are many fishes continually plowing up the mud with their gristly
snouts, and ready to swallow every protesting wriggler that dares show
itself in spite of the nipping jaws. Whether the slim and slippery
salamanders, commonly called lizards, do the same, I do not know, but
they tunnel the mud and burrow under every heap of water-soaked leaves,
and are so active, be the weather what it may, that some nourishment
must be taken. And there are frogs; not one of them disposed to
exertion, perhaps, but none the less able to leap or burrow headlong in
the yielding mud the instant they suspect danger. During the present
winter I have even heard them faintly croaking at midday, but this, of
course, is quite unusual.
During January not a turtle need be looked for, sunning itself, however
warm may be the weather, but, like the other creatures I have named,
they are not asleep. In a shallow basin, lined with the cleanest of
white sand, through which bubbled an intermitting stream of sparkling
water, I recently surprised a mud-turtle poking anxiously about,
evidently in search of food. The creature had a lean and anxious look,
and its bright eyes meant mischief, as it proved, when I reached forward
to pick it up. I was bitten after a fashion, and therefore delighted,
for I had never before known these turtles to be snapping, and a
discovery, however insignificant, is truly delightful.
Active life, then, in many of its varied forms, can be found during the
winter in the mud, sand, and water of almost every spring, and this fact
very naturally has its influence round about the spot. There is no small
winter bird, sparrow, titmouse, wren, or creeper, that evidently prefers
the immediate surroundings of a spring to all other spots, but every one
of twenty or more delights to make daily visits to such a locality, and
the sight of the green growths that crowd the water’s edge prompts them
all to greater cheerfulness, I have thought, than when treading the
mazes of upland thickets or scanning the dreary outlook of a snow-clad
field. But yesterday, more like June than January, it is true, I stood
by a little spring that welled up from among the roots of an old maple,
to watch the movements of a minnow that had strayed from the creek near
by. While there a wee nuthatch came darting down from the trees and
perched upon a projecting root, scarcely an inch above the water. It sat
for a moment, like a fairy kingfisher, and then plunged into the shallow
depths with all the grace of an accomplished diver. More than this, as
it shook the glittering drops from its feathers upon emerging it sang
sweetly. This unlooked-for conclusion of its bathing frolic was the more
remarkable, as the ordinary utterance of the bird is anything but
musical.
There are large birds also that frequent the springs habitually in
winter, and the fact of their presence is of itself evidence that other
active animal life must also abound. I refer to herons, bitterns, and I
may add crows. The former two subsist almost exclusively upon frogs and
fish, while the latter are content with anything not absolutely
indigestible.
How vividly I can recall my astonishment when stooping once to drink
from a bubbling spring at the base of the river bluff a dark shadow
passed over me, and I sprang with such a sudden motion to my feet that I
lost my balance! A great blue heron, unheeding my presence or ignoring
it, was slowly settling down to the very spot where I stood, and had I
remained quiet it would have perched upon me, I believe. As it was, it
gave an impatient flirt to its whole body, showing annoyance and not
fear, and flew slowly down the river. Before I had wholly regained my
composure and had time to step aside, the huge bird returned, and at
once took its stand in the shallow water, as silent, motionless, erect
as a sentinel is supposed to be. This was many years ago, and I have
seldom failed to see them, sometimes many together, winter after winter
since. The moody bittern, on the other hand, is much more disposed to
migrate in autumn; but at least a single one is likely to be found on
sheltered hillsides, particularly where there are springs with marshy
areas surrounding them. I have learned this recently of these birds, and
either have overlooked them in years past, or it is a new departure for
them. It is not unlikely that the latter should be true. Our familiar
cat-bird is losing its migratory instinct very rapidly, judging from the
numbers that winter in the valley of the Delaware River. I have seen
several recently, and every one of them was in a green-brier thicket,
and feeding on the berries of this troublesome vine.
But if there were no green things in or about the springs in winter they
would be cheerless spots, after all, in spite of the many forms of
animal life that we have seen frequent them. The fact that it is winter
would constantly intrude if the water sparkled only among dead leaves.
Happily this is not the case. At every spring I saw—and there were many
of them—during a recent ramble there was an abundance of chickweed,
bitter-dock, corydalis, and a species of forget-me-not; sometimes one or
two of these only, and more often all of them; none in bloom, but all as
fresh and bright as ever a plant in June. Then, too, in advance of the
plant proper, we find the matured bloom of the skunk-cabbage—would that
it had as pretty a name as the plant deserves!—with its sheath-like
covering, bronze, crimson, golden, and light green, brightening many a
dingy spot where dead leaves have been heaped by the winds all winter
long. These fresh growths cause us to forget that the general outlook is
so dreary, and give to the presence of the abundant animal life a
naturalness that would otherwise be wanting.
And not only about the springs, but in them, often choking the channels
until little lakes are formed, are found many plants that know no summer
of growth and then a long interval of rest. The conditions of the season
are too nearly alike, and while in winter there is less increase, growth
never entirely ceases, and certainly the bright green of the delicate
foliage is never dulled. Anacharis, or water-weed, I find in profusion
at all the larger springs; if not, then callitriche, or water-starwort.
The latter is as delicate as the finer ferns, and often conceals much of
the water in which it grows, as it has both floating and submerged
leaves.
In both these plants fish, frogs, and salamanders and large aquatic
insects congregate, and are so effectually hidden that when standing on
the side of the spring basin a person is not likely to see any living
thing, and if the spirit of investigation does not move him he will go
away thinking animal life is hibernating, for so indeed it is set down
in many books. But it does not always do to plunge the hand in among the
weeds, and so try to land whatever may be tangled in the mass you pull
ashore. Some of the insects resent such interference by biting
severely—the water-boatmen, or _Notonectæ_, for instance—and they have
the advantage of seeing all that is going on in the world about them,
for they swim upon their backs.
A delicate and beautifully marked sunfish that is silvery white with
inky black bands across it is common in the Delaware tide-water meadows,
and is found nowhere else. Recently in a spring pool, where the flow of
water was almost stopped by aquatic mosses, _Hypnum_ and _Fontinalis_, I
found nearly a hundred of these fish gathered in a little space. All
were active, and so vigorous that an abundant food supply can be
presupposed; but I did not bring the microscope to bear upon this
question, and it is upon minute forms of life such as would be readily
overlooked by the casual observer that they subsist. But, as is
everywhere the case, these fish are not free from molestation, although
to the onlooker they seem to be dwelling in a paradise. There is a huge
insect, murderous as a tiger, that singles them out, I have thought,
from the hosts of more commonplace species which we can easily spare. It
is known as a _Belostoma_, and has not, so far as I can learn, any
common name. If they were better known they probably would have a dozen.
They are “wide and flat-bodied aquatic insects, of more or less ovate
outline, furnished with powerful flattened swimming legs,” and the front
ones are “fitted for seizing and holding tightly the victims upon which
they pounce.” When I found the timid banded sunfish huddled together in
the water moss I thought of the savage _Belostoma_ and hunted for them.
