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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ae4da5b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64727 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64727) diff --git a/old/64727-0.txt b/old/64727-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cbb3f1b..0000000 --- a/old/64727-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5776 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Clerk of the Woods, by Bradford Torrey - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Clerk of the Woods - - -Author: Bradford Torrey - - - -Release Date: March 6, 2021 [eBook #64727] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLERK OF THE WOODS*** - - -E-text prepared by Steve Mattern, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images -generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/clerkofwoods00torr - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - - - - -THE CLERK OF THE WOODS - - - * * * * * * - -Books by Mr. Torrey. - - - THE CLERK OF THE WOODS. 16mo, $1.10, _net._ Postpaid, $1.20. - - FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA. 16mo, $1.10, _net._ Postpaid, $1.19. - - EVERYDAY BIRDS. Elementary Studies. With twelve colored Illustrations - reproduced from Audubon. Square 12mo, $1.00. - - BIRDS IN THE BUSH. 16mo, $1.25. - - A RAMBLER’S LEASE. 16mo, $1.25. - - THE FOOT-PATH WAY. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. - - A FLORIDA SKETCH-BOOK. 16mo, $1.25. - - SPRING NOTES FROM TENNESSEE. 16mo, $1.25. - - A WORLD OF GREEN HILLS. 16mo, $1.25. - - - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. - BOSTON AND NEW YORK. - - * * * * * * - - -THE CLERK OF THE WOODS - -by - -BRADFORD TORREY - - - “News of birds and blossoming.” - - SHELLEY. - - -[Illustration: The Riverside Press] - - - - - - -Boston and New York -Houghton, Mifflin and Company -The Riverside Press, Cambridge -1904 - -Copyright 1903 by Bradford Torrey -All Rights Reserved - -Published September, 1903 - - - - -PREFATORY NOTE - - -The chapters of this book were written week by week for simultaneous -publication in the “Evening Transcript” of Boston and the “Mail -and Express” of New York, and were intended to be a kind of weekly -chronicle of the course of events out-of-doors, as witnessed by -a natural-historical observer. The title of the volume is the -running title under which the articles were printed in the “Evening -Transcript.” It was chosen as expressive of the modest purpose of the -writer, whose business was not to be witty or wise, but simply to -“keep the records.” - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - A SHORT MONTH 1 - - A FULL MIGRATION 9 - - A FAVORITE ROUND 17 - - IN THE CAMBRIDGE SWAMP 25 - - A QUIET AFTERNOON 34 - - POPULAR WOODPECKERS 42 - - LATE SUMMER NOTES 50 - - WOOD SILENCE 60 - - SOUTHWARD BOUND 67 - - FOUR DREAMERS 74 - - A DAY IN FRANCONIA 82 - - WITH THE WADERS 91 - - ON THE NORTH SHORE AGAIN 104 - - AUTUMNAL MORALITIES 117 - - A TEXT FROM THOREAU 127 - - THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY 135 - - IN THE OLD PATHS 142 - - THE PROSPERITY OF A WALK 152 - - SIGNS OF SPRING 159 - - OLD COLONY BERRY PASTURES 168 - - SQUIRRELS, FOXES, AND OTHERS 177 - - WINTER AS IT WAS 186 - - “DOWN AT THE STORE” 194 - - BIRDS AT THE WINDOW 203 - - A GOOD-BY TO WINTER 212 - - BIRD SONGS AND BIRD TALK 219 - - CHIPMUNKS, BLUEBIRDS, AND ROBINS 226 - - MARCH SWALLOWS 233 - - WOODCOCK VESPERS 242 - - UNDER APRIL CLOUDS 250 - - FLYING SQUIRRELS AND SPADE-FOOT FROGS 258 - - THE WARBLERS ARE COMING 267 - - - INDEX 275 - - - - -THE CLERK OF THE WOODS - - - - -THE CLERK OF THE WOODS - - - - -A SHORT MONTH - - -May is the shortest month in the year. February is at least twice as -long. For a month is like a movement of a symphony; and when we speak -of the length of a piece of music we are not thinking of the number of -notes in it, but of the time it takes to play them. May is a scherzo, -and goes like the wind. Yesterday it was just beginning, and to-day it -is almost done. “If we could only hold it back!” an outdoor friend of -mine used to say. And I say so, too. At the most generous calculation I -cannot have more than a hundred more of such months to hope for, and I -wish the Master’s _baton_ would not hurry the _tempo_. But who knows? -Perhaps there will be another series of concerts, in a better music -hall. - -The world hereabout will never be more beautiful than it was eight or -ten days ago, with the sugar maples and the Norway maples in bloom and -the tall valley willows in young yellow-green leaf. And now forsythia -is having its turn. How thick it is! I should not have believed it half -so common. Every dooryard is bright with its sunny splendor. “Sunshine -bush,” it deserves to be called, with no thought of disrespect for Mr. -Forsyth, whoever he may have been. I look at the show while it lasts. -In a week or two the bushes will all have gone out of commission, so -to speak, till the year comes round again. Shrubs are much in the case -of men and women; the amount of attention they receive depends mainly -on the dress they happen to have on at the moment. In my next-door -neighbor’s yard there is a forsythia bush, not exceptionally large or -handsome, that gives me as much pleasure as one of those wonderful -tulip beds of which the Boston city gardeners make so much account. -Are a million tulips, all of one color, crowded tightly together and -bordered by a row of other tulips, all of another color, really so much -more beautiful than a hundred or two, of various tints, loosely and -naturally disposed? I ask the question without answering it, though I -could answer it easily enough, so far as my own taste is concerned. - -Already there is much to admire in the wild garden. Spice-bush blossoms -have come and gone, and now the misty shad-blow is beginning to whiten -all the hedges and the borders of the wood, while sassafras trees have -put forth pretty clusters of yellowish flowers for the few that will -come out to see them. Sun-bright, cold-footed cowslips still hold their -color along shaded brooks. “Marsh marigolds,” some critical people tell -us we must call them. That is a good name, too; but the flowers are -no more marigolds than cowslips, and with or without reason (partly, -it may be, because my unregenerate nature resents the “must”), I like -the word I was brought up with. Anemones and violets are becoming -plentiful, and the first columbines already swing from the clefts -of outcropping ledges. With them one is almost certain to find the -saxifrage. The two are fast friends, though very unlike; the columbine -drooping and swaying so gracefully, its honey-jars upside down, the -saxifrage holding upright its cluster of tiny white cups, like so many -wine-glasses on a tray. Both are children’s flowers,--an honorable -class,--and have in themselves, to my apprehension, a kind of childish -innocence and sweetness. If we picked no other blossoms, down in the -Old Colony, we always picked these two--these and the nodding anemone -and the pink lady’s-slipper. - -This showy orchid, by the way, I was pleased a year ago to see in -bloom side by side with the trailing arbutus. One was near the end of -its flowering season, the other just at the beginning, but there they -stood, within a few yards of each other. This was in the Franconia -Notch, at the foot of Echo Lake, where plants bloom when they can, -rather than according to any calendar known to down-country people; -where within the space of a dozen yards you may see the dwarf cornel, -for example, in all stages of growth; here, where a snowbank stayed -late, just peeping out of the ground, and there, in a sunnier spot, -already in full bloom. - -In May the birds come home. This is really what makes the month so -short. There is no time to see half that is going on. In this town -alone it would take a score of good walkers, good lookers, and good -listeners to welcome all the pretty creatures that will this month -return from their winter’s exile. Some came in March, of course, and -more in April; but now they are coming in troops. It is great fun to -see them; a pleasure inexpressible to wake in the morning, as I did -this morning (May 8), and still lying in bed, to hear the first breezy -fifing of a Baltimore oriole, just back over night after an eight -months’ absence. Birds must be lovers of home to continue living in a -climate where life is possible to them only four months of the year. - -Six days ago (May 2) a rose-breasted grosbeak gladdened the morning -in a similar manner, though he was a little farther away, so that I -did not hear him until I stepped out upon the piazza. I stood still -a minute or two, listening to the sweet “rolling” warble, and then -crossed the street to have a look at the rose color. It was just as -bright as I remembered it. - -Golden warblers (summer yellow-birds) made their appearance on the last -day of April. The next morning one had dropped into an ideal summering -place, a bit of thicket beside a pond and a lively brook,--good -shelter, good bathing, and plenty of insects,--and from the first -moment seemed to have no thought of looking farther. I see and hear him -every time I pass the spot. The same leafless thicket (but it will be -leafy enough by and by) is now inhabited by a catbird. I found him on -the 6th, already much at home, feeding, singing, and mewing. Between -him and his small, high-colored neighbor there is no sign of rivalry or -ill-feeling; but if another catbird or a second warbler should propose -settlement in that clump of shrubbery, I have no doubt there would be -trouble. - -May-day brought me the yellow-throated vireo, the parula warbler, the -white-throated sparrow, and the least flycatcher, the last two pretty -late, by my reckoning. On the 2d came the warbling vireo, the veery,--a -single silent bird, the only one I have yet seen,--the kingbird, -the Maryland yellow-throat, the oven-bird, and the chestnut-sided -warbler, in addition to the grosbeak before mentioned. Then followed a -spell of cold, unfavorable weather, and nothing more was listed until -the 6th. That day I saw a Nashville warbler,--several days tardy,--a -catbird, and a Swainson thrush. On May 7, I heard my first prairie -warbler, and to-day has brought the oriole, the wood thrush, one silent -red-eyed vireo (it is good to know that this voluble “preacher” _can_ -be silent), and the redstart. It never happened to me before, I think, -to see the Swainson thrush earlier than the wood. That I have done so -this season is doubtless the result of some accident, on one side or -the other. The Swainson was a little ahead of his regular schedule, I -feel sure; but on the other hand, it may almost be taken for granted -that a few wood thrushes have been in the neighborhood for several -days. The probability that any single observer will light upon the very -first silent bird of a given species that drops into a township must be -slight indeed. What we see, we tell of; but that is only the smallest -part of what happens. - -Some of our winter birds still go about in flocks, notably the -waxwings, the goldfinches, and the purple finches. Two days ago I -noticed a goldfinch that was almost in full nuptial dress; as bright -as he ever would be, I should say, but with the black and the yellow -still running together a little here and there. Purple finches are -living high--in two senses--just at present; feeding on the pendent -flower-buds of tall beech trees. A bunch of six or eight that I watched -the other day were literally stuffing themselves, till I thought of -turkeys stuffed with chestnuts. Their capacity was marvelous, and I -left them still feasting. All the while one of them kept up a happy -musical chatter. There is no reason, I suppose, why a poet should not -be a good feeder. - - - - -A FULL MIGRATION - - -One of my friends, a bird lover like myself, used to complain that -by the end of May he was worn out with much walking. His days were -consumed at a desk,--“the cruel wood,” as Charles Lamb called it,--but -so long as migrants were passing his door he could not help trying -to see them. Morning and night, therefore, he was on foot, now in -the woods, now in the fields, now in shaded by-roads, now in bogs -and swamps. To see all kinds