PART II.

IN SPRING.

-------

The April Moon.

Of the thirteen moons of the year, not one is of such significance to

the outdoor naturalist as that of April. I think that there can be no

doubt but that a clear sky, rather than temperature, is the important

factor in the migratory movement of our birds that come from the South

in spring. Certainly the morning of April 14th, of this year, was cool

enough to have retarded birds sensitive to cold. Ice formed on shallow

ponds and a heavy frost rested upon all the upland fields; yet at

sunrise the old beeches were alive with those beautiful birds, the

yellow red-polled warblers. Nor were they numb or dumb. There was not an

instant that they rested, nor a moment that they did not sing. The April

moon, too, has the merit of brightening the marshes, when in fullest

force the frog-world comes to the fore, and perhaps never are these

slimy batrachians so noisy as when the night is warm, the sky clear, and

the moon full in April. Take a midnight ramble then, and see if I am not

right. Of course, no one wishes to be confined to the company of

croaking frogs, but other creatures will doubtless cross your path, and

I assume the reader does not live in an utterly desolate region. My

reference to frogs may seem to imply contempt, but it is not deserved.

If they are not overwise, neither are they wholly stupid, and it is well

for all men to be chary of their judgments. There are times and

occasions when a frog may outwit a philosopher. Try to catch one on

slippery mud, and see which sprawls the more gracefully.

I recently rambled for half a night over acres of wild marsh, and, while

I often wished myself at home or that I could grasp the arm of a friend,

yet am heartily glad, now that it is over, that I undertook to trespass

upon the haunts of owls, frogs, bitterns, and a host of minor creatures.

But let me be more explicit, and a word further concerning frogs. In the

tide marshes, where the shallow water has been warmed by the noonday

sun, the pretty little _hylodes_ were holding high carnival. I strolled

leisurely, at this stage of my ramble, to the water’s edge, but only to

find that the creatures could only be heard, not seen; unless, indeed,

the trembling specks upon the glimmering pools, which faded out at my

approach, were they. The piercing shrillness of their united songs was

something wonderful. It was not so much a chorus as the wildest orgies

of Lilliputian fifers. At times the song of this same frog is the sharp

clicking of a castanet, hence their name in zoölogy, _Acris crepitans_,

but none were crepitating that night. Yesterday I waded into a wet

meadow and crouched upon a projecting hassock. Thousands of the fifing

frogs were about me, but I could see none. I long sat there, hoping that

my patience would be rewarded in time, and so it was. At last one came

cautiously from its hiding-place in the submerged grass, thrusting but

its head above the water’s surface, and scanned closely its

surroundings. It eyed me most suspiciously, and then slowly crawled out

upon outreaching grass until quite above the water. It seemed very long

before it was suited to its perch but when comfortably fixed, appeared

to gulp in a great mouthful of air; in fact, must have done so, for

immediately an enormous globular sac formed beneath its lower jaw. The

sunlight being favorable, I could see that the sac contained about two

drops of water. Then the fifing commenced. The motion of the mouth was

too slight to be detected, but the membranous globe decreased or

increased with each utterance. At no time did it wholly disappear.

Noting so much, I then moved slightly to attract the creature’s

attention. Immediately it ceased fifing, but the sac remained slightly

diminished in size. As I was again perfectly quiet, its confidence

returned, and the shrill monotonous “peep!” was resumed, but pitched in

even a higher key, as though to make good the loss of time my slight

interference had caused.

When Peter Kalm, the Swedish naturalist, was studying the natural

history of New Jersey, he was much struck with the noises made by

certain small frogs which he heard, and supposed that he saw; but it

would appear, from a recent study of the subject by Prof. Garman, of

Cambridge, Mass. that Kalm attributed the voices of one species to a

very different and much larger frog. The reasons given for this opinion

by Prof. Garman are conclusive; that author remarks; “Apparently the

frog Kalm heard was not the one he caught. The cry is that of _Hyla

Pickeringii_; the frog taken was probably ... the leopard, frog.” So

far, Garman; but I am convinced my friend is mistaken, and that Kalm

heard the shrill peeping of the little _Acris crepitans_, which is

extraordinarily abundant, while, in the locality where Kalm was,

Pickering’s _hyla_ is comparatively rare.

I lingered long by the resounding marsh—so long that the chilly damp

provoked an aguish pain, and admonished by it I turned toward the

leafless trees upon the bluff, where I hoped to find a drier atmosphere.

The moon was well upon her westward course when I reached higher ground,

and what a change from the open meadows to gloomy woodland! The dark

shadows of noonday are not repeated during a moonlit night. They are not

only less distinct, but quivering, as though they, too, shivered as the

air grew cold. It is not strange that one peoples the distance then with

uncouth shapes, and sees a monster wherever moves a mite. However one

may argue to himself that this is the same wood-path down which he daily

passes without a thought, and that since sunset no strange creatures can

have come upon the scene, he sees a dozen such, it may be, in spite of

every effort to laugh them out of existence. Let a spider crawl over

your face at noon, and you brush the creature from you almost

unconsciously. Let a filmy cobweb rest upon your damp forehead at

midnight, and you struggle to be rid of it, as though bound with a rope.

The mingled sounds of myriad frogs, the hooting of owls, the rustling

leaves beneath the shrew’s light tread, even the chirping of a dreaming

bird, can not assure you. Every tree is the ambush of a lurking elf;

ghosts and hobgoblins follow in your steps. I have abundant sympathy for

those who, walking through moonlit woods, whistle to keep their courage

up.

Such, in a measure, were my own feelings until I reached a glade where

the light fell softly upon the wind-swept sod. There the immaterial

world vanished, and I was no longer the companion of uncanny sprites.

Resting from a long journey, yet not disposed to sleep, a pair of

woodcocks stalked leisurely across my path without deigning to notice my

approach. I drew back a pace or two, and watched them pass by. They did

not leave the glade, but seemed to be scanning every foot of it, perhaps

discussing its merits as a summer resort. Then first one and then the

other took a short upward and circuitous flight, and in a few seconds

returned. This was frequently done. Was it to hail passing migrants? I

ask this seriously, for I have known several pairs to frequent a cluster

of rhododendrons all through the month of March, and yet none nested

until late in April: _per contra_, I have found their eggs in February.

The movements of this pair, as I saw them, were mysterious, but I could

do nothing in so uncertain a light toward unraveling the mystery, and

contented myself with attracting their attention. I whistled shrilly but

a single note, and as if shot the birds came to a halt. I whistled

again, and they drew nearer to me, as I thought; but if so, I became no

mystery to them, and upward and outward over the meadows, with a great

whirring of their wings, they vanished.

This was so trivial an incident that, had it no sequel, would not be

worthy of record. I have said I whistled shrilly a single note. It

roused a sleeping cardinal near by, which straightened its crest, shook

out its rumpled down, stared into vacant space, and whistled in return.

I quickly replied, and so we had the woods to echo with our calls. “What

can the matter be?” asked another and another of these birds, until the

whole hillside sounded with their cries. I was lonely no longer. The

moon shone with added luster, the grewsome shadows of the dwarfed cedars

fled, and, but for the twinkling of a million stars, I might have

thought it day. But the pleasing fancy was of short duration. Bird after

bird resumed its slumbers. Silence and a deeper gloom reigned in the

forest, nor did my heart cease to beat nervously until I reached my

home.

Concerning Small Owls.

It may be April according to the almanac, and yet midwinter, judging by

the thermometer; and perhaps, as a rule, March winds continue their

chilly gustiness until the fourth month is well advanced. I have scoured

a weather-wise neighborhood for some “saying” about this feature of our

climate, but gathered nothing not absolutely childish; but, if so run

the days, the nights of April have a merit peculiarly their own; by the

light of the waxing moon, let the temperature be high or low, the

north-bound migratory birds begin to come. I saw a few of them during

the last week in March; but it was when the April moon was eight days

old that field sparrows trooped hitherward by thousands, and how the

bare upland fields rang with their glee!

There is another happy feature of spring’s initial days. The winds, be

they never so boisterous from dawn to sunset, rest during the night, and

nocturnal life rejoices. What a mighty volume of sound arises from the

marshes when the wind-tossed waters are at rest! The tiny hylodes, the

smallest of our frogs, is fairly ecstatic now, and, were there no other

voices to be heard, this creature alone would dispel all feeling of

loneliness.

But what of a ramble during an April night? After an almost tempestuous

day, there was little promise of anything akin to adventure, judging the

landscape from my open door. However confirmed in the strolling habit

might be the saunterer, rambling at night, with but frogs for company,

is scarcely tempting, even though the moon shines brilliantly. Then, it

occurred to me, is it not enough that the wind had ceased, and that

out-of-doors it is something more than merely April in name? Therefore,

expecting little and hoping less, I ventured abroad, directing my steps,

as usual, meadow-ward. And it was not with, as might seem at first, an

altogether undesirable and non-receptive frame of mind. One is far more

likely to be content with little, and not wholly disappointed if his

walk proves without adventure. But the latter is seldom or never the

result. It is a strange night that finds the whole world asleep.

