IN SUMMER.
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A Noisome Weed.
The whispering breeze that at sunrise calls me out of doors is laden now
with the matchless odor of the blooming grape. Every draught of the
vinous air intoxicates and the eye rests upon the brilliant landscape,
but is scarce content. A curious feeling of indecision meets me at the
very outset. Meadow and upland are alike urgent; field and forest offer
their choicest gifts; rugged rocks and sparkling river both beckon to
me. Whither, then, of a bright June morning, should the rambler stroll?
For is it not true that beauty, when in bewildering confusion, ceases to
be beautiful? When a thousand birds, as a great cloud, shut out the sun,
they are but a cloud; but a single one, perched upon a tree, is a marvel
of grace and beauty. So, the sloping hillside and the weedy meadows,
brilliant with every shade of freshest green and starred with a hundred
tints, roseate, golden, and white, call for an infinite power of
contemplation, and leave the wanderer dazed.
Shutting my eyes to the wealth of bloom about me, closing my ears to the
melody of every nesting bird, I start upon the doubtful quest of the
commonplace, hoping to chance upon some neglected spot, that happily
generous June has overlooked.
As has happened so frequently before, where I least expected it, there
stood the object of my search—a gem in a setting not so elaborate that
its beauties were obscured. In a long-neglected pasture, a wide meadow
torn by freshets, foul with noisome weeds, and strown with the wreckage
left by winter’s storms, grew many a graceful vine that few have heeded;
for it is not enough that the botanist should long ago have named it and
that others should have besmirched its proper fame by calling it
“carrion-flower.” Can we not forgive the offense to the nostril, when
the eye is captivated? Does it go for nothing that a plant beautifies
the waste places and invites you to contemplate it as the acme of grace,
because in self-defense it warns you to keep at a respectful distance?
Sitting in the pleasant shade of clustering thorns, I see nothing now
that attracts me more than the leafy bowers of this curious vine. Every
one has sprung boldly from the sod in full faith of finding the support
it needs; at least, I see none that are standing quite alone. Two, it
may be, but oftener three or four, have started at convenient distances,
and, when well above the tallest grass, each has sought out the tendrils
of its nearest neighbor and these have closely intertwined. So, here and
there, we have a leafy arch, and scattered among them many a pretty
bower. These may well have given the Indian a clew to wigwam-building.
Had ever, in the distant past, a savage seen his child creep beneath the
overarching branches of the despised “carrion-flower,” he would have
seen how easily a summer shelter might be made. Perhaps upon some such
hint the stuffy caves and rock-shelters were abandoned, for the time
surely was when even a more primitive dwelling than a tent was man’s
protection against the summer’s sun.
And may not these mutually supporting vines have struck the fancy of
some Indian poet? In the wigwams of these people, who but two centuries
ago peopled these meadows and the surrounding hills, may not many a
pretty tale have been told of these same despised carrion-flowers? Dyer
states, in his charming Folk-Lore of Plants, how, “in the Servian
folk-song, there grows out of the youth’s body a green fir, out of the
maiden’s a red rose, which entwine together.” I should not wonder at
learning that so too the Indian believed that from the bodies of braves,
who had fallen together, fighting for the same cause, had sprung these
intertwining vines that cling now so firmly to each other. Why, indeed,
should not the tragedy of Tristram and Ysonde have been re-enacted on
the Delaware meadows?
But, though despised by man, this vigorous plant has hosts of other
friends. The summer long, scores of bugs, butterflies, and beetles crowd
about. Whether when in leaf only, or later when in bloom, or in autumn,
when laden with its wealth of blue-black berries, it is never quite
alone, and many of its attendants are fully as curious as the plant
itself. One or more minute beetles prefer it to all other plants, yet
not because of the peculiar odor. At least, the same creatures do not
crowd decaying flesh. On the other hand, the dainty flies that linger
about the ruddy phlox, the blue iris, and purple pentstemon tarry
likewise about the carrion-flower and find it a pleasant place, if one
may judge by the length of time they stay.
I was somewhat surprised to find this to be the case, as I looked for a
repetition on a small scale of what is recorded of those strange plants,
the _Rafflesiaceæ_ found in the tropics. Forbes, in his Wanderings in
the Eastern Archipelago, records that once he “nearly trampled on a
fine, new species of that curious family...; it smelt powerfully of
putrid flesh, and was infested with a crowd of flies, which followed me
all the way as I carried it home, and was besides overrun with ants.”
So far my own observation. What say others?
Let us turn, however, to a more savory subject. Undeterred by possible
whiffs of sickening scent, I followed the example of my friend the
meadow-mouse, and crept into the largest smilax wigwam I could find. It
was sufficiently roomy for all my needs, and shed the sun’s rays better
than it would have done the drops of a summer shower. The east wind
brought the rank odor of the marshes, and more fitfully the tinkling
notes of the marsh-wrens that now crowd the rank growths of typha; but
sweeter songs soon rang out near by, as the nervous Maryland
yellow-throat, thinking me gone, perched within arm’s length and sang
with all its energy. The power of that wee creature’s voice was
absolutely startling. We seldom realize how far off many a bird may be,
when we hear it sing; often looking immediately about us when a strange
note falls upon our ears. Certainly this yellow-throat’s utterance might
have been distinctly heard a quarter of a mile away. Such shrill
whistling is no child’s play, either. Every feather of the bird was
rumpled, the tail slightly spread, the wings partly uplifted, and the
body swayed up and down as the notes, seven of them, were screeched—I
can think of no more expressive word. It was not musical; and yet this
bird has long been ranked, to my mind, as one of our most pleasing
songsters. It needs a few rods’ distance however, to smooth away the
rough edges.
But the great point gained in the day’s outing was to find that even the
carrion-flower could be put to such good use. It makes a capital
observatory, wherein and wherefrom to study the life of the open
meadows. To these Nature-built shelters you are always welcome; the
latch-string is always hanging out, and if perchance you do not share
its single room with many a creature that loves the shade at noontide,
and, so while away many an hour in choicest company, you may lie at its
open door and watch the strange procession that forever passes by. It
may be a mink, a mouse, or a musk-rat may hurry by, bound on some errand
that piques your curiosity. A lazy turtle may waddle to your den and
gaze in blank astonishment at you; and, better than all else, the pretty
garter snakes will come and go, salute you with a graceful darting of
their forked tongues and then pass on, perhaps to tell their neighbor
what strange sights they have seen. And as the day draws to a close,
what myriad songs rise from every blade of grass! Hosts of unseen
musicians pipe to the passing breeze; and crickets everywhere chirp so
shrilly that the house about me trembles.