of birds, a man must go to all kinds of -places. Sometimes he trudged miles to visit a particular spot, in which -he hoped to find a particular species. Before the end of the month -he must have one hundred and twenty or one hundred and twenty-five -names in his “monthly list;” and to accomplish this, much leg-work was -necessary. - -I knew how to sympathize with him. Short as May is,--too short by -half,--I have before now felt something like relief at its conclusion. -Now, then, I have said, the birds that are here will stay for at least -a month or two, and life may be lived a little more at leisure. - -This year,[1] by all the accounts that reach me, the migration has been -of extraordinary fullness. Only last night a man took a seat by me in -an electric car and said, what for substance I have heard from many -others, that he and his family, who live in a desirably secluded, woody -spot, had never before seen so many birds, especially so many warblers. - -How wiser men than myself explain this unusual state of things I do not -know. To me it seems likely that the unseasonable cold weather caught -the first large influx of May birds in our latitude, and held them here -while succeeding waves came falling in behind them. The current was -dammed, so to speak, and of course the waters rose. - -Some persons, I hear, had strange experiences. I am told of one man -who picked a black-throated blue warbler from a bush, as he might -have picked a berry. I myself noted in New Hampshire, what many -noted hereabouts, the continual presence of warblers on the ground. -’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good, and our multitude of young -bird students--for, thank Heaven, they _are_ a multitude--had the -opportunity of many years to make new acquaintances. A warbler in the -grass is a comparatively easy subject. - -After all, the beginners have the best of it. No knowledge is so -interesting as new knowledge. It may be plentifully mixed with -ignorance and error. Much of it may need to be unlearned. Young people -living about me began to find scarlet tanagers early in April; one -boy or girl has seen a scissor-tailed flycatcher, and orchard orioles -seem to be fairly common; but at least new knowledge has the charm of -freshness. And what a charm that is!--a morning rose, with the dew on -it. The old hand may almost envy the raw recruit--the young woman or -the boy, to whom the sight of a rose-breasted grosbeak, for instance, -is like the sight of an angel from heaven, so strange, so new-created, -so incredibly bright and handsome. - -I love to come upon a group or a pair of such enthusiasts at work in -the field, as I not seldom do; all eyes fastened upon a bush or a -branch, one eager, low voice trying to make the rest of the company -see some wonderful object of which the lucky speaker has caught sight. -“There, it has moved to that lower limb! Right through there! Don’t you -see it? Oh, what a beauty!” - -I was down by the river the other afternoon. Many canoes were out, and -presently I came to an empty one drawn up against the bank. A few steps -more and I saw, kneeling behind a clump of shrubbery, a young man and -a young woman, each with an opera-glass, and the lady with an open -notebook. “It’s a redstart, isn’t it?” I heard one of them say. - -It was too bad to disturb them, but I hope they forgave a sympathetic -elderly stranger, who, after starting toward them and then sidling off, -finally approached near enough to suggest, with a word of apology, that -perhaps they would like to see a pretty bunch of water thrushes just -across the way, about the edges of the pool under yonder big willow. -They seemed grateful, however they may have felt. “Water thrushes!” -the young lady exclaimed, and with hasty “Thank you’s,” very politely -expressed, they started in the direction indicated. It is to be hoped -that they found also the furtive swamp sparrow, of whose presence the -bashful intruder, in the perturbation of his spirits, forgot to inform -them. If they did find it, however, they were sharp-eyed, or were -playing in good luck. - -I went on down the river a little way, and soon met three -Irish-American boys coming out of a thicket at the water’s edge. One -of them lifted his cap. “Seen any good birds to-day?” he inquired. I -answered in the affirmative, and turned the question upon its asker. -Yes, he said, he had just seen a catbird and an oriole. I remarked -that there were other people out on the same errand. “Yes,” said he, -pointing toward the brier thicket, “there’s a couple down there now -looking at ’em.” Then I noticed a second empty canoe with its nose -against the bank. - -This was on a Saturday. Saturday afternoon and Sunday are busy people’s -days in the woods. For their sakes I am always glad to meet them -there--bird students, flower pickers, or simple strollers; yet I have -learned to look upon those times as my poorest, and to choose others -so far as I can. One does not enjoy nature to great advantage at a -picnic. There are woods and swamps of which on all ordinary occasions -I almost feel myself the owner, but of which on Saturday and Sunday -I have scarcely so much as a rambler’s lease. This I have learned, -however,--and I pass the secret on,--that the Sunday picnic does not -usually begin till after nine o’clock in the forenoon. - -When bird study becomes more general than it is now, as it ought to do, -the community will perhaps find means--or, to speak more correctly, -will use means, since there is no need of finding them--to restrain the -present enormous overproduction of English sparrows, and so to give -certain of our American beauties a chance to live. - -Two days ago I was walking through a tract of woodland, following the -highway, when I noticed, to my surprise, a white-breasted martin (tree -swallow) just over my head. The next moment he fluttered before a hole -in one of the big telegraph poles. His mate came out, and he alighted -in the entrance, facing outward. And there he sat, while I in my turn -took a seat upon the opposite bank and fell to watching him. The light -struck him squarely, and it was good to see his blue-purple crown and -his bright black eye shining in the sun. He had nothing to do inside, -it appeared, but was simply on guard in his mate’s absence. Once he -yawned. “She’s gone a good while,” he seemed to say. But he kept his -post till she returned. Then, with a chirrup, he was off, and she -dropped into the cavity out of sight. - -All this was nothing of itself. But why should a pair of white-breasted -martins, farm-loving, village-loving, house-haunting birds, a delight -to the eye, and as innocent as they are beautiful--why should such -birds be driven to seek a home in a telegraph pole in the woods? The -answer was ready. I walked on, and by and by came to a village, young -and I dare say thriving, but overrun from end to end with English -sparrows, whose incessant clatter-- - - Soul-desolating strains--alas! too many-- - -filled my ears. Not a bluebird, not a tree swallow, nor, to all -appearance, any place for one. - -And so it is generally. One of my fellow townsmen, however, has an -estate which forms a bright exception. There one sees bluebirds and -martins. Year after year, punctual as the spring itself, they are back -in their old places. And why? Because the owner of the estate, by a -little shooting, mercifully persistent and therefore seldom necessary, -keeps the English sparrows out. My thanks to him. His is the only -colony of martins anywhere in my neighborhood. - - - - -A FAVORITE ROUND - - -After three days of heat, a cool morning. I take an electric car, -leave it at a point five miles away, and in a semicircular course come -round to the track again a mile or two nearer home. This is one of my -favorite walks, such as every stroller finds for himself, affording a -pleasant variety within comfortable distance. - -First I come to a plain on which are hay-fields, gardens, and apple -orchards; an open, sunny place where, in the season, one may hope -to find the first bluebird, the first vesper sparrow, or the first -bobolink. A spot where things like these have happened to one has -henceforth a charm of its own. Memory walks beside us, as it were, and -makes good all present deficiencies. - -I am hardly here this morning before the tiny, rough voice of a -yellow-winged sparrow reaches me from a field in which the new-mown -grass lies in windrows. Grass or stubble, he can still be happy, it -appears. The grasshopper sparrow--to give him his better name--is one -of the quaintest of songsters, his musical effort being more like an -insect’s than a bird’s; yet he is as fully inspired, as completely -absorbed in his work, to look at him, as any mockingbird or thrush. -I watched one a few days ago as he sat at the top of a dwarf pear -tree. How seriously he took himself! No “minor poet” of a human sort -ever surpassed him in that respect; head thrown back, and bill most -amazingly wide open, all for that ragged thread of a tune, which -nevertheless was decidedly emphatic and could be heard a surprisingly -long distance. I smiled at him, but he did not mind. When minor poets -cease writing, then, we may guess, the grasshopper sparrow will quit -singing. Far be the day. To be a poet is to be a poet, and distinctions -of major and minor are of trifling consequence. The yellow-wing -counts with the savanna, but is smaller and has even less of a voice. -Impoverished grass fields are his favorite breeding-places, and he is -generally a colonist. - -This morning (it is July 10) the vesper sparrow is singing here also, -with the song sparrow and the chipper. And while I am listening to -them--but mainly to the vesper--the sickle stroke (as I believe Mr. -Burroughs calls it) of a meadow lark cuts the air. It is a good -concert, vesper sparrow and lark going most harmoniously together; and -to make it better still, a bobolink pours out one copious strain. Him -I am especially glad to hear. After the grass is cut one feels as if -bobolink days were over. - -However, the grass is not all cut yet. I hear the rattle of a distant -mowing-machine as I walk, and by and by come in sight of a man swinging -a scythe. That is the poetry of farming--from the spectator’s point of -view; and I think from the mower’s also, when he is cutting his own -grass and is his own master. I like to watch him, at all events. Every -motion he makes is as familiar to me as the swaying of branches in the -wind. How long will it be, I wonder, before young people will be asking -their seniors what a scythe was like, and how a man used it? Pictures -of it will look odd enough, we may be sure, after the thing itself is -forgotten. - -While I am watching the mower (now he pauses a moment, and with the -blade of his scythe tosses a troublesome tangle of grass out of his -way, with exactly the motion that I have seen other mowers use a -thousand times; but I look in vain for him to put the end of the -snathe to the ground, pick up a handful of grass, and wipe down the -blade)--while I am watching him a bluebird breaks into song, and a -kingbird flutters away from his perch on a fence-wire. After all, the -glory of a bird is his wings; and the kingbird knows it. In another -field men are spreading hay--with pitchforks, I mean; and that, too, is -poetry. In truth, by the old processes, hay could not be made except -with graceful motions, unless it were by a novice, some man from the -city or out of a shop. A green hand with a rake, it must be confessed, -is a subject for laughter rather than for rhymes. The secret of -graceful raking is like the secret of graceful writing,--a light touch. - -Raspberries and thimbleberries are getting ripe (they do not need to be -“_dead_ ripe,” thimbleberries especially, for an old country boy), and -meadow-sweet and mullein are in bloom. Hardback, standing near them, -has not begun to show the pink. - -Now I turn the corner, leaving the farms behind, and as I do so I -bethink myself of a bed of yellow galium just beyond. It ought to be -in blossom. And so it is--the prettiest sight of the morning, and of -many mornings. I stand beside it, admiring its beauty and inhaling its -faint, wholesomely sweet odor. Bedstraw, it is called. If it will keep -that fragrance, why should mattresses ever be filled with