None seemed to be lurking in the moss, but just beyond, in an open space
where twigs had drifted and dead leaves lay about, I found two of them,
and I doubt not they were lying in wait, knowing where the fish then
were and that sooner or later some would pass that way. To determine by
means of crude experiments how far a water-bug has intelligence is a
difficult if not impracticable undertaking, but I can assure the reader
that the many I have watched in aquaria _seemed_ to be very cunning, and
constantly planning how they might surprise the fish, for these, on the
other hand, knew the danger of their presence, and shunned them in every
possible way.
It is much to be regretted, I think, that aquaria have fallen into
disrepute. They are not, as has been said, failures; but if the labor of
their care can not be undertaken, let him who would know more of common
aquatic life not fail to occasionally ramble round about the springs in
winter.
A Bay-Side Outing.
A cool, gray mist overspread the wide reach of meadows, and shut from
view the still wider reach of water beyond. The clouds were sullen, and
with each gusty sweep of sharp east wind were dashes of chilling rain.
The outlook was dismal; the more so that my companions and myself had
journeyed scores of miles to reach the Pleasantville meadows. Perhaps
the village itself was pleasant, but now its suburbs were forbidding.
Let me misquote Euripides:
What _the morning_ is to be
Human wisdom never learns.
So it proved; the east wind was soon tempered to three shorn lambs, the
sun peeped out upon us from time to time, and long before noon Nature
was smiling and contentment reigned.
That which most impressed me as I neared the water was the painful
silence that prevailed over all the scene. Not a sound save that of
one’s own footsteps was to be heard. The impression of an absolutely
deserted country, of a region that had been swept by a pestilence fatal
even to insect life, took strong hold of me; but only for a moment.
Presently, up from the tufts of tall grass rose, on every side,
whistling meadow-larks, filling the air at once with sweet sounds. How
my heart leaped, my cheeks tingled! With what eagerness I strove to
catch their every note! for dear to me now as, when a boy, the world
daily opened up a new scene of delights, is that old, ever-new refrain
of the meadow-lark—_I see you—you can’t see me_.
But I did see them. To the few scattered, stunted trees they flew, and,
perching at the very tops, were sharply limned against the pale-gray
sky. Did I exert some subtle influence over them? Whether or not, they
soon returned, and from hidden by-ways in the rank grass sang again and
again, to cheer me, while at work. For not as a rambler merely, but to
labor diligently, had I come so far.
Separated from the bay by a narrow strip of meadow, rises a little
hillock that tall weeds would have hidden. This was one of our objective
points; the other was an adjoining sand-ridge. Over the former we
proposed to search for whatsoever the Indians had left behind; into the
latter we proposed to dig, believing some of these people had been
buried there; all this we did. The little hillock was a shell-heap, or
“kitchen refuse-heap,” as they are called by European archæologists.
Probably nothing tells so plainly the story of the past as do these
great gatherings of burned and broken shells. So recent was every
fire-mark, so fresh the bits of charcoal, so sharp the fragments of
roasted shells, it would not have startled the relic-hunters had the
Indians filed past on their way to the adjoining fishing grounds; and
yet, when critically examined, this particular spot had evidently been
long deserted. Careful and long-protracted search failed to bring to
view any trace of other than most primitive Indian handiwork. One
patient searcher, in fact, had to content himself with a few flint
flakes and the tiniest bits of rude pottery; while another hunter was
more fortunate and drew from the side of a deep and narrow path a pretty
quartz knife; and later, two slender, shapely arrow-heads were found.
A beggarly show, perhaps, but what if our hands were not busy picking up
relics; our fancies were up and doing. We had evidences and to spare
that a primitive people had once dwelt here, and imagination supplied
all deficiencies as to the matter of when and why and of the manner of
their simple lives. Such ever is the charm of an outing like this. One
has to deal so continually with stern facts in every-day life that fancy
is the better company when out for a stroll. Nor need we deceive
ourselves. A bit of burned clay in hand means the primitive potter in
the near foreground. Given a single flake of stone, and the knife,
spear, arrow, and all their belongings are in the hands of men who stand
out boldly before us. Fancy within bounds is the twin-sister of fact,
but mischief brews when she oversteps the mark. An hour with potsherds
is monotonous. One longs for some more shapely trace of human handiwork,
but among heaps of broken and burned shells, these are not frequent.
Herein the kitchen-middens of the New Jersey coast differ, as a rule,
from the former village sites in the river valleys. It would appear that
the Indian’s life as a coast-dweller was simplicity itself. It meant the
mere gathering of food from the shallow water. No contrivances were
called for, so no specialized tools were left behind, and in their
annual pilgrimages to the coast, the inland people either took but
little with them, or were very careful to carry back everything they had
brought. No wonder, then, we grow restive when a richer harvest is
promised by the mere leaping of a fence. There, in a grassy field, it
was reported, Indians had been buried, and how exciting it is to know
that a skeleton may be brought to light by the mere turning of the sod.
It has been cruelly said that he who removes from the ground a recently
buried body is a ghoul, but if we wait until the flesh has decayed, then
the collector of dry bones becomes an archæologist. It is not a fair
statement; but whether true or not, we gave it no heed, but proceeded to
dig. Scanning each spadeful of dirt for traces of bones, we soon found
them, and all was excitement. Little by little, whole bones were exposed
to view, and, following these up with the greatest care, that first of
prizes to an archæologist, a skull, was secured. Later a second and a
third were found. Our day was full. No, not quite full. We knew that
often a bowl, trinkets, and a weapon or two were buried with the body,
but nothing of the kind was found. It was a matter of dry bones only,
unless we except the one instance where the upper shell of a large
turtle rested on one of the skulls. This was a cap that would scarcely
prove comfortable to a living person, although not without the merit of
being quite water-proof.
The longest summer’s day is all too short for such eventful outings; so
little wonder that the early setting of the sun in February prompted our
discontent. Who was ever satisfied in this world? He is a half-hearted
rambler, at best, that loves to quit such work; but the night came down
upon us, nevertheless. Silence brooded over the broad meadows, and the
larks that had cheered us until sunset ceased to sing. Could there have
been a happier combination? Meadow-larks and Indian relics; aye, even
the bones of the Indians themselves; to say nothing of a soft sea-breeze
and a clear sky.
Laden with valued spoils, we at last reluctantly drew near the village,
and would that it had been wrapped in Egyptian darkness! How the aged
villagers scowled at us as we passed by! The lame, the halt, the blind,
all came hobbling to the front windows of their homes and hurled silent
imprecations after us. What a sad ending to our happy day! and why,
forsooth? In our innocent zeal, we had disturbed the bones of a few
Indian fishermen that for centuries had been resting in perfect peace.
We, the irate villagers claimed, being in full possession of good
health, could withstand the fury of the outraged spirits of departed
red-skins, but not so the afflicted villagers. Every rheumatic crone
averred that her pains had grown to agony since we broke the sod.
