic
in a forest of discarded furniture. The outlook, for a while, was
certainly discouraging, and then suddenly the hay-mow came to mind. As a
boy, I loved the hay-mow; how is it now, in my maturer years?
Spurred by the impulse of so bright a thought, I went to the stable, and
with old-timed suppleness clomb the straight ladder. What memories of
summer days in the meadows rushed in with the odor of the heaped-up hay!
A fancy, perhaps; but even the sweet-scented vernal grass that yearly
adds its charm to a single corner of one field seemed stored in the dark
loft. It matters not; that corner, with its wealth of bright blossoms,
the glittering sunshine of May’s perfect mornings, the song of nesting
thrushes, and the rose-throated grosbeak’s matchless song, were plainly
seen and heard. It mattered not that it was January instead of June, and
the shrill north wind whispered its well-nigh forgotten warnings—summer
reigned in the hay-mow. The noontide glare that webbed the dark with
trembling threads of light aided my fancy, and I reveled in day-dreams.
That was a painful pleasure when the past was measured, and forty years
marked off the distance between my first visit and the present. Would
life have appeared as rosy-hued could I have looked as far forward as
unto to-day? Perhaps not. And what of the retrospective glances that
dimly discern the timid child floundering then in the half-filled mow?
With what wonder were the darting swallows marked as they sped to their
nests upon the rafters, and then fled through a gaping chink to the
outer world! What mystery shrouded the hastening mice that ran across
the mow’s wide window-sill, squeaked as they met, and hurried on their
way! Why would they not stop and speak to the little child? Even then,
birds and mice gave rise to strange and painful thoughts, for why,
indeed, should they fear the child that longed to be their playmate?
That fancy has not fled unto this day. I love them now as then, and, no
longer wondering why they fear man, regret the fact almost as keenly as
in days gone by.
And later, when a sturdy lad—but lazy—what a favorite hiding-place when
there were distasteful tasks to be shirked! The rattle of a loose
shingle to-day became the familiar calling of my name when errands were
to be run, when the hated churn was ready, wood to be cut or burdens to
be carried. But, like all else that this world offers, the hay-mow was
not perfection. I paid dearly for my thoughtlessness more than once.
There was much evidence of a busy day about the house, some thirty years
ago, and at breakfast I imagined that I would be in demand; but to even
think of work upon such a perfect day for idling was painful, and, as
usual, I soon disappeared. But nature was perverse. Not a familiar nook
about the farm responded as it usually did. Even the trees were so
wrapped in their own affairs as to turn the cold shoulder. Everything
went wrong, and hours before noon I longed to be called. I listened for
some familiar voice or the regulation toot-toot of the dinner-horn. The
old roosters about the barn crowed in a bantering way, as if calling me
the foolish boy that I was. It was irritating beyond endurance, and so,
with the usual unreason of piqued youth, I crept into the hay-mow, and,
while smarting from self-inflicted pain, fell asleep. Hours passed, and
then, starting from a nightmare dream, I went sullenly to the house.
Every one smiled as I entered. What was the matter? Every one was
silent, but the secret could not be kept. A picnic party had called for
me. “It is so seldom thee hears me,” remarked my aunt, “that I did not
think it worth my while to call thee to-day,” and then every one smiled
exasperatingly. No dinner, no picnic, no appetite for supper; but my
eyes were opened.
It is the same hay-mow as forty years ago, when first I saw it; the same
as eighty years ago, when my father watched it building, and made it his
playground, if not a lazy lad’s refuge. Here is the same loose floor
that needs a thick mat of hay to render it safe to walk over, and, in
one sense, the same dusty festoons of cobwebs clinging to every corner;
while the roof, as of old, is starred with mud-wasps’ nests and dotted
with the swallows’ masonry. My father’s playground! Did he, too, I
wondered, often linger here, thinking much the same thoughts and
planning his life’s battles while idly resting on the hay? It is not
upon record, nor need be, but the old hay-mow bears testimony to his
one-time presence here. Flinging open the heavy shutter of the south
window, I glanced at the shining oaken sill and frame. Both were covered
with rudely carved letters, initials of many a lad long since grown to
manhood, and not one of them now living. How closely I was linked to a
long-gone past! In the bright sunshine of this January day there was no
trace of winter in the landscape. From my outlook I saw nothing of the
familiar fields and distant river so dear to my own boyhood, but that
wilder valley and more rugged fields that were the pet theme of my
father’s stories when he charmed his hearers telling of his youth. How
tame is the present when compared with what has been! What though the
world has wonderfully advanced, there is not for me, for one—and I voice
many another—aught in the present, or aught that imagination conjures up
as the possible future, that can charm as does the sweet calling back of
days gone by.
Round about a Spring in Winter.
We dwellers in the northern hemisphere naturally think of winter as
cold, and shudder at the idea of plunging into the water at this season.
The common demand is, if cold must be endured, let it at least be rid of
moisture. But all animals are not of this way of thinking. To avoid the
cutting blasts of the north wind, the stinging sleet, the pelting hail,
and driving snow, many a creature boldly plunges in or hovers about the
sparkling waters of every bubbling spring. The reason is, at such spots
there is a uniform and not low temperature.
The impression is well-nigh universal that the great majority of
animals, other than a few hardy birds, are asleep from autumn until
spring; that they are hibernating, as it is called. It is quite true
when we walk across an exposed field or follow a wood-path over some
high hill, such an impression will not be disturbed by anything that we
see or hear; but these are not the only routes open to us. Stroll along
the river shore, even when it is blocked with ice, and in the little
ponds of open water you will be pretty sure to see abundant forms of
life; but, better yet, stray over the meadows, where, in more senses
than one, perpetual summer reigns. Break the thick ice, if necessary,
that shuts from view the shallow pool, scoop up the dead pond weeds that
mat the soft mud below, and see how every bit of it teems with curious
life. The brilliant dragon-flies that darted so angrily about you last
summer dropped their eggs here in the water, and these, hatching,
produced creatures so widely different from their parents that few
people suspect any kinship. Veritable dragons, on a small scale, they
are none the less active because ice and snow have shut out the
sunlight. With their terrible jaws they tear to fragments in a moment
every insect within their reach.
Like the dragon-flies, better known perhaps as “devil’s
darning-needles,” there are many other insects that likewise spend their
early days in the meadow pools, and, as the collector will find, every
scoopful of mud and leaves will be tenanted by a range of forms, some
grotesque, others graceful, and all of abounding interest.