Bog-trotting for orchids
“_I enter a swamp as a sacred place._”—Thoreau
BOG-TROTTING
_FOR_
ORCHIDS
_By_ GRACE GREYLOCK NILES
[Illustration]
_With Illustrations from Nature_
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
_New York and London_
The Knickerbocker Press
_1904_
COPYRIGHT, 1904
BY
GRACE GREYLOCK NILES
Published, April, 1904
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO
GENEVIEVE FARNELL
IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION
OF
HER AID AND ENCOURAGEMENT
[Illustration: =The Pink Moccasin-Flower.= (_Cypripedium acaule._)
“_One true-born blossom, native to our skies,_
_We dare not claim as kin,_
_Nor frankly seek, for all that in it lies,_
_The Indian’s moccasin._”
ELAINE GOODALE.]
Preface
During many seasons spent in the Hoosac Valley, it has been a source of
great pleasure to me to trace mountain streams through moss-grown ravines
to their beginnings, and to explore the almost inaccessible recesses of
the sphagnous boglands. I have found it a delight to study the orchids,
ferns, and various flowers sheltered in their homes, far removed from the
roadside. I seldom follow any well-worn forest paths, for I have observed
that the rarer plants do not dwell where the foot of man or the grazing
herds have wandered. So it happens that the walks described in these
pages lead mostly across lots, over hills and mountains, and through
swamps.
The Hoosac Valley lies in the heart of the irregular Taconic Mountains,
and extends over the southwestern part of Bennington County, Vermont, and
the northwestern part of Berkshire County, Massachusetts. This region has
a soil peculiarly adapted to the origin and growth of orchids. Here along
the numerous streams and in the little vales are many unfathomable peat
and marl beds which are veritable orchid gardens. The valley seems to be
the common ground where rare plants from the North and South, as well as
the migrating species from the East and West, meet and overlap each other.
Many people are accustomed to think of the orchid as a tropical flower
which grows in our country only in cultivation and under highly
artificial conditions. It is, however, true that many of the most
attractive species of this beautiful group are endemic to most parts of
the United States. There are to-day, according to conservative reports,
from twenty-seven to thirty genera and from one hundred and fifty to
one hundred and sixty species of native orchids found in North America,
north of Mexico. Most of these are terrestrial or earth-loving. There are
eleven epiphytes, all of which are found only in the Southern States.
The range of the North American orchids extends wherever sunshine
and moisture prevail, nearly as far north as the Arctic Circle. Four
Cypripediums grow between latitudes 54° and 64°, and from fifteen to
eighteen species of the Orchid Family are natives of Alaska.
The North Atlantic region, covering northeastern United States and
Canada, produces seventy-one species of Orchidaceæ; of these from
forty-eight to fifty-six are reported for New England, and from forty
to forty-two are found in the Hoosac Valley. Of the seventy-one North
Atlantic orchids only fifteen or sixteen have not been found within
Vermont. The most widely-known genus—_Cypripedium_, or Moccasin-Flower—is
represented by thirteen species on the North American continent. This
includes the single Mexican species. Six of this number have been
collected in Connecticut, and five grow in the Hoosac Valley.
The excursions which I have recorded in this book were made particularly
in search of orchids; but I have collected and observed all other flowers
of interest which grow in the region which I have traversed, for the
purpose of showing the natural environments of orchids, and introducing
their near neighbors of swamp, forest, and rocky pasture-land.
G. G. N.
WILLIAMSTOWN, MASSACHUSETTS.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
_First Season_
I. OFF TO THE HILLS OF BERKSHIRE AND BENNINGTON 3
II. BALL BROOK AND THE BOGS OF ETCHOWOG 15
III. THE HAUNTS OF THE RAM’S-HEAD MOCCASIN-FLOWERS 39
IV. THE STOLEN MOCCASINS 44
V. THE QUEEN OF THE INDIAN MOCCASIN-FLOWERS 55
VI. HAIL STORMS AT ETCHOWOG 72
VII. SWEET POGONIAS AND LIMODORUMS 83
VIII. A COLONY OF RAM’S-HEADS IN WITCH HOLLOW 95
IX. OVER THE HUCKLEBERRY PLAINS 115
_Second Season_
X. WESTVILLE SWAMPS AND MOUNT CARMEL, CONNECTICUT 125
XI. MAY SHOWERS AND WHITE MOCCASIN-FLOWERS 137
XII. SAUCY JAYS AND POLYPORES 149
_Third Season_
XIII. THE SWAMPS AND HILLS OF MOSHOLU AND LOWERRE, NEW YORK 157
XIV. THE SWAMP OF ORACLES—HOOSAC VALLEY 167
XV. WHITE OAKS AND GREGOR ROCKS 183
XVI. ALPINE BLOSSOMS OF THE DOME 201
XVII. THE CASCADE AND BELLOWS-PIPE, NOTCH VALLEY, BERKSHIRE
COUNTY, MASSACHUSETTS 212
XVIII. THE NATURAL BRIDGE OF MAYUNSOOK VALLEY, NORTHERN BERKSHIRE 224
XIX. ORANGE MOUNTAINS, AND SALT MEADOWS, NEW JERSEY 231
APPENDIX—NEW ENGLAND ORCHIDS 239
INDEX 285
[Illustration]
Illustrations
The photographs in this list marked thus * were taken by Miss Katherine
Lewers, the others by the author. The coloring is the work of the author.
Of the fifteen genera of _Orchidaceæ_ in New England, all save _Listera_,
_Tipularia_, and _Aplectrum_ are represented in these illustrations.