Invisible arrows had whizzed by their ears, and more than one sufferer
had been struck, as the red marks upon their persons proved. Vengeance
had gone astray and sorely pressed the innocent; while the guilty walked
without shame through the long village street. This was indeed adding
insult to injury.
Speaking for myself, did I know the meaning of the word “impatience,” I
should have been vexed. As it was, the day deserved to be recorded in
red letters.
As a lover of quiet country strolls, I had been happy beyond measure,
but the way of the archæologist, it would seem, is beset with thorns.
Free for the Day.
Free for the day! I scarce need tell the rest:
An aimless youth again, and Nature’s guest.
If magic lurks in any four words of the queen’s English, it is to be
looked for here. Free for the day! Neither in books nor out of them have
I met with a phrase more full of meaning, one more comprehensively
suggestive. To me, eight weeks in the noisy city had seemed almost a
year, and at last came a pause in my occupation and a day to myself. No
decision could be reached in a reasonable time by calmly thinking the
matter over, so, closing my eyes, I spun myself on one heel, determined
to walk a good ten miles in whatever direction I faced when my whirling
body came to rest. Fortune favored me, for I found myself looking
directly toward the river. This put an end to my walking ten miles in a
bee line, for the river was not one mile distant, and, except at a
distant point, could not be crossed. With a light heart I made for the
river, and, reaching the shore, sat in a cozy nook where driftwood had
conveniently lodged. Walking is capital sport at all times, but a
comfortable outlook never comes amiss, and resting at the end of one
mile is as natural as at the end of a dozen. Thoreau speaks of looking
seaward while at Cape Cod and having all America behind him. I took my
cue from him, and, looking only down stream and not far beyond, saw only
the rippling waters. Every ripple carried its atom of the town dust from
my eyes, and in an hour I saw the world again with clear vision.
Something of the old self thrilled my veins, but still I was loath to
leave so sweet a spot. I had no promise of better things, and, though
early February, the wild words of an ancient chronicler came to mind.
Wrote a mendacious Englishman in 1648, of this river—the Delaware—that
it was “scituate in the best and same temper as Italy,” and goes on to
say, it “is freed from the extreme cold and barrennesse of the one [New
England] and heat and aguish marshes of the other [Virginia]”; all of
which is a (to put it mildly) mistake. And then the romancer adds, the
Delaware Valley “is like Lombardy, ... and partaketh of the healthiest
aire and most excellent commodities of Europe.” Then follows a bit of
nonsense about the wild beasts and agricultural capabilities. Why could
not those old travelers be truthful? There is not one but deals in
absurdities, and it would appear that they rounded off every paragraph
with a flight of the imagination. If his account be true, reindeer and
moose, as well as elk and deer, tramped these river shores but three
centuries ago, and the buffalo roamed over the Crosswicks meadows. This
is extremely improbable. Moose and reindeer bones have been found, it is
true, and even traces of the musk-ox, but all goes to show that it was
far longer ago than three centuries. That there are traces, too, of man
found associated with them goes for nothing. Such association does not
bring the now arctic animals down to a recent date in this river valley,
but places man in an indefinitely long ago. If there is any one fact
well established, it is the antiquity of man in America, and those who,
even in scientific journals, say the evidences so far are not
trustworthy, and all that, utter greater absurdities than the old
chronicler I have quoted.
A word more. If the author quoted had in mind such a winter as this,
perhaps he can not be held as intentionally wrong as to the climate; but
why need he have exaggerated? As if the round of the seasons in Jersey
could be better, when they are as they should be! The truth, two hundred
and odd years ago, would not have frightened a would-be settler; but
such a winter as this might. The present meteorological “flummux,” which
plays the fool with all animate nature, is what the old-time Indians
called _niskelan_—ugly weather; and they gave it the proper name.
But hang the whole crew of historians and scientists! this is my
holiday! The water is very blue to-day, very ripply, and flaked here and
there with a dainty bit of foam. This is running water at its best. It
smells sweetest now. And what an odor that is which rises from a broad
river! The essence of the mountains many a mile away, the ooze of the
black-soiled meadows over which I have just passed, the dead leaves and
brushwood, and, too, the grand old trees that line the river’s shore,
all give up some subtle perfume, which, mingling over the river, is
wafted to the shore. It intoxicates. Every breath indrawn thrills the
nerves and cleanses the city-soiled fibers of our being. But let no more
be said. As I stood, straight as a signal-light upon the shore, my eye
caught a strange mound of bleached driftwood in the distance, and
curiosity at once drew me toward it—a recently drowned cow that dogs had
torn. Such possible drawbacks warn one against enthusiasm as to country
odors. As for myself, I walked down stream, thinking new thoughts.
Having an odd fish in sight when by the river’s side, I am never lonely.
Odd fish are too plentiful in town; never a glut of them—the proper
sort—in the water. The average minnow is an endless source of amusement.
Its rough and tumble existence is encouraging to striving mortals. The
minnow’s ingenuity is hourly taxed to escape danger, yet never have I
seen one in despair. To-day was a red-letter one in this respect. Off in
a shallow pool, not two yards square, was a huge hump-backed minnow. Its
spine was as twisted as a corkscrew, and its locomotion as erratic as
lightning. How could such a fish secure its prey? was the question that
puzzled me; and, failing to hit upon a solution, I tried to capture the
fish for my aquarium. When one has neither net, line, nor other device,
fishing is uncertain, except with the professional liars. I tried
scooping with my hands, and have only to relate as a result that the
hump-backed minnow appeared to make a springboard of its tail and leap
over my hands with the grace and ease of a professional acrobat. After
several attempts on my part to circumvent the minnow, it suddenly
disappeared. I looked in vain for it all through the little pool. It had
gone. At last I stepped back to turn to new scenes, when the hump-backed
minnow leaped from a pebble on the water’s edge, with about the agility
of a frog! Of course, this will go the way of all fish stories; but I do
not mind telling it, for all that.
It is the unexpected that happens—a remark, by the way, that dates B.
C.—when the rambler has no particular quest in mind. I had almost
forgotten that birds were in existence, when a large one ran along the
pebbly beach, not more than a rod before me. It was a king-rail. With
the thoughtlessness characteristic of a half fool, I hurled a stone
after it, with the usual result of frightening it and so losing a golden
opportunity to observe a rather rare bird at a most unusual season. Why
will people be such ninnies? If a companion had been with me and
attempted this, I would have prevented him; yet, nine times in ten, I
give way to the unfortunate impulse to capture, if not destroy, the
rarer creatures I meet. Had I been born without arms, I would by this
time have become a naturalist. This tendency is due, without doubt, to
our non-human ancestry, but will we never outgrow it?
