_DRIFTING_
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Make an early start if you wish an eventful outing. Why know the world
only when the day is middle-aged or old? A wise German has said, “The
morning hour has gold in its mouth.” For many a rod after leaving the
wharf the river still “smoked,” and the scanty glimpses between the
rolling clouds of mist spurred the imagination. There was nothing
certain beyond the gunwales. The pale-yellow color of the water near at
hand and the deep-green and even black of that in the distance had no
daytime suggestiveness. It was not yet the familiar river with its
noonday glitter of blue and silver.
It is not strange that the initial adventure to which the
above-mentioned conditions naturally gave rise occurred while this state
of uncertainty continued. Very soon I ran upon a snag. To strike such an
object in mid-river was rather startling. Was I not in or near the
channel? Steamboats come puffing and plowing here and sailing craft pass
up and down, so my only care had been to avoid them; but now there came
in my path the twisted trunk of an old forest tree and held me fast. All
the while the mist rose and fell, giving no inkling of my whereabouts.
In the dim, misty light what a strange sea-monster this resurrected
tree-trunk seemed to be! Its thick green coat of silky threads lay
closely as the shining fur of the otter, a mane of eel-grass floated on
the water, the gnarly growths where branches once had been glistened as
huge eyes, and broken limbs were horns that threatened quick
destruction. There was motion, too. Slowly it rose above the water and
then as slowly sunk from view. Could it be possible that some
long-necked saurian of the Jersey marls had come to life? Nonsense; and
yet so real did it seem that I was ready for the river-horse to rise
“from the waves beneath,
And grin through the grate of his spiky teeth.”
With such an uncanny keeper, I was held a prisoner. At last I struck it
with an oar to beat it back, and rocked the frail boat until I feared
plunging into the deep water and deeper mud beneath. Deep water? It
suddenly occurred to me to try its depth, and the truth was plain. I was
far from the channel, and might with safety have waded to the shore. As
usual, I had rashly jumped at conclusions. The mouth of an inflowing
creek was near at hand, and this sunken tree, a relic of some forgotten
freshet, had been lying here in the mud for several years. The tide
lifted and let fall the trunk, but the root-mass was still strongly
embedded. I knew the spot of old, and now, fearing nothing, was rational
again.
Such sunken trees, however, are well calculated to alarm the unthinking.
It is said of one yet lying in the mud of Crosswicks Creek, that it rose
so quickly once as to overturn a boat. This is not improbable. That
occurrence, if true, happened a century ago, and the same tree has since
badly frightened more than one old farmer. I am told this of one of them
who had anchored his boat here one frosty October morning and commenced
fishing. While half asleep, or but half sober, the tree slowly raised up
and tilted the boat so that its occupant felt compelled to swim. His
view of the offending monster was much like my own fevered vision of
to-day. He not only swam ashore, but ran a mile over a soft marsh. To
him the _sea_-serpent was a reality, although he saw it in the _creek_.
It is of interest to note that among the early settlers of this region,
for at least three generations, the impression was prevalent that there
might be some monster lurking in the deep holes of the creek or in the
river. The last of the old hunters and fishermen of this region, who had
spent all his life in a boat or prowling along shore, was ever talking
of a “king tortle” that for forty years had defied all his efforts to
capture it. “Mostly, it only shows its top shell, but I have seen it
fair and square, head and legs, and I don’t know as I care to get very
close, neither.” This was his unvaried remark whenever I broached the
subject. To have suggested that it was a sunken log, or in some other
way tried to explain the matter, would only have brought about his ill
will. I once attempted it, very cautiously, but he effectually shut me
up by remarking, “When this here creek runs dry and you can walk over
its bottom, you’ll larn a thing or two that ain’t down in your books
yet, and ain’t goin’ to be.” The old man was right. I do not believe in
“king tortles,” but there certainly is “a thing or two” not yet in the
books. Stay! How big do our snappers grow? Is the father of them all
still hiding in the channel of Crosswicks Creek?
A description in an old manuscript journal, of the general aspect of the
country as seen from the river, bears upon this subject of strange wild
beasts and monsters of the deep, as well as on that of sunken trees that
endangered passing shallops.
