A wood, to be at its best, should be located on the shore of a lake or
river, or, perhaps better still, a river should run through it. Here are
my impressions of such a wood, from my note-book of 1892, under date of
May 1:
Nothing could have been more fitting than to take a May-day outing at
such a place. The swift current of the Great Egg Harbor River rolled
resistlessly along, its waters black as night, save where, over the
pebbly shallows, it gleamed like polished amber. The wind that swayed
the tall crowns of the towering pines made fitting music, according well
with the rippling laugh of the fretted river, while heard above all were
the joyous songs of innumerable warblers.
We had placed our boat upon a wagon six miles below our point of
departure, and partly realized on our way what this pine region really
was. The cedar swamp, the oak openings, the arbutus that gave color to
the narrow wagon-track, the absence of man’s interference,—all tended to
give us the full significance of that most suggestive word, wilderness.
We needed but to catch a glimpse of an Indian to see this part of
creation precisely as it was in pre-Columbian days. I sat for some time
in the boat before taking up the anchor. This was but the entrance, I
was told, to spots more beautiful, but it was hard to believe. Here was
a river hidden in a forest, and what more could one wish? The warblers
well knew that May-day had come again, and every one of the mighty host
greeted the brilliant sunshine. There seemed literally to be hundreds of
them. Flashing like gems were redstarts, light as swallows upon the
wing. Bright-spotted warblers, and others sombre gray, laughed as they
tarried on the trembling twigs; then, mounting into the sunlight, sang
loudly as they flew, or darted into gloomy nooks so hidden that not even
a sunbeam could follow them.
The river with its attendant birds could not claim all the merit; the
land was no less beautiful. The oaks were not yet in leaf, but there was
no lack of green. The holly’s foliage was bright as May, the polished
leaves of the tea-berry shone as a midsummer growth, the ink-berry had
defied the winter’s storms, and the maples glowed as a great ruddy
flame. Really distinct as was every object, yet, as a whole, the outlook
was dreary, hazy, half obscure, as we looked directly into the wood,
where the drooping moss festooned the branches of the smaller oaks.
No voyager ever set forth from so fair a port.
My companion knew the route, and with an oar he took his place astern to
guide the boat safely down the swift stream. It was all right as it
proved, but at times I forgot that I had come to see the forest.
Instead, an element of doubt as to the guide’s ability came painfully to
the front. With devilish malignancy, as I thought, trees had prostrated
themselves and rested just beneath the water’s surface, or stood up,
with outreached arms, as if defying us. How we passed many a crook and
turn I cannot now remember. I was too much occupied with desperately
clutching at anything within reach to notice the “when” or “how,” but
there still remains the delicious sensation of suddenly shooting into
smooth water and feeling—brave as a lion.
For several miles on either side of the stream we had a typical mixed
forest. The willow-oak predominated at times, and the delicate foliage,
so unlike other oaks, was very beautiful. The leaves appeared
translucent in the bright sunlight, fairly sparkled, and once made a
splendid background to scarlet tanagers that flashed through them. In
this long reach of dense woods there were fewer birds than at our
starting-point, or perhaps they held back as we passed. But other life
was not wanting. From many a projecting stump there slid many a turtle
into the dark waters, and a mink or musk-rat crossed our bow. Careful
search would no doubt have revealed numerous creatures, for here was a
safe retreat for all the fauna of the State. The deer are not yet quite
gone, possibly a few bears remain. Certainly the raccoon and otter must
be abundant. I was constantly on the lookout for minks, for the river
abounds in fish. This animal is sometimes mistaken for a huge snake, as
it rises several inches above the water at times, and has then a rather
startling appearance. An old fisherman on Chesapeake Bay told me that he
had seen a mink with a huge eel in its mouth come to the surface, and
then the wriggling fish and long, lithe body of the mink together looked
like two serpents fighting. I can readily imagine it. Birches,
liquidambars, and pines in clusters would next command attention, and
usually there was a dense undergrowth. Holding the boat, at times, we
could hear the water rushing through the roots of this tangled mass, and
found that what we had supposed was firm land afforded no certain
footing, and a bluff of firm earth was very welcome when we thought of
landing for a hasty lunch. This _firm_ earth did indeed support us, but
in reality it was the most unstable of shifting sands, being held in
place by reindeer-moss, partridge-berry, and other pine-barren growths.
Nothing was in sight but the scrubby pines, and we had to be very
careful that our fire did not get among the “needles” and dash through
the woods. I found here absolutely no birds. They seem all to prefer the
tracts covered by deciduous trees; but insect-feeders could have
flourished here. The steam of our dinner-pot brought more substantial
forms than mosquitoes, one house-fly being determined to share my
Frankfurter and successfully defying all attempts at capture.
