seemed to be, the essence extracted from its root by boiling water,
according to Dioscorides, was good for the teeth. But the name was more
likely suggested by the fact that the bulbous root is shaped like a
canine tooth. The appended “violet” originated, perhaps, with children,
since this lily blooms in early springtime with violets, bluets, marsh
marigolds, and arbutus.
The names of all plants among the early Greeks and Romans originated
from the shapes of the flowers, leaves, or roots, and also from their
medicinal properties. Dioscorides knew another species which he
designated _Satyrion Erythronium_ or _Dioscorides Satyrion_, signifying
Red Satyrion,—known to the ancient Syrians. Satyrion was the ancient
“shop” name for species of Orchis.
Without doubt our generic name for Dog’s-Tooth (_Erythronium_) is a
corruption from the Red-spotted Satyrion, whose leaves became confused
with _Lilium sylvestre_. Burroughs has remarked that bulbs of lilies in
general lie near the surface of the ground. The bulbs of _Erythronium_
are often found at a depth of eight inches or more in the earth, however,
according to the age of the lily. The young plant often produces but one
leaf, and its bulb is loosely attached to the moss on the surface, while
the older plants produce two leaves, their bulbs each season sinking
deeper into the soil.
Many common names have been suggested by botanists to replace the
seemingly inappropriate name of Dog’s-Tooth Violet. While the appended
Violet is misapplied, as we observe, the name Dog’s-Tooth is of ancient
origin, and really has more appropriateness than does the generic name
_Erythronium_, since none of our species produce red flowers. The name
Dog’s-Tooth, therefore, was purposely dropped in the _Illustrated Flora_
of Northeastern North America, and the name Yellow Adder’s-Tongue
substituted for the species. There is also an Adder’s-Tongue Fern
(_Ophioglossum vulgatum_). We therefore see that the re-establishing
of the former and ancient name, Dog’s-Tooth Lily, for species of
_Erythronium_ is to be preferred, not only according to the moral rule of
priority, but because it is actually the legal common name.
The Westville Swamps were sparkling with these yellow lily-bells, while
in the woods along the sluggish stream, the Marsh Marigolds—often called
American Cowslips—were holding up their golden goblets to be filled with
morning dew. Farther up the stream, near a rude plank bridge in the
pasture roadway, I found a baby turtle basking in the sunshine. He was no
larger than the hollow of my palm. The little fellow was too frightened
to tumble off his stony couch and run for the stream. He sat still and
eyed me distrustfully. He drew in his head and toes, and I lifted him
gently in my hand, placing him in a paper bag among the flowers I had
gathered. I intended him for a surprise in the school aquarium.
Climbing far up the side of West Rock, I looked over the Woodbridge
fields and toward West Peak, near Meriden. In the dim distance the
Giant’s form was outlined against the horizon at Mount Carmel. This
mountain assumes the form of a gigantic Egyptian mummy. The hands are
folded across the breast, and the head and feet are stretched in stiff
dignity—so to remain through the ages.
Among the wooded hills and vales below, the cloud-shadows chased each
other to the distant mountains far beyond. That pile of granite upon the
brow of West Rock, designated in history as Judge’s Cave, stood guard
over the hills about me. Farther off, toward Westville, many a roof
glistened and peered out among the newly leaved trees of the hillsides.
One of them was that of Ik Marvel’s home, where perchance he had smoked
the dream pipes of his _Bachelor’s Revery_. Smoke now curled above the
chimney-tops, full of the drowsiness of May mornings.
The song of thrushes and orioles amid the bushes burst joyously upon
me, and during the interludes I heard the hum of bees and the distant
murmurings of streams. Butterflies sailed by, flashing their brilliant
colors in the sunlight, and the air was laden with the delicate fragrance
of early woodlands. It was a day marked by hope and promise. Who can
forget those fields of spring where forget-me-nots and violets bloom?
During the afternoon of this glorious day, I journeyed to Mount Carmel
beyond Lake Whitney. The old canal from Northampton to New Haven formerly
passed along this valley, and although the channel is partly filled in,
the towpath still remains, and is well-trodden. I followed it from the
end of the car-line, until I reached an elevated ledge of rock to the
right. This little hill, clothed with white cedars and junipers, lies
beneath the stern brow of the Giant, whose face is plainly outlined
against the sky far above the village.