“As we pass up the river,” this observant writer records, "we are so
shut in by the great trees that grow even to the edge of the water, that
what may lye in the interior is not to be known. That there be fertile
land, the Indians tell us, but their narrow paths are toilsome to travel
and there are none [of these people] now that seem willing to guide us.
As we approached ffarnsworth’s the channel was often very close to the
shore, and at one time we were held by the great trees that overhung the
bank and by one that had been fallen a long time and was now lodged in
the water. As I looked towards the shore, I exclaimed, ‘Here we are
indeed in a great wilderness. What strangeness is concealed in this
boundless wood? what wonder may at any time issue from it, or fierce
monster not be lurking in the waters beneath us?’ Through the day the
cries of both birds and beasts were heard, but not always. It was often
so strangely quiet that we were more affected thereby than by the sounds
that at times issued forth. At night there was great howling, as we were
told, of wolves, and the hooting of owls, and often there plunged into
the stream wild stags that swam near to our boat. But greater than all
else, to our discomfort, were the great sunken trunks of trees that were
across the channel, where the water was of no great depth."
What a change! and would that this old traveller could revisit the
Delaware to-day. My boat is free again and the mists are gone. Through
the trees are sifted the level sunbeams. There is at least a chance now
to compare notes. The forest is now a field, the trackless marsh a
meadow; wild life is largely a thing of the past; silence, both day and
night, replaces sound. No, not that; but only the minor sounds are left.
There are still the cry of the fish-hawk and the sweet song of the
thrush. No stags now swim the river, but there remain the mink and the
musk-rat. It has not been long since I saw a migration of meadow-mice,
and at night, I am sure, many an animal dares to breast the stream, a
mile wide though it be. Too cunning to expose itself by day, it risks
its life at night; and how tragic the result when, nearly at the
journey’s end, it is seized by a lurking foe; dragged down, it may be,
by a snake or a turtle!
The world is just as full of tragedy as ever, and, let us hope, as full
of comedy. In a bit of yonder marsh, above which bends the tall wild
rice, there is daily enacted scene after scene as full of import as
those which caused the very forest to tremble when the wolf and panther
quarrelled over the elk or deer that had fallen.
It has been insisted upon that a goal-less journey is necessarily a
waste of time. If on foot, we must keep forever on the go; if in a boat,
we must keep bending to the oars. It is this miserable fallacy that
makes so many an out-door man and woman lose more than half of that for
which they went into the fields. Who cares if you did see a chippy at
every turn and flushed a bittern at the edge of the marsh? If you had
been there before them, and these birds did the walking, you would have
gone home the wiser. It is not the mere fact that there are birds that
concerns us, but what are they doing? why are they doing it? This the
town-pent people are ever anxious to know, and the facts cannot be
gathered if you are forever on the move. Suppose I rush across the river
and back, what have I seen? The bottom of the boat. I came to see the
river and the sky above, and if this is of no interest to the reader,
let him turn the leaf.
Does every storm follow the track of the sun? As the sun rose there were
clouds in the east and south and a haziness over the western sky. Had I
asked a farmer as to the weather probabilities, he would have looked
everywhere but due north. Why does he always ignore that quarter? There
may be great banks of cloud there, but they go for nothing. “Sou-east”
and “sou-west” are forever rung in your ears, but never a word of the
north. Sometimes I have thought it may be for this reason that about
half the time the farmer is all wrong, and the heaviest rains come when
he is most sure that the day will be clear.
Looking upward, for the sky was clear in that direction now, I saw that
there were birds so far above me that they appeared as mere specks. Very
black when first seen, but occasionally they flashed as stars seen by
day from the bottom of a well. They could not be followed, except one
that swept swiftly earthward, and the spreading tail and curve of wings
told me it was a fish-hawk. What a glorious outlook from its
ever-changing point of view! From its height, it could have seen the
mountains and the ocean, and the long reach of river valley as well. If
the mists obscure it all, why should a bird linger in the upper air? The
prosy matter of food-getting has nothing to do with it. While in camp on
Chesapeake Bay, I noticed that the fish-hawks were not always fishing,
and often the air rang with their strange cries while soaring so far
overhead as to be plainly seen only with a field-glass. Every movement
suggested freedom from care as they romped in the fields of space. It is
not strange that they scream, or laugh, shall we say? when speeding
along at such rate and in no danger of collision. If I mistake not, the
cry of exultation is coincident with the downward swoop, and I thought
of old-time yelling when dashing down a snow-clad hill-side; but how
sober was the work of dragging the sled up-hill! The hawks, I thought,
were silent when upward bound. If so, there is something akin to
humanity in the hawk nature.
