_UP THE CREEK_
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There is greater merit in the little word “up” than in “down.” If, when
in a place new to me, I am asked to go “up the creek,” my heart leaps,
but there is less enthusiasm when it is suggested to go down the stream.
One seems to mean going into the country, the other into the town. All
this is illogical, of course, but what of that? The facts of a case like
this have not the value of my idle fancies. After all, there is a
peculiar merit in going up-stream. It is something to be going deeper
and deeper into the heart of the country. It is akin to getting at the
foundations of things.
In the case of small inland streams, generally, the mouth is a
commonplace affair. The features that charm shrink from the fateful
spot, and we are put in a condition of anticipation at the start which,
happily, proves one of abundant realization at the finish.
A certain midsummer Saturday was not an ideal one for an outing, but
with most excellent company I ventured up the creek. It was my friend’s
suggestion, so I was free from responsibility. Having promised nothing,
I could in no wise be justly held accountable. Vain thought! Directly I
suffered in their estimation because, at mere beck and nod, polliwogs
were not forthcoming and fishes refused to swim into my hand. What
strange things we fancy of our neighbors! Because I love the wild life
about me, one young friend thought me a magician who could command the
whole creek’s fauna by mere word of mouth. It proved an empty day in one
respect, animal life scarcely showing itself. To offer explanations was
of no avail, and one of the little company recast her opinions. Perhaps
she even entertains some doubt as to my having ever seen a bird or fish
or the coveted polliwog.
It is one thing to be able to give the name and touch upon the habits of
some captured creature, and quite another to command its immediate
presence when we enter its haunts. This always should, and probably
never will, be remembered.
But what of the creek, the one-time Big-Bird Creek of the Delaware
Indians? With ill-timed strokes we pulled our languid oars, and passed
many a tree, jutting meadow, or abandoned wharf worthy of more than a
moment’s contemplation. But, lured by the treasure still beyond our
reach, we went on and on, until the trickling waters of a hillside
spring proved too much for us, and, turning our prow landward, we
stopped to rest.
Among old trees that afforded grateful shade, a spring that bubbled from
an aged chestnut’s wrinkled roots, a bit of babbling brook that too soon
reached the creek and was lost, and, beyond all, wide-spreading meadows,
boundless from our point of view—what more need one ask? To our credit,
be it said, we were satisfied, except, perhaps, that here, as all along
our course, polliwogs were perverse. Birds, however, considerately came
and went, and even the shy cuckoo deigned to reply when we imitated his
dolorous clucking. A cardinal grosbeak, too, drew near and whistled a
welcome, and once eyed us with much interest as we sat lunching on the
grass. What did he think of us? Eating, with him, is so different a
matter, and perhaps he could give us a few useful hints. The trite
remark, “Fingers came before forks,” has a significance in the woods, if
not in the town. While eating we listened, and I heard the voices of
nine different birds. Some merely chirped in passing, it is true, but
the marsh-wrens in the cat-tail thicket just across the creek were not
silent for a moment. Here in the valley of the Delaware, as I recently
found them on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, the wrens are quite
nocturnal, and I would have been glad to have heard them sing in the
moonlight again; for our enthusiasm would have been strengthened by a
few such glimpses of the night side of Nature.
No bird is so welcome to a mid-day camp as the white-eyed vireo, and we
were fortunate in having one with us while we tarried at the spring. Not
even ninety degrees in the shade has any effect upon him, and this
unflagging energy reacts upon the listener. We could at least be so far
alive as to give him our attention. Mid-day heat, however, does affect
many a song-bird, and now that nesting is well-nigh over, the open woods
are deserted for hidden cool retreats, where the songster takes its
ease, as we, far from town, are taking ours. There is much in common
between birds and men.
How, as we lingered over our glasses, counting the lemon-seeds embedded
in sugar, we would have enjoyed a wood-thrush’s splendid song or a
rose-breasted grosbeak’s matchless melody! but the _to-whee_ of the
pipilo scratching among dead leaves, the plaint of an inquisitive
cat-bird threading the briers, the whir of a humming-bird vainly seeking
flowers,—these did not pass for nothing; and yet there was comparative
silence that suggested a sleeping rather than a wakeful, active world.
Here let me give him who loves an outing a useful hint: be not so
anxious for what may be that you overlook that which is spread before
you. More than once to-day our discussion of the “silence” of a
midsummer noontide drowned the voices of singing-birds near by.