PAGE
The Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_)* _Frontispiece_
_Colored_
The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium hirsutum_)* 4
_Colored_
The Botanizing Can, or Vasculum, Showing the White-Petaled Lady’s
Slipper and Maiden-Hair Fern* 8
Mount Greylock’s Brotherhood—the Berkshire Highlands, from Mount
Œta, Bennington County, Vermont, Showing the College Town of
Williamstown in the Valley* 10
The Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, the Entrance to Hoosac
Tunnel, North Adams, Massachusetts 14
Source of photograph unknown.
Ball Brook, in the Swamp of Oracles, Pownal, Vermont* 18
The Showy Lady’s Slipper—the Queen of the Indian Moccasin-Flowers
(_Cypripedium reginæ_)* 24
_Colored_
The Fleur-de-Lis (_Iris versicolor_)* 28
The Fountain of Arethusa, near the Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont 30
Round-Leaved Sundew (_Drosera rotundifolia_) 32
The Carnivorous Plants, commonly called Pitcher Plants, and Dumb
Watches (_Sarracenia purpurea_) 34
The Bogs of Etchowog, Showing the Dome in the Distance, Pownal,
Vermont* 36
The Ram’s-Head Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium arietinum_) 42
The Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_)* 48
This is the only two-leaved _Cypripedium_ found in the
Atlantic region.
_Colored_
The Tall White Northern Orchis (_Habenaria dilatata_), near
Arethusa’s Spring, Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont 52
_Colored_
The Showy Orchis (_Orchis spectabilis_) 56
The first orchid of the spring, found near the rocky borders of
the Thompson Brook, East Pownal, Vermont.
_Colored_
The Small Yellow Fragrant Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium
parviflorum_)* 60
_Colored_
The Small White Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium candidum_) 62
_Colored_
The Queen of the Indian Moccasin-Flowers (_Cypripedium reginæ_),
from the Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont 68
The Small Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria psycodes_) 72
The Showy Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium reginæ_)* 78
_Colored_
The Northern Gap, Showing the Taconic Mountains of Bennington
County, from Mount Œta, Vermont. The Bennington Battle
Monument towers to the left in the Distance* 86
The Rose Pogonia (_Pogonia ophioglossoides_) 88
_Colored_
The Thompson Brook, East Pownal, Vermont 90
The Grass Pink (_Limodorum tuberosum_) 92
This is a strange, beautiful orchid with a straight
seed-pod (ovary).
_Colored_
The Perry Elm, Marking the Site of Fort Massachusetts, on the
Harrison’s Flats, North Adams, Massachusetts, Showing
Saddleback Mountain in the Distance 96
The Small Round-Leaved Orchis (_Habenaria Hookeriana_)* 100
_Colored_
The Showy Orchis (_Orchis spectabilis_)* 104
Showing the plant nearly natural size.
_Colored_
The Large Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria grandiflora_) 110
From lithograph in Meehan’s _Native Flowers and Ferns of the
United States_, 1: 1878. By permission.
_Colored_
The Blackberry Blossoms from Mount Œta, Pownal, Vermont* 112
The Yellow Clintonia (_Clintonia borealis_), Rattlesnake Brook
Swamp, Mount Œta, Pownal, Vermont 116
“White, innocent twigs of apple”* 126
The Woodman’s Road through Rattlesnake Swamp, Mount Œta, Pownal,
Vermont 134
The Beautiful Arethusa (_Arethusa bulbosa_) 144
_Colored_
The Rattlesnake Plantain (_Peramium_), a Group of Three Species
Collected on Rattlesnake Ledge, Mount Œta, Pownal, Vermont 150
The Snowy Dogwood Blossoms, from the Hills of Mosholu, New York* 158
1. Indian Pipes (_Monotropa uniflora_); 2. Pine-Sap (_Monotropa
Hypopitys_) 164
The Snow-Plant of the Sierra Nevada Mountains (_Sarcodes
sanguinea_)* 166
Motherless Baby Whippoorwills* 176
A Colony of the Small Yellow Fragrant Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium
parviflorum_) in the Glen of Comus, District Fourteen, Pownal,
Vermont* 178
_Colored_
The Mountain Laurel (_Kalmia latifolia_) 184
The Gregor Rocks, Hoosac Valley, from Pownal Centre Road, Vermont* 188
The Pot-Hole of Wash-Tub Brook, Pownal, Vermont, Showing the
Stream Whirling through its Basin 190
An Ancient Pot-Hole, Showing an Erstwhile Revolving Stone, Located
on the Granite Ridge, near the Wolf’s Den, Bronx Park, New
York City* 194
The Bluebells of New England (_Campanula rotundifolia_)* 196
Three Rare Ferns from Gregor Rocks and Wash-Tub Brook Region,
Pownal, Vermont: 1. Rue-in-the-Wall Spleenwort (_Asplenium
Ruta-muraria_); 2. Purple-Stemmed Cliff-Brake (_Pellæa
atropurpurea_); 3. Walking Fern (_Camptosorus rhizophyllus_)* 198
The Rocking Boulder, Located on the Granite Ridge near the Bear’s
Den, in the Zoölogical Garden, Bronx Park, New York City 200
A pressure of fifty pounds causes this boulder to move about
two inches.
From photograph by George Stonebridge.
The Red Wood Lily (_Lilium Philadelphicum_) 210
The Cascade of Notch Brook, at the Base of Mount Greylock’s
Brotherhood, North Adams, Massachusetts 212
Notch Valley and the Bellows-Pipe, North Adams, Massachusetts.