anything -else? This is the only patch of the kind that I know, and I felicitate -myself upon having happened along at just the right minute to see it -in all its sweetness and beauty. Year after year it blooms here on -this roadside, and nowhere else; millions of tiny flowers of a really -exquisite color, yellow with much of green in it, a shade for which in -my ignorance I have no name. - -The road soon runs into a swamp, and I stop on the bridge. Swamp -sparrows are trilling on either side of me--a spontaneous, effortless -kind of music, like water running down-hill. A phœbe chides me gently; -passengers are expected to use the bridge to cross the brook upon, -she intimates, not as a lounging-place, especially as her nest is -underneath. Yellow bladderworts lift their pretty hoods above the -slimy, black water, and among them lies a turtle, thrusting his head -out to enjoy the sun. Once I see him raise a foreclaw and scratch the -underside of his neck. The most sluggish and cold-blooded animal that -ever lived must now and then be taken with an itching, I suppose. - -Beyond the bridge the woods are full of white azalea (they are full -of it _now_, that is to say, so long as the bushes are in blossom), -but I listen in vain for the song of a Canadian warbler, whom I know -to be living somewhere in its shadow. A chickadee, looking as if she -had been through the wars, her plumage all blackened and bedraggled, -makes remarks to me as I pass. The cares of maternity have spoiled her -beauty, and perhaps ruffled her temper, for the time being. A veery -snarls, and a thrasher’s resonant kiss makes me smile. If he knew it, -he would smile in his turn, perhaps, at my “pathetic fallacy.” The -absence of music here, just where I expected it most confidently, -is disappointing, but I do not stay to grieve over the loss. As the -road climbs to dry ground again, I remark how close to its edge the -rabbit-foot clover is growing. It is at its prettiest now, the grayish -green heads tipped with pink. If it were as uncommon as the yellow -bedstraw, perhaps I should think it quite as beautiful. I have known -it since I have known anything (“pussies,” we called it), but I never -dreamed of its being a clover till I began to use a botany book. All -the way along I notice how it cleaves to the very edge of the track. -“Let me have the poorest place,” it says. And it thrives there. Such is -the inheritance of the meek. - -Here in the pine woods a black-throated green warbler is dreaming -audibly, and, better still, a solitary vireo, the only one I have heard -for a month or more, sings a few strains, with that sweet, falling -cadence of which he alone has the secret. From a bushy tract, where -fire has blackened everything, a chewink speaks his name, and then -falls to repeating a peculiarly jaunty variation of the family tune. -Dignity is hardly the chewink’s strong point. Now a field sparrow gives -out a measure. There is an artist! Few can excel him, though many can -make more show. Like the vesper sparrow, he has a gift of sweet and -holy simplicity. And what can be better than that? Overhead, hurrying -with might and main toward the woods, flies a crow, with four kingbirds -after him. Perhaps he suffers for his own misdeeds; perhaps for those -of his race. All crows look alike to kingbirds, I suspect. - -This, and much beside, while I rest in the shade of a pine, taking the -beauty of the clouds and listening to the wind in the treetops. The -best part of every ramble is the part that escapes the notebook. - - - - -IN THE CAMBRIDGE SWAMP - - -Once a year, at least, I must visit the great swamp in Cambridge, one -of the institutions of the city, as distinctive, not to say as famous, -as the university itself. It is sure to show me something out of the -ordinary run (its courses in ornithology are said to be better than any -the university offers); and even if I were disappointed on that score, -I should still find the visit worth while for the sake of old times, -and old friends, and the good things I remember. At the present minute -I am thinking especially of that enthusiastic, wise-hearted, finely -gifted, greatly lamented nature lover, Frank Bolles, whom I met here -for the first time one evening when it was too dark to see his face. We -had come on the same errand, to watch the strange aerial evolutions of -the April snipe. Who could have supposed then that he would be dead so -soon, and the world so much the poorer? - -Now it is July. The tall swamp rosebushes are in full flower, here -and there a clump, the morning sun heightening their beauty, though -for the most part there is no getting near them without wading -to the knees. More accessible, as well as more numerous, are the -trailing morning-glory vines (_Convolvulus sepium_), with showy, -trumpet-shaped, pink-and-white blossoms; and in one place I stop to -notice a watery-stemmed touch-me-not, or jewel-weed, from which a -solitary frail-looking, orange-colored flower is hanging--the first of -the year. What thousands on thousands will follow it; no meadow’s edge -or boggy spot will be without them. The pendent jewel makes me think -of hummingbirds, which is another reason for liking to look at it. -Years ago I used to plant some of its red and white congeners (balsams, -we called them) in a child’s garden. I wish I were a botanist; I am -always wishing so; but I am thankful to know enough of the science to -be able to recognize a few such relationships between native “weeds” -and cultivated exotics. Somehow the weeds look less weedy for that -knowledge; as the most commonplace of mortals becomes interesting to -average humanity if it is whispered about that he is fourth cousin to -the king. The world is not yet so democratic that anything, even a -plant, can be rated altogether by itself. - -The gravelly banks of the railroad, on which I go dry-shod through -the swamp, are covered with a forest of chicory; a thrifty immigrant, -tall, coarse, scraggy, awkward, homely, anything you will, but a great -brightener of our American waysides on sunny midsummer forenoons. It -attracts much notice, and presumably gives much pleasure, to judge by -the number of persons who ask me its name. May the town fathers spare -it! The bees and the goldfinches will thank them, if nobody else. Here -I am interested to see that a goodly number of the plants--but not more -than one in fifty, perhaps--bear full crops of pure white flowers; a -rarity to me, though I am well used to pink ones. Gray’s Manual by the -by, a Cambridge book, makes no mention of white flowers, while Britton -and Brown’s Illustrated Flora says nothing about a pink variety. In a -multitude of books there is safety, or, if not quite that, something -less of danger. The pink and the white flowers are reversions to former -less highly developed states, I suppose, if certain modern theories are -to be trusted. I have read somewhere that the acid of ants turns the -blue of chicory blossoms to a bright red, and that European children -are accustomed to throw the flowers into ant hills to watch the -transformation. Perhaps some young American reader will be moved to try -the experiment. - -The best plants, however, those that I enjoy most for to-day, at all -events, are the cat-tails. How they flourish!--“like a tree planted by -the rivers of water.” And how straight they grow! They must be among -the righteous. We may almost say that they make the swamp. Certainly, -when they are gone the swamp will be gone. Both kinds are here, the -broad-leaved and the narrow-leaved, equally rank, though _angustifolia_ -has perhaps a little the better of the other in point of height. The -two can be distinguished at a glance, and afar off, by a difference -in color, if by nothing else. “Cat-tails” and “cat-tail flags,” the -Manual and the Illustrated Flora call them; but I was brought up to -say “cat-o’-nine-tails,” with strong emphasis on the numeral, and am -glad to find that more romantic-sounding name recognized by the latest -big dictionary. Not that the name has any particular appropriateness; -but like my fellows, I have been trained to venerate a dictionary, -especially an “unabridged,” as hardly less sacred than the Bible, and -am still much relieved whenever my own usage, past or present, happens -to be supported by such authority. - -Rankness is the swamp’s note, we may say. Look at the spatter-dock -leaves and the pickerel-weed! The tropics themselves could hardly do -better. And what a maze and tangle of vegetation!--as if the earth -could produce more than the air could find room for. So much for -plenty of water and a wholesome depth of black mud. One thinks of the -scriptural phrase about paths that “drop fatness.” - -Ever since I arrived, the short, hurried, gurgling trill of the -long-billed marsh wren has been in my ears. If I have been here an -hour, I must have heard that sound five hundred times. Once only, and -only for an instant, I saw one of the singers. I have not been on the -watch for them, to be sure; but if it had been earlier in the season I -should have seen them whether I tried to do so or not. It must be that -the little aerial song-flights, then so common and so cheerful to look -at, are now mostly over. - -In such a place, however, populous as it is, one does not expect to -_see_ many birds--blackbirds being left out of the reckoning--at any -time. Swamp ornithology is mainly a matter of “earsight.” Birds that -live in cat-tail beds and button-bush thickets are very little on the -wing. Here a least bittern may coo day after day, and season after -season, and it will be half a lifetime before you see him do it. I -have made inquiries far and near in the likeliest quarters, and have -yet to learn, even at second hand, of any man who has ever had that -good fortune. Once, for five minutes, I entertained a lively hope of -accomplishing the feat myself, but the bird was too wary for me; and a -miss is as good as a mile. No doubt I shall die without the sight. - -So the Carolina rail will whistle and the Virginia rail call the pigs, -but it will be a memorable hour when you detect either of them in -the act. You will hear the sounds often enough; I hear them to-day; -and much less frequently you will see the birds stepping with dainty -caution along a favorite runway, or feeding about the edges of their -cover. But to see them utter the familiar notes, that is another story. - -This morning I see on the wing a night heron (so I call him, without -professing absolute certainty), a bittern (flying from one side of the -railroad tracks to the other), and a little green heron, but no rail -of either species, although I sit still in favorable places--where at -other times I have seen them--with exemplary patience. In hunting of -this kind, patience must be mixed with luck. It pleases my imagination -to think what numbers of birds there are all about me, each busy with -its day’s work, and not one of them visible for an instant, even by -chance. - -I go to the top of a grassy mound, and seat myself where I have a -lengthwise view of a ditch. Here, ten years ago, more or less, I saw -my first gallinule. We had heard his outcries for some days (I speak -of myself and two better men), and a visiting New York ornithologist -had told us that they were probably the work of a gallinule. They came -always from the most inaccessible parts of the swamp, where it seemed -hopeless to wade in pursuit of the bird, since we wished to see him -alive; but turning the question over in my mind, I bethought myself of -this low hilltop, with its command of an open stretch of water between -a broad expanse of cat-tails and a wood. Hither I came, therefore. If -there was any virtue in waiting, the thing should be done. And sure -enough, in no very long time out paddled the bird, with those queer -bobbing motions which I was to grow familiar with afterward--a Florida -gallinule, with a red plate on his forehead. Again and again I saw him -(patience was easy now), and when I had seen enough--for that time--and -was on my way back to the railway station, I met the foremost of New -England, ornithologists coming down the track. He was on the same hunt, -and together we returned to the place I had left; and together we saw -the bird. A week or two later he found the nest, and a Massachusetts -record