After exploring the ridge hereabout, and finding it covered with
Columbine in bud, I descended to the hollow, along the stream. In the
rocky crevices at the farthest end of the hill, where the midday sun
poured down upon the colony, I found the Columbine flowers in full bloom.
I pushed my hand beneath the matted soil, and the plant with roots
entire loosened and was easily lifted. Poison Ivy grew about over the
rocks, warning me to be cautious. I discovered the Dutchman’s Breeches
(_Bicuculla Cucullaria_), but they were faded and nearly fallen. I
observed here near the Columbine also another species of the genus not
often seen in this locality. It is known commonly as the Bleeding-Heart
(_Bicuculla eximia_), formerly designated generically as _Fumaria_. It
grows in rocky places, especially in southern New York. I collected it
once about Montclair, New Jersey, along the Orange Mountains, and on
the borders of Bronx Park, New York City, and in the vicinity of Mount
Vernon. This species belongs more especially southward, extending to
Georgia and Tennessee, flowering from May until September. There are
about fourteen species of this genus found in North America and Western
Asia. Three of this number are reported for the Atlantic Region of
North America. The third species is known as Squirrel-Corn (_Bicuculla
Canadensis_), and is very similar to the Dutchman’s Breeches, save that
the plant is smaller.
While waiting for the car at Lake Whitney Junction, on my return to New
Haven, I opened the iron gate and wandered along the wooded edges of the
shore. I soon distinguished that homely weed of our old dooryard walls
and tin-can waste-heaps—the Cat-Mint or Catnip. I gathered some tender
shoots for pussy Yale. The name _Catnip_ is of ancient origin, derived
from the Latin, _Nepete_, the name of an Etrurian city. Our native plant
is of European origin. Dodoens, in 1578, writes of this plant: “In shops
it is called _Nepita_; in England _Pep_, and _Cat-Mint_, in French _Herbe
de Chat_.” The name of our single species is to-day _Nepeta Cataria_.
There are about one hundred and fifty native species of this group of
plants found in Europe and Asia.
This family of Mints was known to the ancients as _Calamint_ or
_Calamintha_, and included in Dodoens’ day four or five species described
by the Greeks, each of them having several names marked by different
medicinal virtues. The first kind was called Mountain Calamint; the
second was known as Wild Pennyroyal, and the third variety as Cat’s-Mint
or Cat’s-Herbe,—just described as _Nepeta_. The Wild Pennyroyal of the
ancients resembled the cultivated species at that time also, which was
known in England, during 1500, as Podding-Grasse or Pudding-Grass. Pliny
attributed twenty-five medicinal and mystical properties to Pennyroyal,
in Christ’s day, while Dodoens and Lyte mention fourteen uses of the
herb in 1578. Xenocrates prescribed “a branch of Penny-Royall wrapped in
wool,” and placed beneath the bedclothes as a remedy against malignant
fevers.
The Mints in general were called in ancient apothecary shops _Mentha_.
This group of plants was known to Theophrastus, and named _Mentha_, from
a nymph fabled in classical literature as having been changed into this
plant by the jealous Proserpine.
Yale was delighted with the _Herbe de Chat_, and scented spring and the
cat’s heal-all indeed in these tender sprays, rolling and purring over
the leaves like a tiger, until at last, soothed, he fell a-napping.
The next morning, May 2d, I started for the Berkshire Highlands, where
I arrived in the afternoon. I remained on Aurora’s Hill in North Adams
about a week. I was too early for orchid flowers, and the arbutus was
still in bloom. These were the real arbutus days here, in spite of their
breaking the record now and then by blooming in February. I soon left the
slopes of North Adams for Pownal Hills. I found them bleak and cold, and
that here, too, I was ahead of all species of the Orchid Family.
I made several excursions to the heart of Rattlesnake Swamp and
Rattlesnake Ledge, between May 7th and 15th, searching for Trailing
Arbutus. I courted the Swamp of Oracles and the Glen of Comus, watching
the buds unfold. The woods were bare and leafless, the paths and
dry-brook beds were flooded with sunshine. There is a desolate expression
to these deep swamps in early spring, before the tender green leaves of
trees and budding flowers burst forth. The birds, however, are here,
and their song tells us that it is spring instead of the Indian summer
of late autumn. These awakening days of the sleeping woodlands reminded
one of the death of the flowers in November. Equally sad is the birth
and death of the flowers. The sod steams with the warm southern sunlight
pouring upon it until, behold, a week later the green, luxuriant foliage
hides all the rocky paths in dense shades, and sprinkles dainty stars
and clinging vines over all the ruins of the autumn’s faded stalks and
leaves. May holds greater charm and more silent mysteries than the
overflowing joy of full-grown June.
