flower, which Higginson describes as growing on the “Rattlesnake Ledge”
on “Tatessit Hill,”[20] in the neighborhood of Boston. The larger yellow
species, _Cypripedium hirsutum_, grows in the Hoosac Valley high on the
steep sides of the Domelet, while the smaller species seeks the deepest
parts of the Swamp of Oracles and Aurora’s Bog. I have collected it also
in damp, marshy woods in Mosholu, near New York City.
The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower seems, of the two yellow species, the
more generally distributed over the continent, although most botanists
state that the smaller species is the commoner. The dwarf yellow species
is certainly the rarer plant in New England. In the Hoosac Valley,
particularly in Pownal swamps, it is quite as rare as the Ram’s-Head
Cypripedium. I have discovered only one swamp here where it grows.
It will be of interest to make note of two species of our Eastern
Cypripediums, which extend nearly to the Arctic Circle northward, as
well as adjusting themselves southward near the Tropic of Cancer. One
of these species is the Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower, reported as found
associated with the Pink Acaule, in latitude 54° to 60° North, by Dr.
John Richardson on Captain Franklin’s journey to the Arctic lands in
1823.[21]
Dr. F. Kurtz, in an Arctic Expedition in 1882, collected the large yellow
species, _Cypripedium hirsutum_[22] of the Atlantic Region, as well as
_Cypripedium passerinum_, which is endemic only to the Northern Pacific
Region. _Cypripedium hirsutum_ also extends from New England westward
much farther than the pink species, _Cypripedium acaule_. The dwarf
yellow, _Cypripedium parviflorum_, closely follows the larger yellow
species both southward and westward, but according to the stations
reported to the author for the continent, it cannot be said to have the
broader range of the two species.
[Illustration: =The Small Yellow Fragrant Moccasin-Flower.= (_Cypripedium
parviflorum._)
The only really fragrant _Cypripedium_ of the Atlantic region, closely
allied with _Cypripedium Montanum_—the Fragrant White Lady’s Slipper
of the Pacific slope. The plate shows the undulating sepals and petals
as well as their rich brown-pink coloring. The two lower sepals are
imperfectly united and are bifid at the apex. This species is almost
identical with the European species _Cypripedium calceolus_,—the first
_Cypripedium_ described by Linnæus in 1740-1753.]
The Dwarf White Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium candidum_) may also be
counted with Ram’s-Head Cypripedium as one of the rare species of the
Northern Atlantic Region. It is seldom found in the New England States.
In the range reported to the author for this species, there is but
one New England station. This has been given by A. W. Driggs of East
Hartford, Connecticut.[23] This orchid belongs more especially to the
damp swells of the prairie. It is very similar to the Dwarf Yellow
Cypripedium, except in color, and like it produces a faint fragrance.
This dainty white shoe is often no larger than the tiny Ram’s-Head
flower, the plant being about six to ten inches high, bearing small
waxen shoes, the shape of the blossoms of _Cypripedium parviflorum_. I
have often received descriptions from country lads, supposedly of these
White Moccasin-Flowers, only to find that they were either _albinos_,
or bleached out and pale specimens of the gorgeous colored _Cypripedium
reginæ_. Often the latter seem pure white to the hurried observer in the
swamps, for the albino or white variety rarely occurs. I found one plant,
however, this season bearing two blossoms, the first I ever saw, and I
removed the plant to watch it in my garden.
After Decoration Day, I had all I could do to keep pace with the
unfolding flowers in the woods on Mount Œta. In the Chestnut Woods and
Rattlesnake Swamp region, near Lloyd Spring, and along the mountain
sides of the Knubble and Domelet, I found beautiful azalea shrubs laden
with luxuriant clusters of fragrant pink flowers. These open woodlands
become brilliant with these rose-colored blossoms. The Large Yellow
Moccasin-Flower was here too, with violets, Stars-of-Bethlehem, and
innumerable pink blossoms of _Cypripedium acaule_ growing along the side
hill, shining out from every corner. All at once, these nearer woodlands
had unfurled their banners of spring, and now, “With blossom, and birds,
and wild bees’ hum,” they held me from the more distant Bogs of Etchowog.
On the 14th of June, however, I decided to take old Bonny and the buggy,
and drive to these bogs to see if any Pogonias and Limodorums were budded
as yet amid the grasses of the open cranberry marsh.
