PART IV.

IN AUTUMN.

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A Lake-Side Outing.

Having been within the city’s bounds for a week—for me a novel

experience that has little merit—it was with the eagerness of a child

that I rode a short distance out of town, and, turning my back upon the

railway station, started with a few friends upon an old-time tramp. In

the company were a geologist, an engineer, a botanist, an artist, and

others who, like myself, professing nothing, were eager to extract the

good from everything that came in our way. We filed along the dusty

highway, some miles from Toronto, with Lake Ontario as our objective

point.

There was not a feature of that ancient highway that differed

essentially from the country roads at home. The same trees, wayside

weeds, and butterflies met me at every turn; even the crickets creaked

in the same key, and the farmers’ dogs were equally inquisitive. For

more than a mile I am not sure that I saw a bird of any kind. In this

respect we are surely better off at home. This absence of novelty was a

little disappointing, but I had no right to expect it. Canada has been

longer settled than New Jersey, and doubtless many a field we passed was

cleared years before the forest was felled along the Delaware.

However this may be, the outlook soon changed for the better, and

reaching the upper terrace, or ancient shore, the broad and beautiful

expanse of Lake Ontario lay before us. From the upper to the lower

terrace was but a step, and then, on the very edge of a precipitous

cliff, I looked over to see the waves dashing at its foot, and carrying

the loose sand and clay steadily into the lake. Clear as crystal and

brightly blue the waters as they struck the shore; roily and heavy laden

with the sand as they receded. It is little wonder that the cliff is

rapidly yielding; there is nothing to protect it even from the gentle

ripples of a summer sea. Yet wherever spared for a short season

vegetation came to the rescue, and the yellow-white cliff was dotted

with blooming clusters of tansy, golden-rod, eupatorium, and mullein

yellow and white, that were too like the background to be conspicuous;

but not so the scattered asters, which were large and very blue; more

so, indeed, than any that I saw elsewhere.

The proportion of clay in the cliff differed exceedingly, and where it

was greatly in excess of the sand had withstood the destructive action

of wind and wave, and stood out in great pillars, walls, and turrets,

that suggested at once the ruins of ancient lake-side castles.

Leaving the cliff, not because weary of it, but to crowd a week’s outing

into an hour, the party turned to a deep, shady, vine-entangled ravine.

I was happy. Indifferent to the geology ably explained by one, to the

botany by another, to the beauty as extolled by the artist, I found a

rustic seat and feasted upon raspberries. To eat is a legitimate pastime

of the confirmed rambler. One’s eyes and ears should not monopolize all

the good things in nature; but these again were not neglected, for I

stopped eating—when the berries gave out—and toyed with the beautiful

seed-pods of the _Actæa_, or bane-berry. This I never find near home,

and so its novelty gave it additional merit; but it needs no extraneous

suggestiveness. The deep, coral-red stems and snow-white seed-pods

completely captivated my fancy. Bearing this as a prize, I moved slowly

over a pathless wild, hearing pine finches to my delight, and above all

other sounds the muffled roar of the lake as it beat upon the narrow

beach nearly two hundred feet below me. At last I was in a strange

country; one that bore not the remotest resemblance to any I had seen

before.

There was no time to tarry, however attractive any spot might prove; and

next in order, having seen the uplands, was to descend to the foot of

the cliff and stroll along the beach. I was assured that Fortune favored

us, as near by was a well-worn path. Never was a path better

described—it was well worn. Smooth as a toboggan-slide and with few

shrubs or sturdy weeds to seize in case of accident, my steps were

clogged with fear; each foot weighted with a painful doubt. I hate to

run a risk, and fear so strained my nerves that when the base was

reached every muscle ached through sympathy.

If we limit the localities to sand and water, the lake was an ocean on a

small scale, and not a very small scale either. Sky and water closed in

the earth’s boundary upon three sides; but the water lacked life. Not a

shell, not an insect, not a fish had been tossed upon the sand—nothing

but sand. This want was a disappointment, for the gathering of flotsam

along our sea-coast is a never-ending source of pleasure. Perhaps, had

there been recently a violent storm, I might have been more successful,

but probably the water is too cold. On the other hand, it was a comfort

to have land and water about one free from every trace of man’s

interference. Thank goodness, there were no iron piers and hideous rows

of booths and bath-houses! For aught one could see, the Indians might

have left these shores but yesterday.

Where we now strolled the cliff had been spared for several years, and a

rank vegetation covered it from base to top. Squatty willows and dwarf

sumachs, golden-rod and chess, a wild grass that recalled the graceful

plumes of the _Panicum crusgalli_ at home; these held the winds at bay,

but were likely, when next it stormed to be carried out to sea, and with

them tons of the cliff upon which they grew. As so many of the rank

growths near by were heavy with seed, it was and is an unsolved puzzle

why there should have been a complete absence of birds. Everything that

an ornithologist would say seed-eating birds required was here in

profusion; yet the birds were not. Already the summer migrants had

departed—I found many warblers’ and fly-catchers’ nests—and the winter

birds of the region had not yet appeared. From what I saw this day and

afterward in other localities, I am well convinced that, taking the year

through, there is no spot, east of the Alleghanies, in the United States

where birds are so abundant as in the valley of the Delaware. I have

seen, since my return, more birds of many kinds in one half-hour at home

than I saw during two weeks’ rambles in Canada.

I was in no hurry to climb up the cliff, the descent of which was still

impressed upon my memory, but the order to march came from the guide,

and we struggled slowly up the well-worn path. If a brief rest had not

been permitted, I should have rebelled; but we were fortunate in this,

and never did lake look lovelier than “in the golden lightning of the

sunken sun.” It was with regret that we turned our faces landward and

crossed prosy fields, and even longed for the bright waters while

threading a fragment of Canadian forest. Here, too, silence brooded over

nature; not even a chickadee flitted among the branches of the sturdy

oaks and maples, nor a woodpecker rattled the rough bark of towering

white pines. As we reached the public road, and stopped for supper at an

old wayside inn, three silent crows passed by high overhead. They were

flying in a southeasterly direction, and I watched them long, and

wondered if they were bound for the far-off meadows at home, where

hundreds of their kind gather daily as the sun goes down.

Dew and Frost.

At sunrise to-day, by reason of the dew, the whole earth was beautiful.

Every harsh outline was softened to comely roundness. Not even an

ungainly fence scarred the landscape. Instead of Nature tortured out of

shape, the outlook was as a peep into a fairy-land. And all by reason of

the glittering dew. What is dew? Says the physical geography at hand:

“When at night the earth radiates the heat which it has received during

the day, the surface becomes colder than the ground beneath or the air

above. Vapor rises from the moist soil below, to be condensed at the

cooler surface. The adjacent layer of air above is also cooled to its

point of saturation, and its vapor is deposited. This condensed moisture

at the surface, whether from the soil or the air, is dew.... Dew does

not fall, but is condensed on the best radiators, such as grass and

trees.”

Going no further into explanations, let us consider the dewy morn as we

find it. What of this “early, bright, transient, and chaste” moisture

that bathes the world alike? No, it does not, by the way. Many a spot is

dry as powder, while elsewhere all is dripping. It does not do to make

sweeping assertions even about such a phenomenon as this. You will stir

the lurking critic in his den if you do, and what a fell catastrophe!

But to-day, October 3d, the dry spots are to be looked for, so scattered

are they, and practically everywhere are sparkling globules of pure

water. Finding the world so, it becomes the essential business of the

rambler to determine its effects. Are the birds chilled to silence? Does

the field-mouse shiver in his grassy nest? I think not. Often have I

wished to detect some marked evidence of the influence of dew, but my

sluggish senses have failed me. Up from the glistening expanse of weedy

meadows comes the blithe song of the sparrow; out from the misty depths

of the river valley floats the triumphant cawing of the crow. The

bluebird greets the dawn with prophetic warble, promising the brightness

of summer when the dew has gone; and chill though the night has been,

the twittering swifts are alert and aloft at daybreak. Whether there be

dew or none, it seems to matter nothing to the birds. But it is a

veritable tell-tale so far as the early stirring mammals are concerned.

They can never move so daintily that the dew-drops are not brushed

aside, and the long lines of swept herbage stand out in boldest relief

as the sunlight sweeps across the field. One can now track the belated

creature to his home.

Most marked of all the effects of a heavy dew is the beading of a

spider’s web. A more exquisite object than a dew-spangled gossamer I

have never seen. Within a week I saw a single silken strand that reached

a rod in length, and not a break was there in the row of sparkling beads

that clung to it. At the same time, from rail to rail of the roadside

fence were stretched the marvelous weavings of the geometric spider, and

every horizontal thread was dew-laden. I waited until the sun broke

through the bank of clouds in the east, anticipating a splendid

exhibition, nor was I disappointed. Alas! that language is so inadequate

to one’s needs, when such magnificence is before us. What the spiders

may think of dew remains to be determined. As I prodded several of them,

and forced them to the fore, they were a sorry-looking set, and shook

their webs and themselves in a disconsolate way, as though chilled to

the core. An hour later, as I passed by, their energy had revived.