How often it has been intimated to us that "two’s company and three’s a
crowd"! but to really see and hear what transpires in the haunts of wild
life, _one_ is company and _two’s_ a crowd. We cannot heed Nature and
fellow-man at the same moment; and as to the comparative value of their
communications, each must judge for himself.
Certainly the human voice is a sound which animals are slow to
appreciate. How often have I stood in silence before birds and small
animals and they have shown no fear! A movement of my arms would put
them on guard, perhaps; but a word spoken, and away they sped. Not a
bird, I have noticed, is startled by the bellow of a bull or the neigh
of a horse, and yet my own voice filled them with fear. Even snakes that
knew me well and paid no attention to my movements were startled at
words loudly spoken. It is a bit humiliating to think that in the
estimation of many a wild animal our bark is worse than our bite.
A midsummer noontide has surely some merit, and when I failed to find
fish, frog, or salamander for my young friend, it became necessary to
point to some feature of the spot that made it worth a visit. To my
discomfiture, I could find nothing. Trees have been talked of overmuch,
and there were no wild flowers. The August bloom gave, as yet, only a
hint of what was coming. I had hit upon a most unlucky interim during
which no man should go upon a picnic. In despair and empty-handed, we
took to our boat and started up the creek. It was a fortunate move, for
straightway the waters offered that which I had vainly sought for on
shore. Here were flowers in abundance. The pickerel-weed was in bloom,
the dull-yellow blossoms of the spatterdock dotted the muddy shores,
bind-weed here and there offered a single flower as we passed by, and
never was golden-dodder more luxuriant. Still, it is always a little
disappointing when Flora has the world to herself, and while we were
afloat it was left to a few crows and a single heron to prove that she
had not quite undisputed sway.
Up the creek with many a turn and twist, and now on a grassy knoll we
land again, where a wonderful spring pours a great volume of sparkling
water into the creek. Here at last we have an object lesson that should
bear fruit when we recall the day. Not a cupful of this clear cold water
could we catch but contained a few grains of sand, and for so many
centuries has this carrying of sand grains been in progress that now a
great ridge has choked the channel where once rode ships at anchor. An
obscure back-country creek now, but less than two centuries ago the
scene of busy industry. Perhaps no one is now living who saw the last
sail that whitened the landscape. Pages of old ledgers, a bit of diary,
and old deeds tell us something of the place; but the grassy knoll
itself gives no hint of the fact that upon it once stood a warehouse.
Yet a busy place it was in early colonial times, and now utterly
neglected.
It is difficult to realize how very unsubstantial is much of man’s work.
As we sat upon the grassy slope, watching the outgoing tide as it
rippled and broke in a long line of sparkling bubbles, I rebuilt, for
the moment, the projecting wharf, of which but a single log remains, and
had the quaint shallops of pre-Revolutionary time riding at anchor.
There were heard, in fact, the cry of a heron and the wild scream of a
hawk; but these, in fancy, were the hum of human voices and the tramp of
busy feet.
[Illustration: _The Old Drawbridge, Crosswick’s Creek_]
The scattered stones that just peeped above the grass were not chance
bowlders rolled from the hill near by, but the door-step and foundation
of the one-time warehouse. The days of buying, selling, and getting gain
came back, in fancy, and I was more the sturdy colonist than the
effeminate descendant. But has the present no merit? We had the summer
breeze that came freighted with the odors gathered from the forest and
the stream, and there were thrushes rejoicing in our hearing that the
hill-sides were again as Nature made them. It meant much to us to tarry
in the shade of venerable trees spared by the merchants that once
collected here, whose names are now utterly forgotten. Stay! there are
two reminders of ancient glory. A beech that overhangs the brook has its
bark well scarred, and, now beyond decipherment, there are initials of
many prominent naturalists of Philadelphia. A few rods up-stream is
another beech that has remained unchanged. On it can be seen the
initials T. A. C., 1819; those of the celebrated paleontologist, Conrad,
born near here in 1803.
The shadows lengthen; the cooler hours of eventide draw on; the languid
thrushes are again abroad; music fills the air. We are homeward bound
and hurrying down-stream. Our minds are not so receptive as when we
started. How shrunken to a few rods is every mile! Trees, flowers, and
birds are scarcely heeded; but the good gathered as we went up the creek
we bring away, and, once again in the dusty village street, we realize
that we have but to turn our back upon the town to find the world a
picture.
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