Certainly I never found it so before, and did not to-night. By the pale

light of the cloud-wrapped moon, stately herons wended their way from

the river to the meadows, and twice a little owl hooted at me as I

passed by the hollow hickory that stands as a lonely sentinel in the

midst of a wide reach of pasture. Here was an instance when to be hooted

at was a positive pleasure. The little owlet questioned the propriety of

my being abroad at night, nor was he at all mealy-mouthed. He did not

complain merely, but scolded unmistakably; and hovering above me as well

as when flitting from branch to branch, he snapped his little beak most

viciously. It was evident that fear of myself did not influence the owl

at all, but he was provoked because my presence interfered with his

plans. The bird knew well enough that I would keep the mice away by

standing in full sight out in the open meadow. I have been puzzled, at

times, to interpret the chirps and twitters of excited birds, and this

irate little owl cried “Get out!” as plainly as man could speak it, and

I got out.

In all works treating of the intelligence of animals there is much said

of the mental status of parrots, and little or nothing of the mother-wit

of owls. Why this oversight is a mystery, unless it arises from the fact

that “from the nocturnal preferences of most owls their habits are very

slightly known, and many interesting facts are doubtless to be

discovered in this direction. More often heard than seen, even their

notes are only imperfectly known as yet.” Notwithstanding this, owls are

well known in a general way—better known, indeed, than any other family

of birds. Their appearance is striking, their expression intelligent,

and that they were selected, in ancient and more poetical times, as the

emblem of wisdom, is not to be wondered at. The bird of Minerva does not

belie its looks. To speak of an owl’s wisdom in a Pickwickian sense, is

to publish one’s own ignorance. I would that I might venture to give in

merited detail an account of the wise doings, if not sayings, of little

red owls that I have held captives for months. And, better yet, narrate

the summer histories of owls at freedom that nested in the old orchard.

Or write of the cunning ways of the handsome barn-owls, those beautiful

cosmopolite birds, that made their home in a hollow oak upon an upland

field.

To do this would be to place our common owls where, in the scale of

intelligence, they rightfully belong. Of all our birds, they are the

least governed by mere impulse, and pass their days, as it has appeared

to me, in a most methodical and reasonable manner. It has been admitted

by many a traveler that to shoot a monkey was too like murder; they

could not do it. Would that every farmer in the land had the same

feeling with reference to the owls; for the same reason holds good, only

to a less extent.

It is true that we know very little about the various cries of owls, but

every country lad, at least, knows that the bird’s utterances are not

merely slight variations of a typical hoot, or the _to-whit to-whoo_ of

the poets. Well I remember how, evening after evening, when in camp in

southern Ohio, the great horned owls made night melancholy rather than

hideous, by their sonorous _hoo-hoo-hoo!_ At first afar off, and then

nearer and clearer, sounded their incessant call, as, flitting from one

tall sycamore to another, they slowly approached the red glare of the

camp-fire. Their hooting varied not a whit, but merely grew more

distinct, and for long I thought them capable of no other utterance, but

how great an error this was evident, when at last one of these huge

birds perched in the oak that sheltered my tent. The melancholy

_hoo-hoo-hoo!_ was the same, but with this were a host of minor notes,

and these were once followed by a series of explosive, ill-tempered

ejaculations when the little red owls that had their home in this same

oak scolded without ceasing at the intrusion. I can liken the hubbub to

nothing but the subdued clamor of excited geese. In like manner I was

scolded by the little owl on the meadow hickory. The moonlit September

night on the bluff of Brush Creek was vividly recalled.

Owls need but to be more closely studied, and, if in confinement, to be

treated with kindness and attended by one person, to demonstrate that

all the wisdom seeming to lurk behind their expressive faces is really

there. In matters of animal intelligence I know that I am heterodox, for

I give the crow prominence equal to the parrot, and strongly doubt if

owls should stand much behind them.

A Hidden Highway.

A wide tract of meadows that skirt the river near my home, and upon

which much wealth and labor have been expended in years past, was the

abode of desolation in the eyes of the sturdy settlers two hundred years

ago, and so treacherous the footing in every direction—so the record

runs—that the hunted bears and deer would come to a stand rather than

plunge headlong into the trackless waste. With proper caution the tract

was finally explored, mapped, and ditched, and now there is small chance

of disaster unless the rambler is culpably negligent.

I hold that one should think kindly of a ditch. The commonly imputed

repulsiveness of such a waterway is more often wanting than present, and

nearly all that I have seen have teemed with interesting life. What are

the brooks, indeed, that turn a poet’s head, but Nature’s own ditches?

As to those of man’s creation, they need but a little time, and they

will assume every function of a natural watercourse.

As I stood recently upon rising ground overlooking a pasture meadow that

was brown as a nut with its carpet of dead grass, I noticed a long,

straight line of weed-like growths still showing a tinge of green, as if

the frost had spared a narrow strip of the exposed tract. Viewing it

from other points, it was evident that a ditch had once been dug where

these ranker grasses grew, and through long neglect it had finally been

choked with weeds and almost obliterated. It was a delightful discovery.

Armed with a spade, a hoe, and sundry tools of greater or less

efficiency, I set out to explore this one-time watercourse, thinking it

child’s play to move tons of matted weeds and mud. How much or how

little I accomplished it matters not, but the fierce onslaught of

unreasoning enthusiasm broke in the door of a zoölogical El Dorado.

Jetsam and flotsam from the yearly freshets, showers of wind-tossed

autumn leaves, a forest of rank growths that revel in the mud, all had

added their quota, unchecked, to the baneful work of damming the little

stream, which finally had been shut from view, but, as it proved, not

wholly overcome. A narrow, tube-like channel still remained, with the

mud below and upon each side almost as yielding as the water itself.

Here fish, turtles, and creeping things innumerable not only lived, but

wended their darksome way from the open ditch not far off to the basins

of the sparkling springs at the hill-foot. I had discovered a hidden

highway, a busy thoroughfare that teemed with active life.

Except with those forms of life that by their construction are solely

adapted to a subterranean existence, as the earth-worm, or to a fixed

one, as the oyster, we commonly associate our familiar forms of wild

animals with unlimited freedom of movement, and suppose that they have

the wide world before them to wander where they list; and, again, that

of creatures as high in the scale as fishes and upward the supposition

is that in proportion to their freedom of movement are their chances of

escape when pursued. Now these, like many another common impression, are

true in a general way, but fairly bristle with exceptions. For instance,

there are many extremely sluggish fishes, yet what creatures are more

agile and swift than the minnows in our brooks? And there are fishes

that can walk on the mud with their bodies entirely out of the water.

Dr. Gunther tells us that “the Barramunda is said to be in the habit of

going on land, or at least on mud-flats; and this assertion appears to

be borne out by the fact that it is provided with a lung.... It is also

said to make a grunting noise, which may be heard at night for some

distance.”

So far Australia; and now what of New Jersey mud-flats and the fishes

that frequent them? As I continued to explore the hidden highway of

snakes, turtles, and fishes, I found in almost every spadeful of mud and

matted weeds one or more brown-black fishes that were as much at home as

ever an earth-worm in the firmer soil. Blunt-headed, cylindrical,

thick-set, and strongly finned, these fishes were built to overcome many

an obstacle that would prove insuperable to almost any other. How,

indeed, they burrowed even in soft mud is not readily explained; that

they do advance head-foremost into such a trackless mass is

unquestionable.

How long these mud-fish tarry in such spots I can not say, but during

the long-dry summer this one-time ditch must be almost as dry as dust,

and then probably it is quite forsaken; but their powers of endurance

may be underestimated. Of the African “Lepidosiren” Dr. Gunther remarks:

“During the dry season specimens living in shallow waters which

periodically dry up form a cavity in the mud, the inside of which they

line with a protecting capsule of mucus, and from which they emerge

again when the rains refill the pools inhabited by them. While they

remain in this torpid state of existence the clay balls containing them

are frequently dug out, and if the capsules are not broken the fishes

imbedded in them can be transported to Europe, and released by being

immersed in slightly tepid water.”

The many mud-fishes that I tossed upon the dead grass had clearly no

liking for an atmospheric bath, and floundered about in a typical

fish-like fashion; but not for long. Finding no open water near, they

became quiet at once when by chance they fell into some little cavity of

the mud masses from which the water had not drained. All such fortunate

fishes seemed quite at ease, and remained motionless where their good

luck had brought them; but the moment I attempted to pick them up they

twisted like eels upon their muddy beds, and buried themselves

head-foremost with a rapidity that was simply marvelous. This perhaps is

what the reader would expect, but it struck me as a little strange,

because, when I startled others of these fishes as they rested among the

weeds or on the sand of the open ditches, they usually gave a twist of

the tail that dug a pit in a twinkling, and in this the fishes sank,

tail-foremost.