The day is done; but the night brings no end of novelty. The moping
herons are no longer stupid; the blinking owls are all activity. Afar
off the whip-poor-will calls—who knows why?—and the marsh-owl protests,
as well it may, at such unseemly clatter. How quickly into a new world
has the familiar meadow grown! Through the half-naked beam and rafters
of my leafy tent I watch the night-prowling birds go hurrying by, and
follow their shadows as the weird bats flit before me, for the moon has
risen, and in its pallid light every familiar tree and shrub and all the
night-loving wild-life of the meadows is wrapped in uncanny garbs. It is
fitting now that a filmy mist should rise as a curtain and shut out the
view. “He is none of us,” seems to shout every creature in my ear, and,
taking the hint, I pick my way homeward through the dripping grass.
A Wayside Brook.
It is not that I may indulge in mock heroics that I champion the
so-called waste-places, but out of pure love for the merits of even the
least of Nature’s work. A single cedar casts sufficient shade for me,
and, resting full length on a bed of yarrow, I have, at once the breath
of the tropics and the aroma of the Spice Islands wherewith to while
away these July days. From such a spot there is pleasure too in watching
the shifting scenes of the sunlit world beyond—a pleasure greater than
peering into the depths of a dark, monotonous swamp or pathless wood.
But if this is simplifying matters beyond reasonable limits, then let us
to a wayside brook, and to the shade and spiciness add the music of
rippling waters. Surely this should suffice the idle saunterer at
midsummer. When it is ninety in the shade, it is wiser to watch the
minnows in a brook than to battle with pickerel in the mill-pond. Nor
should such contemplation be too trivial for one’s fancy. Even little
fishes have their ups and downs, although everything goes swimmingly
with them. As has been said somewhere, if my memory plays me no tricks,
the fish-world is diversified by other occurrences than feeding or going
to feed others. In other words, they have impressions, vague though they
may be, of the world about them, and existence is something more than—
“A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves,
Quickened with touches of transporting fear.”
The brook need not be deep nor wide, and may wander through many a rod
of dusty fields, scarcely covering the pebbles that bestrew its bed, and
yet contain fishes. I have often been surprised to find many small
minnows in brooks that were scarcely more than damp, except here and
there a spring-hole, or pool, about the roots of a tree. Such places are
noble hunting-grounds if the rambler is an enthusiastic naturalist, and
many a chapter might be written concerning our smallest fishes. Except
to very few, they are wholly unknown.
On the bank of a little wayside brook I tarried for half a day recently,
with minnows, birds, and dragon-flies to keep me company, and what a
royal time we had! At first the fish were shy, and took refuge under
flat pebbles but I coaxed them forth at last by tossing crumbs before
them. At ease, so far as I was concerned, they commenced their beautiful
game of chasing sunbeams, the largest stone in the stream being the base
from which they ceaselessly darted to and fro. The flashing of the
fishes’ silvery sides, the darting rays of sunlight, the sparkle of the
great bubbles that danced on every ripple, proved a very carnival of
light and color, the soul of which was this company of fun-loving
minnows. In saying this, I intend to convey all the meaning that such a
phrase comprehends—in other words, to ascribe to these small fishes a
pronounced degree of intelligence.
Their life proved not without its shadows, however, as very often their
merriment was changed to terror in a twinkling. It happened that a
gorgeous dragon-fly came with a sudden onset to the little brook and
filled these fish with fear while it hovered above them. I leave it to
others to say why the minnows should have been afraid. Has any person
ever seen a dragon-fly catch a fish?
Prof. Seeley, writing of a European cyprinoid, remarks, “Probably every
person who has ever looked into a small stream has been surprised by the
singular way in which minnows constantly arrange themselves in circles
like the petals of a flower, with their heads nearly meeting in the
center, and tails diverging at equal distances.” I looked for this, but
our Jersey minnows were not so methodically inclined, and all kept their
heads in one direction, up-stream, until at a certain point, when, as if
on signal given, they would, right about face, and dart down-stream for
a yard or two, re-form, and as a company make their way to the
dispersing point, a thin slab of stone that barred their further
passage.
So, in this most unpromising spot I found no end of entertainment, and,
except in midsummer, would not have tired of any single feature; but
study, even studies a-field, are irksome in July, and I forgot the
minnows as my eyes fell upon a large slab of stone near where I was
lying. It was one of four broad stepping-stones that nearly two
centuries ago were placed here. Then, there flowed, through a thick
woods, a broad stream, and near here the first house was built. Upon
these stones had stepped the grave elders and loitered the light-hearted
children of three generations; and now not a trace of house, garden,
barn, woods, or pasture remains. Everything has given way to more
pretentious structures, broader fields, and painfully angular highways.
The one-time winding lane, shaded by noble oaks, is now not even to be
traced across the fields; and, instead thereof, a narrow sunny strip of
yellow sand leads to the public road. “What an improvement!” once
remarked a neighbor, when the change was made. What an improvement,
indeed! where once was beauty, one finds, save this little remnant of a
creek, an endless array of fields, with scarcely a tree along the
division fences. Doubtless, could the brook have been obliterated, the
work would have been undertaken. As it is, the narrow strip is all that
Nature can call her own, and so, whatever of her charms can find a
place, here she sets them down; and so here a rambler may be happy, or
fairly content at least, if he does not raise his eyes continually to
scan the horizon. I, for one, on the half-loaf principle, accept the
wayside brooks with thankfulness, and now after long years have found
that in many an essential feature they do not suffer so greatly as one
might suppose when compared with Nature’s more pretentious waterways.
Let Nature, on however small a scale, have the upper hand, and at such a
spot the rambler can afford to tarry. But perhaps I am partial, for this
was my playground, forty years ago; still, I would say—
Let not the wayside dells go unregarded;
Why ever longing for the hills or sea?
Who loves earth’s modest gifts is well rewarded,
And hears the wood-thrush sing as cheerily
As when by mountain brooks it trills its lay,
To soothe the dying moments of the day.
Here, where no busy toilers ever rest,
Where but the wayside weeds reach from the sod,
I love to be the merry cricket’s guest,
And find, though all is mean, no soulless clod;
The bubbling spring, the mossy pebbles near,
The stunted beech, they all are justly dear.
Like-minded birds—so I am not alone—
Linger as lovingly around the spot,
Whose subtle charm such mighty spell has thrown,
That wander where I will, ’tis ne’er forgot;
Here, child and bird learned first to love the sky,
The tree, the spring, the grass whereon I lie.
When timid Spring warms with her smile the way,
With all-impatient steps I hasten here;
No bloom so bright in all the bowers of May,
As the pale violets that cluster near:
Bright grow the skies, nor troubling shadows fall;
Childhood returns, when joy encompassed all.