was established. - -This, I say, was ten years ago. To-day there is no gallinule, or none -for me. The best thing I hear, the most characteristically swampy, is -the odd _diminuendo_ whistle of a Carolina rail. “We are all here,” he -says; “you ought to come oftener.” And I think I will. - - - - -A QUIET AFTERNOON - - -After running hither and thither in search of beauty or novelty, try a -turn in the nearest wood. So my good genius whispered to me just now; -and here I am. I believe it was good advice. - -This venerable chestnut tree, with its deeply furrowed, shadow-haunted, -lichen-covered bark of soft, lovely grays and grayish greens, is as -stately and handsome as ever. How often I have stopped to admire -it, summer and winter, especially in late afternoon, when the level -sunlight gives it a beauty beyond the reach of words. Many a time I -have gone out of my way to see it, as I would have gone to see some -remembered landscape by a great painter. - -There is no feeling proud in such company. Anything that can stand -still and grow, filling its allotted place and contented to fill it, -is enough to put our futile human restlessness to the blush. The wind -has long ago blown away some of its branches, but it does not mind. It -is busy with its year’s work. I see the young burrs, no bigger than -the end of my little finger. When the nuts are ripe the tree will let -them fall and think no more about them. How different from a man! When -he does a good thing, if by chance he ever does, he must put his hands -behind his ears in hopes to hear somebody praising him. Mountains and -trees make me humble. I feel like a poor relation. - -The pitch-pines are no longer at their best estate. They are brightest -when we need their brightness most, in late winter and early spring. -This year, at least, the summer sun has faded them badly; but their -fragrance is like an elixir. It is one of the glories of pine needles, -one of the things in which they excel the rest of us, that they smell -sweet, not “in the dust” exactly, but after they are dead. - -A nuthatch in one of the trees calls “Tut, tut, tut,” and is so near -me that I hear his claws scratching over the dry bark. A busy and -cheerful body. Just beyond him a scarlet tanager is posed on a low, -leafless twig. Like the pine leaves, he looks out of condition. I am -sure I have seen brighter ones. He is silent, but his mate, somewhere -in the oak branches over my head, keeps up an emphatic _chip-cherr, -chip-cherr_. Yes, I see her now, and the red one has gone up to perch -at her side. She cocks her head, looking at me first out of one eye and -then out of the other, and repeats the operation two or three times, -like a puzzled microscopist squinting at a doubtful specimen; and all -the while she continues to call, though I know nothing of what she -means. Once her mate approaches too near, and she opens her bill at him -in silence. He understands the sign and keeps his distance. I admire -his spirit. It is better than taking a city. - -The earliest of the yellow gerardias is in bloom, and a pretty -desmodium, also (_D. nudiflorum_), with a loose raceme of small pink -flowers, like miniature sweet-pea blossoms, on a slender leafless -stalk. These are in the wood, amidst the underbrush. As I come out -into a dry, grassy field I find the meadow-beauty; an odd creature, -with a tangle of long stamens; bright-colored, showy in its intention, -so to speak, but rather curious than beautiful, in spite of its name; -especially because the petals have not the grace to fall when they are -done, but hang, withered and discolored, to spoil the grace of later -comers. The prettiest thing about it all, after the freshly opened -first flower, is the urn-shaped capsule. That, to me, is of really -classic elegance. - -Now I have crossed the road and am seated on a chestnut stump, with my -back against a tree, on the edge of a broad, rolling, closely cropped -cattle pasture, a piece of genuine New England. Scattered loosely over -it are young, straight, slender-waisted, shoulder-high cedars, and on -my right hand is a big patch of hardhack, growing in tufts of a dozen -stalks each, every one tipped with an arrow-head of pink blossoms. The -whole pasture is full of sunshine. Down at the lower end is a long, -narrow, irregular-shaped pond. I cannot see it because of a natural -hedge against the fence-row on my left; but somehow the landscape takes -an added beauty from the water’s presence. The truth is, perhaps, that -I do see it. - -High overhead a few barn swallows and chimney swifts are scaling, -each with happy-sounding twitters after its kind. A jay screams, but -so far off as merely to emphasize the stillness. Once in a while a -song sparrow pipes; a cheerful, honest voice. When there is nothing -better to do I look at the hardhack. The spiræas are a fine set; many -of them are honored in gardens; but few are more to my liking, after -all, than this old friend (and enemy) of my boyhood. Whether it is -really useful as an herb out of which to make medicinal “tea” I feel -no competency to say, though I have drunk my share of the decoction. -It is not a virulent poison: so much I feel reasonably sure of. -Hardhack, thoroughwort, and pennyroyal,--with the _o_ left out,--these -were the family herbalist’s trinity in my day. Now, in these better -times of pellets and homœopathic allopathy, children hardly know what -medicine-taking means. We remember, we of an older generation. “Pinch -your nose and swallow it, and I will give you a cent.” Does that sound -vulgar in the nice ears of modern readers? Well, we earned our money. - -Now an oriole’s clear August fife is heard. A short month, and he -will be gone. And hark! A most exquisite strain by one of the best of -field sparrows. I have never found an adjective quite good enough for -that bit of common music. I believe there _is_ none. Nor can I think -of any at this moment with which to express the beauty of this summer -afternoon. Fairer weather was never seen in any corner of the world. -Four crows fly over the field in company. The hindmost of them has a -hard time with a redwing, which strikes again and again. “Give it to -him!” say I. Between crow and man I am for the crow; but between the -crow and the smaller bird I am always for the smaller bird. Whether -I am right or wrong is not the question here. This is not my day for -arguing, but for feeling. - -How pretty the hardhack is! Though it stands up rather stiff, it feels -every breath of wind. Its beauty grows on me as I look, which is enough -of itself to make this a profitable afternoon. There is no beauty so -welcome as new beauty in an old friend. - -A kingbird, one of two or three hereabout, comes to sit on a branch -over my head. He is full of twitters, which sound as if they might be -full of meaning; but there is no interpreter. He, too, like the oriole, -is on his last month. I have great respect for kingbirds. A phœbe shows -herself in the hedge, flirting her tail airily as she alights. “Pretty -well, I thank you,” she might be saying. Every kind of bird has motions -of its own, no doubt, if we look sharply enough. The phœbe’s may be -seen of all men. - -I had meant to go out and sit awhile under the spreading white oak -yonder, on the upper side of the pasture, near the huckleberry patches; -but why should I? Well enough is well enough, I say to myself; and it -sounds like good philosophy, in weather like this. It may never set the -millpond on fire; but then, I don’t wish to set it on fire. - -And although I go on mentioning particulars, a flower, a bird, a bird’s -note, it is none of these that I am really enjoying. It is the day--the -brightness and the quiet, and the comfort of a perfect temperature. -Great is weather. No man is to blame for talking about it, unless his -talk is twaddle. Out-of-door people know that few things are more -important. A quail’s whistle, a thought too strenuous, perhaps, for -such an hour,--a breezy _quoit_,--breaks my disquisition none too soon; -else I might have been brought in guilty under my own ruling. - -As I get over the fence, on my start homeward, I notice a thrifty -clump of chokecherry shrubs on the other side of the way, hung with -ripening clusters, every cherry a jewel as the sun strikes it. They may -hang “for all me,” as schoolboys say. My country-bred taste is pretty -catholic in matters of this kind, but it extends not to chokecherries. -They should be eaten by campaign orators as a check upon fluency. - - - - -POPULAR WOODPECKERS - - -There are two birds in Newton, the present summer, that have perhaps -attracted more attention than any pair of Massachusetts birds ever -attracted before; more, by a good deal, I imagine, than was paid to -a pair of crows that, for some inexplicable reason, built a nest and -reared a brood of young a year ago in a back yard on Beacon Hill, in -Boston. I refer to a pair of red-headed woodpeckers that have a nest -(at this moment containing young birds nearly ready to fly) in a tall -dead stump standing on the very edge of the sidewalk, like a lamp-post. -The road, it should be said, is technically unfinished; one of those -“private ways,” not yet “accepted” by the city and therefore legally -“dangerous,” though in excellent condition and freely traveled. If -the birds had intended to hold public receptions daily,--as they have -done without intending it,--they could hardly have chosen a more -convenient spot. The stump, which is about twenty-five feet in height, -stands quite by itself in the middle of a small open space, with a -wooded amphitheatrical knoll at its back, while on the other side it is -overlooked by the windows of several houses, the nearest almost within -stone’s throw. So conspicuous is it, indeed, that whenever I go there, -as I do once in two or three days, to see how matters are coming on, I -am almost sure to see the birds far in advance of my arrival. - -They are always there. I heard of them through the kindness of a -stranger, on the 26th of June. His letter reached me (in Boston) at two -o’clock in the afternoon, and at half-past three I was admiring the -birds. It cannot be said that they welcomed my attentions. From that -day to this they have treated me as an intruder. “You have stayed long -enough.” “We are not at home to-day.” “Come now, old inquisitive, go -about your business.” Things like these they repeat to me by the half -hour. Then, in audible asides, they confide to each other what they -think of me. “Watch him,” says one at last. “I must be off now after -a few grubs.” And away she goes, while her mate continues to inform -me that I am a busybody, a meddler in other birds’ matters, a common -nuisance, a duffer, and everything else that is disreputable. All this -is unpleasant. I feel as I imagine a baseball umpire feels when the -players call him a “gump” and the crowd yells “robber;” but like the -umpire, I bear it meekly and hold my ground. A good conscience is a -strong support. - -In sober truth I have been scrupulously careful of the birds’ feelings; -or, if not of their feelings, at least of their safety. I began, -indeed, by being almost ludicrously careful. The nest was a precious -secret, I thought. I must guard it as a miser guards his treasure. So, -whenever a foot-passenger happened along the highway at my back, I made -pretense of being concerned with anything in the world rather than with -that lamp-post of a stump. What was Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba? I -pretty soon learned, however, that such precautions were unnecessary. -The whole town, or at least the whole neighborhood, was aware of the -birds’ presence. Every school-teacher in the city, one man told me, -had been there with his or her pupils to see them. So popular is -ornithology in these modern days. He had seen thirty or forty persons -about the place at once, he said, all on the same errand. “Look at the -bank there,” he added. “They have worn it smooth by sitting on it.” - -I have not been fortunate enough to assist at any such interesting -“function,” but I have had plenty of evidence to prove the truth of -what I said just now--that the birds and their nest have become matters -of common knowledge. On my third visit, just as I was ready to come -away, a boy turned the corner on a bicycle, holding