I wandered on through the winding paths, finding them draped with
mosses and Goldthread blossoms and Painted Trillium. I continued daily
to search the woods through and through for the first sight of the
Pink Moccasin-Flower. I found three species of _Cypripedium_ on May
15th, and was a little curious to observe how the race would end in
their unfolding. There were the rare Ram’s-Head, the Pink and the Large
Yellow Moccasin-Flowers in bud. The Pink Cypripedium was the first
to open, upon the 19th, while on the same day also the Large Yellow
Moccasin-Flower burst into bloom, dropping its long, twisting side petals
gracefully beside the stump of a hemlock tree fallen across Ball Brook.
The Ram’s-Head, which is supposed to be the earliest _Cypripedium_ to
bloom, was not so fortunate. Venturing where it stood among the Amidon
Pines one sunny morning, I found the bud still sheathed in the tender
green bract-like leaf, laid low and withering upon the ground beside the
ruined stem. I picked it up and wondered what or who could have brought
about this tragedy. The bract, containing the bud, appeared cut from the
stem as with a keen-edged knife. As I held it, I observed a large worm
concealed within the plicate folds of the bracted leaf, amid the musky
sweetness of the bud. It was round and emerald green, and unlike most
worms was possessed of a great degree of spryness; for before my senses
were astir, it had dropped to the ground, wriggling out of sight among
the leaves and earth at my feet. I poked about, hoping to follow its
trail, but to no avail.
[Illustration: =The Woodman’s Road through Rattlesnake Swamp, Mount Œta,
Pownal, Vermont.=
“_These dim-aisled forests His cathedrals, where_
_The pale nun Silence tiptoes, velvet-shod,_
_And Prayer kneels with tireless, parted lids._”
ELLA HIGGINSON.]
That this rare _Cypripedium_ has a vile destroyer in this worm, is
evident. I felt that I should like to know more about the worm’s life,
and why it seeks the rarest species of _Cypripedium_ in North America to
feast upon. Perhaps this may account for this flower’s rarity in Pownal,
as well as throughout its continental range. I have observed the worm
among the Ram’s-Heads in Amidon’s Pines during the past two seasons.
The budded plants of this species in Witch Hollow were also blasted in
embryo this season. The two buds observed turned brown and withered on
the stem, while yet very tiny, leaving the bract perfectly intact. Some
plants, however, were untouched by the destroying worm. They were without
doubt too young to bloom, as it requires four or five seasons before
seedling Cypripediums produce perfect blossoms in their native haunts.
The seeds of orchids are minute, mostly “spindle shaped,” are found in
great numbers, and resemble fine saw-dust. The ovules of the Orchid
Family mature slowly, and as far as scientific observations count, in
the tests made with the cultivated species, it is said the seeds are a
year in coming to maturity. These fertile seeds need several months in
which to germinate, requiring, as will be seen, some years to produce
seedlings old enough to blossom from the self-sowing capsules of our
wild native orchids. Furthermore, a certain temperature and continuous
moisture are absolutely necessary to produce seedlings. Our variable
Northern climate is one of the natural causes of hindrance to the
production of native seedlings of this sensitive family. Continuous
moisture does not prevail long enough to promote perfect germination
of the thousands of seeds annually produced. They die in embryo from
lack of moisture during dry seasons; or if developed, are frozen out
in the ice-capped swamps by our long, harsh winters; or in the tender
seasons of their seedling-hood the following years, are dwarfed and die
from drought. This, in part, is the explanation of the lack of natural
seedlings in our native orchid haunts. Adding to this the destructiveness
of man, the beasts of the fields, worms, and storms, and the tardiness of
insects in fertilization, a hard struggle lies in the perpetuation of the
family’s future generations.
Orchids are spoken of as the “weeds of the tropics”; notwithstanding
their devastation by the present orchid craze,—which far outstrips the
tulip mania in Holland two hundred and fifty years ago,—in regions where
continuous heat and moisture prevail, germination of their fertile seeds
is rapid and natural.