And now what of dew as a weather sign? I turn to the “weather proverbs”

that have been gathered and made into a little book (Signal Service

Notes, No. IX), and find the sum and substance of fourteen “sayings” to

be that dew in summer and autumn is indicative of fair days; the absence

of it, of rain. “If your feet you wet with the dew in the morning, you

may keep them dry for the rest of the day.” It is a comfort to know that

a modicum of truth lies in some of the sayings in everybody’s mouth; and

certainly a dewy morn is likely to be followed by a dry and sunny noon.

Nevertheless, do not expect to notch off your three score and ten years

without a failure in these sayings. Euripides never hit the nail more

squarely on the head than when he wrote—

What to-morrow is to be

Human wisdom never learns.

Sooner or later in October we have frost. The beautiful dewy morning two

days ago was followed to-day by a no less beautiful morning; but the

meadows were gray with frost. Says the physical geography: “When the

weather is cold, so that but little vapor can be carried in the air, the

dew-point may be below 32 degrees Fahrenheit. In this event what is

deposited is solid frost.”

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

and whatever it might have killed it compensated therefor by adding life

to the air. Despite its beauty, the country was reeking with an unseen,

unsuspected poison, but one none the less sure in its fell effects. How

different to-day! There is evidence of vigor so widely spread that the

blighted leaves and drooping blossoms may well be overlooked. No sounds

are muffled; the faintest chirping of a distant bird falls sharply on

the ear. The loose bark of the nut trees snaps and crackles at the

squirrel’s touch, and not a tiny twig breaks in the timid rabbit’s path

but we plainly hear it. The languor that held spellbound the woods and

fields fled with the coming of that “killing frost.” Well can we spare

the daintier bloom of summer, seeing how great a train of blessings

follows in the wake of frost.

There is a widespread impression that animal life is affected almost to

the same extent as vegetation by these so-called killing frosts. This is

not true. Insects are benumbed by it, but recover before noon. Frogs and

salamanders are silenced and sluggish, but the morning sun renews their

vigor; and who ever heard of a frostbitten bird? On the contrary,

scarcely an hour after the sun rose on October 5th, there were a dozen

birds, that, moping and peevish, had petulantly chirped for weeks, and

now sang gayly. Later there was an old-time concert in the hillside

thicket, even a brown thrush singing half his May-day song. Nature is

renewed by a killing frost. It destroys the old to give place to the

new; and this early autumn life that makes glorious October and softens

the gloom of November has charms too little heeded. The world does not

need to be embowered in green leaves to tempt the rambler. He who lives

out of town well knows how many are the frosty days when the uplands and

meadows alike teem with myriad forms of happy life.

A Hermit for the Day.

A peculiarly disagreeable northeast storm, continuing for some time,

kept me out of the woods, and it was long after the October moon had

fulled that my opportunity came. Then I turned hermit for the day.

I question if it matters much at what time of year you turn your back

upon civilization and take to the woods. They will greet you kindly at

all seasons. If, by reason of your delay, they do not charm you with

spring flowers, they have cool shades to offer when the dog-star rages;

and following these, a carnival of color and harvest of sweet nuts. If

you have tarried in town too long for these, then plunge into the forest

at midwinter, and, sheltered by a sturdy oak, build your camp-fire. Do

this, and if you return without a harvest of new thoughts, the chances

are that you have turned up on the wrong planet.

The best means of realizing what others have enjoyed or suffered is to

taste of their experience. I know of hermits from hearsay only, and I

wished to test the accuracy of what I had heard and read concerning

them. Pleased with the novelty of my quick-laid scheme, I renounced the

world at midnight, and, laden with a blanket and provisions, started

long before sunrise for a hollow sycamore miles deep in a lonely swamp.

Of what I was to do when I reached the proposed goal I had no idea. The

one controlling purpose was to get, not out of the world, but on one of

its edges. Trudging half-heartedly along—the silence of midnight clogs

one’s energy—I reached before dawn the confines of that lonely swamp. As

seen by the dim light of the drowsy stars, there was little to tempt me

to enter, although the now scarcely discerned wood road that crossed it

was familiar enough. What if there was no real danger (and he is a

coward who turns from an imaginary foe) still the imagination persists

in peopling a forest with most strange shapes—shapes at which one

shudders; and yet, contradictory as we are, we give no heed to hosts of

creatures daily about us that are far more marvelous. If I had any

purpose whatever in this unusual outing, it was to study wild life; and

now, because the dry twigs cracked loudly and the chafing branches

overhead groaned dolorously, I was disposed to forget that it was my own

feet that broke the former and the wind that moved the tree-tops. What a

fool man can be upon occasion! Be it on record, however, that the woods

were entered, and many a rod was measured with firm steps, when, at a

turn in the road, a flickering, sickly light danced in the foreground. A

gypsy camp, I thought, and how still I stood! Then, while staring

steadily at the pallid flame, I saw there was no one near it, and the

truth flashed upon me. It was merely a will-o’-the-wisp. I laughed at my

blunder; so did an owl. _Woo-roo-roo!_ shouted the feathered imp in my

ears. Never was sound more welcome. Now I was well at home. A hermit for

a day loves company—this I learned; and the little red owl and I are old

friends. I took his hooting as a hearty welcome, and with lighter steps

followed the crooked wood road. Now every sound excited curiosity, no

doubt; and when this is true, a walk in the woods, be it night or day,

is an unmixed delight. Later, as the pale gray dawn sifted its meager

light through the trees, I paused at many a familiar tree and shrub. All

regrets had vanished, and I bade the swamp “Good morning” with a hearty

shout, when the old sycamore loomed up before me, its scattered leaves

gilded by the herald rays of the slowly rising sun. There was scarcely a

dozen rods between us, but that much of my journey was not to be

accomplished. A huge old maple had fallen across the road, the course of

a little creek had recently been changed, and bees were swarming about

the hollow tree. It was plain that I must seek a new hermitage. But why

any particular spot? There was no tree so inhospitable as to refuse me a

shelter. But why seek shelter at all, under an unclouded sky? Placing my

burdens on a mossy knoll, I sat down. Now, I thought, I am a hermit, and

perhaps a fool. The latter thought nettled me, but what could I do?

Still I vowed that I would not return empty-handed. I had met Nature

half-way; would she make like advances?

_Click-click-clatter_, so it sounded, and I cut my meditations short.

The work of the hermit was, I hoped, about to commence. Chatter,

clatter, everywhere, as if every twig were busy; nor was all this varied

volume of sound derived from but one source. There were squirrels

overhead, and chipmunks among the dead leaves. Two downy woodpeckers

were scanning, in close company, the dead limb of an old oak, and

flitting everywhere were scores of kinglets and warblers. A host of

tree-sparrows and white-throated finches filled the chinkapin shrubbery;

while, dearest of all, a brave black-capped titmouse came almost within

reach, looked me boldly in the face, and twittered “Good morning.” It

was worth all the drawbacks of being a temporary hermit to be greeted so

cordially. It is true the woods are never quite deserted, and yet it is

not in them that birds most congregate; but here, this day, were more

birds immediately about me than I ever saw before. More tree-sparrows

directly from Canada than I saw in all my tramps there two months ago;

and certainly more kinglets than I ever saw before. The chilly northeast

storm doubtless had something to do with this abundance of birds, but

this matters not. Here were birds in abundance. What can they teach me?

To think that with one glance of the eye more Canadian sparrows could be

seen than I found in all my Canadian tramps two months ago! And they had

all the freshness, too, of this brisk October morning. There was no

listlessness, however long their journey may have been. _Snap—crackle_,

these crisp words best describe their songs and movements; and when life

snaps and crackles, whether it is our own or that of other creatures, it

is life worth living. So marked is the difference between bird life now

as compared with what we see of it in May that the same species are

scarcely to be recognized as such. This is peculiarly true when the

spring and autumn plumage are different, as in the case of bobolinks,

that now are flitting southward as yellow-brown reed-birds. With our

recent arrivals, as well as all-the-year-round birds, it is now a season

of fun and feasting. Life has few cares for them for months to come, and

they appreciate the fact.

It was the old story. I was seeing too much. Had I not kept in the

background, the day would have teemed with adventure, but I should have

been less of a hermit. It was hard to single out some one small bird

among a hundred. I turned from white-throats to kinglets, from

woodpeckers in the trees to chewinks on the ground, but everywhere there

was no end of bustle, if not confusion. Silent woods, indeed! No city

could have shown a busier thoroughfare than the interlocking branches of

the trees. The Stock Exchange was never noisier than when a crowd of

grakles came rushing from the outer world and settled in a little

cluster of white pines. Here seemed the opportunity of a lifetime, yet I

was puzzled to know what to do. To merely catalogue the species as they

came in view would have been absurd; to say that a flock of this or that

species was feeding in the tree tops is equally uncalled for. Would

there never come some startling incident? It came that moment. A

swift-winged hawk dashed through the trees. I fancied I felt the fanning

of his wings upon my face. But, better than all, I saw something of the

swifter tactics of threatened birds. Their darting earthward was simply,

marvelous; their clinging to the under side of branches was wonderful;

but, above all, the instantaneous recognition of danger and promptness

to find a safe shelter struck me. After all, the sense of danger was

ever present with these happy-go-lucky birds. Unless there was such a

sense controlling them their movements could not have been so

efficacious and so wholly free from confusion. Here is no loose

interpretation that profound critics love to dwell upon. One has but to

see a host of birds, and if of several species so much the better, to

recognize how busily their brains keep working that the dangers really

ever in attendance shall not rob them of all comfort.