Wayside Trees.
Who that has ever walked in the country has not blessed the farmer who
planted, or early settler who spared, the wayside trees? The average
country road, especially in the poorer farming districts, is something
deplorable. Only too often, even when shady and otherwise attractive,
there lies only the choice of wallowing through sand, stumbling over
rocks, or tripping over briers that would shame the Gordian knot for
close entanglement.
It is unreasonable to expect well-worn paths, far from the town’s
limits, unless Nature has provided them: but something a little better
than the remote highways, as they now are, might certainly be had. Is
there not sufficient tax collected in every township to secure this?
Probably the farmer who never walks to the village, and finds the
wagon-way fairly passable, may insist that the pedestrian can pick his
way, however rough the ground. True, but this does not dissipate the
pedestrian’s just claims. A man that must walk, because too poor to
ride, is none the less worthy of consideration, and may well grumble if
his right of way is blocked. Of course, man must take the world as he
finds it, and alter it if he can; and such an alteration is practicable
where good roads or foot-paths can not be, in the planting and
preservation of wayside trees.
Such was the current of my thoughts when I met, recently, the overseer
of a highway resting, at noon, from his labors. To him, and for him, a
little speech was made; and what was the reply? “Too many shade-trees
will encourage the tramps”! So he who loves to wander out of town must
take the dusty highways as they are, and sigh for pleasant shade he can
not enter. To plant a wayside tree, to have a country byway beautiful,
must not be thought of—it will encourage the tramps!
Now, it so happens that, near where I live, a chestnut-tree was spared,
two centuries ago, probably because it was too crooked for fence-rails.
Certainly for no praiseworthy motive was it allowed to stand; but it
does, and so to-day it casts a shadow in which half a regiment might
gather. Not strangely at all, every man, woman, and child in the
neighborhood loves the old tree, and points to it with pride. Were it
struck by lightning, it would have a public funeral. And yet I have not
found that any of my neighbors, except those very near the town, have
planted even a single wayside tree. On the contrary, a noble row of
catalpas was felled not long since for fence-posts!
A wayside tree means, to the pedestrian, something more than a mere
island of shade in an ocean of sunshine. A stately tree has many lovers,
and hosts of birds are sure to crowd its branches. Such a tree then
becomes the Mecca whereat the rambler spends the hours of hot high noon,
not only pleasurably but profitably—for I hold that a bird can not be
watched for long without gain. Is it nothing, as one rests in the shade
after a long tramp, to have a wood-thrush sing to him? Is it not a
lesson to the weak-hearted to hear the restless red-eye’s ceaseless
song? The perverse grumbler, has he a trace of reason, will, at least
secretly, own that much of which he complains might be far worse, after
listening to the singing of a bird perched in a wayside tree. Though
shorn of so much that Nature granted to the most commonplace of lands,
chaos has not quite come again. Certainly, however barren a sandy field
may look, it is not yet a desert.
As any ornithologist will tell you, birds, though there be little that
favors them and much that is harmful beset them everywhere, will
persistently cling to a tree by the roadside; will even nest in it,
although the ubiquitous small boy showers them with stones; and, more,
though persecution is the order of their day, will sing as in a paradise
regained, thankful that the world has even this much of untamed nature
left.
If, then, in spite of themselves, farmers love what wayside trees there
are, why can we not have more? Think of a leisured stroll, of a hot
summer’s day, through a long avenue of leafy oaks!
Skeleton-Lifting.
There are probably very few people but have seen the pretty stone
arrow-heads that are found, often in abundance, after the fields have
been plowed. I have often filled my pockets with them while wandering
about, and, in the words of a friend, “been amazed at the numbers which
are sown over the face of our country, betokening a most prolonged
possession of the soil by their makers. For a hunting population is
always sparse, and the collector finds only those arrow-heads which lie
upon the surface.” But if their handiwork is abundant, not so their
skeletons, and it is the uncanny taste of archæologists to prize the
bones as well as the weapons of the Indians. Still, it is not more
objectionable to carefully preserve the bones in a glass case than to
scatter them with the plowshare.
Because it is well to turn aside from beaten tracks occasionally, that
we may appreciate their beauty the more upon our return, and avoid the
danger of having the sweets of the upland or the meadow pall, I have
been indulging, of late, in archæological pursuits; been gathering
relics, though the locust and wild cherry drooped with their burden of
bright bloom, and the grosbeaks wooed me to the hillside.
Notwithstanding this, I resolutely turned my back upon bird and blossom
alike, and sought a neighbor’s field, over which waved tall and stately
grain. It was proposed to give the day, but, as it proved, the night was
added, to archæology.
There were weighty reasons, of course, for this intrusion upon my
neighbor’s land, as no sane man without a potent incentive would dare to
walk through growing grain. What moved me to so bold a deed was this:
Last autumn I discovered that my farmer neighbor had two skeletons, and
of one of which he neither had any use nor knowledge of its existence.
When apprised of the fact, he expressed no surprise, but resolutely
declined my offer to become the custodian of the superfluous bones, and
even went so far as to make appropriation next to impossible. But I
bided my time, and now, these bright June days, the grain kindly covers
the ground and every creeping thing upon it, as it proved when a dog
bounded into the field on the trail of a rabbit. I forthwith took the
hint and crept upon the trail of a dead Indian. The danger of
discovery—real, not fancied—gave something of zest to the work. With
only a garden trowel, the earth, over a marked spot, was carefully
removed, and as I had all the while to lie upon my breast while at work,
the task was a painfully slow one, and I more than once wished myself
away, until a few small bones were brought to light. Then all thought of
discomfort vanished. Bone after bone was slowly uncovered, but all,
alas! were so friable that not one could be removed with safety. In a
short time the entire skeleton was laid bare, but under what strange
circumstances! I had it within my grasp, but could not move it, nor
indeed myself, more than to crouch in the tall grain about me. It was
too like digging one’s own grave, and once, imagining an approach, I lay
full length by the side of my fleshless friend. The day of my rejoicing
had come, it is true, but there proved to be an overabundance of thorns
with the rose. Here was the long-coveted skeleton; but within hearing,
in the adjoining field, was a burly farmer, passing to and fro with his
plow. Whenever he came near, the grinning skull grew pale, as though it,
too, feared discovery; and so, until the dinner-horn sounded
across-lots, I was held a prisoner. How anxiously did I listen for
retreating steps and the rattling of the unloosened plow-chains!—welcome
sounds that came at last, assuring me that the coast was clear. Then,
leaving the treasure to the kindly sun that was rapidly warming it to
hardness, I sped dinnerward.