Mount Greylock towers up on the right, and the Ragged
Mountains on the left hand 218
The Marble Arch of the Natural Bridge, North Adams, Massachusetts 228
The Star-Blossoms of the Grass of Parnassus (_Parnassia
Caroliniana_), and the Ladies’ Tresses 234
The Hoosac River, Pownal, Vermont* 238
The Fragrant White Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium Montanum_) 242
_Colored_
The Showy Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium reginæ_)* 244
This is the most gorgeous _Cypripedium_ in the world, and without
doubt one of the most ancient types of the genus.
_Colored_
The Pink Moccasin-Flower—the Stemless Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium
acaule_)* 246
Showing the structure of the pendulous and bi-lobed labellum,
and the processes of the sepals and petals.
_Colored_
The Showy Orchis (_Orchis spectabilis_)* 248
The first orchid of the season, showing the hooded fold above the
orifice of the spur, and the processes of the flowers on the
bracted scape.
_Colored_
A Group of Three Species of Genus Habenaria: 1. The Tall Northern
Green Orchis (_Habenaria hyperborea_); 2. The Tall Northern
White Orchis (_Habenaria dilatata_); 3. The Large Round-Leaved
Orchis (_Habenaria orbiculata_)* 250
_Colored_
The Spikes of Habenaria (_Habenaria Andrewseii_ and _Habenaria
psycodes_) 252
The Small Bog Orchis (_Habenaria clavellata_) 254
Andrews’ Rose-Purple Orchis (_Habenaria Andrewseii_) 258
The Beautiful Arethusa (_Arethusa bulbosa_) 262
Showing the structural parts of the flower, the single leaf,
and bulbous root.
_Colored_
The Hooded Ladies’ Tresses (_Gyrostachys Romanzoffiana_) 264
The Nodding Ladies’ Tresses (_Gyrostachys cernua_) 266
The Slender Ladies’ Tresses (_Gyrostachys gracilis_) 268
The Haunts of the Rattlesnake Plantain (_Peramium_) amid the Pines
and Spruces of the Domelet, Pownal, Vermont 270
The Green Adder’s-Mouth (_Achroanthes unifolia_) 272
The Large Twayblade (_Leptorchis liliifolia_) 274
Northern Calypso (_Calypso bulbosa_) 276
From lithograph in Meehan’s _Native Flowers and Ferns of the
United States_, 1: 1878. By permission.
_Colored_
The Coral-Root (_Corallorhiza_) 280
The Grass Pink (_Limodorum tuberosum_) 282
A beautiful grassy-leaved orchid found in company with the
dainty Rose Pogonia, and frequently with the rarer Arethusa
in wild cranberry marshes.
_Colored_
Epiphytes, or Air Plants. A Corner in the Orchid House of the
Botanical Gardens of New York City* 284
FIRST SEASON
I
Off to the Hills of Berkshire and Bennington
It is not the walking merely, it is keeping yourself in tune
for a walk, in the spiritual and bodily condition in which
you can find entertainment and exhilaration in so simple and
natural a pastime.—BURROUGHS, _Pepacton_.
All winter I had been promising myself the pleasure of watching the
flowers unfold in the Bogs of Etchowog. On May 25th I reached the old
farm on Mount Œta, having departed from New York on May 14th, fully
equipped as a bog-trotter, with hunting-boots, rubber gloves, short
skirts and vasculum.
My route was through New Haven and Hartford, across the States of
Connecticut and Massachusetts. On my way I stopped for a brief visit at
the home of a friend in New Haven. In her garden, I found a corner of the
Taconic woodlands awakening. Here, in line and on time, stood five modest
Yellow Lady’s Slippers (_Cypripedium hirsutum_), members of the Orchid
Family; while along the same border clusters of the Showy Lady’s Slipper
(_Cypripedium reginæ_) were pushing their dewy-tipped beaks into light
and sunshine. Although rather late in their blossoming, compared with
the other sisters of this genus in New England, this species usually
reaches its prime about June 20th.
On the east side of the garden towered an ambitious row of ferns, some
twenty root clusters or more, including many rare species. Here was an
especially queer little strap-like leaf, which one would scarcely call a
fern unless one were a professed fern-hunter. It is the rare Walking Leaf
(_Camptosorus rhizophyllus_), the scientific name meaning a bent heap,
and the appearance of the plant indeed is suggestive of the name. The
frond is from four to twelve inches long, springing from a heart-shaped
base and reaching out a long, narrow runner, which readily roots at the
end again, and thence takes a step onward, and so on, until three or four
steps are taken, often in this way forming a beautiful carpet for the
cold gray lime rocks, which it prefers in its native haunts.
The Walking Fern is shy in its habitat, seeking the most hidden crevices
in ledges along our mountain sides. I have collected it in many dark
ravines, as well as along dry, rocky ridges in the Hoosac Highlands. It
takes kindly to cultivation for a season or two, and then dies out for
want of its natural soil of limestone.
[Illustration: =The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower.= (_Cypripedium
hirsutum._)
This common _Cypripedium_ is closely allied with the Small Yellow
Fragrant species—_Cypripedium parviflorum_—with which it grows in
close comradeship, often intergrading. It is also nearly related with
the European Yellow Cypripedium (_Cypripedium calceolus_), the first
_Cypripedium_ described by Linnæus in 1740-1753.]
A short walk toward West Rock, New Haven, showed me how far advanced the
season really was. Here were crowds of children playing in fields covered
with violets and bluets, and farther down in the damp meadows were long,
serpentine lines of gold, where the Marsh Marigolds (_Caltha palustris_),
known commonly as Cowslips, were already fading. On the edges of the
swamp, the Marsh Buttercups of the Crowfoot Family (_Ranunculaceæ_), were
lifting their shallow yellow cups to catch the sunshine. We wandered on
through a pretty, wild bit of young woodland until we reached the border
of a murmuring stream, creeping onward through the vale and meadow,
touching the blossoming orchards here and there, and freshening the sweet
white violets on its brink.