When in the mud these curious minnows can only feel their way, and if

they procure any food at all at such a time it can only be such objects

as come directly in contact with their mouths. But how different is it

when these same fishes are in open water! They are expert fly-catchers

then, and capture many an insect that would be lost to a trout or chub.

They have not to wait for flies to fall upon the surface, but seize

those that happen to alight upon overhanging blades of grass or any

projecting twig. The distance that they will leap above the water is

remarkable, the spring being preceded by a withdrawal from the object

and a slight sigmoid curvature of the body, involving, I suppose, the

same principle as that of a short run before jumping. Mud minnows two

inches in length, which I kept in an aquarium, were proved capable of

leaping above the water a distance equal to twice their length; but

others, much larger, could not or would not leap so far. So far as my

own observations extend, exhibitions of this leaping from the water to

seize insects are not often witnessed, and it was my aquarium studies

that led me to watch these fishes closely when in the muddy ponds and

ditches. Once, when so engaged, I saw the following: One of these

minnows, little more than an inch in length, sighted an insect at the

same moment that it was seen by a huge female minnow more than thrice

the other’s length. The little fellow had all the advantage, however, as

it was much nearer the fly, and at the proper instant away it leaped,

caught the insect, and sank back—but not to the water. That hungry

ogress was willing to be fed by proxy, as it were, and, permitting the

little minnow to swallow the fly, she promptly swallowed both.

Tiring of the fish at last, and having long since wearied of reopening

the ditch, I turned my attention to the other creatures that I had

unearthed. Among them were four species of turtles, each represented by

several individuals. One of these was the Muhlenberg tortoise, the

rarest of American chelonians. Probably just here, over a few hundred

acres of the Delaware meadows, there are more of them than in the whole

world besides. The fact of their great rarity makes them the more

interesting to a naturalist; but to-day they proved exceedingly stupid,

far more so than the others, which in a mild way resented my

interference, and pranced over the dead grass quite energetically,

reaching the nearest open ditch in good time, and to my surprise they

all seemed governed by a sense of direction. They went but little if any

out of their way. Not so with the “Muhlenbergs”; they seemed dazed for a

long time, and finally, after much looking about, they started, the four

together, in the wrong direction, and would have had a weary journey to

reach open water. Again and again I faced them about, but they would not

go as I wished. Such obstinate turtles I had never seen before, and I

almost felt convinced that they were impelled by some common impression

very different from that which actuated the others. As is often the

case, I was all at sea in my efforts to interpret their purposes.

Letting them alone, they waddled through the grass for a few yards only,

when they reached little pools that met all their needs.

About what time the summer birds have arrived, and golden-club blooms in

the tide-water creeks, gilding the mud-flats that have so long been

bare, the turtles, or three at least of our eight aquatic species, begin

“sunning” themselves, as it is usually said, but they continue the

practice through rainy and cloudy days. Every projecting stump, stranded

fence-rail or bit of lumber capable of bearing any weight is sure to be

the resting-place of one, and if there is room, of a dozen turtles. I

once counted seventeen on a fence-rail, and thirty-nine on a raft-log

that the freshets had stranded on the meadows. Why, at such a time,

should these creatures be so timid? They certainly have no enemies about

here, and their horny shields would effectually protect them if fishing

mammals like the mink and otter should acquire aldermanic tastes; and

yet, so far as I can determine by experimentation, there is scarcely an

animal more timid than the painted or spotted water-turtle. Fear, with

nothing to be afraid of, is a contradiction, and I am led to suggest

that the timidity is hereditary. Something over two centuries ago the

Delaware Indians hunted and fished these meadows without ceasing; and

there can still be gathered the bones of such animals as they ate from

the ashes of their camp-fires. Turtle-bones almost equal in number those

of our larger fishes. Have we a clew here to the mystery? Do the turtles

of to-day inherit a fear of man? This may seem an absurdity, or verging

toward it, but it is not. A critic at my elbow—a plague upon their

race!—reminds me that I once commented upon the tameness of the turtles

at Lake Hopatcong, in northern New Jersey, and adds, aggravatingly, that

that region was a favorite resort of the Indians. If this stricture

holds, then I can suggest for the Delaware Valley turtles that it is a

fear, born with each generation, of the railway cars that hourly rumble

over an elastic road-bed, and cause the whole meadows to tremble. Terror

may seize the turtles when they feel their world shake beneath them, and

this disturbance they may attribute to man’s presence. This is not so

rational, and I do know that turtles distinguish between men and

domestic animals. They are not afraid of cows; of this I have abundant

proof, although I do not accept as true the remark of Miles Overfield:

“Afeard o’ cattle? Not much. Why, I’ve seen tortles line a cow’s back,

when she stood flank-deep in the water.”

I had noticed that the narrow, tube-like channel of the obliterated

ditch grew less defined as I dug in one direction, so I paced off a rod

in advance and made a cross-section. Here it could not be traced, but a

half-dozen very small openings, circular in outline, could be seen, and

through some of these the water slowly trickled. I found a single

mole-cricket, and attribute to it and others of its kind these little

tunnels. Certainly more persistent burrowers do not exist, and I have

known them to cause mischief to a mill-dam which was attributed to

musk-rats. “They are,” says Prof. Riley, “the true moles of the insect

world, and make tortuous galleries, destroying everything that comes in

their way, cutting through roots, and eating the fine underground twigs,

as well as the worms and grubs, which they meet with during their

burrowings.”

A volume would not suffice to enumerate the invertebrate or insect-like

life that lived in this dark passage-way beneath the sod; nor do we

wonder at finding such low forms groping in utter darkness; but why

higher animals that are found, and far more frequently, in the open air

and sunlit waters should delight to crowd these same gloomy quarters, is

a problem not so easily solved. We are left to conjecture, and

invariably do so, and are often overwhelmed when an army of objections

confront our theories. Notwithstanding this, there is a pleasure in

reopening an obliterated ditch, in letting in the light upon a hidden

highway, for by so doing we also let in light upon ourselves, seeing

with clearer vision the wonderful world about us.

Weathercocks.

During a six-mile drive, recently, I passed by eleven barns, upon nine

of which were weathercocks. No two, I am positive, pointed in the same

direction, and only one was very near to being right. Such, at least,

was the conclusion, testing them by the compass, the movement of the

clouds, and the wetted fingers which my companion and myself held up.

Alas! I and my friend were at odds so far as the last test was

concerned. It is little wonder that weather-prophets are so apt to be at

loggerheads, if the direction of the wind admits of discussion. Could

the various shapes of these weathercocks have had to do with the matter,

assuming that the nine we saw were in working order? If so, what is a

reliable pattern? I remember a remarkable wooden Indian with one foot

raised as if the fellow was hopping, and with an impossible bow so held

as to indicate that an arrow was about to be discharged. This wooden man

obediently twirled to and fro in every passing breeze; but you were left

in a quandary as to whether the wind’s direction was indicated by the

uplifted foot or by the bow and arrow; for they pointed in opposite

directions. “That is the merit of the vane,” once said the owner of the

barn over which this “shapeless sculpture” towered; “you can use your

own judgment.” Of the weathercocks seen on our ride there were one deer,

two fishes, three arrows, a wild goose, and two gilded horses at full

gallop. Only the wild goose told the truth, or almost told it. Now, as

each farmer judges the weather of the day by the direction of the wind,

think of bringing the owners of these nine differing weathercocks

together! Each puts implicit faith in his own vane, and we all know what

subject is first broached when two or twenty men are gathered together.

Something like this would be the classification of the unhappy nine: Two

positive clear-weather folk, two hopefully ditto, and five that

predicted rain before night. Put it in another way: Four men would

think, if they did not call, five men fools; and, all being equally

obstinate, there would be the same division whatever was discussed. So,

at least, the world wags in one section of our country.

There is much more stress laid upon the direction of the wind, in this

matter of the weather, than is warranted by the facts. Those deadly

statistics, that are gall and wormwood to the weather-wise, prove this.

Even a northeast wind may blow for three days without one drop of rain.

When this happens, we hear of a “dry storm”—curious name for bright,

clear days, perhaps with a cloudless sky, that, by virtue of the cool

breeze, from the east, are well-nigh perfect. Or we are told that the

moon held back the water and the next storm will be doubly wet. Ay! even

that Jupiter or Mars had a finger in the pie and disturbed the proper

order of wind and rain. It is painful to think that so many thousands

still believe that not only ourselves, but even the poor weather, is

under the domination of the moon and stars. How little the planets must

have to do, to trouble themselves about our little globe! “I don’t like

to see that star so shiny,” a wiseacre recently remarked, pointing to

Venus; “it’s a bad sign”; but of what, the simpleton could not or would

not tell. And as to comets, or even meteors, if they are more numerous

than usual, they make hundreds miserable. The truth is, that the

valuable treatises upon weather, the outcome of patient study and

scientific method, still go a-begging, while the crudities of

weather-cranks find ready credence. And the day is still distant, I

believe, when it will be otherwise.

