Stone, Located on the Granite Ridge, near the Wolf’s Den, Bronx Park, New
York City.=
“The stones which completed their revolutions perhaps before thoughts
began to revolve in the brain of man. The periods of Hindoo and Chinese
history, though they reach back to the time when the race of mortals
is confounded with the race of gods, are as nothing compared with
the periods which these stones have inscribed. That which commenced
a rock when time was young, shall conclude a pebble in the unequal
contest.”—THOREAU.]
The Wall-Rue Fern was thought to resemble the Garden Rue, but is much
smaller. Rue-of-the-Wall was common in Germany and England in 1578, and
was found upon old moist cathedral walls where the sun did not shine.
It was originally called, in apothecary shops, _Capillus-Veneris_,
_Adiantum_; and in France _Saluia vita_ and _Ruta-Muraria_. There were
two varieties of this fern, designated in Europe as _Venus-Haire_
or _Lumbardie Maiden-Haire_, in 1578. The larger species grew
commonly about well-springs, in walls in Italy. It was known as
_Capillus-Veneris_,—named by the ancients _Adiantum_. This fern has hairy
foot-stalks, small, blackish leaves, snipped around. This species is, no
doubt, our Venus-Hair Fern, known to-day as _Adiantum Capillus-Veneris_.
The Walking Fern was known to Linnæus by the name of _Asplenium_, species
of this genus being used against diseases of the spleen and liver. It was
unknown to Dodoens in 1578. The Purple-stemmed Cliff-Brake was originally
known as a species of _Pteris_, a name suggested because these ferns
resemble the wings of birds.
Our native species of Bluebells of New England are emigrants from Europe,
and are closely allied with the Bellflowers of Europe. These flowers
were likened to cathedral-bells, with a small white clapper hung in the
middle. These were, according to Lyte, found in Coventry and Canterbury,
England, 1578, opening after “Sunne-rising,” and closing toward
“Sunne-set.” Theophrastus knew these flowers centuries before Christ,
while Pliny designated them in Latin _Iosione_.
Our Bluebell (_Campanula_) derived its generic name from _campana_, the
Italian for a bell. The species found on Gregor Rocks are known as
_Campanula rotundifolia_, signifying round-leaved bells. The original
Bluebells of Europe were known in 1578 as _Campanula cœrulea_, from
whence the common name originated. That of the “Bluebells of New England”
originated with Thomas Bailey Aldrich, in his poem on these flowers.[49]
[Illustration: =The Bluebells of New England.= (_Campanulæ rotundifolia._)
“_The roses are a regal troup,_
_And modest folks the daisies;_
_But, Bluebells of New England,_
_To you I give my praises._”
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.]
Between the 15th and 19th of July I made journeys over the nearer hills.
I visited Oak Hill above White Oaks Valley, where I found the bluebells
abundant along the roadside walls, even growing in the dooryard fences
of the dwellers thereabout. I had never visited this hill before, and
was charmed with its “glen-like seclusion.” It was known as “Nigger
Hill” before White Oaks Chapel was built in the vale below, because of
the colored population of this place. It is situated in the shadow of
the Dome and Mount Hazen, surrounded on the northern and eastern sides
by wild, primeval forests. The broad, sloping meadows were among the
first to be cleared in this region, and wear the scars that follow in the
trail of the woodman. In the time of the Rebellion, many slaves sought
the seclusion of this valley, and built their shanties snugly by the
brooks. Until quite recently, the roads of the Hollow and the streets
of Williamstown were frequented by one of these ancient slaves, known
as “Old Abe-the-Bunter,” who used to sell huckleberries and arbutus,
and who sawed wood for the students at Williams. His real name was
Abraham Parsons. The title “Bunter” was affixed on account of a horny
growth projecting from his forehead, which he used sometimes after the
manner of a goat. At one time, many years ago, a number of students and
White-Oakers made a wager with Uncle Abe, which he won by butting through
the heavy oak head of a molasses hogshead. It is also reported that
after this, some students, putting a grindstone into a sack, told Uncle
Abe it was a _tough cheese_. The old negro gave it a terrific bunt and
cracked the stone, but nearly killed himself by the operation. He is said
later to have killed a horse with which he had become enraged, by one
blow of this horny growth. Carroll Perry has published a college book in
which Uncle Abe figures in one chapter. It is entitled _Bill Pratt, the
Saw-Horse Philosopher_.