Bonny hitched to the old buggy, my faithful old Major at my side, and I,
with my vasculum for rare flowers, a basket containing drinking glass,
carving knife, and bog-hoe for gathering special roots, started down the
hill on an easy trot toward Pownal Pond. As I passed School Fourteen, I
was cheered and hailed by the children, who shouted, “Going a-flowering?”
I nodded “Yes,” with a “Get-ty up” to old Bonny, who had thought I wished
to visit along the way.
[Illustration: =The Small White Moccasin-Flower.= (_Cypripedium
candidum._)
This species is especially an orchid of the damp swells of the prairie,
growing in company with the Painted Cup and Iris.
“_There, I think, on that lonely grave,_
_Violets spring in the soft May shower;_
_There, in the summer breezes, wave_
_Crimson phlox and moccasin flower._”
BRYANT.]
It was warm and dusty, and whenever I could, I drove through the streams
which crossed the road, in order to swell the felly, and thus tighten
the tires to my rattling wheels. Although I felt that by driving along
the highway I was losing much beauty that was unfolding in the fields and
fence corners, I found this method of progress quite comfortable.
How these East Pownal bogs came by the musical name of _Etchowog_, I am
not quite certain; nor do I know exactly what it means. It may have come
from a primitive language of a mythological age for all I know, or it may
have come from the Itch-Weed or Indian Poke and Poison Rhus, which cause
much irritation of the skin. I am safe in saying that it is a corruption
of the Indian’s Greek and Latin words for “itch” and “bog,”—at least
this etymology quite suits the designation of these swamps. Ever since I
can remember I have heard the older folk of the town call it Etchowog.
I have associated the region with rare flowers, orchids, pollywogs,
snapping-turtles and mud-holes, together with the schoolhouse in District
Thirteen, where the good people hold Advent meetings, and set the dates
for the world to come to an end. To me it seems one of the brightest,
richest of swamps, full of “Bottomless Dead Holes,” where only bull-frogs
peep and trill and croak the whole season through, till their notes blend
with the chirp and whirr of the autumn crickets.
At the Barber Mill, I hitched Bonny to a fence-post and started on my
excursions. I looked through the open meadow east of the mill to see if
I could find any rose-colored Pogonias and Grass-Pinks. There was as
yet no sign of them; so I came back to the mill and turned in through
the bars, on the north side of the pond, where I followed a grassy path
around the hill to the treacherous Cranberry Swamp farther northward,
where I had been cautioned not to wander alone.
Sounding the margin of the marshy meadow, I found quaking and unstable
ground. With a ten-foot pole I probed the depths of the mud, and found
it unfathomable, and no signs of _terra firma_ about it. Pickerel-weed,
eel-grass, frog’s-bit, and the leaves of arrow-head grew about the pools.
I could not very well find an entrance here, unless for a permanent
residence. So going northward along the west shore of this mud-pond, I
came to a place which promised fair and safe walking, with my waterproof
boots for protection. At first I felt my way very cautiously, then grew
bolder and forgot that I was in a dangerous place, for the farther I
advanced, the firmer and drier and more enchanting became the field of my
vision.
Before me opened a wide expanse of meadow-land, where even unruly cows
dared not wander, and man seldom ventured to trespass. Nature’s remote
solitude indeed was peacefully hidden here. No human voices nor sounds
of hay-making ever echoed over these luxuriant fields, and the grasses
grew sweetly, to fall untouched to earth again, mown as it were by the
autumn winds, and stored beneath the drifts of November snow, to lay,
in time, one more thin coat of soil upon the unplumbed depths of this
ancient lake bed. During some long-ago winter, some one had ventured here
while the earth was frozen and safe, and had built a homely hedge-fence
through the meadow, probably to keep the cattle pasturing hereabout away
from the dangerous bog. This fence was the only visible trace of man. In
its tumbled-down and overgrown condition, it became a part of Nature’s
self, and added to the picturesqueness of the field. Although Rafinesque
says “that he hates the sight of fences like the Indians,” to me the
hedge-fence is one of the wildest and most primitive of forest barriers.
Indeed, it must have originated with the veritable wild man himself.
I was tempted on and still farther on through the meadow, by the
brilliant crimson-purple blossoms of the Pitcher Plant, or Side-Saddle
Flowers, so named on account of the hard shells of the stigma of these
flowers resembling the padded cushions of a lady’s ancient side-saddle.