Never shall I forget one tiny kinglet that squatted upon the blanket at

my feet. Its wings were outspread, and, looking directly up, it seemed

in utter despair; but the shadow passed as quickly as it came, and when

I innocently stooped to pick up and soothe the kinglet, it was too much

itself again, and sped away as cheerily as though nothing had happened.

“What next?” I asked after a moment’s quiet; for the kaleidoscopic

effect of ever-shifting flocks of busy birds soon became monotonous. I

longed for hawks at the rate of one every ten minutes at least; so

firmly fixed is one’s desire for adventure. But the hawks came not.

Instead, that matchless songster of sweet summer days appeared, and made

the woods ring with his sharp metallic “_click_.” How I longed for his

May-day melodies! But no, he chirped and teazed; and then, as if

ashamed, warbled a few faultless notes, and away he sped. The whole host

of finches caught the magic of that song, and every white throat

whistled at his best. Up from the woods rose a swelling volume of sweet

sound that should have bid murder pause. It only brought destruction

upon their heads again. A rush of wings, a dark streak across the sky,

and every bird was silent. But their plans varied in this. When the

danger had passed they seemed of one accord too insecure at this spot,

and left me to my meditations. Here again was a noticeable feature of

bird life. Either each group had its leader, or every individual was at

the same moment impelled by a like thought to seek safety, and all in

one direction. This is improbable, and certainly the fact of like

species flocking indicates that they find good in association and have

means of communication, for, without some sort of language, flocking

would be a source of danger. This has been shown, however, time and

again. Birds have language and an abundance of forethought, and so are

better worth study than some would have us believe.

The woods were now, for the first time, really silent. I listened for

several minutes, but could detect no sound, and was delighted at last

when the wind sprang up and rustled the dead leaves. Then a faint chirp

was heard, and a chickadee came within arm’s reach. Its busy search for

food reminded me that I had brought food with me, and I sat down to eat.

Tossing the crumbs before me, they were scrutinized by the little bird,

but not closely, and I was myself more the object of its curiosity. How

I longed for it to perch upon me! But it would not, and my opportunity

for a pretty story was lost. Birds do not like solitude. Where there is

one chickadee, rest assured another is not far off; and soon there were

two before me. And now I would that some critical know-all would tell us

the meaning of such an action as this: these chickadees came together;

they faced each other, twittered faintly in each other’s ears, then

looked directly toward me; then came nearer, and, alighting on a branch

not three feet from my head, looked down at me, twittering all the

while. Would they have done this had I been a stump? Were they not

discussing me? He who says they were not may be a “thorough naturalist,”

but he is something besides—no matter what.

And the chickadees passed by.

But the woods proved not an aviary only. I have spoken of squirrels.

There were rabbits, mice, and a stray mink, also, there, and what host

of hidden creatures, furred and feathered, we shall never know. The

heyday of the wood’s wild life, however, was well-nigh over. It was past

noon, and rest was the order of the hour. What creatures I saw moved

with great leisure, as if annoyed that they had to move at all. The mink

crept along a prostrate log as though stiff in every joint, but when at

the end of his short journey I whistled shrilly, with what animation it

stood erect and stared in the direction of the sound! How evident that

this feature of the sense of direction is well developed! Half concealed

as I was, the mink saw nothing to rouse its suspicions; it was merely

curious or puzzled; it was thinking. Here was an occurrence beyond the

range of its experience. What did it mean? The mink did not move a

muscle, but stared at me. Then I commenced whistling in a low tone, and

the animal became more excited; it moved its head from side to side, as

if in doubt, and needed but a slight demonstration upon my part to

convert this doubting into fear. I whistled more loudly, and moved my

arms. In an instant the mink disappeared. There was not in this case a

single act upon the part of the animal that differed from a timid and at

the same time inquisitive child, and however much others may demur, I

consider the mental activity the same in each.

Long before sunset the sky became clouded, the shadows in the wood were

deepened, and wild life was better heard than seen. Then the resounding

rain-drops striking the crisp leaves dulled all other sounds, and bade

me seek refuge. I had not long to search, and, without hesitation,

pushed through a jagged opening into a huge hollow maple. It is seldom

that such convenient shelters are unoccupied; certainly this one was

not.

Spiders in that hollow tree,

How they came and glared at me!

On trembling bridges overhead

To and fro in anger sped;

But the fear they would arouse,

While unbidden in their house,

Failed my stubborn nerves to touch,

Though they threatened overmuch.

From the moss, with glittering eye,

Mottled snake went gliding by;

With its forkéd tongue thrust out,

Wondered what I was about,

Standing in the hollow tree,

Wild-life’s home, this century.

Centipedes, uncanny forms,

Slimy, slippery, noisome worms,

From the cracks and crannies there

Startled each from hidden lair,

Crept and crawled, above, below,

Threatened me with direst woe

If I chanced to cross their path,

If I dared excite their wrath.

From a distant nook afar,

Gleaming like a double star,

Eyes of owlet, full of fire,

Questioned my insane desire

Here within the tree to stand,

Trespassing on wild-life’s land.

Why not in the outer world?

This the question at me hurled.

But I stubbornly refused

To be other than amused.

Nor till night I bent my way

Homeward, hermit for the day.

Snow-Birds.

If my memory serves me no tricks, I have never known an October without

snow-birds. This year, they appeared as early as the second day; and as

I have seen them daily since, it has been a source of wonder that they

should ever have been called “snow-birds.” Peter Kalm, writing of them

in 1749, remarks: “A small kind of birds which the Swedes call snow-bird

and the English chuck-bird, came into the houses about this time (Jan.

21). At other times they sought their food along the roads. They are

seldom seen but when it snows.” The same author, thirty pages further

on, says the English called it “snow-bird,” and the reason is that it is

only seen in winter, “when the fields are covered with snow.” This

impression, which there is no reason to believe was correct when Kalm

wrote, still prevails, and yet there is not a tittle of reason for

associating the bird with snow, as there is with the snow-bunting, an

Arctic bird that you may or may not see when the snow-storms come.

Neither Wilson nor Audubon gives any reason for such a name, and what

has been written since is of little moment. Wilson’s reference to one

phase of the bird’s habits would make the name “snow-bird” more

appropriate, but Wilson repeated ill-considered hearsay in this case,

for these birds care less about weather changes than many another. They

enjoy a foul day, whether it rains or snows, and hunt for food wherever

it is to be found. Being nearly black, of course they are very

conspicuous against a white background, and not at all so when the

ground is bare. Possibly this may have given rise to the name. Well,

this miscalled bird is now here, and has been for three weeks; and

to-day is twittering gayly over wilted asters, and so intent on

seed-hunting that I can almost reach it with my hand. It has always

seemed to me an autumn rather than a winter bird, and is one of several

that is loved because of association rather than for any marked trait of

its own. I never see them but I recall my first experience in trapping.

One December day, forty years ago, it was snowing, and I murmured that I

must remain indoors. As a recompense, I was allowed to trap. A sieve was

tilted up and rested upon a stick, to which was tied a string reaching

to the kitchen door. A few crumbs were sprinkled under the sieve. How I

watched! How quickly the stormy morning passed! The snow-birds came and

went, and at last, spying a crumb that had not been covered, a bird

hopped beneath the sieve. I pulled the string at the right moment. For

once there was a happy mortal upon earth. How impetuously I rushed out

to the sieve and, raising it, saw the frightened snow-bird fly away! Oh,

the bitterness of my grief! My bird had been fairly caught, but it would

not stay a captive. And I have had such adventures since. Painfully

often have I failed to make good my captures. A deal of labor and empty

hands at last!

But let us back to our ornithology. October 20th was a perfect day.

There were snow-birds in the gardens and the old maiden-blush apple tree

was in bloom. Nutty October and flowery May, each a delight, and here

commingled! There should have been music, but every bird was mute, and

the hyla piped his one note at long-drawn intervals.

So undemonstrative in every way, so silent save the occasional faint

twitterings, these birds of the summer-like afternoon might readily have

been passed by unnoticed; but it will not be so later. They gather

energy as the mercury falls, and when the next hoar-frost whitens the

meadows and the uplands’ weedy fields, then will they shake tall grass

and rattle the dry twigs as you approach. They are timid birds, and your

shadow or that of a hawk creates a riot in their ranks; but they find

their wits as soon as they lose them, and if you but stand quietly,

orderly, seed-hunting is promptly resumed. What, then, is their peculiar

merit, that attention should be asked to them? I am sure that I do not

know, unless it be that I love them. This is merit enough in my eyes;

and who that spent his youth in the country but recalls the birds of

winter? It may be that there was too much work to be done at other times

of the year to give heed to the summer songsters; but never in winter

were the days too short to set a rabbit trap, to follow a covey of

quails, or, less murderously inclined, to listen to the squirrel’s bark

or the chirping of the sparrows in the hedge. Seldom, indeed, are the

snow-birds alone. There are several other species of the same family

(the finches) here in the same weedy pastures, and far oftener all are

singing than that any are silent. Autumn, either early or late, is never

a dismal season. As you wander in the woods or near them, you can not

say—

“I walk as one

Who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted.”