The Fates were intolerably cruel that day. At sunset, when I purposed to
return, innumerable obstacles loomed up, and every excuse to run away
from company that had most inopportunely arrived was pooh-poohed by
madam, in a most meaning manner; and it was just midnight when the open
grave was reached. The full moon at that moment broke through the
clouds, and a flood of pallid light filled the spot when I shook hands
with the fleshless warrior and forced myself to return the ghastly grin
of his angular countenance. There was something of defiance, too, in his
eyeless sockets, and a ghost of resistance as he was lifted from a couch
that he had occupied for some three thousand moons at least. The rattle
of his disjointedness was as harsh as the language that once he spake,
and while I thridded the woods and skirted, on my way home, the
resounding marshes, where every frog most ominously croaked, every
jostle of the warrior’s bones seemed to force a protesting syllable
between his rattling teeth.
With all deference to the votaries of archæology, skeleton-lifting by
moonlight is, I claim, a most uncanny pastime.
Why I prefer a Country Life.
Uz Gaunt was, in the writer’s experience, the most level-headed of
farmers. He once remarked, “Town folks smile at my vim and way of
putting things, but I’d rather be next neighbor to Natur’ than to most
of the town folks.” That remark impressed me many a year ago as a nugget
of pure wisdom, and now, when on the shady side of forty, I still think
it wiser than any casual remark, learned essay, or eloquent oration I
have ever heard in town.
It is a sad error to suppose that a rustic is akin to a fool; and a
citizen’s real worth may be measured by his manner of speaking of the
country people. That a significant difference obtains can scarcely be
denied, but it is not one that altogether exalts the dweller in town and
degrades the farmer. Will any one pretend to say that the latter is less
intelligent or refined? The simple fact is, the two classes are
differently educated: the townsman largely by books, the farmer to a
great extent by his surroundings; the former comes by his facts through
hearsay, the latter by observation. In other words, the citizen tends to
artificiality, the farmer to naturalness. The one is educated, the other
acquires knowledge. Dead, weigh their brains, and which may claim the
greater number of ounces?
And here let me say, in passing, that not all knowledge worth possessing
has yet got into books. Is it not true that the brightest features of
current literature treat of the world outside a city’s limits? What,
indeed, would modern novels be without something besides brick and
mortar for a background? Will the reader become enthusiastic over a
story the scenes of which shift only from Brown’s parlor to Jones’s and
back again?
The thrifty farmer may see nothing that attracts in the ball-room, and
fail to follow the thread of the story, or be charmed by the airs of an
opera; but has he not a compensation therefor in the Gothic arches of
his woodland, beneath which tragedy and comedy are daily enacted? And
what of the songs at sunrise, when the thrush, the grosbeak, and a host
of warblers greet him at the outset of his daily toil?
Town and country are interdependent; but, considered calmly and in all
its bearings, does not the former ask more of the latter, than _vice
versa_? Has not the influx of rural vigor an incalculable value? Does it
not prevent, in fact, the very destruction of the city, by checking the
downward course that artificiality necessarily takes?
But, as the heading of this article indicates, I do not propose to enter
into any controversy as to the relative merits of city or country life,
but simply to state why I prefer the latter. And may all those to whom
my reasons seem insufficient flock to the towns and become, what our
country certainly needs, good citizens.
I prefer an oak-tree to a temple; grass to a brick pavement; wild
flowers beneath a blue sky to exotic orchids under glass. I would walk
where I do not risk being jostled, and, if I see fit to swing my arms,
leap a ditch, or climb a tree, I want no gaping crowd, when I do so, to
hedge me in. In short, I prefer living “next neighbor to Nature.” I am
free to admit I know very little about the town. It has ever been a
cheerless place to me: cold as charity in winter, hot as an oven in
summer, and lacking nearly all those features that make the country
well-nigh a paradise in spring and autumn. Vividly do I recall the
saddest sight in my experience—that of seeing on the window-sill of a
wretched tenement-house a broken flower-pot holding a single wilted
buttercup, and near it was the almost fleshless face of a little child.
To be indifferent to the town is to be misanthropic, says one; and is
affectation, says another. Perhaps so; I neither know nor care. It
concerns me only to know it is the truth. None loves company better than
I; but may I not choose my friends? If I prefer my neighbor’s dog to my
neighbor, why not? I have not injured him, and, if harm comes of it, it
is the dog that suffers. Have not most people far too many friends?
Hoping to please all, you impress no one. You hold yourself up as a
model, and the chances are you are secretly voted a bore. Certainly, he
who lives where human neighbors are comparatively few and far between
runs the least risk of social disasters.
But there is a deal in the world besides humanity worth living for; and
I count it that the world was not made for man more than for his brute
neighbors. They, too, and their haunts, are worthy of man’s
contemplation.
Is it spring? I would catch the first whisperings of the soft south
wind, and hug the precious secret known, save to the flowers, only to
myself. And, as the days roll by, would watch the opening leaf-buds one
by one, and greet the first blossoms peeping above the dead year’s
scattered leaves. Is this a waste of time? If so, how is it, then, that
the earliest spring flowers need but to be taken to town to set the
people, one and all, agape? Is it nothing to brighten the dull eyes of
the weary toilers in the city? Verily, a violet plucked in February
preaches a refreshing sermon. And, yet again, when a faint shimmer of
green tints the wide landscape, I would catch the earliest note of the
returning bird as it floats across the wide meadow or rings with
startling clearness through the wood. Perchance along the river’s shore
I would hear the heaped ice crack and groan as the breath of Spring
snaps its bonds and sends this rugged gift of Winter whirling to the
sea.
Is it summer? I would catch the fragrant breeze at dawn, and mark the
day’s beauteous progress step by step; gather good cheer from the merry
thrushes’ song, and chirp as lustily as the robin though my task be
long. Even at noontide, be it never so sultry, I would take heart from
the brave field-sparrow’s hopeful tone, and lighten my labor with the
anticipation of long hours of rest, when the world’s best gift comes to
the fore—a moonlit summer night. Surely it is something to go hand in
hand with the year’s ripening harvest, for Nature unfolds many a secret
then, more strange than any fairy tale and more helpful than any fevered
fancy of vague theorist. Armed with such knowledge, the countryman is
well equipped to solve the problem of his life; and does not the toiler
in the town ask more frequently than all others that fearful question,
Is life worth living?
Is it autumn? The recompense for bearing the heat and burden of the
year’s long day is ours. What joy to contemplate the heaped-up treasures
of a fruitful summer, and know they are yours by right of a worthy
conquest wherein no one suffered wrong! Nor is Nature less beautiful or
less communicative now. Indeed, I hold her even more so. The ruddy tints
of the forest leaf mark the completion of a summer’s labor to which we
have given little heed as it progressed; but the woodlands invite us now
to see how beautiful as well as useful a tree may be, and open their
doors to “an annual exhibition” at which the world may well wonder. I
would rather have the autumn landscape before my door than its
counterfeit on canvas hung upon the wall. It is a comfort to know that,
be the former ever so gaudy, it can not be said to be unnatural. Thank
the stars! critics are dumb, whatever the garb Nature sees fit to put
on.