This cushion was known as the “pillion.” The more common name in this
locality for these flowers is St. Jacob’s-Dippers and Dumb-Watches,
children playing with the hard shells of the stigmas left after the
purple petals have fallen, calling them watches. The convex surface of
the stigma does indeed resemble the face of a watch, although there are
no hands to point the hour. Gay blossoms of Fleur-de-lis flaunted their
gaudy petals, and many times deceived me by making me imagine that I
spied the Purple-Fringed Orchises in the distance, waving amid the tall
grasses.
Here I dreamed away an hour or more, following out some little paths,
worn perhaps by the muskrats or swamp minks or wicked weasels, or
perchance by the tiny feet of the meadow-moles, who apparently had
blindly rooted various underground tunnels in every direction. I can
fancy them all trotting swiftly along, playful at times, yet with an eye
to their affairs,—quite as important in the scheme of Nature and Science
as are the brokers’ studied operations in Wall Street. The weasels
and minks are the terrors of the other path-holders in this natural
syndicate. They are indeed the high and dreaded trust officials of the
lesser and blind rooters of the earth.
Tangled vines of the marsh cranberry were now in full bloom, and at
the same time the soft fruit of last autumn’s crop was present on the
vines, still bright crimson, even after enduring the winter’s frosts and
stubborn snows.
Looking northward to see what fields lay unexplored beyond me, I realized
the remoteness of this region slumbering amid these glacial hills. To my
right towered the Dome, the highest mountain of Pownal, of a bluish-green
tone, against the sky. Nearer, graceful elms, tall pines, and numerous
low pointed, lighter green tamarack trees lifted their spires, and
adorned the distant meadow; while in the wide expanse on the west side,
along the edges of the swamp, rose the giant forms of elm and pine, and
tall, lithe trees of the swamp maple, flashing forth their crimson and
gold blossoms, reminding me of the coloring of autumn leaves. The nearer
marsh was rich with tasselled grasses and blossoming vines, dotted here
and there with the cardinal buds of the Pitcher Plant and the purple
Fleur-de-lis. It seemed a land of dreams.
The air vibrated with the happy, mellow song of birds, interspersed with
the ever-present lesser sounds of deep solitudes. Major, like me, at
first, was cautious where he wandered, but once amid the various haunts
of wild creatures of the wood, he caught the happy spirit of the hound,
frisking and studiously following the paths of the wild little animals to
the very doors of their homes.
To test the land, I stood and deliberately shook the foundation of
the earth. All the blossoming ground about me, for at least fifteen
feet distant, trembled as if it were so much jelly. Yet the spot was
honeycombed and dry on the surface, there having been little rain in this
region during the month.
I now sought the western hillside path, and bearing northwestward around
the border of the swamp, I occasionally ventured in and out along the
edges of the meadow bushes. Finally I reached the swamp maples, which
I had observed from the interior, and I secured a good-sized branch of
the gold and crimson clusters to carry off with my load of treasures.
On every hand, out of the small, muddy pools of water, rose the leaves
of the Buckbean (_Menyanthes trifoliata_). The beautiful spikes of
white-bearded flowers were turning brown with age, and the plants were
setting their bullet-like seed-pods. Now and then, beneath the low,
shaggy pines, I found the humble Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium
acaule_), which I hailed as a sign that the Showy Queen of the genus
might dwell not far distant.
Knowing the favorite haunts which this orchid seeks, I searched through
all the dark corners of the swamp. At the extreme northwestern portion
of the region, I entered a dense shaded corner about fifty feet square,
where were many springs soaking through the sphagnum to the deeper
fields of the interior which I had so lately left. Here were numerous
decaying pine and tamarack logs, low sapling willows tangled amid the
small scrubby spruces and tender pines, which were striving against the
greater natives of the forest to lift their spires as high as possible;
but however eager they were, they had not attained a height above ten or
fifteen feet at most. Many were already discouraged or had died in the
competition, and their wasting forms were still standing with broken and
weather-worn trunks and limbs.
Tall brakes and Indian Poke ran riot among the deeper mounds of moss,
which covered the decaying roots of the long wasted primeval pitch pines.
The dark, sluggish pools reflected weirdly the ferns and trees above them.
