Just opposite our house, which stood on the north side of the road,
facing south towards Paugus, was a black forest of spruces. Into this we
plunged on Tuesday morning, not knowing what might lie within. The
silence of the gloom was broken by the sound of falling bits of ice and
drops of melting snow. Bird notes, too, could be heard, and now and then
a red squirrel chattered. The trunks of the trees stood closely
together, and thousands of small dead branches radiated from the trunks
and interlaced, opposing our progress. The crashing of these twigs as we
broke through them, accompanied by the crunching of the snow-crust under
our feet, noisily announced our coming. At intervals we found masses of
fallen timber, the wreck of fierce storms, and brooks covered with thin
ice and misleading snow, through which we slumped into cold water
beneath. Every few paces rabbit tracks dotted the soft film of snow
which lay upon the crust. If the tracks which we crossed during our
three or four mile walk could have been measured in all their
meanderings, I think the aggregate of miles traversed by the rabbits of
that locality would have been found to rival the railway mileage of New
Hampshire. From time to time we stopped to call birds to us by the aid
of my whistles. I think I called eight or nine times, and in each
instance birds appeared promptly. Usually pine finches came first,
whirling through the upper air like burnt paper driven by the wind. As
they passed over us, they would catch the sound of the whistles more
distinctly and begin a series of undulatory circles. Then one or two
would drop straight down into a leafless tree, or upon the tips of the
spruces, and the rest would follow them, sometimes twenty going into one
tree. Their sweet queryings filled the air, and drew other birds to the
focus of sound, among others a number of purple finches and a
white-bellied nuthatch. Kinglets came very near to us when we were well
hidden; so near that the brilliant color on their dainty heads could be
seen with perfect distinctness. There were more chickadees in these
woods than in the other places we had visited, and I examined them all
with great care, hoping to find a Hudson Bay titmouse. Two flocks of the
common species came, and produced no northern birds, but at a third
rally of nuthatches, finches, and kinglets, a strange voice made itself
heard. I knew it for something different from a chickadee at once, and
yet it was titmouse language. Squeaking vigorously, I called the
stranger down to me. At first I thought it was a chickadee; then he
sputtered out his “_dee-dee_” and showed his brownish head and great
chestnut patch on his flank, and I knew he was from Hudson Bay. Three
others joined him and gave me ample chance to inspect their points. I
had the feeling that they had less character and spirit than our
blackcap titmouse. Their voices were weaker and more petulant and their
general appearance less positive and aggressive.
Once I caught a glimpse of a big white hare bounding away from us
through a jungle of young spruces. He was so nearly the color of the
snow that my eyes found it difficult to follow him.
After going rather more than two miles through the spruce tangle, we
entered an old logging road much used by rabbits, foxes, and grouse,
and, following it northward, we made our way home.
About 3.30 P. M. the baying of a hound attracted our notice, and I
walked up the road to see what he was doing. He soon appeared at the
edge of the spruce woods, and I followed him into their dark shades.
After a moment’s hesitation he took the back track and was soon almost
out of earshot on a hot scent. Not long after, my friend left the house
and, crossing Swift River by the railway bridge, followed the rails
northward through the forest. Soon he heard the hound baying to the
eastward, down river. Then a snapping of branches and crunching of crust
came to his ears, and a moment later a deer broke through the bushes,
dashed up the embankment, and, turning at right angles, came in weary
leaps towards him. My friend stood perfectly still, too much astonished
to move. The deer came to within twelve paces of him, then saw him, and
with a bound left the track and plunged into the woods on the western
side. A few moments later the hunters came up and my friend demanded
what they were doing, and whether the hound was their dog, in so severe
a tone that the poachers denied their interest in the dog and made off
into the woods. Meanwhile, I wandered southward through the spruces, now
hearing the hound, now losing his melancholy baying. No small birds were
to be seen or heard. They had vanished to their night abiding-places.