The king-rail is a noble bird, and a few haunt the marshes all summer
long, nesting where the tall grass is too rank and tangled even to tempt
a restless cow. Perhaps they have in mind the danger of meddlesome
mankind, and dwell in such spots accordingly. Taking the whole range of
bird life into consideration, it certainly would appear that birds give
a good deal of attention to such matters. And, before leaving the
subject, I will add that, to be intelligible in discussing birds’ ways,
one must assume that they have minds akin to ours; and this leads to the
suspicion on the part of some, and conviction in my own case, that the
birds’ mind and that of man are too closely akin to warrant much
distinction.
Birds, then, as usual, trooped to the fore as I rambled down the river.
I saw nothing else, yet not a bird was in view. The old histories came
to mind, and closed my eyes to other than an inner vision. “Greate
stores of swannes, geese, and ducks, and huge cranes, both blue and
white.” Is it not exasperating to think of the change wrought in two
centuries? A mile-wide river, and banks of old-time wildness still
remaining, yet not a feather rests upon the one or shadow of a walking
bird falls upon the other. Far and near, up and down, and high overhead
I scan the country for a glimpse of some one bird, but in vain. The
crows nowadays have the river to themselves, and none of these were
about to-day.
The day has been a marked one for its emptiness. Tracing the river’s
shore for miles ought to yield rich results, but here, at my journey’s
end, I am empty-handed. What little I have seen has but soured my
temper. It is most unwise to be ever mourning over the unrecoverable
past, but how can one avoid it? Such a walk, productive of nothing worth
recording, may not, I hope, be in vain. It at least provokes me to say,
Can not wild life, or what little remains of it, be effectually
protected? Can not swans, geese, and ducks be induced to return? They
can never prove an obstruction to navigation, so why should legislation
on this point be, as at present, a mere farce? The day will never come,
perhaps, when people who prefer a living to a dead bird will be
acknowledged as having a claim to the wild life that would appear to be
no man’s peculiar property. By an overwhelming majority, mankind hold,
if a creature is good to eat, it must be killed. But the insignificant
minority still feel they have a claim. I would walk twenty miles to see
a wild swan on the Delaware; my neighbor would walk forty if sure of
shooting it.
Water birds are safe on the Back Bay in Boston, and seem to know it. I
have watched them with delight, morning after morning, while dressing;
but here, miles from town, you may pass a week and see no trace of even
a duck. A few come and go, but there are men with guns lying in wait,
both day and night. Time was when there were wild fowl and to spare—not
so now; and the day is quickly coming when geese even will rank with the
great auk and the dodo.
It is probably not difficult to prove that a return ramble is less
suggestive, even if more objects cross our path than when we were
outward bound. At the close of a long day, we are, without suspecting
it, brain-weary, as well as physically tired. What interested us in the
morning falls flat in the evening; the mingled voices of many birds
roused enthusiasm at sunrise, and proved irritating at sunset. It was so
to-day. My one thought was to reach home, but not without lazily
thinking, as I retraced my steps. I discussed with myself, as often
before, that important question—how to see. Then, again, I have often
been asked the same question by various people. On one occasion, I
replied, “With your wits as well as your eyes.” But this does not cover
the ground. After all, how is a person to recognize a thrush from a
sparrow among birds, or a perch from a minnow among fishes? When the
question was last put, I found that I had but one course to pursue—to
admit that I could not tell. The occurrence was somewhat mortifying, and
I have, time and time again since then, endeavored to discuss, upon
paper, this very interesting subject.
The result, to date, is flat failure; but a history of nugatory effort
may prove of some value. Can it be done? Is there a secret, through
knowledge of which a young person or an inexperienced adult can be
taught to intelligently observe and correctly interpret the course of
nature? Are not those, in truth, who do see to advantage, and quickly
comprehend the purport of what they see, born with a faculty that can
not be acquired through any course of training? I believe this to be
true.
But, on the other hand, there are those who, though less favored, have
their interest aroused whenever out of doors; and these are spurred to
the acquisition of knowledge, however toilsome, because of the demands
of that interest. Such find the pursuit of natural knowledge far from
easy, but are compensated by the fact that “the play is worth the
candle.” With due modesty, I speak now from experience.
“How am I to know,” asked my friend, “that the bird I see or hear is
what it is?” I, for one, can not solve the problem. Certainly, even if
our language was adequate to describe the appearance, voice, and habits
of a bird, for instance, so accurately that it would instantly be
recognized, it is not to be expected that any one, save a professional
naturalist, will know our ornithology by heart; and even he falls very
short of that. In hopes of simplifying the matter, I have been
endeavoring to recall my own experiences; not that I am a trained
observer, but because I can not remember when I did not know the more
common objects of wild life that I met with. This knowledge—a life-long
source of pleasure—was acquired at an early age, probably because I had
a naturalist-mother, who correctly explained the little mysteries that
perplexed me, and, above all, taught me to be considerate toward and
respect the rights of every living creature. So it happened that I came
to love even every creeping thing; and with love came knowledge. But the
names of things! Until he knew its name, Thoreau looked upon a flower,
however beautiful, as a stranger, and held aloof. Certainly one feels a
great lift in his pursuit of knowledge as soon as he learns the name of
an object; and until then, however interesting that object may be, it
baffles him. Let the observer, if an adult, remember, and the child be
assured, that every creature has a name, and that it can sooner or later
be determined; and now what remains is to so closely examine it that,
when opportunity affords to describe it to a specialist, or a
description is found in a book, the creature will at once be recognized.
Years before I had access to Audubon’s or Wilson’s American Ornithology,
I was delighted, one summer day, with a large bird that played bo-peep
with me in the orchard. I watched it carefully, studied to repeat its
cries, and then attempted to describe it. The bird was pronounced a
creation of my imagination, and my labors rewarded with a lecture on
romancing; but long afterward I recognized the bird in a museum, and
found that I had seen a rare straggler from the Southern States. But
nothing of all this bears much, if any, upon my friend’s question, and
no definite conclusion has, perhaps, been reached; so I put myself in my
friend’s place, and ask, Will some one give me the information required?
The more the question, as originally put, is conned over, the more it is
like unto asking, How do we learn to talk? Let there be a desire for
knowledge, and the problem will solve itself. And as to natural history,
the earnest observer will invent names for objects, which will serve his
purpose until he learns those, as in time he will, by which they have
been recognized by others and are in common use. He who does this will
have taken the first and most important step, and all that follows will
be pleasure rather than toil.
Another phase of this subject is that of properly observing. Do we
always “see straight”? I prefer this homely phrase in putting the
question, because I was so often asked, when reporting the results of
youthful rambles, “Did you see straight? Are you sure?” And so the
familiar questions come to mind now: Have the summer tourists seen
straight? Was everything they saw really as they saw it? “Can I not
believe my own eyes?” is the usual reply. It is the commonly accepted
opinion that we can, certainly; but may not many an error arise from
such testimony? Undoubtedly; but, on the other hand, if the sight-seer
is really anxious to learn the exact truth, if he guards himself
continuously against false impressions, the danger is comparatively
slight, and diminishes to practically nothing by repetition of
observation. It must be remembered, too, that an occurrence may be very
rare, and, if observed by one not familiar with the ordinary conditions,
he may be misled so far as to suppose it not unusual; but it is far from
justifiable to assert that he did not “see straight.”