Is it winter? In a broad sense the world is now at rest, but one need
not sit down and mope because of it. It is a happy lot to be able to
lead a contemplative life; the better if it alternates with periods of
activity. And never a winter so dead as to be unsuggestive, not even
though the rigor of an arctic one be upon us. If the familiar river no
longer flows by, brimming, blue, and sparkling, flecked with the white
sails of busy craft or fretted with the tireless splash of hissing
steamers, what of the rugged highway it becomes for the wild life that
braves the north wind and its attendant storms? Whoso studies the flocks
of dainty sparrows that throng the wide, wind-swept wastes in winter
should have courage enough to face the world at all seasons. What a
pulpit becomes a cake of ice whereon a tree-sparrow is singing! and I
have heard hundreds of warbling sparrows when the day was cold and
dreary beyond description.
“How cheerless are the leafless oaks!”—these the strange words of a
storm-bound visitor. Cheerless? just now, perhaps; but wait, and what a
network of ruggedness will bar the deep blue sky, and let in the welcome
sunshine where the gnarly roots afford a tempting seat! It is winter
now, and as welcome the warmth and sunshine in this little nook as were
the coolness and shade in the leafy month of June.
And what a merry fate is his who is snow-bound! It is something to know
even a little of what Whittier has pictured for all time. Every feature
of a great snow-storm is a living poem that thrills us; and ever dearest
of all the open fire. “Back-log studies,” think of them! Everything,
down to the breaking of paths to the highway and the assurance received
at last that the world still lasts—everything, when snow-bound, cuts a
deep notch in the tally-stick of your memory.
The townsman may greet me with a pitying smile and turn with disdain
from the pleasures wherewith I am pleased; but nothing that he offers in
their place has yet tempted me to forsake the idols of my early days.
What though I am rough as the gnarly black-oak’s bark, have I not Nature
for my next neighbor?
A Midsummer Outing.
The gentle breeze that keeps the forest roof a-tremble whispers the
promise of a cool day, but breaks it long before noontide. It is wise,
therefore, to trust only to past experience, and, if you ramble at all
during the dog-days, consider yourself in the tropics and act
accordingly. Seek the shady nooks, and rest content to contemplate that
which is nearest at hand. He has traveled much who spends an hour in the
woods. The glamour of mystery rests as a veil over every tree and shrub,
and who has yet shown why the wayside weeds are all so brilliant and
beautiful? Where, except the damp shades of night, no cooling shadows
ever fall, even the well-traveled highway is now resplendent with
St.-John’s-wort, or white as with a snow-drift, where the blooming
yarrow clusters; but the pitiless sun threatens the rambler here, and I
turn to the little forest of sumach and locust which now nearly
obliterates the boundaries of a long-neglected pasture. Everywhere is
outspread the luxuriance of the tropics. Acres of lilies, ruddy and
golden, set in a cloud of tall meadow-rue; and this wealth of gorgeous
bloom upon which the eyes might feast the summer long, is hedged by a
glossy thicket of smilax, broken here and there only to give place to a
no less rank growth of pink roses. My neighbors hold the place a
disgrace to its owner, but I have long since cut the word “weed” from my
vocabulary.
In midsummer, it is too much like cataloguing to scan over-closely one’s
surroundings. General impressions are all that one should aim at, and
not fret if many a flower or bird should escape notice. When it is
ninety in the shade, it is well to carry even a light load of thoughts.
Lilies and yarrow, for instance, are enough for a hot July morning, and
I am quite content to have further details go to those botanists,
fearful bores, who
“Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.”
Probably there was waving lizard-tail; I know there was purple milkweed;
but if there were a host of lesser growths, it availed nothing. I was
seated in a bit of shade, and from my cozy nook looked out, at my
leisure, upon acres of lilies; and when their fiery tints proved too
bright for such a day, I refreshed my sight by turning to the yarrow, on
my left, or that daintiest of blooming shrubs, tall meadow-rue. Is this
too objectless a way to spend the summer? Should an outing have higher
aims? Various comments that reach me imply that view, but I enter a plea
for such laziness. Whoso contemplates a flower logically, and sees not
only it, but all that it represents, has given his brain but little
rest, though he may never have moved a finger. A fig for the
loud-mouthed chatter of non-productive busy-bodies!
It was not long before the fact became evident that this sea of lilies
was the pathless highway of a busy world. Bees, wasps, and many a
creature akin to them hurried by, tarrying but for a moment here and
there, ever buzzing their displeasure or humming sweet satisfaction as
on they rush. As in the human world, success and want of it were the
essence of the steady ramble of that insect metropolis.
Though long I waited, not a bird came near. The kingbirds, that are held
to be such foes of the honey-bees, were not to be seen, nor any
fly-catchers came in view. Afar off in the shady copse I could hear the
wood-pee-wee lisp its languid notes, and nearer a field-sparrow trilled
its winsome lay, but neither dared venture to the open meadow. It was
the insects’ paradise for the time, and I must confess soon became
monotonous. But I struggled against tiring of the wild bees’ hum, and
hoped, if nothing more tasteful offered, I might gather a bit of
patience. If dished up daintily, perhaps it can be swallowed with a
smiling countenance, but the bare drug, in fly-time, rouses a rebellion.
I singled out the nearest lily, and armed with my field-glass became
statistician. The novelty wore off directly: it was too like work. The
procession of bees and bee-like flies that visited that one flower was
not to be counted like city street parades. The bees marched in every
direction, and the lily was simply the hub of a wheel with innumerable
spokes. Soon, however, the monotony was broken and my languishing
interest revived. There was a commotion in this particular nook of
lilydom. I cautiously drew near, and found a noisy humming-bird; then
nearer, and found it no bird at all, but a clear-winged sphinx, and was
not ashamed to find I had made so great a mistake at the outset. There
is no great harm done in jumping at a conclusion, if we follow it up and
verify or correct the original impression. Certainly at a little
distance the resemblance is very marked. On its appearance every near-by
insect seemed to take umbrage at the presence of the “clear-wing,” and
the volume of sound was largely increased. There was a change from a
contented hum to an angry buzz. This change was readily brought about I
found by agitating the lilies with a switch, and so I realized, more
clearly than ever before, how by the increased velocity of the wings’
movements an insect would express its emotions. For a time I forgot the
heat and the glare of the noontide sun, and, walking to and fro, I
roused at will an angry roar from thousands of disturbed bees, or, by
remaining quiet, allowed it to settle into the drowsy hum of
contentment.