What can not be said of weathercocks as symbols of disappointment? To

how many a country-bred boy has fallen the unhappy lot of being

storm-bound when a fishing frolic has been planned! My initial grief was

that an April day proved stormy that should have been clear as crystal.

The time, the tide, the moon, all the essential and unessential

requirements of shad-fishing in Crosswicks Creek, were favorable, and

to-morrow, Saturday, I was to be one of the party. A mere onlooker, to

be sure, but what mattered that? I had heard of shad-fishing all winter

long, and now, being seven years old, was allowed to be one of the

party. O tedious Friday! Would school never be dismissed? O endless

Friday night! Had the sun forgotten to rise? And all Saturday it rained!

That horrid wooden Indian, of which we have heard, fairly grinned with

fiendish delight as it faced the leaden east and received the driving

rain with open arms. It never moved an inch from dawn to sunset. Yes,

once it moved. During a lull I slipped out-of-doors, and bribed an older

lad to stone the obstinate vane. One sharp pebble mutilated the

head-dress and sent the Indian spinning about, regardless of wind or

weather; but when at rest again the face was looking eastward. O

pestiferous weathercocks that point to the east on Saturday!

Why vanes should have been so generally shaped like a crowing

chanticleer as to give rise to the more common name of “weathercocks” is

not easily determined. Of a few explanations seen or heard, none had a

modicum of common sense. When and where, too, the first vane was set up,

whether cock or arrow, is an unsolvable problem. Possibly it is

necessary to grope backward into prehistoric times; although Rütimeyer

does not give the common fowl as one of the birds found in the _débris_

beneath the ancient lake-dwellings of Switzerland. It may be added, too,

that chickens are not weather prophets, as are geese and peacocks;

notwithstanding they figure somewhat conspicuously in all animal

weather-lore, and have done so since 250 B. C., if not earlier. Aratus,

in his Diosemeia, or Prognostics, for instance, claims that a cock, when

unusually restless or noisy, foretells a coming storm, and this nonsense

is believed to-day by a fair proportion of our rural population. Of

course, modifications of this are well-nigh innumerable, and one of

them, when a small boy, I found useful. If a cock came to the open

kitchen door, company was coming—such was the firm conviction of a trio

of aunts who ruled the household. Now, company-coming meant pie or

pudding, and to a small boy this means a great deal. Acting upon it, the

crowing of a cock was faithfully practiced in the woods, and then, while

my brother singled out a rooster and drove it to the door, I crowed

lustily from behind the lilac-bushes; and the _ruse_ brought pie and

pudding more than once, but not too often to weaken these credulous

women’s faith.

I have mentioned a dry storm with the wind due east. There was one such

at the close of the first week in April, 1889. The air was

exasperatingly chilly. Even the frogs in the marshes were silent, and

humanity was ill-natured and despondent. While standing on the lee side

of an old oak I chanced upon a glorious weathercock—one that would shame

the despairing thoughts of any reasonable man. That prince of winter

birds, a crested tit, sat long upon a leafless twig facing the cruel

east wind, sat there and sang, clinging, as for dear life, to the

swaying branch, _T’sweet here! T’sweet here!_ the burden of its song;

the ever-hopeful story of this incomparable bird. What if the east wind

did blow? Was there not, here and there, a trembling violet in the

woods; a filmy veil of white where the whitlow grasses bloomed; a

flashing of the maple’s ruddy fire where the fitful sunshine fell? All

these gave promise to the brave-hearted bird, of spring as coming, if

not quite here. Let me take the hint. Give me just such a weathercock

for each day of the year.

Apple-Blossoms.

During the whole of April, the old apple-trees in the lane are closely

watched, and not without a deal of impatience, too. “Will they blossom

freely?” is asked almost daily, and what a world of anticipation hinges

upon this wondrous wealth of bloom!

To linger in the lane when the old trees are flower-laden; when the air

is heavy with a honeyed scent; when the bees’ low hum fills the long,

leafy arch, and every summer bird is happiest—this is an experience too

valued to be lost; one that sweetens life until spring shall come again.

The trees are old. They have more than rounded a full half-century, and

now bend with the weight of many winters. They are ragged rather than

rugged; yet, game to the last, are again sturdily upholding to the

bright sunshine of merry May mornings a marvelous wealth of bloom.

As seen from the crests of the rolling hills beyond, this double row of

trees recalls a huge snow-bank, such as has often filled the lane in

winter—recalls such as I have seen at sunrise, when they were tinged

with a rosy light. In winter, I have often thought of the blossoming

trees in May: now I recall the lifeless beauty of midwinter snows. In

winter the beauty of the marble statue held me: now, the joy of a living

form.

But apple-blossoms bear well a close inspection. Better than a

comprehensive view from the neighboring fields is to draw near, to walk

beneath and beside them, to linger in their scented shade. Time after

time, until now, a shadow of doubt has crossed our paths, when we

gathered early bloom. The wail of winter winds still sounded in every

passing breeze, although we plucked violets from the greensward beneath

budding trees. Too often, in April, we are over-confident; but there is

little danger of disaster now. Apple-blossoms are the first assuring

gift of fruitful summer. Grim winter is powerless now, to wound us.

Tricksy April can play no heartless pranks.

What summer sound is more suggestive than the hum of bees? Certainly not

even the song of the returning birds. As I look among the flower-laden

boughs above me, I can see not only the bees from the hive, the true

honey-gatherers, but burly humble-bees go whizzing through the rosy

labyrinths, or, dipping down to a level with my upturned face, threaten

fierce vengeance if I draw too near. Again and again they come, one

after another, and each time, I think, a little nearer, yet never,

despite their bluster, venturing to sting. To be sure, I make no threats

in return, nor run away, and so my bold front may deter them, for they

really seem to read our thoughts at times. Not so their cousins, the

autumn wasps. They brook nothing. I remember, one October morning,

throwing a stone at and bringing down an apple, upon which, as it

happened, a wasp was feeding at the time. The ruffled insect came the

first to the ground, and not only promptly stung me when I stooped to

pick up the apple, but followed me across the lawn, into the house, and

darted most viciously at my face, time after time.

When the old bee-bench, with its half-dozen rude boxes, stood by the

gooseberry hedge in my grandfather’s garden, the lane, when the trees

were in blossom, was, as I recall that time, even more thronged by bees

than now, and the mighty humming of their wings forcibly suggested the

rapid flow of water; as the roar of the mill-dam, after a heavy rain. So

great a volume of sound, indeed, was there all day, that the night was

silent in comparison. So ran my thoughts; so returned vague visions of

past years, as I lingered in the lane to-day. But after all, may it not

be that I, rather than the conditions, have changed? How often have I

longed to hear the songs, to see the bloom, to catch the fragrant breeze

that held me spellbound when a boy; and all these later, fleeting years,

I have hoped for them in vain!

With the apple-blossoms come the birds’ nests, and who that has lived in

the country knew not of a robin’s home in some old apple tree? And did

ever a bird sing merrier strains than this same robin at sunrise? Or,

even better, as the sun shone forth again, after a shower, the rapid

roll of his rejoicing, as he perched upon his home-tree’s loftiest

branch.

It is the rule, apparently, that very old apple-trees have great hollows

in them. If the entire trunk is not a shell, then here and there, where

branches have decayed and fallen, caves of considerable depth are found,

and how quickly wild life tenants such snug quarters! A few of our

mammals, many birds, several snakes, besides one species of salamander,

and the tree-toad, have been found at home in hollow apple-trees. If,

therefore, such a tree stands not too near a dwelling, its occupants may

epitomize the fauna of a farm. Although, after a rain, I have found

pools of water in old trees, there were no fish, and these need not be

looked for, unless some venturous mud-minnow, that now can work its way

over narrow mud-flats, shall, in time, take to climbing trees, as does a

perch that is well known to ichthyologists. “In 1794, Daldorf,” says Dr.

Gunther, “in a memoir ... mentions that in 1791 he had himself taken an

Anabas in the act of ascending a palm-tree which grew near a pond. The

fish had reached the height of five feet above the water, and was going

still higher.”

When I peer into the hollow trees in the lane, here, at home, I only

expect to find birds, and seldom have been disappointed, except so far

as the English sparrow has ousted the old-time bluebird. It is

exasperating to think that the latter have been crowded out and now

gather in the more retired woodland areas to breed. What song better

fitted with apple-blossoms of a bright May morning, than that of the

bluebird? And now, we have instead, the ill-tempered chirping of an

alien sparrow!