[Illustration: =The Queen of the Indian Moccasin-Flowers.= (_Cypripedium
reginæ._) =From the Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont.=]
Shooting up from these piles of sphagnum, I found at least fifty plants
of the Showy Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium reginæ_). They were pregnant
with slumbering buds, and would surely be in full blossom by June 20th.
Happy over my good fortune at locating another station for this species,
I prepared to bend my footsteps toward my horse and buggy,—glad indeed
to know that I would not be obliged to walk home, laden as I was with
Pitcher Plant roots and various other shrubs and vines.
Near the mill, just north of the little bay in the pond, I found
quantities of the Yellow Pond Lily or Spatter-Dock (_Nymphæa advena_)
just beyond my reach. Securing a long willow sapling with a tender end, I
tied it into a loop, and stepping out into the shallow edges of the pond
to an old pine log, I snared off several of these golden cups, which the
children call Cow-Lilies. I floated them in to the shore, where I soon
gathered them up and packed them in my vasculum.
A glance into the water along the edges of the old log revealed thousands
of tiny pollywogs or tadpoles, as well as half-formed frogs, the hind
legs beginning to put forth on the large tadpoles. Here, basking in the
sunshine, were lizards, snails, leeches; and various species of small
fish were sporting in the shallow waters. Perch, suckers, and eels are
plentiful in Pownal Pond, which is locally called Perch Pond, from the
abundance of perch found in its waters. These fish seemed to seek this
sheltered arm of the pond to leave their young fry under the sheltering
lily-pads.
Near the projecting stumps, amid floating logs were snails’ eggs, and I
noticed several baby turtles, recently hatched from eggs in the sand,
varying from the size of nickels to that of a silver dollar. Eel-grass
and many marsh grasses and sedges grew or floated on the water, among
which the small fish could hide.
On the edge of the water among the ferns and brakes I found the leaves of
the Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria psycodes_), but no plants likely to
bloom this season.
When I reached the mill, I placed my treasures in the buggy, and started
after that part of my load which I had left around the hill. On my
return, I gathered some waxen, crimson cones of the beautiful tamarack
tree by the path. When I bade farewell to little Merwin and his mother,
who lived in the mill-house, I asked them to watch for the rose-purple
orchids,—Pogonias and Limodorums,—which were now due any day, east of the
mill. The boy was very earnest and observing, and I knew that I now had a
comrade to guard over the Bogs of Etchowog.
Students from Williams College, and tourists from near and afar seek
these swamps of Pownal for botanical specimens, and Merwin had often
been their guide to the haunts of these rare treasures. He told me that
students from Williams had, the year before, gathered innumerable pink
and purple flowers in these marshes, as well as the beautiful bearded
spikes of the Buckbean.
For a succession of years—during all of President Carter’s term at
Williams College at least—it has been the unique custom to bank the
chancel of the Congregational Church with the Showy Moccasin-Flowers and
Maiden-Hair Ferns, on Baccalaureate Sunday,—which occurs usually about
June twentieth. These gorgeously colored orchids reach the height of
their perfection about this date. They seem a fitting decoration for the
church during the Commencement services of this college, situated in the
heart of these Hoosac Highlands.
Plentiful as are the colonies of this Showy Moccasin-Flower in its pet
localities, it has always been an interesting question to me where the
great numbers of perfect blossoms grouped about the chancel are secured.
They are known to the children in each school district, and usually they
are collected as soon as discovered.
It is surprising to me that extinction of this rare plant is not taking
place more rapidly hereabout. This orchid produces very few seedlings in
its native haunts, and at the rate of collecting both its blossoms and
roots in this valley, we must surely look for total extinction in less
than half a century more, unless this ruthless plucking is modified.
VI
Hail Storms at Etchowog
... Suddenly, a flaw
Of chill wind menaced; then a strong blast beat
Down the long valley’s murmuring pines and awoke
The noon-dreams of the sleeping lake, and broke
Its smooth steel mirror at the mountain’s feet.
WHITTIER, _Storm on Lake Asquam_.
On June 21st, with Major I walked down through the Swamp of Oracles in
District Fourteen, along Ball Brook to the Kimball Farm bogs, and so on
once more to the Bogs of Etchowog and the new colony of _Reginæ_—the
queen of the Indian Moccasin-Flowers—which I had so recently discovered
in Cranberry Bog north of the pond. I found prime blossoms all along the
tiny path, in the course of the stream through the deeper parts of Glen
of Comus, and in the Kimball Bogs, and I was in hopes of finding them in
the swamps of Etchowog.