But the unprotected tropic of that field of lilies proved too great a
strain, and I was glad to seek the shelter of the woods. And what a
change is wrought by a few degrees of temperature! Here I found the
humming-birds in _propriæ personæ_, but they would not hum or buzz as I
drew near or retreated, and proved to be veritable commonplaces,
although I am sure their nest was very near. Disgusted with their
unsuggestiveness, I went home, and there followed up the subject, so far
as these birds are concerned. Covering one side of a porch is a thrifty
trumpet creeper, now in full bloom. Here come the humming-birds
continually, morning, noon, and night, and here I heard their angry
buzz, and could see it, too, I think, in the motion of their wings. It
needed only a little irritation to make them buzz angrily; but this is
not their only means of making themselves heard. They can squeak quite
loudly, and very generally do, if the flower they alight upon or
actually enter, is not quite to their satisfaction. I used to think that
the wrens were the quickest tempered of all our birds, but probably the
humming-birds are their equals in this respect. This I learned from a
pair of nesting birds, but to-day, this terrible, tropical July day, I
had the other fact impressed upon me, that not alone do insects express
their feelings by the movements of the wings; it is true also of the
humming-bird.
A Word about Knowledge.
Half a loaf may be better than no bread, but such a rule will not apply
to all matters. Half a fact is not better than ignorance.
Recently, not very far from New York, the Boston idea of naming the
trees in the public grounds—painting upon narrow boards both the
botanical and common names—was adopted by the city authorities.
_Acer rubrum_, | _Quercus alba_,
Red maple, | White oak,
and so on, were nailed to the various trees, and each, as is not always
the case, in its proper place. While the work was in progress the
following conversation took place: “What a deal of money is spent in
advertising patent medicines and such stuff nowadays!” remarked Blank to
his friend. “See there!” and he pointed to a maple properly labeled,
adding, “That’s some new bitters or a salve for corns, I suppose.” “No,
it isn’t,” replied Double Blank, with an air of infinite wisdom; “these
boards are the names of the different kinds of trees, nailed up for the
benefit of the ignorant in such matters. Here’s another one, and, don’t
you see, it gives the scientific and common names both? _Quercus_,
white; _alba_, an oak. I remember that much Latin, anyhow.” Is it true
that life is too short to acquire decent knowledge of natural history,
along with arithmetic and geography? And what profiteth it to study
Latin if such a display of ignorance as the above is the ultimate
outcome? Botany and zoölogy are in the curriculum of many lesser
institutions than colleges; but, from the manner in which these subjects
are taught in some places, they would better be omitted. These two
worthy citizens whose conversation was overheard—and the report thereof
is not “doctored”—had both been through a course of botany, and one of
them had struggled through a Latin reader. There is undoubtedly still a
considerable amount of prejudice against science, or “organized common
sense,” as Kingdon Clifford has happily called it, though why I do not
pretend to know. If it is a fact that birds fly and fishes swim, can any
harm come of knowing it, and of how and why they fly and swim? And, a
step further, if some birds swim instead of fly, and certain fishes
climb trees, as is true, is knowledge of the fact likely to prove
dangerous? Yet again, if ten thousand facts have been discovered, as
they have, which upset the ideas of our grandfathers, need we tremble? I
trow not. And this leads me to a word also about “newspaper science,” of
which more anon. What wonderful statements creep into the local papers!
Impossible snakes, no less impossible birds, and creatures too strange
for even the nightmare of a zoölogist, figure now and then as captured
in the neighborhood of an inland town, yet no one contradicts the
reporter or sees the absurdity of it all. The mythical hoop-snake
bespatters the “patent outsides” of many a village weekly. Better, by
far, absolute ignorance than half the truth. _Quercus_, white; _alba_,
an oak, indeed!
While the aforesaid intellectual status causes us to pity our fellows
and at times to laugh at their expense, brazen assumption of knowledge,
which is far more common, is often positively exasperating.
What a sad spectacle, yet very common one, to find, even in our larger
towns, thousands led blindly by a half-dozen who, by reason of brazen
assumption, have stepped forth as leaders, and been meekly accepted as
such! The intellectual status of many a village is sometimes ludicrous.
In Smalltown there live a lawyer, a doctor, and a clergyman, who are
great cronies, past sixty, and puffed up with pride. As a matter of
course, they rule the little community with a rod of iron. Not a great
question of the day but is referred to some one of the three or to all,
and nothing concerning the past comes up but their opinion is sought and
relied upon. No one ever reaches an independent conclusion, nor thinks
for a moment that error may have crept in when the past is discussed.
The noble three were never known to admit their ignorance; and never,
during their joint reign, have their decisions been disputed. Of course,
the inhabitants of Smalltown see as through a glass, darkly; for who
such disseminators of untruth as those who lay claim to universal
knowledge? May a recent ray of light that recently penetrated their
darkness tend toward their awakening! It happened not long since that
the blacksmith fell ill, and a stranger took his place at the forge.
This newcomer had been taught his trade, and rightfully prided himself
that he thoroughly understood it. Such independence nettled the village
clergyman, and, when that worthy came to have his horse shod, there was
not a paring of the hoof, driving of a nail, or stroke of the hammer,
but under his explicit direction. The smith was patient, silent, and
obedient, but all the while there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes.
The horse went lame directly, and “That fellow is an ignorant bungler,”
was the minister’s outspoken decision.
That was Monday, and Smalltown moved with the monotony of the old hall
clock’s pendulum until Sunday morning. Then the quiet blacksmith took
his seat in church near the door and sat through the service. In due
course the sermon of the past half-century, with variations, was
preached, and ended with the usual peroration, “Brethren, is this not
true?” With the asking of that question Smalltown was shaken to its
foundations, for the blacksmith quickly shouted, “No!” and straightway
retired. That minister had no faith in the skill of the blacksmith; the
latter placed no confidence in the preacher’s logic. I do not defend the
blacksmith, but, somehow, when I heard the story, I was otherwise than
shocked. There is a bit of harshness in it, perhaps, but the remark must
needs be made: Pin not too much faith upon defective memory; and it may
be rightfully added, there is nothing but reasonableness in the
suggestion that he who presumes to know all things is no safe authority
upon any.
The Night-Side of Nature.
Not long since I checked the flow of a diminutive brook that barely
trickled over a most tortuous course, and during midsummer was often a
thing forgotten. By building a dam I raised a shallow pond about two
hundred feet square, and nowhere more than eighteen inches deep, save at
its outlet. Here are now growing beautiful water-lilies—pink, yellow,
blue, and white—the stately lotus, and many a pretty aquatic plant from
foreign lands. Of these I have nothing now to say, except incidentally,
but a good deal concerning the remarkable zoölogical features of this
artificial pond in the corner of an exposed upland field.