This is particularly true in the study of nature; by which is meant, at
this time, the observation of objects, animate and inanimate, as they
are and where they belong, not the study of “specimens” taken from their
proper places. If a bird is seen out of season, or out of place, or
copies the song and manners of a far different species, the observer is
not true to himself if he withholds a statement as to the fact, although
others may not have been so fortunate as to witness this; and no less
imperative is it to express his opinions and give his own
interpretations of what he sees. To say that it is indiscreet to set his
“unsupported opinion against the facts gathered by a host of observers”
is simply absurd. To fail to speak out boldly is miserable cowardice;
and he who advises silence because an honest conviction wars with
others’ opinions is contemptible. Evidently, having no opinions or
knowledge of his own, he champions the cry of the crowd, be it right or
wrong. When a friend returns from a distant land, or even from a walk in
the country, we do not ask concerning what we have often seen for
ourselves, or know from hearsay, is a feature of the land, but of those
peculiarities that particularly impress him, and his personal
adventures; and, by proper questioning, a dozen ramblers over the same
area will tell as many different stories. If every observer or traveler
was a mere cataloguing machine what a cool welcome would each receive on
his return from an outing.
How are we to know whether or not we “see straight”—whether or not we
correctly interpret? Time alone will decide this; adding thereto the
experiences of others. From the sum total of many observers will
ultimately spring the truth, if happily we shall ever possess it; but no
one experience must be suppressed. I saw the Niagara River recently
where it is crossed by the suspension bridge, and the water was
intensely black save where flecked with snowy foam. I had seen this
river at this same spot previously, and had seen it since, and always,
except this one instance, the water was deeply blue or brilliantly
green. It may never have been black before, and may never be so again,
but this has no bearing upon the fact that once, at least, that torrent
was as a torrent of ink. And so it certainly is in one’s observations of
animal life, if one is a persistent, painstaking observer. His
experience will teem with unique occurrences; but they are none the less
valuable and worthy of record because of their character.
We hear now and then of misconception of nature—some pretentious critic
assuming that another sees what is not to be seen, hears what is not to
be heard, and attributes to the lower forms of life faculties beyond
their capabilities. By what authority comes this—provided absurdity does
not enter into the case? Has the whole region of the United States been
so ransacked by a handful of professionals that the habits of every
living creature other than man are known even to the minutest details?
If so, where is this vast store of learning garnered? It must still be
religiously guarded by this same handful. The world at large knows this
is nonsense. There have not been enough facts gathered to enable one to
more than conclude tentatively. A botanist, not far away, remarked in my
hearing that he had tramped over the whole neighborhood in search of
sun-dews. He was positive that none grew within miles of his home.
Another, with keener vision, tramped the same ground, and found them in
abundance. A host of careful, earnest, and devoted observers may be
unsuccessful, but that does not prove that some one may not succeed
where the others failed; nor can the animadversions of the critical
alter the fact that some one has succeeded.
Have any of those who have spent the summer in the country amused
themselves by watching some one animal as it was busy with life’s cares?
I hope so; and while so doing, was the creature credited with
intelligence or blind instinct? I trust with the former. But “Stay!”
shouts the critic, “do you realize the danger of loose interpretation?”
How are we to decide whether or not an animal thinks as we do? Hereon
hinges the whole matter. Obviously, it can never be demonstrated with
what may be called mathematical certainty; but the average, unbiased
observer will admit that when a creature acts under given circumstances
precisely as he would do, that the brain directing those movements is
essentially such a brain as his own. To prove that it is something else
is left with those who deny the position that I take. Animals think;
they are not mere machines; this position is as rational as to claim it
of some of the lowest existing races of mankind, for the claim is laid
upon the same class of occurrences. To wander abroad, whether in the
forest or on the plain, and not to look upon animate creation as endowed
with intelligence—of course, of varying degrees—is to go, not as an
observer in the true sense, but as one deaf and blind. To ramble with
this conviction, one will not misread the book of nature, and so be
guilty of a literary crime if he gives his story to the world.
An Open Winter.
I have heard or read that one may experience a sense of weariness when
surrounded by the best that Nature has to offer—a cloying with too many
sweets, as it were. It seems hard to believe, so rejoiced is the average
rambler at the return of spring, but that it is true has recently dawned
upon me, here in the wilds of Jersey, after some six weeks of merely
nominal winter.
Wherever there is a little shelter from the occasional north winds, the
immediate outlook is suggestive of early April, but the growing
daffodils and blooming hunger-plant, dead-nettle, chickweed, spring
beauties, violets, and dandelions, do not give us a springtide
landscape, although columbine, giant hyssop, motherwort, self-heal,
yellow corydalis, alum root, false mitrewort, and star of Bethlehem, are
all green in the sheltered nooks, and the waters of many a spring-basin
glow as emeralds with their wealth of aquatic plant life. It avails
nothing that these springs and outflowing brooks teem with fish, frogs,
salamanders, and spiders; nor does it matter that the sun gives us
summer heat and that birds throng the underbrush as in nesting days;
still it is winter. This is the crowning fact that colors every thought,
and though we can not step but we crush a flower, winter will not be
ignored. Nor would I have it so. January has its merits as well as June,
and I hail with pleasure that spot where frost has gained a foothold.
Here is one such spot; a circle of dead weeds bordering one of moss, and
blackberry canes in rank profusion arising as an oval mound within all.
It is an odd-looking spot to-day, and sure to attract attention. It is
unlike the average clump of briers, and properly should be, as it is the
sorry monument to a giant that for century after century dwelt here in
glory. It was my good fortune to know him well, but my misfortune to be
too young to assume the role of historian. Here stood the Pearson Oak.
Perhaps my learned botanical friends may take exceptions, but I hold
that this tree was nearly, if not quite, one thousand years old. How the
Indian looms up when we think of such a tree! Here was a silent witness
to the every-day life of an Indian village that in part rested in the
mighty shadows that it cast. And later, from one huge limb dangled the
rude pole swing that was the delight of the first of my people born in
America. Being the most prominent feature of the neighborhood, this oak
was brought within the boundary line of two great plantations, and the
half acre beneath its branches was the common playground of two
families. Little wonder, then, that in time it was also common courting
ground. Indeed, the phrase common in several families now, referring to
engaged couples, “under the oak,” has reference to this tree and the
engagements that arose from frequently meeting there, during the first
half-century after the place was settled.
But what has this to do with winter? Nothing, perhaps, but it seemed
fitting that a film of ice should cover the little pool in the circle,
as frost had blighted every shrub about, when recalling that long-gone
past that seems to us so rosy-hued when comparing it with the present.
Ruin is stamped upon every feature of the landscape here, and it is well
that the old oak that witnessed more mirth than sadness should have
passed away.