Civilization and the selling of the streams for the North Adams
water-supply has caused the removal of all the shanties along the Hollow
Road. Only the old George Adams cottage remains as an example of the
original type.
The region of White Oaks formerly included all the rocky hills and swamps
now known as Colesville and Riverside, and has received its name from the
abundance of white oak timber in this locality, utilized by the colored
people in making baskets which they peddle in town. Many years ago,
three very large white-oak trees stood east of the house known as Old
Stone Tavern, near Broad Brook bridge. This building still stands—in a
deplorable condition—as a tenement house. It is over a century old, built
in the Revolutionary days by Silas Stone, who kept tavern when stages
ran between Pittsfield, Bennington, and Troy.
On July 18th I made a tour of the limestone ridge above the Gulf Road,
known as the Glebe. It is the most desolate and unproductive soil in the
whole town. In the early townships of the New Hampshire Grants, Governor
Benning Wentworth required “One Share for a Glebe for the Church of
England as by Law Established,” and another for schools. These lands,
therefore, are to-day called “minister lots” and “school lots.” The
occupants, instead of paying taxes, pay lease money for the use of the
land, which is appropriated according to the vote of the town’s people
for the support of ministers and schools.
Beginning northwest of the Swamp of Oracles, over the Amidon fields, one
finds the limestone bed-rock cropping out everywhere. Little rounded
hills appear to jut out of the deeper swamps leading toward Iris Swamp
on Ball Farm, as one rides along the Pownal Centre Road. Great lime-rock
boulders and piles of loosened rock lie strewn over the fields. One
enormous boulder may be observed by the road north of Amidon’s house,
and another near the Peleg Card house. I collected innumerable Walking
Ferns scattered over these miniature hills and boulders. I proceeded
northward to the Campbell horseshoeing shop, in the woods beyond, and
turned to the left toward the ridges of the Glebe. Searching the rocks
along the edges of the road, I found—perched high on a point of rocks—a
beautiful colony of the rare Ebony Spleenwort (_Asplenium platyneuron_),
not common hereabout. Over the mossy rocks below I again found numerous
mats of Walking Fern. In finding these two ferns so closely associated, I
searched for the rarer hybrid of these ferns, known as Scott’s Spleenwort
(_Asplenium ebenoides_), but did not find it. It has been seen but once
or twice in Vermont, to my knowledge, being more frequent in southern New
England, Alabama, and Virginia, where it ascends fourteen hundred feet
above the sea level.
[Illustration: =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._)]
The rich soil amid the hollows above was covered with the strange
Grape-Fern, locally called Umbrella-Fern (_Botrychium Virginianum_).
Maiden-Hair and numerous other common ferns and brakes filled the swamps
below. Coming from the woods, I entered a hayfield where the mowers
were at work. Beyond this, I entered a cow-pasture skirting the Glebe
ridge. Here were deep hollows guttered out, leading northward to Pownal
Centre. Pennyroyal grew over the parched, dry plains, and in the hot
sun shed forth its aromatic perfume. Boulders and natural obelisks were
lodged on the hills above. In character the latter are similar to rocking
stones, that are so finely poised on the mutton-backed bed-rock, that
with pressure they sway slightly. The obelisks are either pillar-like
boulders moored in the mud and soil, or formed along cliffs by the heat,
frost, and wind erosions, causing them to appear like columns or broken
monuments, in the distance.
On the rocks of the Glebe hills, I again collected the Walking-Fern,
and I am sure that if I were to penetrate the cliffs of the gulf along
the western slopes of this ridge, I should find the Rue-of-the-Wall and
Purple-stemmed Cliff-Brake.
Far away in the hollow, slept the little village of Pownal Centre. The
church steeple towered among the trees, and the village green sloped
between the church and the old Revolutionary road.
[Illustration: =The Rocking Boulder, Located on the Granite Ridge near
the Bear’s Den, in the Zoölogical Garden, Bronx Park, New York City. A
pressure of fifty pounds causes this boulder to move about two inches.=
“These, and such as these, must be our antiquities, for lack of human
vestiges.... The walls that fence our fields, as well as modern Rome, and
not less the Parthenon itself, are all built of ruins.”—THOREAU.
From photograph by George Stonebridge.]