I am quite sure that the most skillful hunter would have found no game
had he scoured this and the adjoining fields, even with trained dogs; no
trapper would have deigned to set a snare anywhere about the place, and
the naturalist would have considered the outlook most unpromising. As in
every farming district, here were acres of corn-fields, wheat-fields,
truck-patch, and pasture, and nothing but grass or growing crops to
relieve the monotony of the landscape. Every vestige of wildness has
long since been improved off the face of this region, and grasshoppers,
mice, and field-sparrows constitute the fauna. That is, apparently so;
and how readily we underrate the merits of the so-called commonplace in
nature! The truth is, every inch of these unsuggestive fields has ever
been and is familiar ground to hosts of cunning creatures, or how else
could the pond that was formed in a few days have become tenanted as it
now is? The remarkable promptness with which every nook and corner was
occupied by some water-loving animal almost the very day the pond was
formed shows how much is overlooked if we familiarize ourselves only
with the events of the day, and ignore, as young naturalists are all too
apt to do, the night-side of nature.
If the reader were to stand on the bank of the little pond early in the
morning, his attention would doubtless be drawn exclusively to the
lilies, and the skimming barn-swallows or fiery dragon-flies that
outspeed them would not be seen. Here and there the waters would be
rippled, but only the broad leaves of the lotus trembling in the breeze
would catch his eye, yet that ripple marks the progress of a monstrous
water-snake. Charmed by the beauty of a trailing vine that rests like an
emerald serpent on the pond’s placid surface, the deep tones of enormous
frogs will be unheard, yet here are giants of their race that quickly
found the spot, many of them larger and more musical than their brethren
in the meadows. By the side of a miniature lily from Siberia, scarcely
an inch in width, may pop up the rugged head of the ferocious
snapping-turtle, but the onlooker will see only a bit of wood floating
in the water, so absorbed is he in the wonderful display of aquatic
bloom.
Now, this is not an imaginary case, but the record of more than one
actual occurrence, and I lay stress upon the particulars because it
shows how readily we overlook so much that is well worth seeing. These
few square rods of shallow water go not so much to make a lily-pond,
although this was my sole intention, as to form a zoölogical garden on a
quite extensive scale.
Let us consider now some of these unbidden and unwelcome occupants of
the pond. Of the mammalian life, first in bulk as well as
destructiveness is the musk-rat. It is not so much of a wonder that
these animals so soon appeared. They are given to nocturnal wanderings.
This is the night-side of their nature that we must keep in mind. In
this case they had but to follow the windings of the brook for a
thousand yards from a creek, where they have always been, to reach the
pond. The curious feature of their coming was, that in so short a time
they had securely established themselves. They seem to have said to
themselves, “This is to our liking,” and without delay dug their
underground retreats. They considered the pond their own, and in one
night the smooth and sodded bank was marred by a line of treacherous
hills and hollows. Then broad leaves and thick stems of lilies began to
float about, cleanly cut from the parent plant. The culprits were well
known, yet days and weeks passed without one being seen. But a single
moonlit night sufficed to tell me what I had guessed: their hours of
activity are when men are supposed to be asleep.
The wary mink, too, came nightly to the pond, and, if it fished in the
waters, it was for the many frogs that abounded, but I found no mangled
remains of the old fellows that out-croaked the myriads in the meadows.
Then rabbits, mice, and squirrels came trooping to the water’s edge,
stood there, and wondered at the novelty of a bit of the meadows being
brought from the lowlands to this dry and dusty field; and when a
prowling dog came by, how with one wild shriek they vanished, and left
the pond to the bewildered dog and myself, and then to myself only, for
the dog soon turned to follow the trail of the fleeing rabbits; and here
I tarried long, gazing in rapture upon the lotus by moonlight.
It is Gordon Cumming who has described with wonderful vividness how
herds of antelopes and elephants, and even many lions, came to drink at
night from pools near which he lay concealed. What a boon to a
naturalist to see these mighty beasts under such circumstances!
It may seem very absurd to think of one when speaking of the other, and
ludicrous to compare them; but when I sat concealed by the little
lily-pond and saw these little animals, musk-rats, rabbits, and even
smaller fry, come to the water’s edge, I did think of the great
lion-hunter of South Africa, and honestly believe I could realize, even
more vividly than when I read his thrilling pages, what he had seen.
Probably no feature of wild life is so characteristic of water-scenes as
the tall wading birds, herons, snipe, and sand-pipers. I did not
anticipate the coming of any of these, unless it might be the little
teetering sand-piper that is practically a land bird; but it has kept
aloof, so far as I know, while stately herons have come and trod the
grassy shores and fished in the shallow depths. These birds are not a
feature of the day, however, and unless you are abroad after sunset you
would not suspect their presence. And then do not expect too much.
Probably some of the wonderful stories concerning herons, bitterns,
cranes, and storks, have come to your notice, but it is quite certain
that our North American species are very prosy, and set off by their
size the waterscape far more than they embellish it by wonderful habits.
It is true they are expert in catching frogs, cray-fish, and even mice;
but, however bright the moonlight, you can see next to nothing of all
this. The facts have been reached from dissection more than observation.
And what of the “powder-down patches” upon a heron’s breast? The fable
that these emit light and illuminate the water sufficiently to enable
the bird to see a fish in the water is still repeated, and a greater
error never found utterance. It is a pretty fancy, so the more
dangerous, as it crops out every now and then, to the deceiving of the
unsuspecting reader.
I have spoken of a monstrous water-snake. This serpent has long been a
feature of the pond, and, when in the upland fields laying its eggs it
probably smelled the water, and so turned northward toward the lilies,
instead of returning southward to the splatter-docks in the meadows. I
have cornered the creature several times, and always found it
exceedingly surly. To be held in the hand it considers an insult, and
bites with a rapidity of motion of the head that is marvelous. Its teeth
are pretty sharp, too, and bring blood when the hand or bare arm is
struck; but then its violent efforts are so amusing that one forgets all
about the pain. The snake loves a moonlit night, and at such times
occasionally floats upon the surface of the pond without making the
slightest motion, and a stranger would suppose it to be a small limb of
a tree. This apparent rest, however, has a purpose behind, and is, I
think, connected with the capture of food; or so it has appeared to me
on several occasions.