But apple-blossoms are none the less beautiful because of the

unfortunate changes meddlesome men have brought about. They hold their

ancient glory still and yield, as of old, that rich, rare fragrance

which never cloys. Surely no one ever walked among rows of blooming

apple-trees, and said, “It is too sweet.” Not even of our native wild

crab-apple is this lightly to be said, and it is unquestionably of

deeper tints and richer fragrance than the average cultivated tree. I

know of one exception. At the end of the row upon one side of the lane,

there stands a vigorous apple-tree. It has more the appearance of the

trees in the forest than of those in an orchard, and if its fruit is not

quite so small as that of the wild crab, it is but one remove therefrom.

This tree rests its glory upon its blossoms, and well it may! Upon these

go out all its strength, offering, therefore, beauty to the eye, rather

than food for the body. It is a tree with a history, perhaps, not worth

relating. When set where it now stands, it appears to have been more

exposed to the wind than its companions and was twice blown down. When

last put back, my grandfather remarked, rather impatiently, “Now stay,

at least, if you never bear an apple!” And the tree stood, still stands.

What of the fruit it bears? Tough, wrinkled as a toad, and sour; it is

said that even the pigs refuse it, squealing in disgust when, by

mistake, they crunch it. So, if my grandfather’s muttered curse fell

upon the fruit, the tree revenged itself by adding beauty to its

blossoms, and to-day, though twice hoar-frost has chilled the open buds,

if judged by the eye alone, it stands, among a goodly number, brightest

of them all.

The Building of the Nest.

Those who have lived a part or all of their lives in the country know

from observation, while those who have spent their days in town know

from hearsay or books, that a very large proportion of our birds remain

with us only from April to October or later; while yet others, on the

approach of winter, come from the north to escape the rigors of an

arctic climate, and a considerable number of most interesting species

are strictly resident. This striking feature of bird life is by no means

confined to North America, and perhaps it is, in most respects, more

suggestive as observed on other continents. However this may be, it is

so noticeable an occurrence on our Atlantic seaboard, that the coming

and going of this or that bird has passed into our folk-lore, and more

than one weather proverb is based upon the arrival or departure of

wild-geese, fish-hawks, and the swallows.

Although very much more is now known of these seasonal movements of our

birds than was but a few years ago, it is not yet, and probably never

will be, possible to determine the “law” of migration, for the simple

reason that the springtide northward and autumnal southward flight of

our inland birds has not that element of regularity as to dates or

method that has been so frequently insisted upon. They come and go, but

beyond this we can be sure of nothing from year to year. Sooner or

later, our warblers, thrushes, and fly-catchers come as the world grows

green; sooner or later, as the meadows and upland grow drearily brown,

these same birds depart.

But if, as to birds collectively, we can not be positive in this matter

of the time, place, and manner of migration, we can feel moderately

confident of a return, summer after summer, of certain individual birds,

if they have escaped life’s perils in the mean while. Says Dr. Robert

Brown (Birds of Passage): “The individual swallow, it is now

ascertained, returns from the Canaries or North Africa to the very spot

on which it built its little mud mansion the previous summer; and,

according to the observations of the celebrated Jenner, marked birds

were caught at their old nests every year for three successive seasons.”

I find the home hillside luxuriantly green to-day, although the first

week of May has not yet passed. Even the tardy oaks are well in leaf,

and from every nook and corner of the woods and fields there floats the

merry song of a nesting bird. Among them, are there any friends of a

year ago? Surely I recognize one. Long before sunrise on the morning of

April 26th I heard a loud chatter near my chamber windows. There was no

mistaking the creature that uttered it, and I knew, although it had

rained violently all the night, and was still storming, that the

house-wren had come back to his old castle on the post. I peeped through

the shutter as soon as there was sufficient light, and there stood the

little bird, braving a keen east wind and singing with all his might.

Now, the day before there were no wrens near; not one was skulking along

the hillside looking for nesting sites. Had there by chance been even a

straggler ahead of time, as is not uncommon with many migratory birds,

it would have been heard, if not seen, for wrens are never silent for a

day, if indeed for any five minutes of it, unless asleep. Therefore I am

confident that the plucky bird that I saw in the dawn of April 26th had

been guided by the prominent landmarks, such as the river, meadows, and

the wooded bluff, and had come directly to his home of the past summer,

hastening, when once he started, to the inconspicuous box that is

perched upon a pole close to my house, and hidden by two great

locust-trees and a towering wild-cherry. No stranger wren while yet it

was dark could have found the spot and proved himself so promptly at

home, for early that same day, while yet alone, the bird commenced

house-cleaning, preparatory to the one great event of the coming

summer—nest-building.

While not quite true that all worth knowing of a bird is centered in the

few weeks occupied in rearing its young, certainly at no other time is

it seen to the same advantage. Every faculty is quickened then, and all

that a bird is capable of effecting is apparent. Something more

important than food-getting commands its attention, and reason is

exercised almost if not quite to the exclusion of instinct, for the nest

of every bird must meet its builder’s peculiar needs, and is not

fashioned blindly after the homes of its ancestors. It is true that a

family likeness runs through the nests of a given species of bird, but

to say of a deserted one in autumn this or that bird built it is a rash

procedure.

Not every bird builds a nest, although all lay eggs, and, as has been

intimated, all nests are not alike. Perhaps the cup-shaped structure

built of twigs and lined with fine grass may be said to be the typical

form, but many are the modifications of this simple pattern. And now

this beautiful May morning the birds are building. Not here and there a

sparrow or a thrush, but birds of many kinds, and building everywhere. I

can not even mention them by name, or my article would run into a

catalogue. Suffice it to say they are building in the barn and on it, in

my house and down in the chimney; under the floor of the bridge in the

lane is a nest, and the trees, shrubbery, and bare ground are all

occupied. There is now a nest for every nook and corner, and I would

that the young people of everywhere were my guests to-day, provided they

would live up to the law I long ago passed for my own government—eyes

on; hands off.

And now what of the building of particular nests? I know of twenty

within a stone’s-throw of my front door, and the making of each one had

its serious as well as comic side. At the very outset a conflict of

interests arose on account of some bits of material being equally

valuable in the minds of several birds; and when an oriole, a wren, and

an English sparrow wish to pull at the frayed end of a rope at the same

time, something more than a mere ripple of excitement is likely to

ensue. In short, nest-building brings out in a bird not only all its

belligerency, which during the rest of the year is dormant, but a great

deal of strategic skill as well, for many a time I have seen the smaller

bird succeed through cunning in outwitting the bully that depended on

mere strength of beak and claws.

The burden of each bird’s mind in spring being, “I must build me a

nest,” let us follow the wakeful wren that came on a stormy morning to

his old home. He evidently was sure of his mate, and was for four days

ceaselessly at work. Perhaps he found odd moments when he could eat, as

he constantly did to sing, but never a leisurely meal was his, I am very

sure. The old homestead must be made habitable again. And how he worked!

All the old rubbish of last summer was pulled from the box, and none of

it taken back, I fancy. While I watched the busy bird two days after his

arrival, I recalled an occurrence of last summer, and wondered if there

might be a repetition of it, with my aid; and at all events the bird’s

movements would tend to show whether it was the same wren or not. So I

placed tempting material for nest-building on a piece of very thin

board, and set it afloat in a huge basin. It was directly discovered;

the old wren was looking for it, I am sure now, but last year’s tactics

were not repeated as a whole. Then the bird alighted on the strands of

hemp and submerged them and almost itself, and only after many trials

hit upon the plan of dipping down and seizing a strand while on the

wing. Would it do this now, a year later? I was all impatience while the

wren flittered nervously about the basin, but was encouraged by its

contemplative manner. At last it attempted to alight on the mass, and I

felt angry at its stupidity and my own overconfidence. But no! it proved

only to be an attempt; last year’s experience was remembered, and strand

after strand was deftly picked up while the bird was flying. I am

confident now that I am listening, while I write, to the very wren that

comforted me last summer.

While some of our birds content themselves with but shallow depressions

in the ground, and many others place together so few sticks (and these

ill-arranged) that the nest might readily be overlooked, there is one

bird that is too lazy to do even so much, but drops an egg in the nest

of another bird. This is the habit, too, of the European cuckoo, but our

cuckoos are nest-builders, and the bird to which I have referred belongs

to a very different group. Few people seem to know it at all, and yet it

is abundant over a wide range of country, and has a dozen names, mostly

meaningless. The best, perhaps, of them is “cowpen bird,” a name

derived, I suppose, from the fact that the bird is often found in

pastures where there are cattle or sheep. Indeed, I have often seen them

standing upon the backs of cows and sheep, catching flies, I presume,

though they seem to be quite inactive when upon such a perch. Although

not nest-builders, they have something to do with the building of nests.