North Adams, Massachusetts, was to be my next station. This city is
about two hundred miles from New York, among the Hoosac Highlands. I
almost expected to see reluctant snowdrifts still lingering in the fence
corners and shaded pine glens of this part of “Beautiful Berkshire,” and
I half hoped to find a few late clusters of the Trailing Arbutus (_Epigæa
repens_) creeping through the cold, mossy ravines.
Upon my arrival in North Adams, I looked through the bogs under the brow
of Hoosac Mountain near Aurora’s Lake, and I could perceive scarcely any
difference in the progress of flowers or foliage here from that of the
region from which I had just departed. Dogwood, apple trees, violets,
anemones and wake-robins were in blossom, while in the deeper bogland I
found one lone, pale Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_).
American White Hellebore, so commonly known as Indian Poke or Itch
Weed (_Veratrum viride_), had already sent out a luxuriant growth of
green leaves, which for a moment deceived me—as it had done many times
before—by its resemblance to the foliage of the Showy Lady’s Slipper. The
leaves of both these plants are plicate, and have ever been confused even
by the earliest herbalists. Unrolling a spike of leaves one day, I found
I had actually disturbed the buds of the queen of the Lady’s Slippers
instead of the Hellebore, although they proved to be blasted. No doubt
some warm day had started them prematurely, frost and cold rains later
proving their ruin.
Here on a sheltered damp hillside, I found my first clusters of the
season of the Pink Azalea (_Azalea nudiflora_), which is commonly
known hereabout as Swamp-Apple, and which is very similar to _Rhodora
Canadensis_. These species belong to the Heath Family, one of the largest
among the flora of Hoosac Valley. The beautiful pink flowers of the Great
Rhododendron, which measure from one to two inches in diameter, render it
the most charming species of this group. It is cultivated extensively,
but grows in its natural wild state, in this region, only along the
margins of ponds near Montpelier and Wells River, in Vermont.
The American Mountain Laurel (_Kalmia_), which becomes so gorgeous later
in the season, the Lambkill, Labrador Tea, Andromeda and the Cassandra
are closely allied species of this group, common to this region. Other
familiar members of it are the Trailing Arbutus, Gaultheria, and the
Creeping Snowberry. They may be found in Aurora’s Swamp.
North Adams is not far from the sources of the south and north branches
of the Hoosac River, in a wild and rugged portion of Berkshire. The
Hoosac proper is formed at the junction of these two streams, in the
vicinity of the Print Works near Marshall Street in the city, and flows
on gently in a northwesterly course to join the Hudson, near Lansingburg.
Mountain streams in this region are numerous, and flow musically down
through deep chasms and over great marble precipices, to swell the Hoosac
as it glides slowly out through the deep-cut valley.
“We Hold the Western Gateway,” is part of the inscription on the seal
of the city of North Adams, which is known as the “Tunnel City.” This
is practically true, for the sole gateway of the trade from the Western
States passes though the flinty wall of the Hoosac Mountain, in order
to reach Boston direct. The idea of opening a path for transit through
the “Forbidden Mountain,” as the Indians called it, was conceived six
years after the first mail-coach and four-in-hand rattled through the
street of this town to Greenfield, in 1814. It was found impossible to
build the projected canal from Boston to Albany. The estimated cost of
building the tunnel was less than two million dollars, but when it was
completed in 1875, the total financial outlay had amounted to over twenty
millions. Until January 1, 1887, this tunnel was owned by the State of
Massachusetts, when it was purchased by the Fitchburg Railroad. It is
four and three fourths miles long, and twenty-six feet wide, permitting
of double tracks. The arch is from twenty-two to twenty-six feet high,
and at each portal there is a massive granite façade.
Whenever I come to the Hoosac Valley, I enter, if possible, by way of
this tunnel. I seem thus to close away the outer world, and to penetrate
a new realm hidden here in the seclusion of the marble highlands. This
triumph of man over the power of Nature needs no further introduction
here. I can never forget, however, the weary years of hardships endured
by those who toiled in its construction, entombed within the heart of
the mountain, subject to the dangers of quicksands, falling rocks, damp
and gases, explosives, fire and starvation, before the great work was
accomplished.
I enjoyed the ridges in the pastures along the foothills of the
grim-faced Tunnel Mountain, and about Aurora’s Lake, which reflects
like a pretty little mirror the rugged beauty of the hills. This lake
is partly natural, but now dammed artificially. Every line of its
terraced shores bears the scars of antiquity, which would indicate that
ten thousand years ago a larger lake slept in this hollow vale which
geologists have estimated at a depth of six hundred feet. Here are rich
deposits of glacial drift, and northeast of Aurora’s Lake are sphagnous
swamps, where I find many rare orchids and early spring blossoms. Here
both the pink and yellow Moccasin-Flowers bloom in May, while in June the
queen of the tribe unfolds her white-petaled purity.
[Illustration: =The Botanizing Can, or Vasculum, showing the White-Petaled
Lady’s Slippers and Maiden-Hair Fern.=]
This bogland is very similar to that of the Swamp of Oracles in Pownal,
in District Fourteen, save for the openness of the former’s shores.
Aurora’s Swamp is located in a deep flinty basin, surrounded only by low
tangled bushes and open pasture-land beyond, without forests to shield
the bogs from the sweep of winds.