That the several turtles of our meadow tracts should find their way to
the pond was not surprising, for even those most strictly aquatic take
long overland journeys in spring and early summer; but I did not look
for fish, as none could come down the brook, and I as little supposed
that any could climb fifty feet above the river and reach it; and then
they would have, besides, to jump over the dam or waddle around it. And
I saw no fish until weeks after the pond was completed. I stocked it
with carp, and then, lo! there were mud-minnows in these shut-off
waters. Of course, they were there before the dam was built, and now
they are too well established to be exterminated. I can only hope they
will not find the carps’ eggs, or feed exclusively on the young fish.
What, then, have I accomplished by damming a little brook? I have
changed to a watery wilderness the corner of a one-time dusty field. I
have brought representatives of many forms of animal life, hitherto
unknown to the spot, to a prosy nook, and so changed the whole face of
Nature. The very weeds are even now different from those of former
years, and hosts of insects that had not been here before now fill the
air and make it to tremble with their tireless wings. And to the
rambler, after long tramping in dusty fields or along the no less
cheerless highway, here is a pleasant spot indeed, one that epitomizes
half the country round, and offers, too, many a suggestive novelty. So
much by day; but let him tarry until the gloaming, and when the lilies
have folded he will catch, what is even better, glimpses of the
night-side of Nature.
The Herbs of the Field.
Wandering recently in and out the woods and fields, tramping aimlessly
whithersoever fancy led me, I crushed with my feet, at last, a stem of
pennyroyal. Catching the warm fragrance of its pungent oil, straightway
the little-loved present vanished. How true it is that many an odor,
however faint, opens the closed doors of the past! Prosy and commonplace
it may seem, but full many a time a whiff from the kitchen of some old
farm-house, where I have stopped for a drink of water, recalls another
farm-kitchen, redolent of marvelous gingerbread and pies, such as I have
failed to find in recent years, and with their tempting spiciness went
that subtle odor, from which indeed the whole house was never free, that
of sweet-smelling herbs. I am daily thankful that the herbs at least
have not changed, as the years roll by. It is the same pennyroyal that
my grandmother gathered; and think to what strange use she put it! Made
pennyroyal puddings! Let them go down to posterity by name only.
The herbs of the field and garden were gathered, each in its proper
season, by the folks at home, and in great bunches were suspended from
the exposed beams of the old kitchen. In early autumn they made quite a
display, but, as the winter wore away, became rather sorry-looking
reminders of the past summer. To a limited extent their bulk decreased
and their odor became less pronounced; but how seldom were they ever
disturbed! I have dared to think that herb-gathering was a survival from
prehistoric times, but I never dared to hint this to my grandmother. The
nearest to doing this was to coax a braver boy to ask if the old bunches
were burned at midnight with secret ceremonies, for they gave place to
the new crop each year, yet were not seen lying about the yard. Neither
the braver boy nor I could get any satisfaction, but a forcible
reprimand instead, for hinting at paganism. I hold, nevertheless, that a
trace of it did exist then, and does. Was it not something akin to this
that more than one medicinal herb had to be gathered at midnight? This,
it is true, was not openly admitted, but unquestionably faith in its
virtue as a remedy was diminished if the plant was not gathered as the
superstition dictated. Try as we may, the crude faiths of our
prehistoric ancestry we can not snap asunder. As elastic bands, they may
grow finer and finer with the tension of the centuries, but still,
perhaps as but invisible threads, they hold.
However steadily herb-using may have been going out of date in my early
boyhood, herb-gathering was not, and I may be mistaken when I say that,
except the pennyroyal in puddings, sage in sausage, and a bit of thyme
and parsley in soup, the dozen others hung in old kitchens were unused
except as fly-roosts—a fact that scarcely added to their virtues.
When I last lounged on the old settle and counted the several kinds of
herbs hanging overhead, an aged negress assured me that every “yarb”
kept some disease at bay, and predicted disaster as the new kitchens
with their plastered ceilings and modern stoves gave way to more
primitive architecture and methods. And I am half inclined to believe
that she was right. The old folks had their aches and pains, but not so
much of that depressing languor that we call _malaria_. Might not the
ever-present odors of sweet-smelling herbs have kept this at bay? I
fancied I felt the better for the whiff of pennyroyal, and, gathering a
handful of its leaves, breathed the spiciness until my lungs were
filled. It is something to have an herb at hand that revives the past,
and more perhaps to have many that add a charm to the present, for the
pastures in August would be somewhat dreary, I think, were there not in
almost every passing breeze the odor of sweet-smelling herbs.
But if pennyroyal, sweet cicely, and the spicy “mocker”-nut carry me
back some twoscore years, what shall be said of a faint odor that can
yet be distilled from plants that flourished in the same pastures or
where these pastures now are, perhaps a million years ago? One is not
given to thinking of anthracite as at one time wood, but it is different
in this instance, for the blackened, fern-like plants in the underlying
clays are still wood and not petrified; so that they burn with a feeble
flame when dry, and burning throw off a rich fragrance akin to
frankincense. I have often placed a splinter of these ancient trees in
the flame of a candle, and, sniffing the odor that arises, travel in
fancy to New Jersey’s upland and meadows before they were trodden by
palæolithic man; before even the mastodon and gigantic beaver had
appeared; when enormous lizards and a few strange birds ruled the wide
wastes. But the world here was not wholly strange, even then, for many a
familiar tree was growing in this old river valley, as the delicate
impressions of their leaves in the clay so clearly demonstrate.
If, then, one would indulge in retrospection—and therein lies one of
life’s most solid comforts—it will be found that suggestive objects are
ever about us, and the herbs of the field, in August, would scarcely be
missed, if unhappily they ceased to grow. But why, it may be asked, are
these same herbs so suggestive of the past, so certain to give rise to
retrospective thought? It is not a personal matter, for I have
questioned many people, and in this they all agree. One reply is a fair
representative of all. Offering a little bunch of garden herbs to an old
man no longer able to wander out of doors, he immediately buried his
nose in it, drew a long breath, and remarked, “How that carries me back
to the old homestead!”
As by the touch of a magician’s wand, in my walk to-day, the present
vanished when I crushed the pennyroyal, and the ringing songs of the
still tuneful summer birds were not exultant strains glorifying the
present, but echoes of a dim past over which, perhaps, I am too prone to
brood.
It is absurdly contradictory, of course, to say that I love
retrospection, and that in August one is more prone to think of the past
than the present, and yet not to love that month, but such is the case.
In other words, I am vacillating and contradictory, and fail to command
the words that might set me right before the world; but it is August
now, and, summer’s activity ended, why should I labor to think? Why not
build air-castles as I smell the herbs of the field; build and unbuild
them until the day closes, and later, lulled by the monotones of cricket
and katydid, hum those ever-melancholy lines—
“Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight;
Make me a child again, just for to-night.”
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