his younger sister -in front of him. - -“Are they here?” he inquired as he dismounted. - -“Who?” said I. - -“The red-headed woodpeckers,” he answered. - -He had known about the nest for some weeks. Oh, yes, everybody knew -it. So-and-so found it (I forget the name), and pretty soon it was -all over Newtonville. A certain boy, whose wretched name also I have -forgotten, had talked about shooting one of the birds; he could get -a dollar and a half for it, he professed; but policeman Blank had -said that a dollar and a half wouldn’t do a boy much good if he got -hold of him. He--my informant, a bright-faced, manly fellow of eleven -or twelve--had brought his younger sister down to see the birds. He -thought they were very handsome. “There!” said he, as one of them -perched on a dead tree near by, “look!” and he knelt behind the little -girl and pointed over her shoulder till she got the direction. After -all, I thought, a boy is almost as pretty as a woodpecker. His father -and mother were Canadians, and had told him that birds of this kind -were common where they used to live. Then he lifted his sister upon the -wheel, jumped up behind her, and away they trundled. - -At another time an older boy came along, also on a bicycle, and stopped -for a minute’s chat. He, too, was in the secret, and had been for a -good while. “Pretty nice birds,” his verdict was. And at a later visit -a man with his dog suddenly appeared. “Handsome, aren’t they?” he -began, by way of good-morning. He had seen one of them as long ago as -when snow was on the ground, but he didn’t discover the nest. He was -looking in the wrong place. Since then he had spent hours in watching -the birds, and believed that he could tell the female’s voice from the -male’s. “There!” said he; “that’s the mother’s call.” He was acquainted -with all the birds, and could name them all, he said, simply by their -notes; and he told me many things about them. There were grosbeaks -here. Did I know them? And tanagers, also. Did I know them? And another -bird that he was especially fond of; a beautiful singer, though it -never sang after the early part of the season; the indigo-bird, its -name was. Did I know that? - -As will readily be imagined, we had a good session (one doesn’t fall -in with so congenial a spirit every day in the week), though it ran a -little too exclusively to questions and answers, perhaps; for I, too, -am a Yankee. He was the man who told me about the throngs of sightseers -that came here. The very publicity of the thing had been the birds’ -salvation, he was inclined to believe. The entire community had taken -them under its protection, and with so many windows overlooking the -place, and the police on the alert (I had noticed a placard near by, -signed by the chief, laying down the law and calling upon all good -citizens to help him enforce it), it would have been hard for anybody -to meddle with the nest without coming to grief. At all events, the -birds had so far escaped molestation, and the young, as I have said, -would soon be on the wing. One of them was thrusting its full-grown, -wide-awake, eager-looking, mouse-colored head out of the aperture as we -talked. - -“But why so much excitement over a family of woodpeckers?” some reader -may be asking. Rarity, my friend; rarity and brilliant feathers. So -far as appears from the latest catalogue of Massachusetts birds, this -Newton nest is one of a very small number ever found in the State, and -the very first one ever recorded from the eastern half of it.[2] Put -that fact with the further one that the birds are among the showiest -in North America, real marvels of beauty,--splendid colors, splendidly -laid on,--and it is plain to see why a city full of nature lovers -should have welcomed this pair with open arms and watched over their -welfare as one watches over the most honored of guests. For my part, I -should not think it inappropriate if the mayor were to order the firing -of a salute and the ringing of bells on the happy morning when the -young birds take wing. Tons of gunpowder have been burnt, before now, -with less reason. - - - - -LATE SUMMER NOTES - - -On this bright morning I am passing fields and kitchen gardens that -I have not seen since a month ago. Then the fields were newly mown -stubble-fields, such as all men who knew anything of the luxury of a -bare-footed boyhood must have in vivid remembrance. (How gingerly, -with what a sudden slackening of the pace, we walked over them, if -circumstances made such a venture necessary,--in pursuit of a lost -ball, or on our way to the swimming-hole,--setting the foot down softly -and stepping high! I can see the action at this minute, as plainly as -I see yonder fence-post.) Now the first thing that strikes the eye is -the lively green of the aftermath. It looks as soft as a velvet carpet. -I remember what I used to hear in haying time, that cattle like the -second crop best. I should think they would. - -Grass is man’s patient friend. Directly or indirectly, we may say, he -subsists upon it. Nay, the Scripture itself declares as much, in one -of its most familiar texts. It is good to see it so quick to recover -from the cruel work of the scythe, so responsive to the midsummer -rains, its color so deep, its leaves so full of sap. It is this spirit -of hopefulness, this patience under injury, that makes shaven lawns -possible. - -As to the beauty of grass, no man appreciates it, I suppose, unless he -has lived where grass does not grow. “When I go back to New England,” -said an exile in Florida, “I will ask for no garden. Let me have grass -about the house, and I can do without roses.” - -The century ends with an apple year; and every tree is in the fashion. -The old, the decrepit, the solitary, not one of them all but got the -word in season; as there is no woman in Christendom but learns somehow, -before it is too late, whether sleeves are to be worn loose or tight. -Along the roadside, in the swamp, in the orchard, everywhere the story -is the same. Apple trees are all freemasons. This hollow shell of a -trunk, with one last battered limb keeping it alive, received its cue -with the rest. - -In the orchard, where the trees are younger and more pliable, a man -would hardly know them for the same he saw there in May and June; -so altered are they in shape, so smoothly rounded at the top, so -like Babylonian willows in the droop of the branches. Baldwins are -turning red--greenish red--and russets are already rusty. “Yes,” says -the owner of the orchard, “and much good will it do me.” Apples are -an “aggravating crop,” he declares. “First there are none; and then -there are so many that you cannot sell them.” Human nature is never -satisfied; and, for one, I think it seldom has reason to be. - -A bobolink, which seems to be somewhere overhead, drops a few notes -in passing. “I am off,” he says. “Sorry to go, but I know where there -is a rice-field.” From the orchard come the voices of bluebirds and -kingbirds. Not a bird is in song; and what is more melancholy, the road -and the fields are thick with English sparrows. - -Now I stop at the smell of growing corn, which is only another kind of -grass, though the farmer may not suspect the fact, and perhaps would -not believe you if you told him of it; more than he would believe you -if you told him that clover is _not_ grass. He and his cow know better. -A queer set these botanists, who get their notions from books! Corn or -grass, here grow some acres of it, well tasseled (“all tosselled out”), -with the wind stirring the leaves to make them shine. Does the odor, -with which the breeze is loaded, come from the blossoms, or from the -substance of the plant itself? A new question for me. I climb the fence -and put my nose to one of the tassels. No, it is not in them, I think. -It must be in the stalk and leaves; and I adopt this opinion the more -readily because the odor itself--the memory of which is part of every -country boy’s inheritance--is like that of a vegetable rather than of a -flower, a smell rather than a perfume. I seem to recall that the stalk -smelled just so when we cut it into lengths for cornstalk fiddles; and -the nose, as everyone must have remarked, has a good memory, for the -reason, probably, that it is so near the brain. - -I turn the corner, and go from the garden to the wild. First, however, -I rest for a few minutes under a wide-branching oak opposite the site -of a vanished house. You would know there had been a house here at some -time, even if you did not see the cellar-hole, by the old-maid’s pinks -along the fence. How fresh they look! And how becomingly they blush! -They are worthy of their name. Age cannot wither them. Less handsome -than carnations, if you will, but faithful, home-loving souls; not -requiring to be waited upon, but given rather to waiting upon others. -Like mayweed and catnip, they are what I have heard called “folksy -plants;” though on second thought I should rather say “homey.” There -is something of the cat about them; a kind of local constancy; they -stay by the old place, let the people go where they will. Probably -they would grow in front of a new house,--even a Queen Anne cottage, -so-called,--if necessity were laid upon them, but who could imagine -it? It would be shameful to subject them to such indignity. They are -survivals, livers in the past, lovers of things as they were, charter -members, I should say, of the Society of Colonial Dames. - -As I come to the edge of the swamp I see a leaf move, and by squeaking -draw into sight a redstart. The pretty creature peeps at me furtively, -wondering what new sort of man it can be that makes noises of that -kind. To all appearance she is very desirous not to be seen; yet -she spreads her tail every few seconds so as to display its bright -markings. Probably the action has grown to be habitual and, as it were, -automatic. A bird may be unconsciously coquettish, I suppose, as well -as a woman or a man. It is a handsome tail, anyhow. - -Somewhere just behind me a red-eyed vireo is singing in a peculiar -manner; repeating his hackneyed measure with all his customary -speed,--forty or fifty times a minute,--but with no more than half his -customary voice, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. I wish he would -sing so always. It would be an easy way of increasing his popularity. - -Not far down the road are three roughly dressed men,--of the genus -tramp, if I read the signs aright,--coming toward me; and I notice with -pleasure that when they reach the narrow wooden bridge over the brook -they turn aside, as by a common impulse, to lean over the rail and look -down into the water. When I get there I shall do the same thing. So -will every man that comes along, unless he happens to be on “business.” - -Running water is one of the universal parables, appealing to something -primitive and ineradicable in human nature. Day and night it -preaches--sermons without words. It is every man’s friend. The most -stolid find it good company. For that reason, largely, men love to -fish. They are poets without knowing it. They have never read a line of -verse since they outgrew Mother Goose; they never consciously admire a -landscape; they care nothing for a picture, unless it is a caricature, -or tells a story; but they cannot cross moving water without feeling -its charm. - -Well, in that sense of the word, I too am a poet. The tramps and I -have met and passed each other, and I am on the bridge. The current is -almost imperceptible (like the passage of time), and the black water -is all a tangle of cresses and other plants. Lucky bugs dart hither -and thither upon its surface, quick to start and quick to stop (quick -to quarrel, also,--like butterflies,--so that two of them can hardly -meet without a momentary set-to), full of life, and, for anything that -I know, full of thought; true poets, perhaps, in ways of their own; -for why should man be so narrow-minded as to assume that his way is of -necessity the only one? - -On either side of the brook, as it winds through the swamp, are acres -of the stately Joe Pye weed, or purple boneset, one of the tallest -of herbs. I am beginning to think well of its color,--which is -something like what ladies know as “crushed strawberry,” if I mistake -not,--though I used to look upon it rather disdainfully