The hills are strewn with great boulders left here in the Glacial Age,
which rest, poised as monuments of that mystical period. Especially
interesting are the dimpled erosions upon one boulder, which rests
just northeast of the lakelet, upon the ridges sloping eastward toward
the sphagnous swamp. There are visible deep scratches, hollows, arches
and miniature pillars, which the whirling eddies of the perilous waves
have eroded during the ages unknown. Higher on the summit of the Hoosac
rests another immense rock known to students of geology as the “Great
Vermonter.” It is said to have been brought from the marble and granite
heights of Vermont, imbedded in the ice-drift. Through the melting of the
glacial sheet, one of the drifting bergs left this hero of the ages as we
may see it now, moored and balanced high on old Hoosac’s brow.
The geological surveys of northern Massachusetts, by President Hitchcock
of Amherst in 1838, early identified all of the low, round hills to be
seen southward from Aurora’s Lake as the result of glacial action. Mount
Greylock’s Brotherhood is a group of giant glacial hills, as it were,
and is the highest pile of Taconic formation in this State. The erosions
of the great ice-sheet are plainly seen on the rocky summits of these
mountains, and only time and the decay of the rock itself will do away
with these scars of that mystical age. The name of “Greylock” appears
to be derived from the lowering cloud-mist so often capping the whole
Brotherhood at early dawn or before a storm.
Vermonters who, from the hills at a great distance to the north, view
this group of mountains, depend upon this capping of clouds as a forecast
of the weather. Among the old folk, it is known and designated as
“Greylock’s Nightcap,” a portent of a coming storm.
Mount Greylock, the highest swell of this range, is 3600 feet above
sea level, and commands a variable and extensive view from its bald
summit, on which was early erected that first wooden observatory, during
President Griffin’s term at Williams College. Here the poet and the
philosopher, Hawthorne and Thoreau, have climbed to meditate.
Many a message has gone forth from these heights to bless the busy
world. Scarcely is there a son of old Williams who does not recall the
mountain-day excursions led by Professor Albert Hopkins, and the glory of
old Greylock at dawn and at the sunset hour.
Thoreau writes of it: “It would be no small advantage if every college
were thus located at the base of a mountain, as good at least as one
well-endowed professorship. It were as well to be educated in the shadow
of a mountain as in more classical shades. Some will remember, no doubt,
not only that they went to college, but that they went to the mountain.
Every visit to its summit would, as it were, generalize the particular
information gained below, and subject it to more catholic tests.”[1]
[Illustration: =Mount Greylock’s Brotherhood—the Berkshire Highlands,
from Mount Œta, Bennington County, Vermont, Showing the College Town of
Williamstown in the Valley.=]
The peak especially designated as Saddleback Mountain is at the junction
of the eastern abutments of that huge wall of Taconic Brotherhood which
appears south of the old battle-ground where formerly stood the early
border Fort Massachusetts, on the Harrison flats, near the flag station
of Greylock. The union of Mount Williams, sloping to the east, and
Prospect Mountain to the west forms the seat of the saddle.
Mount Hopkins—so named in honor of Professor Albert Hopkins of Williams,
the first nature-student of our land, making excursions afield in
1833—lies south of these. Old Greylock, proper, lifts its lofty brow
still farther south, being situated about in the centre of this great
range as it extends from east to west.
Beyond Greylock stretches a long, misty line of blue peaks against the
sky, which if observed from Mount Œta at the north, in Bennington County,
Vermont, may be traced to the southwest to Symond’s Peak, the lowest
of the group, named in memory of Captain Symond, who led the volunteer
forces from our hills and vales to the memorable Battle of Bennington
in 1777. Bald Mountain is also in the vicinity, and the closing in of
these several peaks has conspired to form what is known as the “Hopper,”
and the “Heart of Greylock.” The hollow vale amid these heights has the
appearance of the hoppers used by millers years ago.
Surely in the heart of the Taconics we are in one of the oldest rock
formations of the earth, and the green terraced stairs lead us slowly
down to the deep-set valley of the Hoosac, where once slept that ancient
lake. All that now remains of that Lake of Dawn is pocketed in the basin
under the Hoosac. The shores of Aurora’s Lake are lonely and still, save
for the marsh thrushes which skim low over the waves and whistle shrilly.
The groves of pine to the southeast are the haunts of solitude, and
those who wander here can well imagine that the Æolian harps among the
whispering trees are repeating a music of ages past, when only wind and
waves were known to these hills.
Amid these damp and reedy shores and swampy woods are tall brakes and
delicate Maiden-Hair Ferns. Here, too, the tall and stately Royal-Fern
(_Osmunda regalis_) flourishes in deep seclusion, sheltered by the
low-branching pines along the shore. It grows from two to four feet high
in this locality, and is of a deep rich crimson-green tone against the
grasses and bushes near. Mounds of moss, marking one of the trees of a
primitive forest rotting below the soil, are thickly carpeted with the
leaves of the Dog’s-Tooth Lily. Indeed, the picturesque paths which lead
through these woods wind through a veritable fairy-land of flowers and
ferns. One of these trails runs southward through rocky pastures, swamps
and thickets, toward the Tunnel’s western gate.
Along these slopes, among the limestone rocks, I found rows of the Ebony
Spleenwort Fern, rather rare in this much-travelled way; and on the brow
of this ridge were many species of common fern. The pastures are barren
and dry, with few bushes to break the dreary horizon, as one approaches
the western portal of the Tunnel.
I came upon one lone Apple-Thorn bush, of genus _Cratægus_ of the Apple
Family. Nearly opposite, across the valley of the south branch of the
Hoosac, which the Indians named the Ashuilticook, may be distinguished
the smoking Limekilns; while still farther southward, the white-spired
village of Adams nestles at the base of Greylock, which towers serenely
above the shaggy shoulders of Ragged Mountain. I wandered about the edges
of the Tunnel cliffs where, in years gone by, had stood the impoverished
cabins which sheltered the laborers who tunnelled the Hoosac. I descended
into the chasm and seated myself upon the wall of rocks, waiting for
the trains to appear and disappear at the portal in the side of the
hill. Presently one from the West crept ponderously into the cavern.