To those who can walk eight furlongs and see only a milestone, winter
may be a dreary season: but Nature at rest, for those who love her, is a
sleeping beauty. Again, if it so happens death is everywhere about you,
it should not prove repulsive. Death is the law of life, and not a
flower in June can boast greater beauty than the empty seed-pods of many
a decaying plant. Shudder, if you will, at the word “skeleton,” but
handle that of many a creature or plant, and enthusiastic admiration is
sure to follow. In June, we glory in the deadly struggle for existence
that everywhere is raging; charmed by the flaunting banners, the music,
the “pomp and circumstance of glorious war”; why not then be rational
and cull beauty as well as profit from the battle-field when the
struggle is over? If a shrub is beautiful clad in motley garb, should
not its filmy ghost in silvery gray merit a passing glance?
So ran my thoughts as I crossed my neighbor’s field, seeking new traces
of frost’s handiwork, but here I failed. The general aspect was wintry,
but definite results of wintry weather could not be found. Even on cold
clay soil dandelions bloomed, and tissue-ice in the wagon ruts had no
discouragement for the grass that bordered it. To sum up the result,
rambling in January during such winter as this is not attractive, unless
one is carried away by the novelty of plants blooming out of season, or
hearing sounds when he expected silence. And a word here of winter
sounds. Except immediately before a snow-storm, the country is never
silent. Here and there, the fields may be deserted, but birds are
somewhere, and these, of both sexes, can not keep quiet long. Of our
winter birds, it can be said that they are essentially noisy, and chirp
more, if they sing less, than birds in summer; and in the anomalous
condition of the outdoor world, at present it was a relief to reach a
hedge with its complement of birds. Their listless chirping now recalled
days with the mercury near zero, when, defying the keen wind from the
north, they sang a hearty welcome to the season and hailed every
snow-squall as a gift from the gods. Nowhere else, however, and I walked
several miles, were birds to be found, save here and there a solitary
crow, and the conclusion is, that such a season drives off rather than
attracts certain species, while others having no incentive to migrate,
have not wandered this far south. I do not know what the result of
observation in general has been, but certainly over my own rambling
ground birds have been noticeably scarce. Flowers out of season are no
compensation for the losses that a thoroughly open winter brings upon
us; the more so, if an open winter lessens the number of our birds.
As the sun rose to-day, the thought “what splendid weather!” was
uppermost, and, impelled by it, I struck across lots for the
uncultivated nooks that are so pitifully few near by. The result has
been given—not a single satisfactory feature in the whole range of half
a dozen miles. A little here and there to wonder over, disappointment at
nearly every turn; more, many more somber than merry thoughts; and not
one successful effort at thinking any thought to a logical conclusion.
To what is this due? Without doubt, to the “open” season. Nor is it
strange. In no respect is nature soul-satisfying when unseasonable. A
cool June morning is not a contradiction, and is delightful; but sultry
January days are an utter abomination. Midwinter kicks over the traces
when daffodils sport in January sunshine, as they are doing this morning
about the crooked maple wherein I sit and write. The truth is, the
present conditions offer no pronounced feature of the open country;
nothing hot or cold, but all in that lukewarm condition tending to
nausea. Nor is this feeling of dissatisfaction that takes so strong a
hold upon mankind confined thereto. It is seen in half the creatures
that one meets. A meadow-mouse is no sluggard at other times, and a lazy
deer-mouse is a contradiction; but with what measured steps and slow a
mouse comes hobbling over the dead leaves about the maple I am perched
in! The creature looks at the sky, then at the ground, and finally at a
sorry shrub with seedless pods. Not a bit of animation in its motions,
but the same dejected feelings I recognize in myself evidently held the
mouse in bondage. Then I moved suddenly, but the creature merely looked
up, as if surprised at so much energy on my part. This was irritating,
so I sprang cat-like to the ground, but only to find the mouse just out
of reach and evidently not alarmed. Climbing again into the maple, I
awaited further developments, and saw at last a white-footed or
deer-mouse that seemed to me to drop from branch to branch, as it
descended from its bush nest, a dozen feet from the ground. This was
indeed discouraging. Usually there is no more graceful sight in the
woods, during autumn or winter, than that of this dainty mammal, picking
its way a-down a crooked highway of a tangled brier-patch. It is a sight
sure to be recorded in full in my note-books, as every time I witness it
some new grace marks the event, so I anticipated the old delight when I
caught my first glimpse of the mouse, and such a result!
It is true that if one’s feelings are out of tune, there may be a
distorted vision, but not so to-day. The world was askew, and has been
since the first frost, for whoever knew the crows to be
silent—positively silent, as compared with crows—on a crisp, frosty
morning? There were forty, by count, that flew over the maple, and only
one gave tongue. Here I may be charged with fancy, but that one crow
gave out no ringing _caw_, that is music to him who loves the country.
It was rather a fretful, long-drawn _pshaw!_ and fittingly voiced the
surroundings.
A winter in the tropics may be very delightful, but an “open” winter in
New Jersey is an utter abomination.
A Foggy Morning.
We know too little of the world except when bathed in sunshine. Not that
I recognize any advantage in groping in darkness—this is too like
dogmatizing on a theory; but between the obscurity of night and
brilliancy of the day there are happy mediums, too commonly neglected. I
have lately been wandering through a thick fog. Not a metaphysical, but
a material one; nor was it gloomy. The fog was thick, yet through it
streamed the level rays of the rising sun, gilding the topmost twigs of
the forest trees, roofing with gold a trackless wild beneath. So changed
for an hour or more was every long-familiar scene that, as I wandered, I
was a stranger in a strange land.
The late John Cassin, the ornithologist, has left on record how a vast
multitude of crows tarried for some time in Independence Square,
Philadelphia, having, after leaving their roosting grounds, lost their
reckoning in a dense fog. He tells us how the masses obeyed a few
leaders, and how methodically they all departed, led by their appointed
scouts. It was an incident that thrilled him more than all else that he
had witnessed; and none knew our birds in their homes better than he.
The bewildered crows this morning recalled this story, for the poor
birds were in a hopeless plight. Perhaps their leaders were at
loggerheads, or, being none, it was a case of each for himself and
ill-luck catch the hindmost. Be this as it may, their party-cries filled
the misty air and relieved me of all feeling of loneliness. From the
open meadows I ventured into a gloomy wood, leaving the crows to solve
their own problems. Here the fog proved an enormous lens, and, at the
same time obscuring the tops of even dwarfed undergrowth, made them
appear as trees, and the taller grasses that had withstood the winter
were as shrubbery. It was this most strange effect that made my old
playground as a land unknown. But as the wild cries of the troubled
crows grew faint, the sense of loneliness, against which one naturally
rebels, assumed mastery, and I longed for at least sunlight, that the
familiar trees might be stripped of their masks. One’s own thoughts
should be acceptable company at all times, but mine are not in the gray
of a winter morning, and fog-wrapped at that. Nevertheless, longing as I
did for others’ voices, I protested then and there against my dependence
upon bird-life. “Are there no other creatures astir?” I asked, and
pushed on yet deeper, where the old oaks were clustered. Into whatever
seemed a shelter I peered, and often thrust my arm, in hopes of feeling
some furry yet not too responsive mass. Nothing resented my unmannered
intrusion. Then into sundry hollow trees I thrust my cane, thinking at
least an owl might be roused from his slumbers; but ill-luck attended
me.