XI
May Showers and White Moccasin-Flowers
If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day,
he is in danger of being regarded a loafer; but if he spend his
whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making
earth bare before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and
enterprising citizen.—THOREAU, _Letters_.
There is something charming about an unwearied rain in spring. I chose
a day upon which rain was falling to journey through the swamps,
observing my orchid buds. The clouds would lift now and then with sudden
brightening, although the gentle patter of the rain was constant. The
wind scarcely stirred the leaves. Nature was quiet in her weeping, as a
heart that has a grievance which it does not care to share with any one.
The meadows grew green, the buds expanded, and the heart of May began to
pulsate and sing new songs.
I started out to visit the Glen of Comus, but found the underbrush too
laden with rain. I then decided to go through the fields and seek the
Chalk Pond colonies. Over the hills lowered a heavy fog, which, as the
rain slackened, would for a time lift again, showing the blue peaks in
the distance. I turned westward from the glen, through Amidon’s Pines.
I had soon passed beyond the limits of this sheltering wood, making a
gradual ascent through the raspberry pastures of John-Fallow.
The higher I climbed the harder it poured. However, I arrived among the
low white birch saplings and berry bushes. Here I managed to shake the
rain off them, becoming as bedraggled as though I had waded in a stream.
My umbrella began to leak, and my cap and hair were being soaked, the
water actually running down my face. Entering the deeper underwood of
birches, I aroused a flock of sheep and their lambs. They ran bleating
after me, asking for salt. A mother followed me closely, stamped the
earth with her tiny feet, showing her petulance and fear; although she
did not turn and run from me as I ventured nearer, but rubbed her nose
against my hand.
I now began descending the western slopes of John-Fallow, and was in
sight of the woods closing about Witch Hollow. Upon entering the thicket,
I soon found my colonies of _Orchis spectabilis_, which were not yet
unfolded, although it was May 20th. The Cypripediums had come in far
ahead of them this season.
The group of Ram’s-Head also disappointed me, the buds having been
blasted in embryo. The plants, however, looked healthy and promising.
Chilled through as I was on my way out of the woods, I thought of
stopping at the nearest house on Butternut Lane for a drink of hot
milk. I refrained, however, because of my fog-covered garments and
the curiosity I might arouse in the neighborhood. Onward I trudged
another mile or two, up through the pastures, across the old Welch Farm,
following the grass-grown road that originally led from Mount Œta to the
valley of the Hoosac, during Revolutionary days.
I had been out about four hours, and it was time I sought shelter, since
I had waded through the tall grasses and bushes, regardless of the
rain upon their leaves. Once in the house, I realized the comfort of
possessing warm, dry garments.
On May 23d I made a journey to Rattlesnake Swamp. Arbutus was still in
blossom near the hemlocks,—late clusters, indeed, hiding in the moss at
the feet of small spruces, where the ice and snow had lingered latest.
The children in District Fourteen delight in surprising me with strange
flowers. Among these I frequently find rare species of plants to name
and identify for them. A delicate spray of the Purple-Flowered Clematis
was brought to me recently. This vine is rare hereabout, growing only
in rocky woods about the Rabbit Plain, and along the Gulf Road of Witch
Hollow.
Children in the country districts are the first nature students in
spring. In May and June the woods and fields become veritable classrooms
in which Nature alone presides as instructor. A dense oak and pine forest
formerly sheltered the vale near the schoolhouse, where the children
seldom dared to wander without their teacher. The wood was dark and full
of the twilight shades of the virgin forest trees of our New England
hills.
In May, many seasons ago, the Purple-Flowered Clematis (_Atragene
Americana_) grew abundant in the heart of this rocky wood, covering, in
one instance, a bush six feet high with its graceful vine. This plant
is rare from Maine to Minnesota. It ranges northward to Hudson Bay, and
southward to Virginia, often ascending great heights. It is reported
in the Catskills at an altitude of three thousand feet. There are but
three species of this genus found natively in the North Temperate Zone,
one being reported for the Rocky Mountain region, the other farther to
the northwest coast of America. The common Virgin’s-Bower (_Clematis
Virginiana_) grows also in rocky places, covering roadside walls and
bordering swamps and river banks in July and August.