What Summer took away with her Autumn has replaced. There has been a

shifting of scenes, but the actors are as numerous as before. The round

of the seasons is a serio-comic drama with no heroes, or with every

creature one, as you happen to view it.

In midwinter, when the deep snows come—if they come at all—how

effectually the snow-birds enliven what might otherwise be a dreary

outlook! On the projecting twigs above the huge drifts they gather, and,

plunging down deeply into the snow, find seeds on many a sturdy weed

that winter winds have not cast down. Their curious antics at such a

time, so vividly described by Lockwood, make us forget that the day is

cold, and, whatever the weather, I would rather be among the birds and

see them close at hand—closer than is ever possible from my study

windows.

Perhaps snow and snow-birds is too short a list of attractions for a

winter-day outing. It is not for me; but I have never found it an

all-inclusive list. There was never a snow yet, since the days of

palæolithic man at least, that covered the tree-tops, and here the—

“_Chic-chicadee dee!_ saucy note

Out of sound heart and merry throat”

is very sure to be heard, even with the mercury below zero. It accords

well with the rippling twitter of the snow-birds, and completes the

day’s attraction, or should do so. How tiresome our northern summers

would be without a bit of winter, now and then, wherewith to contrast

them. It is strange, but true, that when the occasional rambler takes an

outing he must have a whole menagerie at his elbow or votes the woods in

winter a dismal solitude. It is seldom that our snow-birds have only the

titmouse for company. Given a blackberry thicket, and the white-throated

sparrows will be there and how gloriously they whistle! Overstaying

cat-birds, here in New Jersey, will be a surprise, and their midsummer

drawling will sound strangely coming over snow-banks; but of late it is

a feature of a winter walk. Winter, in fact, is overfull of sights and

sounds.

October to March. For five months we have had snow-birds, and none the

less a feature when the asters empurpled the hillsides than later when

the fields were snow-bound. What of them, too, as summer comes on apace?

Even above the wreckage of a wild winter, snow-birds can be cheerful.

Never so tattered and torn the rank growths of the dead year but the

snow-birds have reason to rejoice. If not at the present outlook, then

they take a peep into futurity and sing of what will be. Probably our

world looks its dreariest in March, as the darkest hour of night is just

before the dawn, but happily the gloom does not weigh upon snow-birds,

and to know how cheerfully they can sing one must hear them then. Their

whole souls are in their utterances, and when a hundred or more ring out

their gladness, March sunshine grows the brighter, the winds are

tempered, and many a yellow leaf becomes a golden blossom.

Blue Jays.

“What is the most characteristic feature of November?” asked a shivering

friend from town, as we stood with our backs to the rain-laden winds.

“Birds and blossoms,” I replied. Of course he thought me trifling with

him, and I asked if he expected me to say “rheumatism.”

What have birds and blossoms to do with such a dreary outlook? This was

evidently the tenor of my friend’s thought, although he said nothing

more. To him, as it was raining hard, the world was unutterably dreary,

and he longed for the crackling blaze upon the andirons which he knew

awaited us. In a few moments, as we skirted a bit of woodland, I

remarked: “Blue jays are a feature of this month. See! here are half a

dozen.” They were very tame and full of merry ways. They hunted the

leaf-strewed ground and played bo-peep among the lower branches of the

oaks. They screamed, laughed, chattered, and at times uttered that

peculiar flute-like note which sounds so strangely in the woods,

particularly when the silence of midwinter broods over all. My friend

forgot that it was a dull November day.

These dandies in their cerulean suits can do no mischief now, and I love

them for their vivacity. Their cunning shows out continually, and it

needs not the dictum of the naturalist to learn that they are cousins of

the crow. That they lived so largely upon eggs during May and June told

against them at the time, and they were then the incarnation of

fiendishness. Let the dead past bury its dead. One can not be happy who

is ever cherishing dislikes, and I find the blue jay of the present

sufficient unto November days. For my part, he is right welcome to the

woods as he finds them. While the six merry jays were before us, I

picked a violet, a bluet, and a daisy, and offered them as proof that

November blossoms were not a myth. There are, I assured my friend, more

than a score of flowers to be found by a little careful searching. What,

then, if Summer’s glory has departed; if her skies are no longer

overhead; her songs no longer fill the air; the odor of her blossoms no

longer scent the breeze; is it not a poor wheel that can not spare one

spoke? Nature is not so niggardly with her gifts in November as summer

tourists, for instance, are apt to suppose. November is comparatively

bare, it is true, and positively ragged; but it is not always safe to

judge a man by his coat.

A jay is something more than a bird with blue feathers. October 23,

1889, it snowed violently for three hours, and the ground was white.

Masses of snow, too, clung to the limp foliage that remained, and gave a

curious aspect to the wooded hillsides. It was then that the jays were

moved to unwonted activity, and I saw them at their best. The snow

puzzled them, and, being intent upon their own affairs, they paid no

heed to my proximity. “What does this mean?” was the question I fancied

each asked of his comrade, and then a dozen would attempt explanation at

the same time. Such a chattering! Although the air was thick with snow,

it did not muffle the harsh sounds—noises as distracting as cracked

sleigh-bells. A great company of these birds had been for a week in the

hillside woods, sociably inclined but not intimately associated. The

snow brought them together, and after an hour of vain discussion, as a

compact flock, they left the woods and flew in a direct line for a

cluster of cedars half a mile away. It appeared to me that some one of

these birds made the suggestion that the cedars were a better protection

than half-leaved oak woods, and all took up with it. At any rate, that

is where the birds went and remained until the snow-squall was over. Of

course, it might have been a mere coincidence, and all their chattering

mere meaningless noise, and so, to the end of the chapter; but I am not

disposed to view bird-life from such a stupid standpoint. It may suit

the “feather-splitters,” as Burroughs aptly calls them, to look upon

birds as mere conveniences for their nomenclatorial skill, but he is

happy who escapes them and seeks directly of each bird he sees to know

what thoughts well up from its little but lively brain. Now, I have

never seen, but upon this occasion, a large number of blue jays, a dozen

or more, fly in a compact flock. Here, on the home hillside, and I know

nothing of them elsewhere, they wander about during the autumn in

companies, but always in an independent manner, as if a very general

knowledge of the company’s whereabouts was quite sufficient; but to-day

such a method would have been impracticable. The air was too thick with

snow, and therefore, predetermining the direction, they gathered upon

the same tree, and then, when closer together than ever I saw red-winged

blackbirds, off they flew. To say that this simple occurrence does not

prove beyond question a wide range of mental faculties is to deny that

two and two make four. Probably the unhappy growler who descants upon

the all-essential importance of “the element of accuracy,” which no one

denies, will find this incident contrary to the officially recorded

conditions of jay life, and insist that I saw red-winged blackbirds and

mistook them.

An ornithologist once wrote to me, “Some of your birds in New Jersey

have strange ways,” but this is not true in the sense he intended. Birds

about home are simply, here as elsewhere, wide-awake, cunning, quick to

scent danger, and wise enough to suit themselves to their surroundings.

This latter fact goes far to explain many a point, for it must be

remembered that it is the country that decides the bird’s habits, and

not that the latter are a stereotyped feature of the country. The same

people may dwell among the hills and upon the sea-coast, but how

different are the mountaineer and the ’long-shore man! Concerning birds,

the difficulty lies in the fact that so many people, even naturalists,

are too little concerned with birds’ ways, and rest content with a mere

knowledge of their names. I once attended, with a prominent naturalist,

an ornithological meeting. There were a score of bird-men present, and

very soon they fell to egg-measuring! My companion fell asleep!

But what of the flock of blue jays?

They had not long to wait for clearing weather. Soon the sun shone

brilliantly, and Nature for a brief hour wore a strange garb. Many a

tree was yet green, many were brilliant with gold and crimson, and all

were flecked with masses of glistening snow. It was a splendid

spectacle, a swiftly fading pageant, that, like a glowing sunset, is

remembered long after it has passed away. And how the lively blue jays

rejoiced at the return of the sunshine! “Now for the oak woods again!” I

could hear them scream, even though so far away; and sure enough, one

after the other came trooping back to the same trees whereon they had

sported when the snow commenced. How different now was their every

movement from the time that they counseled together and took refuge in

the cedar! Now, again, they are the blue jays that every country lad

well knows; when I saw them but a short time ago, they were almost as

strangers to me. It is something to have an outing during an October

snow-storm; when the next comes, let me have blue jays again for

company.