Two grouse rose noisily and went into the tops of the trees. Red
squirrels continued to bustle about until after dusk. As light faded in
the sky, the forest grew very dark, and fallen trees, stumps, and bushes
rearranged themselves into weird shapes which seemed to move against the
vague background of the snow. The silence of the cold black and white
woods became oppressive, and the chill of night increased moment by
moment. The baying of the hound, lost to the eastward, had come again
from the north, and finally moved over towards the west. It was after
five o’clock, and the dog had followed his chase since eleven. Standing
still, listening to the hound, and peering into the trees in search of
the grouse, I began to grow drowsy, and to long to sink down upon the
soft snow and go to sleep. It required a strong effort of will to rouse
myself and to start my benumbed feet upon their homeward way. As soon as
I moved, the grouse, which had been budding in a high maple, flew away
deeper into the gloom, and then utter silence settled down upon the
deserted forest.
When we awoke, December 24, the day promised to be fine. Blue sky
covered the area above Carrigain, and a cool west wind swept across the
fields from which much of the snow had disappeared. We had planned to
climb another of the mountains near the railway track, but while we were
breakfasting, the engine came in, and, finding no cars loaded, went out
again at once. By nine o’clock clouds had gathered and caps had settled
down upon many of the peaks. We heard crossbills calling as we left the
house. Their short, sharp call is much like the English sparrow’s
alarm-note. A flock of nine settled on the spruces by the salting-trough
as we went past. One was a red bird, two had a trace of red, five were
brown, with some streaking on the sides of the breast, and one was quite
yellow. One of them was gnawing a long shoot of spruce which had already
been chewed free of needles and left brown and forlorn. Unfortunately we
took a dog with us, a black mongrel with pleading eyes and no wisdom. He
loved to zigzag over the country in front of us, and to bark at red
squirrels. He was a nuisance, but very sweet-tempered, as many fools
are. We took him, hoping that he might hunt rabbits, but we wished him
in Jericho long before the forenoon was over.
Although cloudy all day, no rain fell until evening; consequently birds
were astir and abundant. We left the highway at a point where an old
logging road led southward through the spruce swamp, parallel to a
stream bearing the odd name of Oliverian Brook. Continued far enough
over ledges and through “harricanes,” the road would pass between Paugus
and Passaconaway and come out into the Birch Intervale, Tamworth. After
going in for a couple of miles the road bends to the left, following the
east branch of the Oliverian Brook up to the spruce forests on Paugus.
We made our first halt in a dense spruce and hemlock thicket and called
for birds. They came from all quarters until dozens of the usual kinds
were around us. After a while seven or eight blue jays flitted past, one
by one, attracted mainly by my hooting. They came within easy gunshot
and peered at us with suspicion and anger in their wicked eyes. They are
villains in spite of their attractive dress. Suddenly they flew with
cries of alarm, and I saw a large light-colored hawk sweep past and
alight in a tall dead tree just out of range. The dog at this crisis
made his appearance and rushed back and forth with ill-timed energy. The
hawk flew a little farther away and was on his guard against stalking.
The jays also vanished, and soon the smaller birds left also. Among the
latter was one Hudson Bay titmouse.
In the depths of the spruce swamp the snow had not wasted much, and it
was soft enough to take the imprint of passing feet. We found the tracks
of a deer, a mink, and a ’coon. Foxes, rabbits, squirrels, mice, and
grouse had been that way also. Several times, in crossing fresh fox
tracks, I got a whiff of odor which I fancied might be that of the fox.
It suggested the smell of hamamelis. The swamp trees were draped with
gray moss, one of the most striking of nature’s decorations in this
latitude. Many of the trees were thickly grown with green lichens,
which, being wet, were two or three times as bright in coloring as when
dry. In spots where the snow had melted, showing patches of the swamp
floor, mayflower, checkerberry, ranunculus, partridge-berry, ferns, and
other leaves showed their vivid coloring, or were replaced in very damp
ground by sphagnum.
As we neared the slopes of Paugus the trees became larger and the forest
clear of undergrowth. Our road—a very old one—was most clearly marked by
being densely grown with weeds, and an inferior crop of trees and
bushes. As compared with the clear forest, the road was a ribbon-like
jungle. Its young growth was composed of viburnums, slender maples, and
cherry-trees. Spots where the cattle had been fed could be picked out by
means of the asters, clover, and other flowers and weeds which had
sprung up from the seeds sown by the fodder.