When that tireless songster the red-eyed vireo builds its pensile nest

on the hillside, the necessity for concealment does not occur to the

bird, and so its home is often invaded by the female cow-bird, and a

single egg dropped into the structure as soon as, if not before, it is

finished. Sometimes this is put up with, sometimes not. I have many

times found nests that were two-storied, the intrusive egg being, of

course, in the basement, and destroyed. This is one of the best examples

of bird wit of which I know. A vast deal is taken into consideration

while the decision is being reached to build a floor over the obnoxious

egg, and so prevent its hatching. There can be nothing of all this

ascribed to instinct, for then all such eggs would be destroyed by this

means, and the bird become extinct. On the other hand, it is but a very

small percentage that have the wit or courage to undertake the work,

which is evidence enough that, of a given species of bird, the variation

in intelligence among individuals is very marked. This, indeed, we see

on every hand when birds are building. Particularly noticeable is it

when the female bird stays at home and arranges the material which her

mate brings to her. This is mere drudgery to the male bird, and too

often worthless bits are brought which the toiling builder promptly

rejects, and not always with becoming patience either. She speaks her

mind in unmistakable tones, and if not heeded after the second or third

scolding, open war is declared on the spot, followed too often by a

wreck of all their hopes.

A word more. If people, young or old, would get a correct knowledge of a

wild bird’s ways, would know what is meant by animal intelligence, let

them study a pair of nest-building birds while they are at work. Let

them draw near, but not too near, and see how carefully the work

progresses, how skillfully many a difficulty is overcome, how completely

the finished structure meets all requirements. Do this, but do nothing

more. Refrain from disturbing the timid builders; abstain from robbing

them when their work is done. By gentleness prove yourselves the friends

of birds, and they will return your kindness with a measure heaped up

and overflowing.

A Meadow Mud-Hole.

The least suggestive spot in the world to most people is a mud-hole. The

common impression seems to be that fish avoid it, that frogs and birds

pass it by, and plants decline to cover its nakedness. This, like a

great many other common impressions, is really very wide of the mark. If

the water be not unutterably filthy, fish will condescend to tenant the

shallow depths, frogs will thrive therein, bitterns and the little

rail-bird find such a spot attractive, and many an aquatic plant grows

nowhere else so vigorously.

There are, as all know, mud-holes that are but blotchy remnants of man’s

interference—mere accidents, as it were, which do not concern us; and

also those deeper scars where the fair face of the landscape has been

wounded severely, as when the ice-gorged river bursts its proper bounds,

leaving a shallow pool in my pasture meadow: such as these are never

beneath the notice of a contemplative rambler. The truth is, in the

valley of the Delaware the average mud-hole is eminently respectable.

Giving the matter a sober second thought, one will see that mud is not

necessarily offensive. That of the meadows, if analyzed, proves to be

compounded of very worthy entities—water, clay, sand, and leaf-mold.

Why, because they are associated, should they be so studiously shunned?

No chemical change has taken place resulting in the formation of a

dangerous mixture. Mud is unlovable only when you are made its prisoner;

but even a fool knows it is best to remain outside the bars when he

comes to a lion’s cage. The lily loves the mud from which it springs,

and who in the wide world loves not the lily? Let us accept her as an

authority that this mud has merit.

There is a typical earth scar of the worthier sort within easy reach of

my dooryard. I chanced upon it one February morning when the surrounding

meadows were frost-bound, but the water was free, sparkling, and full of

aquatic life; and there is not a month that it has not its growth of

green, if not a wealth of blossoms. Even the plant life of the preceding

summer serves as a covering in winter, and a January thaw starts the

hardier grasses as surely as it quickens the sheltered upland dandelions

into bloom. And on this bleak February day, when the meadows were like

smooth rock, the river a glacier, and with scarce a trace of green to be

seen on the hillside, the expanding spathe of the fetid cabbage—a plant

full worthy of a better name—was well above the ground, darkly green and

beautifully streaked with purple and gold; and a foot or more below the

surface of the water were even greener growths, tangles of thread-like

vine that quivered whenever a frightened fish rushed by. Indeed, these

delicate growths are a delight to our many hardy fishes that, scorning

to hibernate when food and shelter are so accessible, must laugh, I

think, at the darting ice-crystals that gather and grow strong until

they shut out the sun, but never reach their weed-grown habitations.

It was greener still in March; but in April, when the meadow ditches are

being decked with splatter-dock and calla, arrow-head and sweet-flag,

golden-club and equisetum, then from the bottom of more than one small

pond spring up sharp, spear-pointed rolls of rank green leaves, growing

until the water’s quiet surface is pierced, and a stout stem bears into

view two parallel rolls of delicate leaf tissue. I refer to the rare

yellow lotus. Perhaps not for all time a native, but it has long since

earned its right to a place in our flora.

Most interesting is the beautiful adaptation of the leaf to its

surroundings at the outset of its growth. Tightly twisted and pointed

obliquely upward, it meets with no resistance from the water, and runs

no risk of entanglement with other growths. Once at the surface, the

unrolling is rapidly effected, and a bronze chalice with an emerald

lining is ready to catch the dew as it falls. The circular perfected

leaf, often twenty inches in diameter, is usually supported on a

foot-stalk five or six feet in height, and among them often many

floating leaves. Certainly no other of our aquatic plants has so

striking an appearance, not even the wild-rice at its best—

That tangled, trackless, wind-tossed waste,

Above a watery wilderness.

Gray gives as the range of the American species the “waters of the

Western and Southern States; rare in the Middle States; introduced into

the Delaware below Philadelphia.” Introduced by whom? The Indians are

said to have carried it to the Connecticut Valley, where it still

flourishes in circumscribed localities, and this I find is the

impression in southern New Jersey and in the neighborhood of a little

lake in the northern part of the State, where also the native lotus is

found growing, but I have not yet found a positive statement to that

effect. Rafinesque in 1830 remarked, “As it is scarce in the Atlantic

States, it is said to have been planted in some ponds by the Indians.”

The fact that the Southern and Western Indians valued the plant is

significant. Nuttall records that “the Osages and other Western natives

employ the roots of this plant, which is of common occurrence, for food,

preparing them by boiling. When fully ripe, after a considerable boiling

they become as farinaceous, agreeable, and wholesome as the potato. This

same species ... is everywhere made use of by the natives, who collect

both the nuts and the roots.”

Early in the century it was growing in the meadows of the Delaware below

Philadelphia, and Dr. Benjamin Smith Barton considered it indigenous. He

says also that “efforts at cultivating this plant and multiplying its

sites of growth have been unsuccessfully made in the neighborhood.”

It is curious that Kalm, who gave so much attention to the food plants

of our Indians, should not mention the lotus. It certainly could not

have been at the time of his visit here (1748) a common plant, yet the

lower Delaware, where a half-century later it was still found, was a

locality about which he botanized with much industry. It is hard to

believe that, had he once caught sight of its enormous leaves, often

thirty inches in diameter, or seen the bright yellow blossoms on their

towering stems, he would have omitted to make mention of such an

experience. Kalm spent a considerable part of his time among his

countrymen at Raccoon, now Swedesboro; and at Woodstown, but a few miles

away, the native lotus grows luxuriantly, a relic, it is believed, of

Indian water-farming.

There is no improbability in the opinion that the Indians cultivated the

plant. They were certainly practical horticulturists as well as growers

of field crops. It was of an Indian orchard that the pioneer settler of

a New Jersey town wrote when he stated, in 1680, that peaches were “in

such plenty that some people took their carts a peach-gathering. I could

not but smile at the conceit of it. They are a very delicate fruit, and

hang almost like our onions that are tied on ropes.” The peach was

probably introduced into Florida by the Spaniards, and in about a

century or less its cultivation by the Indians had reached northward as

far as New Jersey. The nuts and roots of the lotus could as readily be

transported as the pits of the peach, so no obstacle was in the way.

Intertribal intercourse was very far-reaching, as shown by the

occurrence of peculiar forms of stone implements common in distant

localities, and Mexican obsidian and Minnesota red pipe-clay along our

eastern Atlantic seaboard.

While yet we have the Indian in mind it is well to refer also to the

very significant fact that these people took the golden-club (_Orontium

aquaticum_) from the tide-waters and planted it in upland sink-holes,

miles from the nearest spot where it grew naturally.

Perhaps we can never be positive about the matter. If a fiction, it is

so pleasing a one I trust it will never be overthrown. To stand upon the

bank of a pond and see in it traces of both an aboriginal flower-garden

and a farm certainly adds to the interest that surrounds the plant.

We have it on the authority of Emerson that Thoreau expected to find the

_Victoria regia_ about Concord. It was but an extravagant method of

expressing his opinion of the merits of that region; but I am not so

sure that the Victoria is the most beautiful of all aquatic plants.

Finding it growing and blooming every summer in an open field near by, I

have surely the right to express my preference for another. It and the

lotus grow in the same waters, and I love the lotus more, give it the

first place among flowers, although there floats upon the surface of

these same waters royal red lilies of India, tooth-leaved white lilies

from Sierra Leone, the golden one of Florida, and, perhaps more

magnificent than all, the splendid purple lily of Zanzibar. I can start

across-lots and quickly come upon them all in an open field; but it is

the lotus that holds me.