It was two weeks later when I next saw the same birds, and under widely

different circumstances. November had accomplished much in the way of

marring the fair face of Nature. Scarcely a leaf was left upon any tree

except the oaks, and the damp mist that veils the meadows during

November was never denser, gloomier, and more forbidding than on the 8th

of the month. Long before sunrise I was out of doors, and not a bird

greeted me until I came to the creek-bank, when out from gloomy depths

came the shrill scream that of itself is hideous, but at such a time

almost musical. I tried in vain to locate the sound, but could not while

the fog lasted; but this mattered little. All other birds seemed

depressed and moody. Not a sparrow chirped until the sun made the world

a little more distinct; not even a robin, if there were any about, cared

to salute such a sunrise. It was something then to have one brave heart

making merry, and I shall long thank the jays for cheering a lonely

traveler.

An hour later, the birds thought better of the day, and every hedge-row

rang with merry music, but the pleasure of the earliest sounds I had

heard was not forgotten, when their continuing screams marred the melody

of red-birds and foxy finches. But why were they so persistently noisy,

and so confined to one spot? My curiosity was aroused and I threaded a

tangled brake to my sorrow. In a cluster of sassafras sprouts were

several jays and all intent upon an object upon the ground. I hurried

on, held back by green briers that were really my friends, and finally

reached the spot. By mere accident I escaped a serious encounter with

our most treacherous if not dangerous mammal. A skunk had caught a blue

jay and scattered its feathers far and near. The victim’s companions

were bemoaning its fate or berating the murderer, I know not which, nor

did I pause to determine. I assumed the former as more creditable to

them and so score another point in favor of these maligned birds.

What though there are violets still in the meadows, Nature is rugged

now; and, among the gnarly branches of the oaks, better the shrill cry

of the jay, as the north wind sweeps by, than the soothing melody of

summer’s tuneful thrushes. November needs all the help that she can get

to escape our malediction; and the cry of the blue jay prompts me, at

least, to be charitable.

The Growth of Trees.

In the spring of 1835, a considerable number of white pines were planted

about my residence. Of these fifteen are still standing, and are

apparently in full vigor. My uncle, who planted these pines, states that

they were of very uniform size, their trunks measuring about two and a

half inches in diameter. At present the smallest of the series measures

forty-three inches in circumference, four feet from the ground, and the

largest seventy-nine inches. Nine of them vary from sixty-two to

sixty-eight inches. The average circumference of the fifteen trees is

sixty-two and a half inches.

These trees were not placed at uniform distances from each other, and

some show the certain ill-effect of overcrowding. This is conspicuously

the case with three of the pines, and these have suffered. Had the

planting been done with greater reference to the future, and an equal

chance given each tree, the average circumference would have been

greater by at least three inches; the girth of the twelve largest being

sixty-five inches. As it is, including the three somewhat stunted trees,

the growth (circumferential measurement) has been sixty inches in

fifty-four years; an annual increase of one and one ninth inches.[1]

These pines stand upon a bluff, composed of compact ferruginous sand of

great depth, and are exposed to the full sweep of the western and

northern winds. In the matter of soil and exposure they have had equal

chances. It is not readily seen, if at all determinable, why more of

these trees should not have reached the maximum size, and become stately

trees, which, in a sadly deforested landscape, are commanding objects.

A year later two wild cherries were planted near the pines by the same

person. “These trees were very small,” he writes me, “as I pulled them

up with my hand and carried them to the yard, as one would a

walking-stick. Probably neither was more than an inch in diameter.”

These trees are in full vigor to-day, one measuring seventy-three inches

and the other sixty-eight in circumference. The former is fully fifty

feet in height, and the crop of fruit it bears annually is enormous.

In 1836 my grandfather found among a lot of peach-trees that he had

purchased an elm (_Ulmus Americana_) which “was a mere switch.” It was

planted in an out-of-the-way corner, and is now a splendid tree, with a

spread of branches measuring seventy feet. The circumferential

measurement, at a height of four feet from the ground, is one hundred

and three inches.

Of the oaks, cedar, and beech, of which I have many fine specimens upon

the farm, I have not been able to gather any definite data, but it would

appear that the growth is exceedingly slow, after a certain term of

years. My uncle is very positive that a black oak in the lane and a red

cedar near by have not increased materially in growth in the past

half-century. He believes the cedar to have “quite stood still,” and

this may not be so strange, for it is known to be considerably over one

hundred years old. It was a conspicuous roadside tree in 1802. It

measures but eighteen inches in diameter.

-----

Footnote 1:

Since the above was written, one of these pines has been felled, and

the rings of annual growth carefully counted. They are sixty in

number, which accords with the history given above of the planting,

now nearly fifty-five years ago. It may be well to add that, while

each ring is distinctly defined, there are several much larger than

the others, and a general increase of the width of the rings upon the

southeastern side of the trunk.

-----

Fossil Man in the Delaware Valley.

The modest, peaceful valley of the Delaware River, from the head of

tide-water southward, is as little suggestive of the Arctic Circle, for

at least nine months of the year, as do its low and weedy banks in

summer suggest the tropics. On the contrary, every tree, shrub, sedge,

beast, bird, or fish that you see above, about, or within it is a

feature of a strictly temperate climate. Nevertheless, a dim

recollection of more stirring times still clings to it, and the year not

unfrequently opens with the river firmly ice-bound. Over its shallows

are often piled great masses of up-river ice, borne hither after a storm

by the swollen current. Often the broad and shallow channel is

effectually closed, and the river becomes, for the time being, a frozen

lake.

But the ice, of late centuries, has not been able to hold its own for

any significant length of time. The increasing warmth of the sun, and

the south winds with their accompanying rains, soon start the little

icebergs oceanward, or melt them when they are securely stranded. Except

a few scattered masses along the shady shores, the river, by April, is a

quiet, shallow, tide-water stream again.

No appreciable amount of detritus is now brought from the up-river

region by a single winter’s accumulation of ice. As the river and its

shores are to-day, so they were a century ago—perhaps for many

centuries; but the winter of our varying year is a mere puppet-show

compared with what New Jersey winters once were, and the culmination of

arctic rigors gave our Delaware Valley, in that distant day, a far

different aspect; and, with each succeeding glacial flood, more and more

sand, gravel, and great bowlders were rolled down from the rock-ribbed

valley beyond and spread upon the open plain through which the present

stream unruffled flows.

The land was somewhat depressed then, and the water flowed at a higher

level, but nothing unfavorable to man’s existence obtained in the whole

region. As a skilled geologist has pointed out, “The northern ice was

one hundred miles away, and did not prevent primitive man from

assembling about the low and hospitable shores of the miniature sea, ...

and over the bosom of the bay, little affected by tide because of its

distance from the ocean, and little disturbed by waves because of its

shoalness, palæolithic man may have floated on the simplest craft, or

even have waded in the shallow waters.” Ay! may have; but did he? What

evidence is there that that most primitive of mankind, who left such

abundant traces of his presence in the valley of many a European river,

and also in Asia and Africa, was ever likewise here in eastern North

America? It is precisely the same evidence—rude stone implements of the

simplest type, often but slightly modified cobbles merely, that were

found to be more effective by having a chipped and jagged edge, rather

than the smooth and tapering one that water-wearing produces. These same

worked stones—in other countries always of flint, but in New Jersey of

argillite, a slate-like stone that has been altered by heat, and

possesses now a conchoidal fracture—these occur in the Delaware gravels;

and the vivid pictures of glacial time, with primitive man a prominent

feature thereof, that have been given by Wright, Wilson, Haynes, McGee,

Upham, Cresson, Babbitt, and others, are doubtless familiar to all

readers of recent scientific literature.

In associating man with ancient river valleys, we are too apt to think

only of the stream, and ignore the surrounding country. Though largely

so, palæolithic man was not strictly an amphibious creature; for

instance, on each side of the ancient Delaware River extended wide

reaches of upland forest, and here, too, the rude hunter of the time

found game well worthy of his ingenuity to capture, and so powerful that

all his wit stood him well in need to escape their equally determined

efforts to capture him. While the seal and walrus disported in the

river, while fish in countless thousands stemmed its floods, while geese

and ducks in myriads rested upon the stream, so, too, in the forest

roamed the moose, the elk, the reindeer, the bison, the extinct great

beaver, and the mastodon, all of which, save the elk, had long since

left for more northern climes when European man first sighted North

America.

The association of man and the mastodon is somewhat startling to most

people; but, as has been time and again conclusively shown, it is no

unwarranted fancy. We are apt to consider the mastodon as a creature of

so distant a time in the unrecorded past, that man must necessarily have

appeared much later upon the scene. The truth is, comparatively

speaking, the creature so recently became extinct that, in all

probability, our historic Indians were acquainted with it. Certain it is

that, in the distant long ago of the great Ice age, the mastodon

existed, and equally certain that with him lived that primitive man who

fabricated the rude implements we have described. The bones of the

animal and the bones and weapons of the man lie side by side, deep down

in the gravels deposited by the floods from the melting ice-sheet. In

February, 1885, I walked to and fro over the frozen Delaware, where it

reaches a full mile in width, and saw at the time many horses and

sleighs passing from shore to shore. I recalled, as I walked, what the

geologists have recorded of the river’s history, and it was no wild whim

of the unchecked imagination to picture the Delaware as a still more

firmly frozen stream; so firmly ice-bound, indeed, that the mastodon

might pass in safety over it—not cautiously, even, but with the quick

trot of the angry elephant—and picture still further a terror-stricken

Stone-age hunter fleeing for his life.