A little later, as the sun rose fairly high, the upper fog descended,
and so far increased the gloom in the forest; but beyond it, as I looked
down a long wood-path, I saw the cold gray light that brightened the
outer world. Among the trees there was no dispelling force, and the fog
became denser, until, overcome by its own weight, it turned to rain, and
such a shower! The mists of the open air had fled, while through the
woods the rain-drops, touched with a mellow light, shone as molten
metal. Rebounding from the interlacing twigs above and the carpet of
matted leaves below, these golden drops rang up, as might a myriad of
bells, the laggard life about me. Rang up the timid shrews, and one
darted among the dead leaves and moss, as though hotly pursued; aroused
the squirrels, and creeping stealthily down an oak’s extended arms, a
pair passed by, thinking by their cunning to escape my notice; called
forth a white-footed mouse, daintiest of all our mammals, that picked
its tortuous way to the meadow from its bush-nest in the briers. What
folly to suppose there is no life about you because it eludes your
search! The quickening rays of the sun have keener vision than any man,
however gifted in woodcraft, and these to-day peered directly into every
creature’s lair.
I might have searched in vain for half a day, yet found nothing among
the trees. Even the nest of the mouse in the bushes I had mistaken for a
cluster of thorn-pierced autumn leaves. It would seem as if every
creature anticipated the possible visit of a Paul Pry, and was cunning
enough to outwit him. The greater the effort made by the intruder, the
less are his chances of seeing much. Let him be patient. Often a moment
or two spent leaning against a tree effects more than a mile of noisy
plowing through the brittle, crackling leaves. The careless snapping of
a twig may not startle you, but it telegraphs your whereabouts to
creatures many a rod away. How do I know this? In this way: Not long
since I was watching a weasel as it tipped along the rough rails of an
old worm fence. It was intently engaged, following the trail of a ground
squirrel perhaps. Suddenly, as if shot, it stood in a half-erect
posture; turned its head quickly from one side to the other; then rested
one ear on or very near the rail, as I thought; then reassumed a
semi-erect position, gave a quick, bark-like cry, and disappeared. There
was no mistaking the meaning of every movement. The animal had heard a
suspicious sound, and recognizing it as fraught with danger, promptly
sought safety.
Extremely curious myself to learn what the weasel had heard, for I was
sure it was the sound of an approaching object, I sat perfectly still,
awaiting coming events. The mystery was quickly solved; a man drew near.
In about two minutes I heard footsteps, and in two more saw the man
approaching. Calculating the element of time in the succession of
events, it appeared that the weasel heard the approaching footsteps
first, fully one minute before I did, and about six elapsed before the
man reached me from the time of the weasel’s disappearance; in all, some
seven minutes. Now, allowing twenty paces to the minute and two and one
half feet to the pace, this man was considerably more than one hundred
yards distant. Indeed, I think he was walking faster and took longer
steps than I have allowed in my calculation, and was really still
farther away than 116 yards when the weasel caught the sound of his
approach. Is it any wonder, then, that the woods seem silent as we
saunter carelessly along?
The question now arises, Can any animal distinguish between the sounds
of the footsteps of our many wild and domestic animals? Can any one of
them recognize the difference between the steps of a man, fox, cow, or
rat? Now, a weasel, for instance, would not fear a cow or a sheep, but
would flee ordinarily from a man or a dog, and so such power of
discrimination would be very useful to it. I am positive that they can
distinguish, in the manner pointed out, between friend and foe, and so
are not required to seek safety at every unusual sound. I know that the
most dolorous screeching made by branches rubbing together whenever the
wind blew had no terror for squirrels or rabbits, yet they must have
trembled when they first heard it; I remember very well that I did. That
fish can recognize the approach of a man and will hide, and yet pay not
the slightest attention to galloping horses or tramping cattle that come
near, is well known; and I can see no reason to deny a like
discriminating ability to those animals whose very existence depends
upon it. The fact that such a power is the mainspring of their safety is
of itself a warrant for our belief that they possess it. And from what I
have observed of animal life, I am further convinced that the power
grows with the animal’s growth; hence the necessity of the young
remaining, as they do, with their parents until well matured. The sense
of hearing in a weasel, raccoon, or other creature is one that develops,
and doubtless varies, in efficiency among individuals. There is no
cut-and-dried instinct about it. I have often thought how much there is
in the saying common among trappers concerning very cunning animals of
any kind, “He is too old to be caught.” As chance has offered, I have
experimented upon our wild animals as to this very point, and though the
results were largely negative, there was nothing in them that showed my
inference, or conviction rather, to be untrue; and, on the other hand,
much that pointed unmistakably the other way.
But what of the clearing fog? True enough, I have drifted from it, and
it has passed earthward and away. So may it ever be! Let but a bird pass
by, singing or silent, it matters not; let but the shadow of a fleeing
creature cross my path, and clouds, sunshine, storm, or fairest weather
are alike one.
The Old Farm’s Wood-Pile.
“In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages long ago.”
This was my wont just forty years ago; but such nights were never
tedious; nor were the ages woful of which the old folks chatted. Sitting
by the fire to-night, I am led to contemplate, not so much the heaped-up
logs and cheerful blaze before me as that other feature of days gone by,
the old farm’s wood-pile.
Recalling both what I saw and heard when a lad of a few summers, I am
startled to find that, one after the other, the prominent features of my
childhood’s days have largely disappeared. Improved farm machinery may
delight the economist, but its introduction has added no new charm to
country life, and robbed it of more than one. Was there not a subtle
something in the swish of the scythe to be preferred to the click of the
modern mower? Harvest comes and goes now without a ripple of excitement
upon the farm. A hum of the reaper for a few hours, and the work is
done. A portable steam-engine puffs in the field for a day, and the
threshing is over. But what a long series of delights, at least to the
onlooker, when grain was cradled, shocked, and then carted to the barn!
And, later, far in the winter, what music was the measured thumping of
the flails!
In due course came the present order, the natural outcome of relentless
evolution, and it is affectation to decry it. Mankind in the long run
has been benefited, and all should be thankful. But with these major
changes have come minor ones that I trust can be mourned without risking
a charge of silliness. I need not name them. Mention of any one calls up
the rest, so closely related were they all. Who can think of the old
wood-pile, a maze of gnarly sticks, huge chopping-log, and the rudely
hafted axe, without a vision also of the old kitchen with its cavernous
fireplace, and, just outside the door, the mossy well with its ungainly
sweep! All these were practically out of date in my time, but here and
there were retained on more than one old farm I knew, and are still in
use within walking distance of my home.