I can not rid myself of the thought that with the Victoria, as with all

its attendant lilies, the hand of the care-taker is necessary. A very

Amazon itself, it needs an Amazonian setting. We look for a naked baby

on the largest pad, and the infant’s mother in a canoe gathering

Victorian seed-vessels. These, with a troop of scarlet ibises,

spur-winged jacanas, and chattering macaws, are all needed to complete

the picture. With them, the world has perhaps nothing more striking to

offer; without them, the plant is too bizarre, too like the eagle when

shorn of its priceless gift of liberty. Not so with the lotus; it

accords well with the unpretending valley of the Delaware, is not a

thing apart, but the culmination, as it were, of Nature’s vigor here,

and seemingly not out of place even when it fills a meadow mud-hole.

One species is, as we have seen, truly American, native and to the

manner born, even if introduced and cared for by the Indian along our

Eastern seaboard; but now, where the wildness of the Indians’ day has

been long lost to us, and novelty is sweet, we rejoice to find the lotus

of the East is no longer a stranger in the land.

In a now nameless little stream, filling the narrow interval between low

hills, till within a few years there grew little but the yellow dock,

white arrow-leaf, blue pickerel-weed, and here and there a lily. It was

simply a typical muddy brook, such as is found everywhere in the “drift”

areas of the State. Every plant was commonplace; but far be it from me

to infer that any one was mean or meritless. Not a flower named but is

really beautiful; yet, save the lily, none would be gathered for

nosegays. Why, as is so common, speak disparagingly of the yellow

nuphar, our familiar splatter-dock? Let it be gathered with care, with

no fleck of tide-borne mud upon its petals, and see how rich the

coloring, and with what grace the flower has been molded. I doubt not,

were the nuphar fragrant, it would be extolled as it deserves, as, were

the rose fetid, it would be despised. Thus one writer remarks, “From its

filthy habits it has been called, with some justice, the frog-lily.” But

wherein lies its filthiness it is hard to determine. It has no decided

preference for waters too stagnant for its fairer cousin the white

nymphæa; and then smirched lilies are no novelties. A pond may be too

muddy for even them to preserve their purity, yet they will grow as

luxuriantly as their unstained sisters. That the nuphar may remain

longer in the polluted waters than will the nymphæa does not argue that

it prefers such conditions, and never a frog but loved clean water

better than foul. Botanists should not speak slightingly of the animal

world; it too has its beauties. And the reference to the frog shows a

woful ignorance of that creature.

How many have held the flower-stalk of the arrow-head—a sea-green staff

studded with ivory? They, at least, will admit its beauty. Nor will the

spike of violet-blue flowers of the pickerel-weed fail to be admired

even if gathered; and what flower when torn from its stem but loses

grace? No shrub so sprawling but fills its niche fittingly.

Where these native aquatic plants grow they complete the little

landscape. Each would be quickly missed were it absent; they are part

and parcel of an evolved microcosm, needing nothing. Such was this

little creek.

Into the deep mud of the stream, widened here by a dam to a pond of

several acres, a single tuber of the Egyptian lotus was placed eight

years ago, and the result awaited with much curiosity, if not anxiety.

That same year it sprouted and grew luxuriantly. It was soon too

prominent a feature of the landscape for its own good—the cows came,

saw, and tasted, but did not fatally wound. It withstood the summer’s

heat, but would it withstand the winter’s cold? The pond that before was

like all other ponds is so no longer. The native growths that seemed so

firmly rooted have disappeared, and the lotus has taken all their

places—so completely, indeed, that now even the water is shut from view

for more than an acre’s space. As the spot is approached from the

neighboring hill-top we get a bird’s-eye view, the effect of which is

striking and thoroughly un-native, so far as plant life is concerned,

and in a measure disappointing. Recall some rainy day in a crowded city

when from an upper window you have looked down upon the street. No

sidewalk and but little wagon-way to be seen—nothing but a waving

expanse of upraised umbrellas. Hence the disappointment, if you have

read travelers’ tales of the lotus bloom. But worthier thoughts well up

as you draw nearer.

One has but to glance over Gray’s Botany to notice how many plants have

been introduced from Europe, and are now so firmly established that

native species are forced to retire before them. The pond before me

exhibits another, and so recent an instance it has not yet been

recorded. What radical changes this Egyptian plant will work are yet to

be determined; that we can foresee one of them—the crowding out of the

nuphar—is unquestionable. That any change will be one to be regretted is

highly improbable. To introduce the lotus is not to repeat the blunder

of the English sparrow. It is certain not to oust other plants that are

more valuable, for as yet we have found little if any value in the

products of our marshes. Since the country’s settlement it has been the

aim of the thrifty to convert them into dry land whenever practicable.

Thanks to whomsoever thanks are due, many are irreclaimable.

Seeing how forcibly this wonderful flower of the lotus impresses itself

upon the minds of the ancient Egyptians and the East generally, how

prominently it figures in Eastern religions—“all idols of Buddha are

made to rest upon opened lotus-flowers”—it is safe to conclude that when

familiar to all, even in this utilitarian age, it will not be merely

ranked as one of many flowering plants; it is of too commanding an

appearance for this, and to literature will prove a boon. Asters,

golden-rods, and buttercups can have a well-earned rest.

Years ago the cultivation of the American species proved a failure, and

those who are now best capable of judging still record the curious fact

that the native lotus is much more difficult to establish in our waters

than the Eastern, and does not grow with quite the same luxuriance. Its

introduction by the aborigines along our Eastern seaboard has been

mentioned; perhaps it has lost vigor since it lost their care, and has

disappeared excepting where its environment was peculiarly favorable.

And the question arises, after all, Is it in the strict sense a native?

May it not, indeed, have been brought hither in prehistoric times? The

question of a superlatively ancient communication between the continents

is a tempting subject for study, and how appropriate when resting in the

shade of the Eastern lotus! Such a train of thought need not stir up any

ghost of a mythical lost Atlantis. Still, the American form has certain

marked peculiarities. The mature torus has a decided constriction some

distance from the insertion of the stem, wanting in the foreign species,

and the seeds of the former are globular instead of distinctly oval.

Whatever the history of the American form, that of the Eastern, or

Egyptian, as it is usually called, is too well known to need repeating,

however briefly, and yet the plant is still wrapped in mystery. A word,

however, concerning the term Egyptian in connection with it. At present

it is a plant of India, of China and Japan, Australia, the Malay

Archipelago, and the Caspian Sea—an enormous range; but it is no longer

found in the valley of the Nile. The use of the name rests upon the fact

that it was once there, not only a cultivated plant, but held sacred by

the people of that country, as it is by the Hindoos. Egyptologists,

however, are not of one mind as to the relation of the lotus to the

antiquities of the Nile region, some questioning the matter altogether,

and considering the sculpturing to represent the lily of the Nile, one

of the grandest of the white nymphæas. Quite recently, too, it has been

ably argued to be the renowned rose of Sharon. “Of such a kingly flower

Solomon might well have said, ‘I am the rose of Sharon.’”

Perhaps we should be contented with our splendid native flora, but

surely there is room in waste places, our unappreciated marshes and

mud-holes, for the lotus—

“a flower delicious as the rose,

And stately as the lily in her pride.”

A treasure in other lands, why should it not be in ours? If he who

causes two blades of grass to grow where but one grew before is a public

benefactor, so he who adds the lotus to our meadows must likewise be so

accounted. “A piece of color is as useful as a piece of bread.”

With the blooming lotus within reach, let us come now to a few plain

statistics. In the little mill-pond it has been exposed to precisely the

same conditions as the native plants, and now flourishes in absolute

perfection. Mingled with the fully expanded blossoms may always be seen

the buds in every stage of growth, and this from early summer until

frost. Happily there is not, as is so often the case, a magnificent but

brief display, then nothing but leaves. If not a joy forever, it is at

least one of a protracted season. Buds or blossoms, they are alike

beautiful. Among many that are pale yet distinctively tinted there often

stands out one or more with the loosening petals tipped with deepest

crimson. Far more are like gigantic tea-rose buds, that soon open like a

tulip, creamy white and rosy at the tips. Often these glorious flowers

measure ten inches across when fully open, and are supported by stems

extending far beyond the tallest leaves. One such that I measured was

more than eight feet high.

When the flower is fully expanded, the huge seed-pod, or torus, is a

prominent object. Herodotus likened it aptly to the nest of a wasp. It

is of the richest yellow, and surrounded by a delicate fringe of the

same color. The seeds are seen imbedded in the flat upper surface, gems

in a golden setting so lavish that their own beauty is obscured. After

the petals have fallen—they are miniature boats of a beautiful pattern,

that, catching the breeze, sail with all the grace of model yachts—this

great seed-pod continues to grow, and is a curious funnel-shaped

structure, holding the many seeds securely, yet not concealing any. The

latter become as large as hazel-nuts, and are quite as palatable. And

so, here in New Jersey, one can be a lotus-eater, can float in his canoe

and pluck fruit from giant lilies. But be not too free to do so. It is

not the fabled lotus, after all, and one’s digestion may be more

disturbed than his mind pleasantly affected.