The echoing roar was smothered, and died slowly away until it became
an indistinct murmur. Not long afterward I felt, as well as heard, the
low breathings and rumblings of a locomotive coming in the opposite
direction. I heard its subterranean groans as of a great spirit, while
the smoke poured forth, pushed in volumes before the engine, wreathing
and curling about it as it emerged, and partially concealing its grim
outlines.
The faithful watchman, a modern Eckhart, sits before the entrance of the
Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, and warns the people against entering
through this portal to the greater world that lies beyond. It is as if
he wished to guard these children of the marble highlands from the risks
attendant upon the wild whirl of life beyond these quiet hills.
The sun was setting as I left him, calm but alert, at his post of duty,
trimming and lighting his colored lanterns for signals of danger or
safety to the approaching trains. Climbing up by the path which passes
the little red cottage on the crest of the hill on the north bank of the
chasm, I returned leisurely homeward, winding over the hillsides, far
above Aurora’s Lake, then down along the borders of the swamp-lands.
In the crevices of rock were creeping colonies of the Common Polypody
(_Polypodium vulgare_). Along the edges of this bog are still seen the
primeval stumps of the pine and hemlock forests, which clothed these
hillsides when only the Redmen dwelt and hunted among these wildernesses.
In May and early June these decaying stumps are usually draped with
Painted Trillium and the delicate vines of Gaultheria and the Creeping
Snowberry, while the Arbutus trails about luxuriantly, covering up the
ruins of years.
[Illustration: =The Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, the Entrance to
Hoosac Tunnel, North Adams, Massachusetts.=]
II
Ball Brook and the Bogs of Etchowog
Fringing the stream, at every turn
Swung low the waving fronds of fern;
From stony cleft and mossy sod
Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.
WHITTIER, _The Seeking of the Waterfall_.
On May 25th I reached Pownal, Bennington County. Upon the following day I
explored the great swamps of Etchowog. Prepared with luncheon, vasculum,
basket for roots and my hound Major, I started on one of those happy
excursions such as Thoreau recommends we should take, “in the spirit of
undying adventure, never to return,—prepared to send back our embalmed
hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms.”[2]
Ball Brook, a sluggish stream flowing northwardly to East Pownal
swamps—commonly called the Bogs of Etchowog—has its source in the marshy
hillsides northwest of the schoolhouse in District Fourteen. Two streams
flow from this valley. One is called Ladd Brook, running southwesterly
and following the windings of the shady Ladd Road to Pownal village,
where it joins the Hoosac River. The other stream, Ball Brook, flows
north and northeast onward through innumerable and unfathomable swamps,
to Bennington village, ten miles north, there meeting the Walloomsac
River, which is also a tributary of the Hoosac, farther northward in its
course. This brook is rich in a continuous chain of peat bogs—rich from
an orchid-hunter’s point of view.
Although I have been familiar with this region from childhood, viewing it
from the roadside only, I never at any time had ventured to follow Ball
Brook through all its meanderings to the Bogs of Etchowog near Pownal
Pond, a distance of some three miles. This would not be a long walk on a
fair road, but it becomes rather dangerous and formidable when leading
through quaking marshes in the soaking currents of a stream.
A short distance to the right, north of the schoolhouse in Number
Fourteen, there is an old pathway nearly overgrown with bushy pines and
birch and chestnut underbrush. This I followed, entering the hollow under
the brow of the hill, and passing along the wood road which skirts the
margins of one of the deepest, darkest jungles in these regions. The old
people look upon it as akin to “Witch Hollow,” on the Gulf Road near by,
and tell strange tales of ghosts, and of some mythological peddler who
was swallowed here in the black mud of this ancient tarn, after having
been robbed of his fine silks and precious jewels.
Weird, hollow drummings issue and echo through these shaded vales from
time to time. Probably they are due, however, to nothing more startling
than the alarum of a partridge, or the hoot of the screech-owl; or the
creaking and rubbing of partially fallen trees against their supporting
brothers, voicing a portent of coming storm. I hear in this woodland
seclusion little save the whispering of the winds, the sighing of the
pines, and snapping of dead twigs, mingled with the chorus of the
thrushes. The first settlers here about interpreted these wood-sounds far
differently; then the primeval forests were dense, and the noises were
deep and full of mystery, and there was fear of the Redman’s war-whoop.
As Burroughs writes: “The ancients, like women and children, were not
accurate observers. Just at the critical moment their eyes were unsteady,
or their fancy, or their credulity, or their impatience got the better of
them, so that their science was half fact and half fable.... They sought
to account for such things without stopping to ask, Are they true? Nature
was too novel, or else too fearful to them to be deliberately pursued and
hunted down.”[3]
I stopped on a corduroy bridge to draw on my high-water boots and rubber
gloves, for one feels safer when entering this dense swamp if protected
from poisonous roots and foliage, biting insects and things that creep
and crawl.
I had started out with small belief that I would find any prime blossoms
of the Orchid Family, for nothing of importance had yet unfolded in
Aurora’s Swamp in North Adams. But when I penetrated the heart of these
rich, warm glooms, I found waiting for me a fragrant company of Dwarf
Yellow Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium parviflorum_); and innumerable
Stemless Pink Lady’s Slippers, more frequently called the Indian’s
Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_), stood as sentinels on the dryer
edges of the swamp.
The Marsh Marigolds were here also in their last stages, fading away,
but still sufficiently bright; with the late indigo-blue violets, which
rear their faces at least a foot high above the dark pools, to carpet the
marsh with gold and purple. Poison Ivy cropped out frequently among these
graceful orchids,—a beautiful vine, although unfriendly to man.