As I passed through the sphagnous meadows east of Kimball’s barns, around
the hillside path to Arethusa’s Fountain, I noticed several flowers of
the Cypripedium I was seeking, and recognized the leaves and green-budded
spikes of _Habenaria psycodes_, which would later, when fully in bloom,
change to a delicate purple.
[Illustration: =The Small Purple-Fringed Orchis.= (_Habenaria psycodes._)]
I made use of the fence boards to walk through the muddy portions of
my path. I had learned by former experiences here to avoid the “dead
holes.” Stepping on some boards just above a muddy pool, and suddenly
turning, I was happily surprised to see many spikes of the Tall White
Northern-Orchis (_Habenaria dilatata_) standing near. The air was full of
their rich perfume, and many small flies and moths hovered around them,
sipping the nectar. I gathered a few spikes, and went on to the cool
spring beyond, finding meanwhile an abundance of wild strawberries along
the borders of my path. These were very large from growing in the moist
shade.
On the hillside, up which I climbed to the west for a short distance, I
found pretty leaves of grasses, delicate emerald in color, growing in a
triangular form, and resembling lily leaves.
I had heard distant thunder rolling off to the northwest, and it caused
me to hasten onward. My rest, therefore, at the spring was brief to-day;
although so far away from home, I was not so far from shelter, and the
thought of a shower was welcome, for the air was sultry. As I neared the
open swamp, beyond the mill, the storm made rapid strides, but I wandered
up and down the meadow long enough to assure myself that this season the
Pogonias and Limodorums were not in bloom on time.
Large drops of rain began to fall from the black clouds, and as I hurried
toward the shelter of the mill, I met Merwin and his mother returning
to their home. They motioned me to join them. As I did so, great gusts
of wind dashed over us, and suddenly huge hailstones pelted the earth.
Leaves and small twigs and young apples fell on every side, while the
half-grown nuts from the Butternut-tree (_Juglans cinerea_), in the
dooryard, were soon stripped away, with the leaves and broken limbs of
the tree. Some of the hailstones were the size of small hen’s-eggs,
perfect, oval ices which might have been turned out of glass moulds.
Soon the air became very chilly, as during the first snow on a damp
November day, while the ground was white with hailstones. This abrupt
change in the atmosphere from heat to extreme cold caused untimely deaths
in the chicken yard. The old mother hen lost her head completely, and
unable to find shelter in the barn because of the banging doors, she put
her head in a crevice while her brood ran about and perished with cold or
were killed by the stones.
Merwin’s mother sadly watched the devastation of her little garden,
and the death of her chickens. It was impossible to go to their rescue
without danger to our own heads. This storm continued about two hours,
alternating now and then with a calm, to return again and again with
sudden fury. At the end of that time, although it still rained sadly,
I started for home, knowing that with rubber boots I could wade, if
necessary, through any ordinary streams.
The weather had turned so cold that an icy coating covered the meadow
grass and the borders of the road, and promised not to melt away in haste.
As I neared Kimball Farm, where Ball Brook meets Thompson’s stream, I
found the road opposite the barns flooded,—like a river flowing across
the road. It was far too deep for me to wade through, besides, the
current was so strong that I should have been tripped had I ventured it.
I had to walk some distance on the stone wall and over a heavy plank,
which some one during a previous deluge had placed here for a high-water
foot-bridge in an emergency.
A walk up the hill, and I turned off the road, entering a path through
the cow-pastures, to see the heaps of hail under the pines along
Thompson’s Brook, which was a beautiful, roaring and seething torrent
now, as it plunged and leaped down through its rocky flume to the valley
below.
As I came out on the highway again, at the bend in the road near Ball
Farm, I heard the familiar voice of some one who had been sent in search
of me. I was warmed with enthusiasm and interest in the storm’s ravages,
and thoroughly enjoying my walk. However, I was grateful for a ride home.
Passing by School Fourteen, we saw the prudent teacher scanning the sky
before she ventured forth. We noticed many broken panes of glass in the
schoolhouse windows, while dozens were shattered in the houses along the
way.