Just as our brief yearly winter gives way to milder spring, so, as the

centuries rolled by, the mighty winter of the Ice age yielded to changes

that were slowly wrought. Century by century, the sun’s power was

exerted with more telling effect; constantly increasing areas of

northward-lying land were laid bare, and the forest followed the

retreating glacier’s steps. This great but gradual change had, of

course, its influence upon animal life, and many of the large mammals

that have been named appear to have preferred the cooler to the warmer

climate and followed the ice-sheet on its northward march.

In the unnumbered centuries during which these changes came about, man

increased in wisdom, if not in stature, and the rude implements that

characterize the lowest known form of humanity—palæolithic man of

prehistoric archæology—were gradually discarded for smaller and more

specialized ones. This change was doubtless the result of faunal changes

that required a compound instead of a simple implement, as an effective

weapon—a small spear-head attached to a shaft, instead of a sharpened

stone held in the hand; and we find now, as characteristic of conditions

geologically later than the gravel-beds, a well-designed spear-point,

larger than Indian arrow-heads, of a remarkably uniform pattern, and

which might readily be supposed to be the handiwork of the historic

Indians. But let us examine into the history of these objects a little

closely. In the first place, the conditions under which these rude

spear-points are found, as a rule, are very significant. In certain

upland fields, never far from water-courses, and which were the high,

dry, habitable localities when the later gravel areas were yet

comparatively low and swampy, these objects are found in great

abundance, and very often not associated with the familiar forms of

Indian implements. Again, they also occur in the alluvial mud which has

been for centuries, and is still, accumulating over the tide-water

meadows that skirt the banks of the Delaware River from Trenton to the

sea. Now, it may be maintained that we are without warrant in assuming

that the age or object of any given form of stone implement can be

determined by the character of the locality where it happens usually to

be found—exception, of course, being made to the palæolithic implements

of an earlier geological period. To a certain extent this is true. A

bead is none the less an ornament, whether dredged from the river-bottom

or found in an upland field; and yet how very seldom does any implement

or other relic of the Indians occur, except where we should expect to

find it! In basing any conclusions upon the characteristic features of a

locality where implements are found, it is necessary to determine if

there has been any recent general disturbance of the spot. This is

readily done usually, and the principal barrier to a logical conclusion

is removed. Long experience in archæological field-work has fully

convinced me that, in the vast majority of instances, stone implements

are practically in the same position that they were when buried, lost,

or discarded. A single specimen or many of them might mislead; but it

becomes safe to base a conclusion upon the locality, when we have the

material in such abundance as in this instance of these rude

spear-points, and find that fully eighty per cent are from the alluvial

mud of the river meadows, or such isolated upland areas as have been

described. But more significant than all else is the fact that these

simply designed spear-points are all of argillite, the same material of

which are made the rude implements found in the gravel. There is,

therefore, no break, as it were, in the sequence of events in the

occupation of the region by man—no change of race, no evidence of an

abrupt transition from one method of tool-making to that of another, but

merely an improvement that was doubtless as gradual as the change from

the epoch of glacial cold to that of our moderate climate of to-day.

What at first sight appears fatal to the views here expressed is that a

people so far advanced as to make these spear-points should have made

many other forms of stone implements; but only the former are found

deeply buried in the mud of the river. If, as is believed, the spears

were used in fishing more than for any other purpose, they alone would

be likely to be lost. Other objects in use upon their village sites

would seldom, if ever, be taken to the fishing-grounds; and, as a matter

of fact, there are found numbers of stone objects of a rude character,

usually considered of Indian origin, but which are identical with those

used, for instance, by the boreal Chukches. In Nordenskiöld’s Voyage of

the Vega is described a series of stone hammers and a stone anvil which

are in use to-day for crushing bones. Every considerable collection of

“Indian relics” gathered along our seaboard, from Maine to Maryland,

contains examples of identical objects. Of course, the Indians might

have used—indeed, did use—such hammers and anvils, but, considering all

the evidence, and not merely a part of it, it does not follow that all

hammers and anvils are of Indian origin. I have only made incidental

mention of the historic Indian, and nothing further is necessary. He

plays an important part in our early history, but his origin is yet to

be deciphered from many sources. His arrival in the river’s valley

dates, as we reckon years, long, long ago; but no evidence is as yet

forthcoming that it was prior to the valley’s practically present

physical aspect.

Let us consider these rude argillite spear-points, and the circumstances

under which they occur, a little more closely. In this magazine

(January, 1883), I based the opinion that these objects were of an

earlier and other than Indian origin, because of their occurrence in so

many localities at a depth greater than that at which jasper and quartz

arrow-heads are found. In other words, the plow unearths the Indian

relics in great quantities; but, my digging deeper, objects of argillite

are found in significant numbers. In this earlier communication to the

magazine, reference was made only to scattered objects; but now I

propose to call attention to strictly surface-found specimens, where

they have been discovered in such abundance as to plainly indicate the

former sites of camps or villages. If such localities are really

pre-Indian in origin, then it remains but to consider the fate of this

earlier people; but, before indulging in speculation, what of the facts?

The results of my labors may be summed up in a brief account of a visit

to one locality; for all subsequent and preceding visits to distant

points resulted similarly.

In two instances, collections which I studied were of such magnitude,

and had been brought together with such care, that they had a decided

bearing upon the question. The particular fields from which the great

bulk of the specimens had been taken were studied most carefully, and it

soon became evident, in each case, that the reported commingling of all

forms of stone implements was more apparent than real. The physical

geography of each locality plainly showed that for a very protracted

period these spots had been habitable and inhabited. It was evident, in

each case, that a very undulating surface had existed, through which

meandered a small stream that had long since disappeared. These areas of

hillock and dale had been densely wooded, with here and there a little

clearing; and now, for nearly two centuries, plowed over almost every

year. What, then, should we expect, presuming that the relics of two

peoples had been left upon a tract of some two hundred acres? First, the

tract was deforested, which would lead to much disturbance of the

surface soil; secondly, the stumps of the trees were uprooted, which

would lead to a greater disturbance; and, lastly, constant plowing,

exposure of a raw surface to winds and rain, and the erosion due to the

flooding of the stream that drained the tract, would result inevitably

in the moving of objects, as small as arrow-points, to considerable

distances from where they were left in Indian or pre-Indian times. It

would be strange, indeed, if any evidence of earlier and later occupancy

had withstood such vicissitudes; and yet such was the case. The highest

ground afforded ninety per cent of the specimens I was able to find, of

argillite; while in the low-lying area of the one-time stream’s tortuous

bed the argillite and jasper implements were commingled, with a

preponderance of jasper and quartz in the ratio of seven to two. It was

evident that the washing down of the higher ground and partial

obliteration of the valley had transported the argillite and mingled it

with the jasper, and not generally commingled and brought to certain

points the equally scattered objects made of these minerals. During the

summer of 1887 a very careful and intelligent observer reported to me

that, in a field not far from where I live, he had found a considerable

deposit of argillite chips, rude arrow-heads, and bits of pottery; but

that there was no trace of jasper or quartz, or indeed of any other

mineral. As I had collected Indian relics by the hundreds, in this same

field, I refrained from visiting the spot, but requested my friend to

examine the locality again with great care, and report to Prof. Putnam,

of the Peabody Museum at Cambridge, Massachusetts. What was the result?

My friend reported, briefly, that the spot was one uncovered by heavy

rains, and formed part of the bank of a brook that crossed the field

(this brook, I would state, was a considerable creek in 1680); that the

argillite chips, rude arrow-points, knives, scrapers, and bits of

pottery were found at a common level, and about fifteen inches below the

present surface of the field. Prof. Putnam, in acknowledging the receipt

of the specimens and report as to their discovery, replied that “the

pottery was of unusual interest, as it was exceedingly rude and differed

very greatly from any that Dr. Abbott had sent from the same general

neighborhood.” As the bits of pottery from this general neighborhood

that I have collected amount to hundreds of thousands, it would seem

that Prof. Putnam’s remarks have a good deal of significance.

As having a most important bearing upon this general question, it is

well to refer to the results of others’ labors in the same general

field. In an address before the American Association for the Advancement

of Science, at its Cleveland (Ohio) meeting, August, 1888, I referred to

the Lockwood collection, now at the Peabody Museum at Cambridge, Mass.

This series of ancient stone implements is one of exceeding value,

because the objects are nearly all from shell-heaps on the coast of New

Jersey. When arranging this collection, I was much impressed with the

fact that the argillite implements, of which there were many

considerable lots, were all labeled by Prof. Lockwood as having been

found alone—i. e., not associated with similar objects of jasper or

quartz; and again, that with the argillite was much very rude pottery,

that bore little resemblance to the fragments of earthenware found in

other places associated with the jasper, quartz, and chert implements.