Later in the autumn, this species is very attractive. The seed-pods burst
and produce a light, feathery down—little wings to aid the seeds in their
flight, like those of the dandelion and milkweed. The seed-capsules of
the Purple-Flowered Clematis also produce tails like the plumes of a
feather.
Several species of _Clematis_ were known to the ancients in Christ’s
day. The name originated with Dioscorides, and was used to designate
all climbing vines. He knew three kinds under the generic name of
_Aristolochia_, named in honor of Aristotle. The “branched vine” with
“deepe violet floures,” was called _Aristolochia clematites_. Peter
Bellon of ye olden time remarks that this plant grew in the mountains of
Ida in Crete, or Candie. Carolus Clusius reported it as growing among the
bushes and briars about the city of Hispalis, or Civill, in Spain, before
the sixteenth century.
I visited Oak Hill Cemetery on May 29th,—a very good place to observe
the early flowers of the woods about the valley. The country folk come
here with their laurels for Decoration Day, as Milton came to his
“Lycidas,” “to empurple all the ground with vernal flowers.”[42] Here
may be seen the pink azalea, the marsh marigolds—those golden-cups of
_Caltha_,—violets, and painted trilliums amid the bunches of pink and
golden moccasin-flowers, brought here in abundance by the school children.
On June 5th I sought the swamps of Etchowog. I followed down through the
Glen of Comus, in search of the great colony of Pink Moccasin-Flowers. I
found them in full bud,—two hundred in number, as formerly. As I entered
the hollow, I found in the middle of the path a Small Round-Leaved Orchis
(_Habenaria Hookeriana_).
This region is being slowly despoiled of its stately pines. I saw fresh
scars of the axe among them. Three first-growth trees were laid low,
piled on the side of the road.
I followed, as usual, the path through the Swamp of Oracles beside Ball
Brook, leading out through the clearings of Ball Farm. Here I waded
through Iris Swamp beyond, coming out to the pasture-land of Kimball
Farm.
This season, many changes have occurred in the Kimball Bogs, the
hillsides closing in about them having been almost sheared of their
trees. This results in flooding the heart of the swamp with sunshine, and
may in time dry up the growth of the beautiful moss known as _Sphagnum_,
and also destroy the Buckbeans. The cows were browsing among the small
tamaracks, and no signs of the Showy Queen of the Moccasin-Flowers
were visible hereabout this June. The Tall Green Orchis (_Habenaria
hyperborea_) grew luxuriantly in a pool over the fence near the clearing.
Purple Trilliums were also very abundant along my path. I passed out
through the vale, keeping the winding road until I reached the brow of
the orchard beyond, which was in full bloom.
The distant hills wore a delicate clear blue tone, and as I caught
glimpses of them between the round hills about me, I distinguished Mount
Æolus, that distant pile of Dorset marble far to the northeast of the
Gap. Leaving the orchard, I crossed the road and entered the deep grasses
of the old lake meadow, where the sphagnum is knee-deep. Here, as last
June, the Indian Poke and cowslip blossoms freshened the borders of the
stream. Along the edges of this wet region, I waded carefully until I
reached the famous Spring of Arethusa, around the glacial hill to the
left. I searched in the open meadow beyond the mill for Pitcher-Plant
blossoms,—and found many in full bloom. The grasses were ablaze with
tasselled sedges and nodding flowers of Iris,—a sight well worth a long
journey to see.
I rounded about the swamp, and passed out at the north end, near Washon
Bridge House. Here I ascended westward,—over the knob-like hill north of
Pownal Pond. On the opposite slope I descended, finding nothing but trees
and fences in my way. I observed a hollow-hearted chestnut tree,—a shell
and nothing more. I could scarcely see where its green branches could
gain nourishment. The leaves were, however, the largest in the wood, and
the buds were perfect. The heart of this old tree was an empty, blackened
space, the outer bark weather-worn and crumbling in decay.
Arriving on the north shore of the pond, I searched for the aquatic plant
_Polygonum amphibium_, which I had observed last season along the muddy
pools. The fencing of the sheep-pasture here debarred very free progress
about the shore. I was forced to climb the hill for some distance to find
an opening through the network of barbed wires. The day was warm, and the
sheep had taken shelter in the shade of the pines on the hillside.