It is difficult to describe the dense gloom of this bog, closed in on all
sides by high rock-bound hills, which are clothed with pine and yellow
birch trees, and which in their turn are but foothills to the higher
watershed. It seems to have been a receiving basin for the waste and wear
of the heights above for thousands of years. Here are fallen trees of
every variety common in southwestern Vermont, and these prostrate giants
helped to form a safe footing through the quaking bogs.
Many cold springs under the hill to the south conspire to freshen the
marsh, and after sluggish oozing northward, they unite and form the brook
proper. The stream leads directly through the heart of the swamp, and at
last, gathering force, rushes down over rocky slopes, presently to enter
another swamp of greater breadth, filled with different trees and flowers.
[Illustration: =Ball Brook, in the Swamp of Oracles, Pownal, Vermont.=
“_Here, let these rivulets forever flow!_
_Drink from these highland domes the melting snow;_
_Drain from the dark ravines, and hollows near,_
_The mountain cascades, flowing soft and clear._”
G. G. N.]
The Showy Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium reginæ_) was just sending forth
its tiny roll of leaves, so I could not expect prime blossoms before June
15th at the earliest.
Seated on a decaying log, I ate my luncheon, with Major before me begging
impolitely for his portion, until I divided my cake with him. The
mosquitoes were so troublesome that I decided to push onward. Carefully
picking my way out of the swamp, I crossed the muddy brook, and found
myself in a dry, rocky pathway which winds around the hillside, but still
keeps within sound of the brook’s murmur.
In exquisite little glens beside the path were Painted Trilliums and
Stars-of-Bethlehem, while the white and gold stars of the dainty
Goldthread (_Coptis trifolia_) were shining amid the moss and their own
glossy green leaves.
In the bend of the stream a little farther on were some of the most
graceful little ferns, just near enough to the brink to catch now and
then a dash of spray from the rushing waters, swayed in the coolness all
day long, adding beauty to the nook.
Still farther on, I saw that by crossing the stream I could enter a
little ravine to the right, which promised hidden treasures. I waded
through the brook, which was too wide to jump across; I found that it
was also rather too deep for my boots, and that there were very few
stepping-stones to make a dry crossing possible. But of what matter is
a little water in one’s boots, when seeking the Gardens of the Gods?
I landed safely on the opposite bank, after frightening many a shy,
speckled trout from his hiding-place in this ideal fishing-hole.
I was now in a small, low-lying glen where foot of man has seldom been.
The soil, though much drier than the ground over which I had recently
passed, displayed a honeycombed appearance, showing where the water had
oozed away through the rich leaf-mould to seek the flowing stream beyond.
Whole constellations of star-flowers were here; both the Painted and
Crimson or Nodding Trilliums were abundant, asserting themselves and
their rights, if size of flowers and leaves may indicate strength, among
the tall, rank growth of the Common Brake (_Pteris aquilina_), which
frequently rise five feet in height. Close by their long, harsh lobes
grew the plicate leaves of the Indian Poke or White Hellebore. Skunk
Cabbage (_Spathyema fœtida_), so frequent in the swamps along Bronx River
in Greater New York, is rarely seen here, although I find lone specimens
now and then in Aurora’s Swamp in northern Berkshire, and in this jungle.
Lily leaves and Dwarf Cornel peeped out from every shadow. Here I found
the red-spotted leaves of Dog’s-Tooth Lily (_Erythronium Americanum_) and
Clintonia (_Clintonia borealis_), as well as the delicate leaves of the
False Lily-of-the-Valley (_Unifolium Canadense_), and several species of
Solomon’s Seal, while the weird Indian Cucumber (_Medeola Virginiana_)
rose up everywhere beneath the luxuriant ferns.
Dwarf Cornel, or Bunch Berry, locally known as Bear Berry (_Cornus
Canadensis_) was about to set its fruit. These berries are of a deep
vermilion color, and eatable if one has the patience to sever the seeds.
From the bark of this species of the Dogwood Family is extracted a tonic
which is very bitter.
I found the beautiful Star-Flowered Solomon’s Seal (_Vagnera stellata_),
and the deeper bogs revealed specimens of the rarer bog species, _Vagnera
trifolia_, which, in spite of its name, produced plants with more than
three leaves, and many beautiful fragrant flowers of a waxy white color.
Indian Turnip (_Arisæma triphyllum_), more commonly known to-day as
Jack-in-the-Pulpit, was numberless; the little priests in the pulpits
were dressed in cardinal’s robes trimmed with stripes of green, white,
and purple.
This sylvan retreat which yielded so many specimens of beautiful flowers
I called the “Glen of Comus,” for I could not rid my thoughts of the
deep, dark woodlands where Sabrina was lost among the enchanters.[4] I
fancied that the Purple Trilliums stood with nodding petals bowed down to
earth as though they were guilty of some crimson sin and dared not lift
their faces to the sun.
I gathered from every species some perfect treasure, and then returned,
wandering once more beside the cool brook. I wondered if it carried all
the memories of the forest fastness, gleaned among the roots of our
frail, beautiful hillside flowers, through the mighty rivers to the deep
seaweeds and strange aquatic blossoms which had at one time bloomed
among these very hills ages and ages ago.
Climbing a fence, I found myself in a parched, short-cropped cow-pasture,
but the stream soon passed into a large tamarack swamp, where in many
places neither man nor beast can wander with ease or safety. I rested
under a wide-spreading pine tree, looking the marsh over to choose the
best path through it, for I still had some distance to walk before I
could reach Pownal Pond and the Bogs of Etchowog.