and call it -faded. The plant would be better esteemed in that regard, I dare say, -if it did not so often invite comparison with the cardinal flower. I -note it as one of the favorites of the milk-weed butterfly. - -Here on the very edge of the brook is the swamp loosestrife, its -curving stems all reaching for the water, set with rosy bloom. My -attention is drawn to it by the humming of bees, a busy, contented, -content-producing sound. How different from the hum of the factory -that I passed an hour ago, through the open windows of which I saw -men hurrying over “piece-work,” every stroke like every other, every -man a machine, or part of a machine, rather, for doing one thing. I -wonder whether the dreariness of the modern “factory system” may not -have had something to do with the origin and rapid development of our -nineteenth-century breed of peripatetic thieves and beggars. - -Above the music of the bees I hear, of a sudden, a louder hum. “A -hummingbird,” I say, and turn to look at a jewel-weed. Yes, the bird is -there, trying the blossoms one after another. Then she drops to rest -upon an alder twig (always a dead one) directly under my nose, where I -see her darting out her long tongue, which flashes in the sunlight. I -say “she.” She has a whitish throat, and is either a female or a male -of the present season. Did any one ever see a hummingbird without a -thrill of pleasure? Not I. - -As I go on I note, half sadly, half gladly, some tokens of waning -summer; especially a few first blossoms of two of the handsomest of our -blue asters, _lævis_ and _patens_. Soon the dusty goldenrod will be -out, and then, whatever the almanac-makers may say, autumn will have -come. Every dry roadside will publish the fact. - - - - -WOOD SILENCE - - -The scarcity of birds and bird music, of which I spoke a week -ago, still continues. The ear begins to feel starved. A tanager’s -_chip-cherr_, or the prattle of a company of chickadees, is listened -to more eagerly than the wood thrush’s most brilliant measures were -in June and July. Since September came in (it is now the 8th) I have -heard the following birds in song: robins, half a dozen times, perhaps, -in snatches only; a Maryland yellow-throat, once; warbling vireos, -occasionally, in village elms; yellow-throated vireos, rarely, but more -frequently than the last; a song sparrow (only one!), amusing himself -with a low-voiced, inarticulate warble, rather humming than singing; -an oriole, blowing a few whistles, on the 4th; a phœbe, on a single -occasion; wood pewees, almost daily, oftener than all the foregoing -species together. - -Except a single water thrush, on the first day of the month, I have -seen no land bird that could be set down with certainty as a migrant, -and in the eight days I have listed but thirty-seven species. And of -this number twelve are represented in my notes by a single individual -only. My walks have been short, it is fair to say, but they have taken -me into good places. I could spin a long chapter on the birds I have -not seen; but perhaps the best thing I could do, writing merely as an -ornithologist, would be to make the week’s record in two words: “No -quorum.” - -My last hummingbird (but I hope for others before the month ends) was -seen on the 2d. He was about a bed of tall cannas in a neighbor’s -dooryard, thrusting his tongue into the flowers, one after another, and -I went near and focused my opera-glass upon him, taking my fill of his -pretty feathers and prettier movements. It was really the best music of -the week. The sun was on his emerald back and wings, making them shine. - -One thing that pleased me, as it always does, was his address in flying -backwards. Into the flower he would dart, stay a longer or shorter -time, as he found occasion, and then like a flash draw out and back -away, his wings all the while beating themselves to a film of light. -I wonder if any other of our common hovering birds--the kingbird, for -example, or the kingfisher--can match the hummer in this regard. - -A second thing that interested me was his choice of blossoms. My -neighbor’s canna bed is made up in about equal parts of two kinds of -plants, one with red blossoms, the other with yellow. The hummer went -to the red flowers only. He must have probed a hundred, I should say. -As for the yellow ones, he seemed not to know they were there. Now, was -not this a plain case of color preference? It looked so, surely; but -I remembered that hummingbirds are persistent haunters of the yellow -blossoms of the jewel-weed, and concluded that something besides a -difference of color must account for what appeared to be this fellow’s -well-considered line of conduct. It is hard work, but as far as -possible, let us abstain from hasty generalizations. - -There is no music sweeter than wood silence. I am enjoying it now. It -is not strictly silence, though it is what we call by that name. There -is no song. No one speaks. The wind is not heard in the branches. But -there is a nameless something in the air, an inaudible noise, or an -audible stillness, of which you become conscious if you listen for it; -a union of fine sounds, some of which, as you grow inwardly quiet, -you can separate from the rest--beats of distant crickets, few and -faint, and a hum as of tiny wings. Now an insect passes near, leaving a -buzz behind him, but for a second only. Then, before you can hear it, -almost, a frog out in the swamp yonder has let slip a quick, gulping, -or string-snapping syllable. Once a small bird’s wings are heard, just -heard and no more. Far overhead a goldfinch passes, with rhythmic -calls, smooth and soft, not so much sounds as a more musical kind of -silence. - -The morning sun strikes aslant through the wood, illuminating the -trunks of the trees, especially a cluster of white birches. A lovely -sisterhood! I can hardly take my eyes from them. In general all the -leaves are motionless, but now and then a tree, or it may be a group of -two or three at once, is jostled for an instant by a touch too soft for -my coarser human apprehension. “_Dee-dee_,” says a titmouse; “Here,” -answers a flicker. But both speak under their breath, as if they felt -the spell of the hour. Listen! was that a hyla or a bird? There is no -telling, so elusive and so distant-seeming was the sound. And anon it -has ceased altogether. - -Now, for the smallest fraction of a second, I see the flash of a moving -shadow. The flicker’s, perhaps. Yes, for presently he calls as in -spring, but only for four or five notes. If it were April, with the -vernal inspiration in his throat, there would be four or five times as -many, and all the woods would be ringing. And now the breeze freshens, -and the leaves make a chorus. No thrush’s song could be sweeter. It is -not a rustle. There is no word for it, unless we call it a murmur, a -rumor. Even while we are trying to name it, it is gone. Leaves are true -Friends, they speak only as the spirit moves. “_Wicker, wicker_,” says -the woodpecker, and his voice is in perfect tune with the silence. - -How still and happy the boulders look, with friendly bushes and ferns -gathered about them, and parti-colored lichens giving them tones of -beauty! Men call them dead. “Dead as a stone,” has even passed into a -proverb. “Stone dead,” we say. But I doubt. They would smile, inwardly, -I think to hear us. We have small idea, the wisest of us, what we mean -by life and death. Men who hurry to and fro, scraping money together -or chasing a ball, consider themselves alive. The trees, and even the -stones, know better. - -Yes, that is a crow, cawing; but far, far off. Distance softens sound -as it softens the landscape, and as time, which is only another kind -of distance, softens grief. A cricket at my elbow plays his tune, -irregularly and slowly. The low temperature slackens his _tempo_. Now -he is done. There is only the stirring of leaves. Some of the birch -leaves, I see, are already turning yellow, and once in a while, as the -wind whispers to one of them, it lets go its hold and drops. “Good-by,” -I seem to hear it say; “my summer is done.” How tenderly the air lets -it down, as loving arms lower a child to its burial. Yet the trees are -still happy. And so am I. The wood has blessed me. I have sensations, -but no thoughts. It is for this that I have been sitting here at this -silent concert. I wish for nothing. The best that such an hour can -do for us is to put us into a mood of desirelessness, of complete -passivity; such a mood as mystics covet for a permanent possession; a -state of surrender, selflessness, absorption in the infinite. I love -the feeling. All the trees have it, I think. - -So I sit in their shadow, my eyes returning again and again to those -dazzling white birch boles, where loose shreds of filmy bark twinkle -as the breeze and the sunlight play upon them. Once two or three -chickadees come into the branches over my head and whisper things to -each other. Very simple their utterances sound, but perhaps if I could -understand them I should know more than all the mystics. - - - - -SOUTHWARD BOUND - - -Although it is the 20th of September, the autumnal migration of birds, -as seen in this neighborhood, is still very light. Robins are scattered -throughout the woods in loose flocks--a state of things not to be -witnessed in summer or winter; the birds rising singly from the ground -as the walker disturbs them, sometimes all silent, at other times all -cackling noisily. Chickadees, too, are in flocks, cheerful companies, -good to meet in any weather; behaving just as they will continue to -do until the nesting season again breaks the happy assembly up into -happier pairs. - -My wood pewee--a particular bird in a grove near by--whistled pretty -constantly till the 17th, and a warbling vireo was still true to his -name on the 19th. I have heard no yellow-throated vireos since the -6th, and conclude that they must have taken their departure. May joy -go with them. This morning, for the first time in several weeks, a -pine warbler was trilling. Song sparrows have grown numerous within a -few days, but are almost entirely silent. One fellow sang his regular -song--not his confused autumnal warble--on the 19th. I had not heard it -before since the month opened. - -No blackpoll warblers showed themselves with me till the 18th, though -I had word of their presence elsewhere a few days earlier. On that day -I saw three; yesterday and to-day have shown but one bird each. The -movement is barely begun. - -I should like to know how common it is for blackpolls to sing on their -southward migration. Eleven years ago, in September, 1889, they came -very early,--or I had the good fortune to see them very early,--and on -the 4th and 5th of the month a few were “in full song,” so my notes -record, “quite as long and full as in May.” I had never heard them sing -before in autumn, nor have I ever had that pleasure since. Neither have -I ever again seen them so early. Probably the two things--the song and -the exceptional date--were somehow connected. At the time, I took the -circumstance as an indication that the adult males migrate in advance -of the great body of the species; and I fancied that, having detected -them once thus early and thus musical, I should be likely to repeat the -experience. If I am ever to do so, however, I must be about it. Eleven -years is a large slice out of an adult man’s remaining allowance. - -On the 18th I found a single olive-backed thrush, silent, in company -with a flock of robins, or in the same grove with them--a White -Mountain bird, thrice welcome; and this morning a few white-throated -sparrows appeared. The first one that I saw--the only one, in fact--was -a young fellow, and as I caught sight of him facing me, with his clear -white throat, and his breast prettily streaked, with a wash of color -across it, I was half in doubt what to call him. While I was taking -observations upon his plumage, trying to make him look like himself, he -began to _chip_, as if to help me out, and a second one unseen fell to -singing near by; a very feeble and imperfect rendering of the dear old -tune, but well marked by the “Peabody” triplets. It was a true touch of -autumn, a voice from the hills. - -Shortly before this I had spent a long time in watching the actions -of a Lincoln