In this isolated pond, seen by but few, and unknown to hundreds living

near it, a bit of a far Eastern landscape is reproduced—a forest of

graceful lotus, with its strange leaves, matchless blossoms, and

wonderful seed-pods; and what has been here effected is being repeated

in the mud-hole of my pasture meadow.

Less than a year ago, when spring was well advanced, I placed a root in

the mud, and left it to battle with the crowding native growths.

Certainly the advantage was all upon one side, but it did not lose heart

at being pitted against such heavy odds. Now it overshadows them all.

For a time they are permitted to be co-occupants, but not for long. The

lusty lotus is even now reaching out to a wide stretch of marshy meadow;

and there too, I doubt not, it will flourish as at my neighbor’s. It is

a rightful ambition to be able to sit down beneath one’s own vine and

fig-tree. Let me add the lotus, for it has come to stay.

For how long have water-lilies been on sale in our streets and at our

railway stations, auguring well for the love of aquatic plants? And that

strange and scarcely known lily, alas! of almost mephitic odor, the

xerophyllum, is hawked about Philadelphia streets in early June, loved

for its beauty despite the unfragrance; and so too this famous flower of

other lands must soon appear, but not to sink to the level of a mere

pretty blossom: it is too suggestive a plant to meet with such a fate.

What Margaret Fuller once wrote to Thoreau well bears repeating: “Seek

the lotus, and take a draught of rapture.”

An Open Well.

It is none of my business, but I feel a twinge of indignation when, as

is frequently the case, I meet with a pump-maker. His long wagon, with

its load of wooden tubes and other fixtures of the latest patterns of

simple or compound pumps, is a positive eyesore; for, labor-saving as

this may all be, it means, nevertheless, the obliteration of the open

well, and for the old windlass, or still older sweep, a hideously

painted post of wood or iron. He who has drunk, at midday in July, from

an old oaken bucket, knows how great a loss one suffers by the change.

Not even Hawthorne’s rills from the town pump can quite reconcile one.

Perhaps it is a fool’s errand, but I have walked a mile out of my way,

scores of times, for no other purpose than the pleasure of hearing the

bucket splash in the waters of a deep well and to draw it up, by means

of the well-poised sweep, “dripping with coolness.”

It may be fancy, but even modern well-diggers are a different and prosy

folk compared with the old masters of the art—for art it was, they held,

to locate with the divining-rod just where the never-failing spring was

“bubbling” far beneath their feet. Was a well to be dug? Then Ezek

Sureshot must do the work; and not until years after did it occur to any

one that Ezek never failed to learn the wishes of the women-folk before

he took up the forked witch-hazel and quartered the ground. The result

was always the same: that mysterious switch never failed to point within

an inch of the desired spot. Ezek was never known to disappoint his

customers, so not one suspected his duplicity or lacked faith in the

divining-rod. Ay! and there are yet hosts of people who still uphold its

power to locate not only water, but lost articles. A wheat stubble was

recently gone over, crossed and criss-crossed, with a divining-rod, to

recover a piece of metal. As the field was divided by the man into

square yards, it is not strange the bit of iron was found, but the

credit was given to the rod, which pointed earthward at the moment the

man’s foot struck the missing object. “In spite of what people say,

there’s something very curious about it,” was the remark of one of the

“head men” of the village. But this is a digression.

Happily, there are yet a few open wells scattered over the country, and

one of these, with its sweep, is within my range. Of itself, perhaps,

not a great deal can be said; but not every hole in the ground has such

surroundings. How seldom do we find still standing, and in good repair,

houses that were built early in the preceding century! Looking west from

my study windows, there may be seen a substantial stone mansion, built

in 1708. Woe betide the tall man that enters it carelessly in the dark!

The ceilings are unaccountably low. Evidently there were few giants in

those days, at least among the early Quakers. And, looking east, can be

seen yet another house, nearly as old, built of huge oak logs, the

ceilings of which likewise threaten the careless six-footer. Surely, if

my ancestors were tall, they must have been painfully stoop-shouldered!

By the kitchen doors of all the original houses there were open wells;

and the sweep appears to have been the first apparatus in use for

drawing water. From the doorstep to the well-curb extended a rude

pavement of flat stones, and, if all poetry was not smothered in the

old-time peoples’ breasts, there was an elm, or drooping birch, casting

a delightful shade in summer over all. Later the weeping-willow became

the favorite tree. Such was the pretty picture seen upon every farm;

compare it with the ugly windmills that now rear their hideous nakedness

against the sky.

From the general to the particular, from the past to the present. There

still stands a cottage, off a by-road, mossy as a prostrate oaken tree,

hedged with gooseberry-bushes and a clump of lilacs; and, better than

all else, there is the well and its sweep. I could never learn when the

cottage was built, but it was many a year ago, and its present occupants

may have commenced housekeeping as far back in time, to judge from

appearances. May they and the cottage last forever! Nowhere else can so

much wood-lore and wise weather-saws be had at first hands. Nowhere else

is there, at least for me, “the moss-covered bucket that hangs in the

well.” There are many features of primitive country life that are

fascinating, yet why they are so can not readily be explained. To linger

by this open well is one of these, yet why even hours can be spent at

such a spot one can not tell. Has it to do with a love of retrospection

common to all past fifty?—let this go for an explanation, whether one or

not. Stay! can it be that, after quaffing a gourdful of the sweet

waters, I recall many an invitation to the cottage, and hope? Even yet I

am as ready to respond when the old lady’s kindly face beams from the

open door, for straightway there are visions of cakes and beer, the

liking for which has never been even dulled. Ginger-cakes merely, but

such ginger-cakes! Spicewood beer only, but what sparkle, what tingling

spiciness! The very essence of the wild woods about the cottage, the

brilliant glistening of the old well’s brightest drops, here are

combined in a beady, golden draught that quickly inebriates—makes

drunken with a love of old-time cottage days.

The old lady’s gossip of the days gone by adds to the very sparkle of

her beer; yet her whole life for more than half a century seems centered

upon her one adventure, the coming and going of her children passing as

too prosaic to mention. Not so that one great fright and its results.

The now almost forgotten Camden and Amboy Railroad was then in

operation; but though scarcely more than a mile distant, it was as

nothing to her. She knew neither what nor where it was. But where the

best whortleberries grew in the back swamp, that was knowledge worth

possessing. Although her cousin Abijah had killed a bear during the

winter, she did not think of it then, and started for berries where few

men would care to follow. She knew every crooked path in the

sprout-lands, and could find her way through them in the dark, she

boasted. And so, with a light heart, she gathered berries. But at last

an ominous screeching fell upon her ears. She stopped her work to

listen. Louder and more angry, ay, and nearer, too, was that portentous

scream. “Could it be another bear?” she thought, and at once turned her

face homeward. The big basket was not quite full, and there were such

loads of fruit within easy reach! It was tantalizing; but all doubt

vanished with the second, shriller, more unearthly scream. The path was

no longer plain, nor she sure-footed. Pitching recklessly forward, the

berries were bounced by handfuls from the basket, and it finally, as a

dragging weight, was thrown aside. And, still sounding through the

swamp, the terrible screeching of that angry bear! The cottage at last

was seen through the thick-set trees, but not so plainly the tortuous

path. The frightened woman was moved by but one thought—to reach her

home; and, escaping until now all other dangers, she took one misstep,

almost at her journey’s end, and sank waist-deep in yielding mud. There

was strength left for but one despairing cry, which fortunately fell not

upon deaf ears. In a moment her husband came to her rescue. Such was her

story, but by no means as she told it—a quaint narrative that invariably

concluded with the pathetic remark, “And to think I lost all them

beautiful berries!” The old lady had heard the first screech of a

locomotive that awoke the echoes in the Nottingham swamps.

All the while her patient husband sits by the fire, giving vent to his

feelings by a vicious poke at the smouldering back-log. For fifty years

he has been her audience, and the story is now a trifle monotonous—so

much so that, no sooner has she finished, at least when I was present,

than he remarks, “If you tell the lad that story any more, I’ll a-wished

you’d stayed stuck in the swamp.” And then we have another cup of beer,

and, followed by the old man, I start for home.

And—isn’t it funny?—the old man tells me, as he has never failed to do

for many a year as I pause by the open well, where we part, how he found

gold, as he thought, when he dug the well, and kept the mighty secret

until his plans were laid; and it proved to be nothing but lumps of iron

and brimstone!

If old ladies prove, at times, to be a bit garrulous, what of the old

men who are so prone to criticise?

------------------------------------------------------------------------