Subsequently, Prof. Lockwood informed me that, while these various finds

did not vary in depth, they were very marked otherwise, and he did not

recall any special “find” where the commingling of the two forms

indicated that they had been in use at the same time.

Taking a hint from little brooks and the surrounding fields, let us

consider, in conclusion, the more pretentious rivers and their

surrounding uplands. Will the same results be obtained? Can we venture

to reach out from the particular to the general? These were the

questions that I frequently asked myself, and, after many a weary tramp

and toilsome digging over a wide area, I am happy to state that I

believe my efforts have been crowned with a full measure of success.

What held good in a particular field holds good of a county, and what I

now claim for the tide-water portion of the valley of the Delaware I

believe is true of a much more extended area.

In no case have I been able to find stone implements significantly

distributed over a considerable space—i. e., tracts of five hundred to a

thousand acres—except where there was, or very recently had been,

running water. The ground then to be examined was either the high land

that shut in the valley, or the valley itself, limiting that term to the

banks of the stream and the immediately adjacent meadow tracts;

exception being made where the bank of the stream was and always had

been very precipitous. In such a case the brow of the bluff would be

equivalent to the meadow or low land of a gently sloping valley.

In every such instance—and I have made or have had made many careful

examinations of river and creek valleys—the result was the same: a very

marked preponderance of argillite implements on the crests of the

uplands, and a very great excess of jasper and quartz on the

bottom-land, or that directly adjacent to the stream. From this

condition I am led to infer that, when these higher points were

occupied, the present streams maintained a uniform flow as high as the

freshet stage of these water-courses; and the fact that an Indian

village site near by will be much nearer the river or creek shows

clearly, I hold, that on a small scale the same conditions were repeated

that occurred in the gradual change from glacial to post-glacial times.

The volume of water in all our streams, comparing century with century,

is gradually lessening.

Comparing then the rude objects of argillite, specialized as they are,

with the magnificent flint-work of the historic Indians, I would

designate the former as _fossil implements_, the latter as _relics_.

To this point I feel that I have been handling facts only, and deducing

from them only logical inferences; but now looms up the natural and

ever-interesting question, Who were these people? The origin of any race

is a difficult problem to solve, but none can compare with these misty

vestiges of prehistoric humanity. It seems to me but one inference is

permissible: they who fashioned these rude argillite implements were the

descendants of palæolithic man, and his superior in so far as a

knowledge of the bow and arrow and rude pottery indicates. Beyond this,

perhaps, we can not safely venture. Prof. Haynes has recently observed,

“The palæolithic man of the river gravels at Trenton and his

argillite-using posterity the writer believes to be completely extinct.”

While this at present seems to be the generally accepted conclusion,

there is a phase of the subject that merits consideration. May not this

“argillite-using” man have been a blood-relation of existing Eskimos? To

accept the view of Prof. Haynes that “argillite” man became extinct

infers an interval of indefinite length, when man did not exist on our

central Atlantic seaboard; but if we may judge from the abundant traces

of man that have been left and of the relation as to position that these

three general forms—palæolithic, later argillite, and Indian—bear to

each other, it would appear that, in the valley of the Delaware, at

least, man has not for a day ceased to occupy the land since the first

of his kind stood upon the shores of that beautiful river.

By referring these intermediate people to the existing Eskimos, I would

not be understood as maintaining that these boreal people were directly

descended from the argillite-using folk of the Delaware Valley, but that

both were derived from palæolithic man; in other words, that with the

disappearance of glacial conditions in the Delaware Valley, and the

retirement northward of the continental ice-sheet, if such there were,

the people of that distant day followed in its tracks, and lived the

same life their ancestors had lived when northern New Jersey was as

bleak as is Greenland to-day; but that not all of this strange people

were so enamored of an arctic life, and that many remained and, with the

gradual amelioration of the climate, their descendants changed in their

habits so far as to meet the requirements of a temperate climate. This

explanation, it seems to me, best accords with known facts.

It is fitting, after a long tramp in search of human relics or remains,

still so abundantly scattered over and through the superficial soil, to

halt, at the day’s close, upon the river’s bank, and rest upon one of

the huge ice-transported bowlders that reach above the sod. From such a

point I can mark the boundary of the latest phenomenon of the valley’s

geological history, and seem to see what time the walrus and the seal

sported in the river’s icy waters; what time the mastodon, the reindeer,

and the bison tenanted the pine forests that clad the river’s banks; and

what time an almost primitive man, stealing through the primeval

forests, surprised and captured these mighty beasts—what time, lingering

by the blow-holes of the seal and walrus in the frozen river, surprised

and killed these creatures with so simple a weapon as a sharply chipped

fragment of flinty rock. And, as the centuries rolled by, and the river

itself lessened in bulk, until it but little more than filled its

present channel, there still remained along its shores the more cultured

descendants of the primitive chipper of pebbles. As a savage, so like

the modern Eskimo that he has been held to be the same, this pre-Indian

people still wrought the argillite that their ancestors were forced to

use for their palæolithic tools; and as these spear-points are being

gathered from the alluvial deposits of the more modern river, I can

recall to their accustomed haunts this long-gone people, who, ere they

gave place to the fierce Algonkin, were the peaceful tenants of this

river’s valley. Then as we gather the beautiful arrow-heads of jasper

and quartz, and pick from superficial soils grooved axes, celts,

chisels, curiously wrought pipes, strange ornaments, ceremonial objects,

and fragments of pottery, literally without number, we marvel at the

skill of those who wrought them, and faintly realize how long these

comparatively recent comers must have dwelt in this same valley, to have

accumulated such an endless store of these imperishable relics.

We rightly speak of the antiquity of the Indian, but remote as is his

arrival on the Atlantic coast, it is modern indeed, in comparison with

the antiquity of man in the same region. We can think of it, and perhaps

faintly realize it, as “time relative,” but in no wise determine it as

“time absolute.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

INDEX.

Acris crepitans, 107.

Actæa alba, 223.

Almanac, Poor Richard’s, 31.

Alum-root, 82.

Anabas, 136.

Anacharis sp., 57.

Apple, wild, 23.

Aratus, 130.

Arrow-head, 149, 154.

Indian, flint, 186.

Audubon, J. J., 76.

Babbitt, Franc C., 262.

Barramunda, 118.

Barton, Dr. Benj. Smith, 150.

Bear, 168.

Beaver, gigantic extinct, 218, 263.

Beech, 23, 259.

Bees, 200.

Birch, 23.

Bison, 263.

Bittern, 55.

Blackbird, red-winged, 253.

Bluebird, 11, 228.

Blue-curl, 35.

Bluets, 35, 251.

Blue jay, 15, 36, 249.

Brown, Dr. Robert, 139.

Buffalo, 68.

Burroughs, John, 26.

Calla, 149.

Callitriche, 57.

Carp, 214.

Carrion-flower, 172.

Cassin, John, 89.

Cat-bird, 7, 56, 248.

Cedar, 259.

Cherry, wild, 258.

“Chess,” 225.

Chestnut, 23, 184.

Chickadee, 2, 11.

Chickweed, 56, 82.

Chinkapin, 235.

Chipmunk, 235.

Chukches, 267.

Cicely, sweet, 218.

Claytonia, 39.

Clear-winged sphinx, 201.

Clifford, Kingdon, 204.

Columbine, 82.

Corydalis, 56, 82.

Cray-fish, 212.

Cresson, Hilborne T., 262.

Cricket, 177.

Crosswicks Creek, 130.

meadows, 68.

Crow, 1, 16, 23, 88, 226.

Cumming, Gordon, 211.

Daffodil, 82, 87.

Daisy, 251.

Daldorf, 135.

Dandelion, 8, 35, 82, 85.

Dead-nettle, 82.

Deer, 67.

Delaware River, 56, 67, 150, 154, 260.

Dew, 227.

Divining-rods, 165.

Dragon-flies, 52, 180.

Earth-worm, 117.

Elk, 67, 263.

Elm, 259.

Emerson, R. W., 152.

Equisetum, 149.

Florida, water-lily of, 153.

Fontinalis, 58.

Forget-me-not, 56.

Fox, 100.

Frankincense, 218.

Frog, 6, 37, 212.

Frost, 227.

Garman, Dr. S., 107.

Golden-club, 122, 149, 152.

Gossamer, 228.

Grasshopper, 208.

Gray, Dr. Asa, 150.

Green-brier, 7.

Grosbeak, rose-breasted, 47.

Gunther, Dr. Albert, 118, 136.

Gyrinus, 25.

Hawk, 239.

Haynes, Henry W., 262, 275.

Heron, great blue, 55.

night, 177, 212.

Hopatcong, Lake, 125.

Humming-bird, 202.

Hunger-plant, 82.

Hyla Pickeringii, 108.

Hylodes, 24, 105.

Hypnum, 58.

Hyssop, giant, 82.

Indians, Delaware, 123.

Osage, 150.

Iris, 174.

Kalm, Dr. Peter, 107, 151, 243.

King-bird, 200.

Kinglet, 238.

Lark, meadow, 36, 61.

Lepidosiren, 119.

Lily, water, 153, 160, 208, 209.