In the edge of the high growth we halted a second time, and called the
birds together. They failed not to respond, and when their chattering
was at its height the familiar “_who-hoo, hoo-hoo, who-hoo-hoo-hooo_” of
a barred owl was heard. The birds became silent and most of them
disappeared, perhaps to scold the real owl. Many of the trees in this
belt of forest were nearly a hundred feet in height.
Well up towards the high ridges of Paugus our road crossed the Oliverian
Brook. The point chosen twenty years ago by the lumberman-engineer for
building his bridge was a ravine of singularly picturesque character.
Thirty feet below its two precipitous banks the noisy torrent struggled
among its boulders. Dozens of dark spruces overhung it, and rank upon
rank of evergreens lined the banks. In the bed of the brook the
lumbermen had built up in “cob-house” fashion two log abutments about
twenty-five feet high. From each bank immense logs were run out to rest
upon the abutments, and similar logs formed the central span. Then
scores of shorter logs were laid across from girder to girder, and all
were firmly bound together by heavy side-logs laid on top of and
parallel to the girders. We decided to cross this bridge, although it
was falling to pieces. Many of the short logs had rotted off and fallen
through. We walked upon the girders, the whole bridge trembling
ominously under our tread. Our dog, foolish as he was, knew enough not
to cross this bridge, for after inspecting it he whined, ran down the
bank, plunged through the stream, and clambered up the other side.
At half past two we had reached rather high land. The road was fast
climbing the flank of Paugus, following a minor branch of the Oliverian
Brook. Just across this little run rose the gloomiest grove of spruces
we had seen. It stood upon a bank fifty feet above the road and brook. I
clambered up to it, and forced my way through its dense tangle. To my
surprise I found that it was only about thirty feet wide, growing on a
mere tongue of land between two mountain gorges. On the farther side the
land fell off abruptly two or three hundred feet, and down in the shades
below still another branch of the Oliverian fretted in its bed. Beyond
it was another ridge, over which, a mile and more away, grim
Passaconaway frowned across at me. A white cloud-banner streamed from
his spruce-crowned head. To the serious detriment of my clothes I
climbed a tall spruce on the edge of the ravine in order to determine
our position. Behind us was Paugus, its summits within comparatively
easy reach. From them I could have looked down at my snow-covered home
by Chocorua lakes. Westward, just across the forest basin on whose edge
we stood, was Passaconaway. Northward the eye wandered downward over
gently sloping tree-tops to the broad snowy intervale with its cozy
farms and its one long, straight road, running from west to east, from
the forests by Sabba Day Brook, down Swift River, through its gorges
towards Conway. Above and beyond the intervale were the northern
mountains which lock it in from the rest of the world,—Bear Mountain on
the right, then Owl’s Head, Carrigain, Green’s Cliffs, Sugar Hill, and
Kancamagus. The notch east of Carrigain is one of the grandest rifts in
the White Mountain panorama. It is like a black gateway opened for
storms and wailing winds to sweep through.
The black grove on its narrow tongue of land hanging between two gorges
was alive with birds, and I fancied it to be their sleeping-place.
Chickadees, kinglets, and a brown creeper were in possession and
resented my intrusion. It was just such a place as I have always
imagined a small bird’s dormitory to be.
[Illustration: FROST-COVERED SPRUCE NEAR THE SUMMIT OF PASSACONAWAY]
We returned, descending by another logging road leading due north to the
intervale road about a mile below the Carrigain House. This logging road
is one of the most picturesque I have ever seen. It follows closely a
brook of considerable size which is one long series of pools, falls, and
dashing rapids. The forest on both sides of the brook bed is of high
growth and generous proportions. Every few moments a vista view of Bear
Mountain charmed us as we wound down the steep incline, while behind and
above us the ledges of Paugus, gleaming with ice and capped by snow,
showed at intervals through the trees.