I have called the cry of the fish-hawk a “laugh,” but, from a human
stand-point, do birds laugh? It is extremely doubtful, though I recall a
pet sparrow-hawk that was given to playing tricks, as I called them, and
the whole family believed that this bird actually laughed. Muggins, as
we named him, had a fancy for pouncing upon the top of my head and,
leaning forward, snapping his beak in my face. Once an old uncle came
into the room and was treated in this fashion. Never having seen the
bird before, he was greatly astonished, and indignant beyond measure
when the hawk, being rudely brushed off, carried away his wig. Now the
bird was no less astonished than the man, and when he saw the wig
dangling from his claws he gave a loud cackle, unlike anything we had
ever heard before, and which was, I imagine, more an expression of
amusement than of surprise. I think this, because afterwards I often
played the game of wig with him, to the bird’s delight, and he always
“laughed” as he carried off the prize. On the contrary, the unsuccessful
attempt to remove natural hair elicited no such expression, but
sometimes a squeal of disgust.
In the _Spectator_ of October 1, 1892, page 444, I find a most
thoughtful article, entitled “The Animal Sense of Humor,” and I quote as
follows: “The power of laughter is peculiar to man, and the sense of
humor may be said, generally speaking, to be also his special property.”
Again, “We never saw the slightest approach to amusement in one animal
at the mistakes of another, though dogs, so far as we can venture to
interpret their thoughts, do really feel amusement at the mistakes of
men.” Possibly the author is right, but do not cats show a sense of
humor at the rough-and-tumble gambols of their kittens? Is not the sly
cuff on the ear that sends a kitten sprawling indicative of a sense of
fun on the part of tabby? Our author says, “so far as we can venture to
interpret their thoughts.” "Ay, there’s the rub." No one can tell how
far it is safe to venture, but I go a great deal beyond my neighbors.
Our author concludes, “In animals, as in man, humor is the result of
civilization, and not as we understand it, a natural and spontaneous
development.” I cannot subscribe to this. I know little of domestic
animals, but have got the idea of an animal’s sense of humor from wild
life, and confirmed it by what I have seen of cats and dogs.
While I have been drifting, and using my eyes and ears instead of legs
and arms, as is advocated, the clouds, too, have been creeping this way,
and, while the morning is yet fresh, it is certainly going to rain. Had
I consulted the barometer, I would have known this; but then, knowing
it, might I not have stayed at home? Why not enjoy part of a day? That
the rain will soon be here does not diminish one’s pleasure, unless
there is a fear of getting wet, and this is all too common. I hope that
it does not mean that you have but one suit of clothes.
The approaching rain, the increasing cloudiness, the shut-in appearance,
made the river exceedingly attractive. With the down-dropping clouds
dropped down the birds, and the swallows now skimmed the water as they
had been skimming the sky. The fish-hawks departed, but a host of
land-birds crossed the stream, as if comparing the shelter afforded by
the cedars on one side and pines on the other. These birds chattered as
they flew by, and turned their heads up- and downstream, as if curious
as to all that might be going on. Suddenly the water ceased to be
rippled, and far down-stream a cloud appeared to have reached the river.
It was the rain. It seemed to march very slowly, and every drop made a
dimple on the river’s breast. Then I could hear the on-coming host, the
sound having a distinct bell-like tinkle as each drop touched the
surface and disappeared. A curious effect, too, was produced by the wind
or the varying density of the cloud above, in that the drops were very
near together where I happened to be, and much farther apart and larger
some distance beyond the boat. I could of course make no measurements,
but appearances suggested that in the middle of the river the drops were
less numerous in the proportion of one to five. Does it usually rain
harder over land than over water? Heretofore I had seen the rain upon
the river while on shore, and was now very glad to have been caught
adrift, so as to observe it from a new point of view. It was a beautiful
sight, well worth the thorough wetting that I got and which drove me
home soon after with pleasant thoughts of my goalless journey.
[Illustration: _The Camp-Fire_]
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