Again afloat, we soon came to the mouth of an inflowing stream called
Dead River, said to be very deep. This point was perhaps the wildest of
all. The open water here was very wide, and a forest of projecting
stumps of various heights showed plainly that we were on the edge of an
area of drowned land. In the distance was an unbroken background of
pines, which now looked black. At wide intervals could be seen huge
pines that had escaped the charcoal-burner or lumberman. The stems and
lower branches were, of course, concealed, but in the hazy atmosphere
the tops were as floating islands of darkest green, standing boldly out
against the pearly sky behind them.
Here, at the mouth of Dead River, we beheld a pretty sight. A wood-duck
with her brood rushed over the water in a most lively manner, flecking
the black expanse with patches of white foam. Such incidents add much to
such a journey. An empty forest is as forbidding as an empty house.
In the coves there were changes from the surrounding scenery that were
not to be overlooked. A rank growth of golden-club resting on the dark
waters was very striking. The picture was such as we see on a Claude
Lorrain glass. Near by fresh sphagnum in a shallow pool was bronze and
green: a place for frogs to squat unseen, but I could find none. How
often this happens! At the very places where we think animal life will
be in abundance we can find no trace of it. Then, looking up, we see but
trees. No break in the line that hems us in. Trees old and young, trees
living and dead, great and small; nothing but trees.
The wind freshened as the day grew old, and doubly troubled were the
waters. There was no rest for them now, even in sheltered nooks, and it
was only by sturdy strokes of the oars that we made headway at all.
There was no perceptible current to bear us along as before. The waves
dashing against the bare trunks of trees long dead and now bent by the
wind added much to the wild scene. Novel as it all was, I could not
quite enjoy it. It was something to be contemplated from the shore, I
thought. I know I was laughed at, but the many “blind” stumps, or those
just beneath the surface, of which my companion spoke so unconcernedly
came too prominently to mind when I least expected them, and added much
significance to the fact that I cannot swim.
As we neared home the scene abruptly changed, and the river was lost in
a wide expanse that might be called a lake if the fact was not so
evident that it is a mill-pond. This, however, did not detract from the
beauty of the surroundings, and before our final landing we drew up to a
bold bit of shore and searched, while it was yet day, for pyxie. There
was an abundance of blooming andromeda, too, and arbutus, with clubmoss
of richest green. I almost placed my hand on a centipede that glowed
like an emerald. It was resting on ruddy sphagnum, and made a splendid
picture. I could not capture the creature. An attempt to do so on my
part was followed by its disappearance with a suddenness that could be
likened only to the flashes of light that played upon its back. Here I
heard many frogs, but could find none. The rattle and peep were not like
the voices of those in the meadows at home, and I wondered about Cope’s
new tiger-frog and the little green hyla that is so rare here in Jersey.
Possibly I heard them both; probably not.
We returned to prosy life when the boat was lifted over the dam, and the
incidents were few and commonplace in the short drift that carried us to
an old wharf, a relic of the last century.
* * * * *
What a difference between such a forest and a few hundred oaks and ashes
at home! and yet these are far better than treeless fields. It is these
few trees that hold many of our migratory birds, and through them, in
spring, troop the north-bound warblers. In the gloaming a small tract of
woodland widens out, and, seeing no open country beyond, what does it
matter, if we walk in a circle, whether it be one acre or one thousand?
There is good philosophy in “Small favors thankfully received.” Here in
this little wood are beautiful white-footed mice, a shy, nocturnal
jerboa, flying-squirrels, and, if I mistake not, a whole family of
opossums. Here, until autumn, are wood-robins that never weary us by
overmuch singing, and cat-birds, chewinks, and the rose-breasted
grosbeak. I do not complain, but as the summer passes I regret that
these birds have their appointed time and will soon be gone. Why so
soon? I often wonder, for their haunts do not lose their loveliness for
weeks after they have disappeared.
No wall of green above, about,
They silently steal away;
With but a carpet of withered leaves,
The minstrel will not stay.
But the spot is no “banquet-hall deserted,” for all that; the departure
of the summer birds is but to make way for those who have gladdened
Canadian woods for many weeks. The purple finch will soon be here, and
tree-sparrows in great companies, and the gentle white-throat; and
these, with our stately cardinal for a leader, will hold forth
melodiously, though the north winds blow and the angry east wind brings
the snow upon its wings.
In the smile of winter sunshine there will be enacted another drama, but
now it is comedy rather than tragedy. There are no conflicting interests
now, no serious quarrels, no carking cares—the world is really in good
humor and our days of early darkness are misunderstood.
Let him who doubts—and there are but few who do not—turn from the worn
lines of travel, go well out of the beaten path, and find, in the
way-side nooks his neighbors have neglected, most excellent company:
birds of brave heart that can sing in the teeth of a storm; and many a
creature, wrapped in his furry coat, laughs at the earnest efforts of
winter to keep him from his outings.
Did I dare sit in this same oak when the leaves have fallen, I should
have strange tales to tell,—tales so strange that the summertide would
be commonplace in comparison.
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