finch. He was feeding upon Roman worm-wood seeds by the -roadside, in company with two or three chipping sparrows; very meek -and quiet in his demeanor, and happily not disposed to resent my -inquisitiveness, which I took pains to render as little offensive as -possible. I had not seen the like of him since May, and have seen so -few of his race at any time that every new one still makes for me an -hour of agreeable excitement. - -In the same neighborhood an indigo-bird surprised me with a song. He -was as badly out of voice as the white-throat, but his spirit was good, -and he sang several times over. One would never have expected music -from him, to look at his plumage. The indigo color was largely moulted -away--only the rags of it left. It was really pitiful to see him; so -handsome a coat, now nothing but shreds and patches. Most likely he was -not a traveler from farther north, but a lingering summer resident of -our own, as I remember to have seen three birds of his name in the same -spot fifteen days ago. It would be interesting to know whether bright -creatures of this kind do not feel humiliated and generally unhappy -when they find their beauty dropping away from them, like leaves from -the branch, as the summer wanes. - -The best bird of the month, so far,--better even than the Lincoln -finch,--was a Philadelphia vireo, happened upon all unexpectedly on -the 17th. I had stopped, as I always do in passing, to look down into -a certain dense thicket of shrubbery, through which a brook runs, a -favorite resort for birds of many kinds. At first the place seemed to -be empty, but in answer to some curiosity-provoking noises on my part a -water thrush started up to balance himself on a branch directly under -my nose, and the next moment a vireo hopped into full sight just beyond -him; a vireo with plain back and wings, with no dark lines bordering -the crown, and having the under parts of a bright yellow. He was most -obliging; indeed, he could hardly have been more so, unless he had -sung for me, and that was something not fairly to be expected. For a -good while he kept silence. Then, in response to a jay’s scream, he -began snarling, or complaining, after the family manner. I enjoyed the -sight of him as long as I could stay (he was the second one I had ever -seen with anything like certainty), and when I returned, an hour later, -he was still there, and still willing to be looked at. - -And then, to heighten my pleasure, a rose-breasted grosbeak, invisible, -but not far away, broke into a strain of most entrancing music; with -no more than half his spring voice, to be sure, but with all his May -sweetness of tone and inflection. Again and again he sang, as if he -were too happy to stop. I had heard nothing of the kind for weeks, -and shall probably hear nothing more for months. It was singing to be -remembered, like Sembrich’s “Casta Diva,” or Nilsson’s “I know that my -Redeemer liveth.” - -Scarlet tanagers are still heard and seen occasionally,--one was -calling to-day,--but none of them in tune, or wearing so much as a -single scarlet feather. Here and there, too, as we wander about the -woods, we meet--once in two or three days, perhaps--a lonesome-acting, -silent red-eyed vireo. A great contrast there is between such solitary -lingerers and the groups of gossiping chickadees that one falls in -with in the same places; so merry-hearted, so bubbling over with high -spirits, so ready to be neighborly. When I whistle to them, and they -whistle back, I feel myself befriended. - -Within a few days we must have the grand September influx of -warblers--crowds of blackpolls, myrtles, black-throated greens, and -many more. For two months yet the procession will be passing. - - - - -FOUR DREAMERS - - -I remember the first man I ever saw sitting still by himself -out-of-doors. What his name was I do not know. I never knew. He was a -stranger, who came to visit in our village when I was perhaps ten -years old. I had crossed a field, and gone over a low hill (not so low -then as now), and there, in the shade of an apple tree, I beheld this -stranger, not fishing, nor digging, nor eating an apple, nor picking -berries, nor setting snares, but sitting still. It was almost like -seeing a ghost. I doubt if I was ever the same boy afterward. Here was -a new kind of man. I wondered if he was a poet! Even then I think I had -heard that poets sometimes acted strangely, and saw things invisible to -others’ ken. - -I should not have been surprised, I suppose, to have found a man -looking at a picture, some “nice,” high-colored “chromo,” such as was -a fashionable parlor ornament in our rural neighborhood, where there -was more theology to the square foot (and no preacher then extant with -orthodoxy strait enough to satisfy it, though some could still make -the blood curdle) than there was of art or poetry to the square acre; -but to be looking at Nat Shaw’s hayfield and the old unpainted house -beyond--that marked the stranger at once as not belonging in the ranks -of common men. If he was not a poet, he must be at least a scholar. -Perhaps he was going to be a minister, for he seemed too young to be -one already. A minister had to think, of course (so I thought then), -else how could he preach? and perhaps this man was meditating a sermon. -I fancied I should like to hear a sermon that had been studied -out-of-doors. - -Times have changed with me. Now I sit out-of-doors myself, and by -myself, and look for half an hour together at a tree, or a bunch of -trees, or a lazy brook, or a stretch of green meadow. And I know that -such things can be enjoyed by one who is neither a poet nor a preacher, -but just a quite ordinary, uneducated mortal, who happens, by the -grace of God, to have had his eyes opened to natural beauty and his -heart made sensitive to the delights of solitude. I have learned that -it is possible to enjoy scenery at home as well as abroad,--scenery -without mountains or waterfalls; scenery that no tourist would call -“fine;” a bit of green valley, an ancient apple orchard, a woodland -vista, an acre of marsh, a cattle pasture. In fact, I have observed -that painters choose quiet subjects like these oftener than any of the -more exceptional and stupendous manifestations of nature. Perhaps it is -because such subjects are easier; but I suspect not. I suspect, indeed, -that they are harder, and are preferred because, to the painter’s eye, -they are more permanently beautiful. - -At this very moment I am looking at a patch of meadow inclosing a -shallow pool of standing water, over the surface of which a high wind -is chasing little waves. A few low alders are near it, and the grass -is green all about. That of itself is a sight to make a man happy. For -the world just now is consumed with drought. All the uplands are sere, -and every roadside bush is begrimed with dust. I have come through -the woods to this convenient knoll on purpose to find relief from the -prevailing desolation--to rest my eyes upon green grass. For the eye -loves green grass as well, almost, as the throat loves cold water. - -Even in my boyish country neighborhood, though nobody, or nobody that I -knew (which may have been a very different matter), did what I am now -doing, there were some, I think (one or two, at least), who in their -own way indulged much the same tastes that I have come to felicitate -myself upon possessing. I remember one man, dead long since, who was -continually walking the fields and woods, always with a spaniel at -his heels, alone except for that company. He often carried a gun, and -in autumn he snared partridges (how I envied him his skill!); but I -believe, as I look back, that best and first of all he must have loved -the woods and the silence. He was supposed to have his faults. No -doubt he had. I have since discovered that most men are in the same -category. I believe he used to “drink,” as our word was then. But I -think now that I should have liked to know him, and should have found -him congenial, if I had been mature enough, and could have got below -the protective crust which naturally grows over a man whose ways of -life and thought are different from those of all the people about him. -I have little question that when he was out of the sight of the world -he was accustomed to sit as I do to-day, and look and look and dream. - -One thing he did not dream of,--that a boy to whom he had never spoken -would be thinking of him forty years after he had taken his last ramble -and snared his last grouse. - -“An idler,” said his busier neighbors, though he earned his own living -and paid his own scot. - -“A misspent life,” said the clergy, though he harmed no one. - -But who can tell? “Who knoweth the interpretation of a thing?” Perhaps -his, also, was--for him--a good philosophy. As one of the ancients -said, “A man’s mind is wont to tell him more than seven men that sit -upon a tower.” If we are not born alike, why should we be bound to live -alike? “A handful with quietness” is not so bad a portion. - -Yes, but time is precious. Time once past never returns. - -True. - -We must make the best of it, therefore. - -True. - -By making more shoes. - -Nay, that is not so certain. - -The sun is getting low. Longer and longer tree-shadows come creeping -over the grass, making the light beyond them so much the brighter and -lovelier. The oak leaves shimmer as the wind twists the branches. The -green aftermath is of all exquisite shades. A beautiful bit of the -world. The meadow is like a cup. For an hour I have been drinking life -out of it. - -Now I will return home by a narrow path, well-worn, but barely wide -enough for a man’s steps; a path that nobody uses, so far as I know, -except myself. Till within a year or two it belonged to a hermit, -who kept it in the neatest possible condition. That was his chief -employment. His path was the apple of his eye. He was as jealous -over it as the most fastidious of village householders is over his -front-yard lawn. Not a pebble, nor so much as an acorn, must disfigure -it. Fallen twigs were his special abhorrence, though he treated them -handsomely. Little piles or stacks of them were scattered at short -intervals along the way, neatly corded up, every stick in line. I -noticed these mysterious accumulations before I had ever seen the maker -of them, and wondered not a little who could have been to so much -seemingly aimless trouble. At first I imagined that some one must have -laid the wood together with a view to carrying it home for the kitchen -stove. But the bits were too small, no bigger round, many of them, than -a man’s little finger; not even Goody Blake could have thought such -things worth pilfering for firewood; and besides, it was plain that -many of them had lain where they were over at least one winter. - -The affair remained a riddle until I saw the man himself. This I did -but a few times, a long way apart, and always at a little distance. -Generally his eyes were fastened on the ground. Sometimes he had a -stick in his hand, and was brushing leaves and other litter out of the -path. Perhaps he had married a model housekeeper in his youth, and had -gone mad over the spring cleaning. He always saw me before I could -get within easy speaking range; and he had the true woodman’s knack -of making himself suddenly invisible. Sometimes I was almost ready to -believe that he had dropped into the ground. Evidently he did not mean -to be talked with. Perhaps he feared that I should ask impertinent -questions. More likely he thought me crazy. If not, why should I be -wandering alone about the woods to no purpose? I had no path to keep in -order. - -And perhaps I am a little crazy. Medical men insist upon it that -the milder forms of insanity are much more nearly universal than -is commonly supposed. Perfectly sound minds, I understand them to -intimate, are quite as rare as perfectly sound bodies. At that rate -there cannot be more than two or three truly sane men in this small -town; and the probabilities are that I am not one of them. - - - - -A DAY IN FRANCONIA - - -It is the most delightful of autumn days, too delightful, it seemed to -me this morning, to have been designed for anything like work. Even -a walking vacationer, on pedestrian pleasures bent, would accept the -weather’s suggestion, if he were wise. Long