Liquidambar, 23.

Lizard-tail, 198.

Locust, 198.

Lotus, American, 149.

Egyptian, 156.

Man, fossil, 260.

Mastodon, 218, 263.

McGee, W. J., 262.

Meadow-rue, 198.

Mink, 176, 211, 241.

Minnow, clear-water, 70, 178.

mud, 24, 118, 214.

silvery, 54.

Mitrewort, false, 82.

Mole-cricket, 125.

Moose, 67.

Motherwort, 82.

Mouse, deer, 87.

house, 47, 208.

meadow, 3, 21, 87, 175, 228.

Muhlenberg tortoise, 121.

Musk-rat, 37, 176, 210.

Niagara River, 79.

Nordenskiöld, A. E., 267.

Norris, Isaac, 14.

Nuthatch, 13, 27, 54.

Nuttall, Thomas, 150.

Oak, 22, 259.

Ontario, Lake, 221.

Opossum, 101.

Owl, screech, 110, 234.

Peabody-bird, 3.

Pennyroyal, 215.

Penstemon hirsutus, 174.

Phlox maculata, 174.

Pickerel, 178.

Pickerel-weed, 154.

Pine finch, 13.

Pine, white, 257.

Purple finch, 3, 9.

Putnam, F. W., 271.

Raccoon, 101.

Raccoon, N. J. See Swedesboro.

Rafflesiaceæ, 175.

Rafinesque, C. S., 150.

Rail, king, 71.

Red-bird, 36.

Reindeer, 67, 263.

Rice, wild, 149.

Riley, Dr. C. V., 125.

Robin, 11.

Rose of Sharon, 160.

Rose, wild, 198.

Salamander, 24, 52.

Sandpiper, 212.

Seal, 263.

Seeley, H. G., Prof., 180.

Self-heal, 82.

Shell-heap, Indian, 61.

Sierra Leone, water-lily of, 153.

Skunk, 18, 256.

Skunk-cabbage, 56.

Snake, garter, 176.

water, 213.

Snipe, 212.

Snow-bird, 243.

Sparrow, field, 200, 208.

fox-colored, 3, 19, 36.

house (English), 11, 19.

song, 11, 28, 36, 228.

tree, 10, 235.

white-crowned, 9.

white-throated, 19, 235, 248.

Spider, 228.

Spring-beauty, 8, 82.

Splatter-dock, 149, 154.

Squirrel, 211.

Star of Bethlehem, 82.

St.-John’s-wort, 198.

Sumach, 198, 225.

Swallow, barn, 47, 209.

Swedesboro, N. J., 151.

Thistle-bird, 11.

Thoreau, H. D., 26, 66, 152.

Tit, crested, 13.

Titlark, 10.

Titmouse, black-capped, 235.

Toronto, Ontario, 221.

Torrey, Bradford, 35.

Tree-creeper, 27.

Tree-toad, 39.

Tulip-tree, 39.

Turtle, 25, 53, 176.

Typha angustifolia, 175.

Upham, Warren, 262.

Victoria regia, 152.

Violet, 8, 35, 38, 82, 251.

Vireo, red-eyed, 144.

Walrus, 263.

Warbler, yellow red-polled, 104.

Water-boatman, 57.

Water-lily, 153.

Water-moss, 58.

Water-starwort, 57.

Water-weed, 57.

Weasel, 92.

Whip-poor-will, 177.

Wild-cat, 100.

Willow, 225.

Wilson, Alexander, 76.

Wilson, Thomas, 260.

Woodcock, 109.

Woodpecker, 235.

Wood-pee-wee, 200.

Wren, Carolina, 11.

house, 40.

marsh, 175.

winter, 9, 19.

Wright, Geo. Frederick, 262.

Xerophyllum asphodeloides, 163.

Yarrow, 198.

Yellow-throat, Maryland, 175.

Zanzibar, water-lily of, 153.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s note:

Page vii, comma changed to full stop, “and sound-hearing.”

Page 10, comma changed to full stop, “dignity of a bird’s song.”

Page 12, comma changed to full stop, “not always so unsociable.”

Page 18, comma changed to full stop, “So, too, with our birds.”

Page 23, ‘liquid-ambar’ changed to ‘liquidambar,’ “liquidambar and

you are”

Page 23, ‘arrowheads’ changed to ‘arrow-heads,’ “few flint

arrow-heads”

Page 25, comma changed to full stop, “the rambler. Call it”

Page 31, ‘occurence’ changed to ‘occurrence,’ “attractive occurrence

to young ears.”

Page 39, comma changed to full stop, “of the sanctum. There”

Page 40, comma changed to full stop, “and sunny. There is”

Page 41, ‘rambing’ changed to ‘rambling,’ “playground of my rambling

life.”

Page 51, ‘wood path’ changed to ‘wood-path,’ “follow a wood-path

over”

Page 59, full stop added after ‘winter,’ “about the springs in

winter.”

Page 63, ‘harvent’ changed to ‘harvest,’ “a richer harvest”

Page 64, ‘sec-’ changed to ‘second,’ “Later a second and a third”

Page 70, ‘humpbacked’ changed to ‘hump-backed,’ “when the

hump-backed minnow leaped”

Page 72, comma changed to full stop, “be in vain. It”

Page 75, ‘lifelong’ changed to ‘life-long,’ “a life-long source of”

Page 78, ‘ocurrence’ changed to ‘occurrence,’ “that an occurrence

may be very rare,”

Page 81, ‘unsucessful’ changed to ‘unsuccessful,’ “may be

unsuccessful, but”

Page 82, ‘chick-weed’ changed to ‘chickweed,’ “chickweed, spring

beauties,”

Page 82, ‘spring-tide’ changed to ‘springtide,’ “a springtide

landscape,”

Page 83, ‘roll’ changed to ‘role,’ “assume the role of historian.”

Page 84, ‘play-ground’ changed to ‘playground,’ “the common

playground of”

Page 90, full stop added after ‘unknown,’ “land unknown. But as the”

Page 91, comma changed to full stop, “the outer world. Among the”

Page 96, ‘age’ changed to ‘ago,’ “forty years ago; but”

Page 96, ‘thrashing’ changed to ‘threshing,’ “the threshing is

over.”

Page 101, comma changed to full stop, “the sea-coast. But it has”

Page 102, comma changed to full stop, “mass. My aunt proved”

Page 103, ‘snowbird’ changed to ‘snow-bird,’ “a snow-bird isn’t a”

Page 107, second ‘their’ struck, “hence their name in zoölogy”

Page 107, comma changed to full stop, “and so it was. At last one”

Page 108, comma changed to full stop, “in size. As I was”

Page 119, full stop changed to comma, “on land, or at least on”

Page 128, comma changed to full stop, “at full gallop. Only the”

Page 128, comma changed to full stop, “was discussed. So, at least,”

Page 129, comma changed to full stop, “and rain. It is painful”

Page 144, comma changed to full stop, “very sure. The old homestead”

Page 146, comma changed to full stop, “A word more. If people,”

Page 149, ‘door-yard’ changed to ‘dooryard,’ “of my dooryard.”

Page 152, ‘Swedesborough’ changed to ‘Swedesboro,’ “Raccoon, now

Swedesboro;”

Page 165, comma changed to full stop, “of metal. As the field”

Page 166, comma changed to full stop, “unaccountably low. Evidently

there were”

Page 166, comma changed to full stop, “to the present. There still”

Page 173, full stop struck after ‘closely,’ “have closely

intertwined.”

Page 173, comma changed to full stop, “to wigwam-building. Had

ever,”

Page 180, comma changed to full stop, “degree of intelligence.”

Page 182, full stop changed to comma, “the upper hand, and at such”

Page 182, ‘play-ground’ changed to ‘playground,’ “this was my

playground,”

Page 193, semicolon inserted after ‘so,’ “Perhaps so; I neither

know”

Page 195, ‘gaudy it,’ changed to ‘gaudy, it,’ “ever so gaudy, it can

not”

Page 209, ‘on-looker’ changed to ‘onlooker,’ “the onlooker will see”

Page 228, ‘day-break’ changed to ‘daybreak,’ “aloft at daybreak.”

Page 228, ‘sun-light’ changed to ‘sunlight,’ “as the sunlight sweeps

across”

Page 242, ‘raindrops’ changed to ‘rain-drops,’ “resounding

rain-drops striking”

Page 249, ‘snowbound’ changed to ‘snow-bound,’ “the fields were

snow-bound.”

Page 259, comma changed to full stop, “annually is enormous.”

Page 259, ‘road-side’ changed to ‘roadside,’ “conspicuous roadside

tree”

Page 267, ‘o’ changed to ‘to,’ “tool-making to that of”

Page 275, ‘intermmediate’ changed to ‘intermediate,’ “these

intermediate people”

Page 281, ‘St. John’s-wort’ changed to ‘St.-John’s-wort,’

“St.-John’s-wort, 198.”

Page 282, ‘Wood peewee’ changed to ‘Wood-pee-wee,’ “Wood-pee-wee,

200.”

End of Project Gutenberg's Outings At Odd Times, by Charles Conrad Abbott