XVI
Alpine Blossoms of the Dome
Mountains seem to have been built for the human race, as
at once their schools and cathedrals; full of treasures of
illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple
lessons for the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the
thinker, glorious in holiness for the worshipper.—JOHN RUSKIN.
Of the swamps and domes of the Hoosac region, Henry Ward Beecher once
said: “The most level portion of this region, if removed to Illinois,
would be an eminent hill. The region is a valley only because the
mountains on the east and west are so much higher than the hills in the
intermediate space. The endless variety of such a country never ceases
to astonish and please. At every ten steps the aspect changes; every
variation of atmosphere, and therefore every hour of the day, produces
new effects. It is everlasting company to you. It is, indeed, just like
some choice companion of rich heart and genial imagination, never twice
alike, in mood, in conversation, in radiant sobriety, or half-bright
sadness, bold, tender, deep, various.”
On July 19th I drove beyond the Bogs of Etchowog, over a portion of the
Hill Road toward Bennington. As I passed the Elijah Mason Farm, I turned
my horse’s head through the cow-pastures to the east. In a swamp to
the left of the grassy wood-road, I collected scattered Pogonias and
Limodorums, although the season was late for them. Still farther eastward
are impenetrable swamps, through which Ball Brook flows northward to the
Walloomsac near Bennington. The road led around to another swamp farther
eastward, toward which I drove. It was one of those wild regions, tangled
with tamarack, balsam-firs, high-huckleberry trees, amid the peat and
sphagnum. The green spires of tamarack and fir swayed in billowy waves as
the wind breathed through these vales; and the sunshine drew forth the
fragrance of pitch and balsamic resins from the blistered bark of these
young trees.
I fastened my horse to a pine tree, and penetrated the depths of this
swamp as far as I dared, along a moss-grown brook bed leading from a
spring toward the interior. The heart of this region was impenetrable.
The pioneers, settling along the valley of Ball Brook, chose in
Revolutionary days this heavily timbered region, in preference to the
lower swamps of the deeper vales of the Hoosac. It has proven to be the
coldest, most desolate, and barren soil for corn and grains,—the most
productive crops here being stumps and boulders! Shad-bushes and the
high-huckleberry bushes were laden with berries. I stood upon a log and
ate of them for some time, meanwhile listening to the choruses of locusts
and numerous thrushes, screaming jays, young crows, and whistling hawks.
Many distant sounds came whispering to me from out this wild solitude
of Nature. The mystery of wild wood isolation, in the presence of the
scars of ages, took possession of me, and filled me with a nameless
fear. I gave vent to a wild howl in order to relieve the tensity and
portentousness of the situation. It was a damp, mossy place, such as
bears, lynxes, and wild cats choose in which to nap during the day,
being located in their run from the Petersburgh Hills to the Dome of
the Green Mountains eastward, above. As Thoreau described one of the
Maine woods swamps: “It was ready to echo the growl of a bear, the howl
of a wolf, or the scream of a panther; but when you get fairly into the
middle of one of these grim forests, you are surprised to find that the
larger inhabitants are not at home commonly, but have left only a puny
red squirrel to bark at you. Generally speaking, a howling wilderness
does not howl: it is the imagination of the traveler that does the
howling.”[50]
I ventured on farther east, until I came to the true spring of the swamp.
Every swampy region reveals innumerable springs, and this swamp was no
exception. Many were oozing through the carpets of moss. Around such
fountains I searched for the familiar leaves of Moccasin-Flowers without
success.
I returned to the open pastures, all fear of the wilderness having
subsided. I looked about, and saw from the lay of the land that this
had been the bed of a glacial lake. It is in such regions as these that
fossil remains of the whale and mastodon have been found. A fossil whale
was found in Charlotte, Vermont, sixty feet above the level of the lake
and one hundred and fifty feet above sea level. In Swanton, in a ledge
of rock blasted through for railroad purposes, a large deposit of fossil
marine shells was found. Also fossil bones of the elephant were found in
Brattleboro.