To many, perhaps, a wood-pile is but a pile of wood; but it is something
more. Can you not see that the ground is depressed, as though the earth
had been beaten down by the continued blows of axe and beetle? Do you
not notice that the outlying weeds are different from those that are
scattered elsewhere about the dooryard? Here, there is not only a
wood-pile now, but there has been one for many a long year, perhaps for
more than a century. Turn up the soil and you will find it black;
examine it with a lens, and you will find it filled with wood fiber in
every stage of decomposition. Dig deeper and you will find many a relic
of a by-gone generation. Pewter buttons that once shone like silver, the
pride of beaux who, though Quakers, loved a smart-looking coat; buckles
worn at the knee and upon the shoes; bits of spectacle rims that once
held circular glasses of enormous diameter; a thousand odds and ends,
indeed, of metal, glass, and china, discarded, one by one, as they were
broken; for the wood-pile was a dust-heap as well, and the last
resting-place of every small object that could not be burned.
My own earliest recollection of outdoor sport is of “playing house”
about the generous heap of gnarly logs and crooked branches that had
been brought from the woods during the winter. At some convenient corner
the loose earth would be scooped away, water brought until the hollow
was filled, and a long row of mud pies molded in clamshells, the product
of a happy morning’s work. It was usually when thus engaged that some
curious object would be brought to light and referred for explanation to
the wood-chopper, if he were present. I can see two old men now, whose
sole occupation in their later years, so far as I can recall, was to
split wood. These two men, Uz Gaunt and Miles Overfield, were “master
hands with an axe,” as they promptly said of themselves. With one foot
resting upon the chopping-block, and leaning upon his axe, Uz or Miles
would critically examine whatever I had found; and then, after silently
gazing into the distance to recall the past, with what an air of wisdom
would the information be forthcoming! Nor would either of these old men
ever promptly resume his labor. Such an interruption was sure to call up
a flood of memories, and delightful stories of long ago made me quite
forget my play. Nothing that my own or another’s brain could suggest
ever equaled in interest these old men’s stories. I can not clearly
recall a single one of them now, but simply the effect they produced and
the sad fact that, in their estimation, the present never favorably
compared with the days when they were young. And is it not ever so? If I
have learned nothing else since then I have learned this—that the
glorious future to which as a child I looked forward has proved
everything but what my fancy painted.
There was a comic side to my interviews with the wood-choppers which I
recall even now with grim satisfaction, for I think it was right that I
outwitted an unreasonably cross-grained aunt. Often my heart was sorely
troubled because, in the midst of a most exciting story, Aunt would call
out, “Thee is hindering Miles at his work; he doesn’t like to be
bothered;” all of which was in the interest of the work being done, and
not Miles’s comfort. Not like to be bothered, indeed! Neither he nor Uz
disapproved of loitering, for both were old, and Aunt knew this as well
as they. Before summer was over, a stratagem was devised that succeeded
admirably. I had merely to take my place on the off side of the
wood-pile, where I was quite out of sight, and Miles or Uz would work,
oh, so diligently! at the light wood for half a day, which needed next
to no exertion, and all the while could talk as freely as when taking
his nooning. Perhaps it was not well, but, young as I then was, I
learned that in human nature the real and the apparent are too often as
widely apart as the poles.
The wild life that forty years ago lurked in the woods and swamps of the
old farm was not different from what is still to be found there, but
there has been a great decrease in the numbers of many forms. The wild
cat and fox, perhaps, may be considered as really extinct, although both
are reported at long intervals in the immediate neighborhood. These, it
is certain, are stragglers—the former from the mountains to north, the
latter from the pine regions toward the sea-coast. But it has not been
long since the raccoon was regularly hunted during the moonlit winter
nights and the opposum found security in half the hollow trees along the
hillside. The dreaded skunk was then abundant. None of these, however,
can be said to be of common occurrence now, and their discovery produces
a ripple of excitement at present, while in my early days their capture
excited scarcely a word of comment. Then the old wood-pile was not
infrequently the hiding-place of one or more of these “varmints,” which
raided the hen-roost, kept the old dog in a fever of excitement, and
baffled the trapping skill of the oldest “hands” upon the farm. Now, at
best, when the last sticks are cut and stored in the woodshed, the
burrow of a rat is all we find.
With what glee do I still recall an autumn evening, years ago, when the
unusually furious barking of the old mastiff brought the whole family to
the door! In the dim twilight the dog could be seen dashing at and
retreating from the wood-pile, and at once the meaning of the hubbub was
apparent. Some creature had taken refuge there. A lantern was brought,
and as every man wished to be the hero of the hour, my aunt held the
light. The wood-pile was surrounded; every stick was quickly overturned,
and finally a skunk was dislodged. Confused or attracted by the light, I
do not know which, the “varmint” made straightway for the ample skirts
of the old lady, followed by the dog, and, in a second, skunk, dog,
lady, and lantern were one indistinguishable mass. My aunt proved the
heroine of the evening, nor did the men object. I often pause at the
very spot, and fancy that “the scent of the roses” doth “hang round it
still.”
A wood-pile, if it be not too near the house, has many attractions for
birds of various kinds, and I am at a loss to know why the
whip-poor-will should, of recent years, have forsaken it. Formerly, the
first of these birds heard in early spring was that which perched upon
the topmost stick and whistled his trisyllabic monologue from dark to
dawn. Now they frequent only the retired woodland tracts. Various
insect-eating birds continually come and go, attracted by the food they
find in the decayed wood, but the house-wren remains throughout its
summer sojourn here—that is, from April to October; while during the
colder months the winter wren takes the other’s place. These little
brown birds are exceedingly alike in appearance, in habits, and in size,
and I shall never forget my communicating the fact that they were not
the same to Miles Overfield. It was almost my last conversation with
him.
“Not the same?” he exclaimed. “You might as well tell me that a
snow-bird isn’t a chippy in its winter dress!”
“They are not, indeed!” I replied, astonished to hear so remarkable a
statement.
“So you set up book-learnin’ against me about such things as that, eh?”
Miles remarked, with unlimited scorn in both his voice and manner; and
from that time I lost favor in his eyes. Such crude ideas concerning our
common birds are still very common, nor is it to be wondered at.
Knowledge of local natural history is still at a discount. Is there a
country school where even its barest rudiments are taught?
The heaped-up logs that, burning brightly, made cheery my room when I
sat down for a quiet evening’s meditation, are now a bed of ashes and
lurid coals. They typify the modern wood-piles about our farms—mere
heaps of refuse sticks and windfall branches of our dooryard trees. Fit
for kindling, perhaps, but never for a generous fire upon an open
hearth. As I linger over them, the irrecoverable past, with all its
pleasures to the fore, comes back with painful vividness. The fantastic
shapes of the ruddy coals, the caverns in the loose ashes, the shadows
of the andirons, the filmy thread of smoke, are a landscape to my fancy,
upon which my eyes can never dwell again. In the faint moaning of the
wind that fills the chimney corner I hear a voice, long stilled, whose
music led me dancing through the world. Place and people are alike
changed. “All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.”
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