In order to make my journey less burdensome, I decided to leave my
treasures of gold and crimson hidden in this stream, where they would
not only keep fresh, but would be much safer than with me. I felt that
they would be reasonably safe from marauders, for orchids are far more
numerous than human beings in this forlorn locality; for where verdant
meadows might spread were only uncultivated, almost impassable, dismal
swamp-lands.
At last my flowers were safely placed in the bend of the brook near an
old pine stump, where I made them fast, covering them with the coarse
brakes which grow everywhere; then I strode on northward through the
tamarack swamp. This marsh covers a large part of Ball Farm, from which
the brook crossing it derives its name.
Through the trees I could see the old weather-worn farm buildings,
nestling in the shade of a dozen or more large, thrifty maples, and
now and then I heard a faint murmur of distant voices. Suddenly they
subsided, and a small dog’s shrill bark told me that I was discovered,
mistaken perhaps for the veritable “Witch of the Hollow,” by the present
colored occupants.
There was no use in trying to follow the stream now, for its windings
were intricate and indefinite. It wandered all over the meadow marsh,
and splashed out in one great mud-hole, similar to that of the jungle in
District Fourteen, save that the meadow here was open, with very little
low tangle or underbrush in sight. Innumerable tamarack trees, however,
lifted their graceful spires throughout the bog; yet this did not prevent
the meadow from appearing flooded with sunshine.
Away over on the west side of this swamp were many low-spreading trees of
virgin pine, contrasting prettily with the lighter greens of the delicate
spires of tamarack. Between myself and the shore on either side of this
mud-swamp waved acres of Fleur-de-lis, which would soon color the whole
meadow with royal purple. Still westward of this lay an alder swamp. This
shrub, called Speckled or Hoary Alder, belongs to the Willow Family,
and grows about fifteen feet high, along swamp meadows, forming dense
thickets.
Many saucy swamp birds dwell here and appear tame; they came chattering
after me, fearing, no doubt, that I might be in search of their nests and
birdlings.
Under the pines on the border of the swamp I rested, finding the while
tender young Wintergreens (_Gaultheria_), and many edible red berries,
called Checkerberries, fruit of _Gaultheria_, sometimes known as
Partridge-berry and Boxberry. The last two names are more frequently
applied to the fruit of _Mitchella repens_, found growing in company with
_Gaultheria_, and producing edible scarlet berries on a trailing vine,
resembling myrtle. The flowers of this vine were now in bloom, giving
forth a delicate perfume. Their white and pinkish-purple blossoms dotted
the moss with a brilliancy like that of the Trailing Arbutus (_Epigæa
repens_), so lately faded.
The buds of _Moneses uniflora_ were putting forth their “single-delight,”
the name coming from their solitary flower. Here also were quantities of
the glossy, waxen leaves of Pipsissewa or Prince’s Pine (_Chimaphila_),
and low creeping evergreens. Common Club-Moss and Ground-Pine were
interlaced in their dark green beds, where had recently nestled the
clusters of arbutus, now brown and faded, although the mossy hummocks
still held the fragrance of their luxuriant green leaves. Whittier,
writing of these spicy flowers, associated them as the first flowers
which the Pilgrims looked upon after their landing on the bleak shores of
New England, at Plymouth, in the spring of 1621, and says:
Yet, “God be praise!” the Pilgrim said,
Who saw the blossoms peer
Above the brown leaves, dry and dead,
“Behold our Mayflower here!”[5]
In New England the Arbutus is commonly called “Mayflower,”—not that it
blooms especially in the month of May, for it has been found in northern
Berkshire as early as February and March. My observation is that prime
blossoms are found in the Hoosac Valley region from March 15th until May
15th. I have also gathered beautiful clusters as late as June 23d, in
cold nooks beneath the shades of spruce and pines. Their spicy perfume is
ever the delight of New Englanders.
[Illustration: =The Showy Lady’s Slipper—The Queen of the Indian’s
Moccasin-Flowers.= (_Cypripedium reginæ._)
Few poets have ever sung the praises of the Queen of the
Moccasin-Flowers, although a lovelier flower never beckoned to poetic
fancy.]
Scrambling with difficulty over a fence which sagged toward me, I entered
a neighboring pasture, finding here more alder trees. Small tamaracks,
Christmas spires of spruce, and pine seedlings filled the pasture with
fresh evergreens, making me fancy myself in a cultivated park, so regular
and trim they stood. Eastward crept Ball Brook, wandering through deep,
reedy grasses, where here and there stood tall spikes of last year’s
Cat-tail Flag (_Typha_). Here also grows the Sweet Flag or Calamus
(_Acorus_), which is not only good to eat, but a panacea for sore eyes.
The cat-tails stood stiffly erect, as if guarding the blossoming bog, and
serving, notwithstanding their dignity, as perches for the saucy finches
which still chattered after me.
Now I passed through a barway to the right, ever in hearing of the
gurgling stream, which had reached a hard, dry, gravelly soil, abruptly
following the downward slope around a hillside. A well-worn sheep path
led me down into a bog similar to the Glen of Comus in District Fourteen,
only if anything more wild and weird. Through the openings between the
trees and knob-like glacial hills, I caught glimpses of the bold, rugged
form of the Dome, standing coldly against the eastern horizon.
A glance through these glooms revealed another colony of the Showy or
White-petalled Lady’s Slippers just bursting forth from the earth,
perhaps four inches high. I have found them frequently in these bogs,
when full-grown, standing three feet tall, but the usual height is about
two feet; and in open meadow swamps often only eighteen inches, owing
to the crowded soil, choked with grasses and low shrubs. In about three
weeks these bogs would be gay with dainty Moccasin-Flowers.