Beyond the Howling Swamp, an interesting glacial hill rises, dividing the
swamp from the broader valley of Ball Brook beyond. The lower southern
brow of this hill had been eroded by the currents formerly flowing over
the ridge when a larger lake existed here. From the summit of this hill,
one becomes conscious that not so long ago wide waters spread about. Two
currents are evident,—one from the glaciated Dome, flowing westward,
and one from the ice-capped heights of Mount Anthony, southeastward;
the two currents mingling and rushing westward over the Glebe toward
Pownal Centre and the natural dam at Gregor Rocks, toward the Hudson
Valley and the sea. Slowly—as the dam in the valley broke away and let
the ice-currents out—the mountain lakes were drained off, and left these
bare, round hills and deep, swampy hollows, where as soon as the climates
grew temperate, forests of evergreens sprang up and flowers bloomed.
Northward, toward Bennington, as far as the eye can see, one discerns a
chain of rounded wooded hills and intervening swamps.
On my way homeward, I stopped at the Swamp of Oracles, and decided to
climb up the sides of the ravine for a look at the Large Round-Leaved
Orchis, found here in June. I passed through Clintonia Hollow, beyond
the woodchuck’s home, where I had observed the Small Round-Leaved
Orchis in the little animal’s dooryard. There I struck out westward up
the hillside. I frightened up the same mother whippoorwill that I had
disturbed earlier in the season. The little birds of the second brood
were now large, and commencing to feather. They were fluffy, and of a
dead-leaf yellowish-brown color. Their large, round, brown eyes were like
small shoe buttons. They began to run about at sight of me. The mother,
meanwhile, feigned a broken wing and moaned piteously, with actual tears
in her sad eyes. I lifted the downy balls in my hands. They snuggled
without fear in my sleeve, and closed their sleepy eyes. Finally I put
them on the leaves together, and promised the mother I would not again
disturb her.
We have two species of the Goatsucker Family (_Caprimulgidæ_),
including the Whippoorwill (_Antrostomus vociferus_), and the Southern
Whippoorwill, or Chuck-will’s-widow (_Antrostomus Carolinensis_). The
closely allied Night-Hawk, or Bull-Bat (_Chordeiles Virginianus_), is
often mistaken for the Northern Whippoorwill. Its habits and flight are
far different, however, although the homes of both are similarly adopted.
The Night-Hawk deposits her two buff-green eggs on rocks, bare ground, or
on flat roofs, either in country or village. All of these birds winter
in the Southern lands, and all save the Chuck-will’s-widow arrive here
about the third week in May, returning with their broods the latter part
of September.
The Twilight-Hawk preys upon other birds and moths. I have observed
him at twilight, on a cloudy day in autumn, circling and diving down
among the weeds about a potato field, where sparrows were feeding in
great numbers. The sparrows flew in fear toward the house, one driving
so forcefully against the window-pane that he dropped to the ground
with a broken neck. This Night-Hawk gives forth a peculiar moan or
call,—“Peent,”—accompanied by a booming, buzzing sound in flight, as
the wind passes through the quills of its feathers. It whizzes swiftly
through the air, swooping down upon its prey about the fields or garden.
The leaves of the Pink Moccasins—sometimes called
Whippoorwill’s-Shoes—were numerous about the place, the flowers serving,
near the ever-changing nests, to attract the insects and moths upon which
the birds feed.
I found another oven-bird’s thatched nest in Witch Hollow region, late
in June, very near the colony of Ram’s-Head Cypripediums. On my return
to secure a photograph of it, I found that some animal—perhaps a dog or
skunk—had torn the nest to pieces and devoured the birdlings.
The Small Round-Leaved Orchis, which formerly I observed in Chalk Pond
region, has developed into the varietal form of this species—producing
oblong leaves—known as _Habenaria oblongifolia_. This often occurs
when the flower is in company with the true Round-Leaved Orchis. This
season I have instanced the fact in another colony of these orchids, in
Rattlesnake Swamp.
The flowers found on the summit of the Dome, three thousand feet above
sea level, are slightly modified in size and coloring. They are fully two
or three weeks later in blooming than the same species flourishing in the
Hoosac Lowlands.
On July 20th, with two other mountain climbers, I started from the brow
of Mount Œta, and at nine o’clock descended to Rattlesnake Swamp and
the secret haunts of Showy Reginæ. We crossed the stream over the log
bridge, and followed up the old Joe Larabee path; passing around the
southern ledge of the Domelet to the Dummy Road watering-trough. The path
was densely overgrown with bushes, and impeded with heaps of tree-tops.
However, we finally came out to the Exford Clearing and the White Oaks
Road beyond. At the watering-trough, a road turns to the right hand
through Rocky Hollow, leading to the Coal-Bed, or Chip-Bed, as it is
known. We sauntered along the shady path of the Hollow until we came to
the clearing, where loggers in winter haul and pile their spruce and
hemlock logs for later milling. From this station, four roads branch in
various directions. We took the northeast path, and were soon climbing
steadily toward the clouds. On a previous occasion, during March, I had
ridden on a logger’s sleigh to the summit. The snow, then about four feet
deep, covered fallen trees, over which, during summer, it is almost
impossible to walk. In winter, the hardened, encrusted snow spreads a
clear, smooth surface for walking, far above impassable barriers and
tangled brush. In its summer garb, the road was strangely confusing to
me. It was rocky, and intersected by sun-dried brook beds, which the
melting snows had guttered in spring.
Rocky Hollow Road is available for horse and carriage as far as Logger’s
Depot, and northward to the Dummy Road. The trees along this vale are
chestnuts, beech, yellow, white, and black birch, white oak, black oak,
maples, and various flowering bushes, such as azalea, mountain laurel,
and shad trees. As one ascends, the trees become dwarfed and gnarled,
and many abnormal forms occur among the yellow birch. As we neared the
summit, the yellow birch trunks assumed great size, while their tops
were scraggy and dwarfed by the winds and storms. Higher up, we found
little but spruce, hemlock, and balsam-fir; the trees and bushes became
low-lying,—hugging the rocks for protection from the winds.
Frequently we paused by the path for breath, finding sweet Canada Violets
(_Viola Canadensis_) ripening their seed-capsules. They were ready to
burst and throw their seeds about for some feet. We collected several
plants to transplant. The brakes and sphagnum indicated a swamp not far
distant. We began to feel thirsty, and searched about without finding
trace of a spring, although one is said to be near here, with a rusty
tin cup hung to a tree. To the left of the path, we saw the ruins of a
wood-chopper’s log cabin, which assured us that brook or spring must be
near, else the spot never would have been chosen for man’s habitation.
Above the hut, we came to a clearing. A level stretch led to the junction
of two roads: one led directly ahead, terminating on the Ladd Lot, while
the path to the right turned abruptly up the steeps to the summit of the
Dome. The last few rods were the steepest portion of the whole journey,
the rest of the climb having wound around about in gradual ascent.
At last we walked along the edges of a precipice above Bear Swamp. In
the scorching heat of noon we made one last turn eastward, entering the
clearing on the very brow of the desolate Dome, three thousand feet above
the sea. Here were dense groups of beautiful spruces and balsam-firs. The
forest floor was carpeted with luxuriant leaves of clintonia and dwarf
dogwood,—sometimes wrongly called bear-berries. The latter, an Alpine
species, was still in bloom, the flower sometimes having two whorls
of rosy-tinted petals. The mountain snowberry, creeping wintergreen,
trailing arbutus, and goldthread were clinging to the sphagnous hummocks
over the summit, while Alpine species of huckleberries crept through the
clearing and draped the white-faced rocks.
The great stillness of Nature’s solitude was broken only by the buzzing
of insects, the notes of the chickadees, and the winds soughing through
the boughs of spruce and firs. The brow of the Majestic Dome receives the
force of the eight winds of heaven direct from the frozen North or from
the fragrant Southlands. In March, 1894, a terrific tornado swept over
this region from the northeast, mowing a path several rods wide over the
Dome, and laying the spruce and firs in a twisted pile;—that portion of
the summit is almost impassable to-day. During these great northeasters
in the spring, the birds and beasts of the Dome seek the lower plains and
hollows.
We wandered southward in the path of the tornado, a quarter mile or so,
to a sphagnous swamp and the ledge of White Rock on the side of the Dome.
The view from these rocks is variable, yet not picturesque nor pastoral
as the one from Mount Œta. It is wild, fearful,—beyond all signs or
sounds of civilization. Far to the southwest the blue Catskills blend
with the sky; southward the grim, awkward, ragged shoulders of Greylock’s
Brotherhood tower; from the eastern brow, Haystack and Stamford Mountains
roll away, one after the other, like great land waves. The deep valley
of Broad Brook sleeps below. The slopes of Stamford Mountains are dotted
with evergreen trees for miles, as far as one can see.