hours and short distances -would be his programme; a sparing use of the legs, with a frequent -resort to convenient fence-rails and other seasonable invitations. -There are times, said I, when idleness itself should be taken on its -softer side; and to-day is one of them. - -Thus minded, I turned into the Landaff Valley shortly after breakfast, -and at the old grist-mill crossed the river and took my favorite road -along the hillside. As I passed the sugar grove I remembered that it -was almost exactly four months since I had spent a delicious Sunday -forenoon there, seated upon a prostrate maple trunk. Then it was -spring, the trees in fresh leaf, the grass newly sprung, the world full -of music. Bobolinks were rollicking in the meadow below, and swallows -twittered overhead. Then I sat in the shade. Now there was neither -bobolink nor swallow, and when I looked about for a seat I chose the -sunny side of the wall. - -Only four months, and the year was already old. But the mountains -seemed not to know it. Washington, Jefferson, and Adams; Lafayette, -Haystack, and Moosilauke;--not a cloud was upon one of them. And -between me and them lay the greenest of valleys. - -So for the forenoon hours I sat and walked by turns; stopping beside -a house to enjoy a flock of farm-loving birds,--bluebirds especially, -with voices as sweet in autumn as in spring,--loitering under the -long arch of willows, taking a turn in the valley woods, where a -drumming grouse was almost the only musician, and thence by easy stages -sauntering homeward for dinner. - -For the afternoon I have chosen a road that might have been made on -purpose for the man and the day. It is short (two miles, or a little -more, will bring me to the end of it), it starts directly from the -door, with no preliminary plodding through dusty village streets, -and it is not a thoroughfare, so that I am sure to meet nobody, or -next to nobody, the whole afternoon long. At any rate, no wagon -loads of staring “excursionists” will disturb my meditations. It is -substantially level, also; and once more (for a man cannot think of -everything at once) it is wooded on one side and open to the afternoon -sun on the other. For the present occasion, furthermore, it is perhaps -a point in its favor that it does not distract me with mountain -prospects. Mountains are not for all moods; there are many other -things worth looking at. Here, at this minute, as I come up a slope, I -face halfway about to admire a stretch of Gale River, a hundred feet -below, flowing straight toward me, the water of a steely blue, so far -away that it appears to be motionless, and so little in volume that -even the smaller boulders are no more than half covered. Beyond it -the hillside woods are gorgeously arrayed--pale green, with reds and -yellows of all degrees of brilliancy. The glory of autumn is nearly at -the full, and at every step the panorama shifts. As for the day, it -continues perfect, deliciously cool in the shade, deliciously warm in -the sun, with the wind northwesterly and light. Many yellow butterflies -are flitting about, and once a bright red angle-wing alights in the -road and spreads itself carefully to the sun. While I am looking at -it, sympathizing with its comfort, I notice also a shining dark blue -beetle--an oil-beetle, I believe it is called--as handsome as a jewel, -traveling slowly over the sand. - -I have been up this way so frequently of late that the individual trees -are beginning to seem like old friends. It would not take much to make -me believe that the acquaintance is mutual. “Here he is again,” I fancy -them saying one to another as I round a turn. Some of them are true -philosophers, or their looks belie them. Just now they are all silent. -Even the poplars cannot talk, it appears (a most worthy example), -without a breath of inspiration to set them going. The stillness is -eloquent. A day like this is the crown of the year. It is worth a -year’s life to enjoy it. There is much to see, but best of all is the -comfort that wraps us round and the peace that seems to brood over the -world. If the first day was of this quality, we need not wonder that -the maker of it took an artist’s pride in his work and pronounced it -good. - -As for the road, there is still another thing to be said in its praise: -While it follows a straight course, it is never straight itself for -more than a few rods together. If you look ahead a little space you are -sure to see it running out of sight round a corner, beckoning you after -it. A man would be a poor stick who would not follow. Every rod brings -a new picture. How splendid the maple leaves are, red and yellow, with -the white boles of the birches, as white as milk, or, truer still, -as white as chalk, to set off their brightness. I could walk to the -world’s end on such an invitation. - -But the road, as I said, is a short one. Its errand is only to three -farms, and I am now on the edge of the first of them. Here the wood -moves farther away, and mountains come into view,--Lafayette, Haystack, -and the Twins, with the tips of Washington, Jefferson, and Adams. -Then, when the second of the houses is passed, the prospect narrows -again. An extremely pretty wood of tall, straight trees, many fine -poplars among them (and now they are all talking), is close at my side. -The sunlight favors me, falling squarely on the shapely, light-colored -trunks (some of the poplars are almost as white as the birches), and -filling the whole place with splendor. I go on, absorbed in the lovely -spectacle, and behold, it is as if a veil were suddenly removed. The -wood is gone, and the horizon is full of mountain-tops. I have come to -the last of the farms, and in another minute or two am at the door. - -There is nobody at home, to my regret, and I sit down upon the -doorstep. Moosilauke, Kinsman, Cannon, Lafayette, Haystack, the Twins, -Washington, Clay, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison--these are enough, -though there are others, too, if a man were trying to make a story. All -are clear of clouds, and, like the trees of the wood, have the western -light full on them. Even without the help of a glass I see a train -ascending Mt. Washington. Happy passengers, say I. Would that I were -one of them! The season is ending in glory at the summit, for this is -almost or quite its last day, and there cannot have been many to match -it, the whole summer through. - -I loiter about the fields for an hour or more, looking at the blue -mountains and the nearer, gayer-colored hills, but the occupant of -the house is nowhere to be found. I was hoping for a chat with him. -A seeing man, who lives by himself in such a place as this, is sure -to have something to talk about. The last time I was here he told me -a pretty story of a hummingbird. He was in the house, as I remember -it, when he heard the familiar, squeaking notes of a hummer, and -thinking that their persistency must be occasioned by some unusual -trouble, went out to investigate. Sure enough, there hung the bird in -a spider’s web attached to a rosebush, while the owner of the web, a -big yellow-and-brown, pot-bellied, bloodthirsty rascal, was turning -its victim over and over, winding the web about it. Wings and legs -were already fast, so that all the bird could do was to cry for help. -And help had come. The man at once killed the spider, and then, little -by little, for it was an operation of no small delicacy, unwound the -mesh in which the bird was entangled. The lovely creature lay still in -his open hand till it had recovered its breath, and then flew away. -Who would not be glad to play the good Samaritan in such guise? As -I intimated just now, you may talk with a hundred smartly dressed, -smoothly spoken city men without hearing a piece of news half so -important or interesting. - -It is five o’clock when I leave the farms and am again skirting the -woods. Now I face the sun, the level rays of which transfigure the -road before me till its beauty is beyond all attempt at description. -I look at it as for a very few times in my life I have looked at a -painted landscape, with unspeakable enjoyment. The subject is of the -simplest: a few rods of common grassy road, arched with bright leaves -and drenched in sunshine; but the suggestion is infinite. After this -the way brings me into sight of the fairest of level green meadows, -with pools of smooth water--“water stilled at even”--and scattered -farmhouses. The day is ending right; and when I reach the hotel piazza -and look back, there in the east is the full moon rising in all her -splendor, attended by rosy clouds. - - - - -WITH THE WADERS - - -The 12th of October was a day. There are few like it in our -Massachusetts calendar. And by a stroke of good fortune I had chosen -it for a trip to Eagle Hill, on the North Shore. All things were near -perfection; the only drawbacks to my enjoyment being a slight excess of -warmth and an unseasonable plague of mosquitoes. - -“Yes, it is _too_ fine,” said the stable-keeper, who drove me down -from the railroad station. “It won’t last. It’s what we call a weather -breeder.” - -“So be it,” thought I. Just then I was not concerned with to-morrow. -Happy men seldom are. The stable-keeper spoke more to the purpose when -he told me that during the recent storm a most exceptional number of -birds had been driven in. A certain gunner, Cy Somebody, had shot -twenty-odd dollars’ worth in one day. “There he is now,” he remarked -after a while, as a man and a dog crossed the road just before us. “Any -birds to-day, Cy?” he inquired. The man nodded a silent affirmative--a -very unusual admission for a Yankee sportsman to make, according to my -experience. - -I was hardly on foot before I began to find traces of this good man’s -work. The first bird I saw was a sandpiper with one wing dragging -on the ground. Near it was an unharmed companion which, even when I -crowded it a little hard, showed no disposition to consult its own -safety. “Well done,” said I. “‘There is a friend that sticketh closer -than a brother.’” - -A few steps more, and a larger bird stirred amid the short -marsh herbage beyond the muddy flat--a black-bellied plover, or -“beetle-head.” He also must be disabled, I thought, to be staying in -such a place; and perhaps he was. At all events he would not fly, but -edged about me in a half circle, with the wariest kind of motions -(there was no sign of cover for him, the grass coming no more than to -his knees), always with his big black eye fastened upon me, while my -field-glass brought him near enough to show all the beauty of his spots. - -He was well worth looking at (“What short work a gunner would make -of him!” I kept repeating to myself), but I could not stay. Titlark -voices were in the air. The birds must be plentiful on the grassy hills -beyond; with them there might be Lapland longspurs; and I followed the -road. This presently brought me to a bit of pebbly beach, along which -I was carelessly walking when a lisping sound caused me to glance -down at my feet. There on the edge of the water was a bunch of seven -sandpipers; white-rumps, as I soon made out, though my first thought -had been of something else. One of them hobbled upon one leg, but -the others seemed thus far to have escaped injury. There they stood, -huddled together as if on purpose for some pot-shooter’s convenience, -while I drew them within arm’s length; pretty creatures, lovely in -their foolish innocence; more or less nervous under my inspection, but -holding their ground, each with its long black bill pointed against -the breeze. “We who are about to die salute you,” they might have been -saying. - -Having admired them sufficiently, I passed on. Titlarks were beginning -to abound, but where were the longspurs? A shot was fired some distance -away, and as I looked in that direction two great blue herons went -flying across the marsh, each with his legs behind him. It was good to -see them still able to fly. - -Then something--I have no idea what; no sight or sound that I was -sensible of--told me to look at a bird beside the little pool of water -I had just passed. It was another white-rumped sandpiper, all by -himself, nearer to me even than those I had left a little way back. -What a beauty he was!--his dark eye (which I could see winking), the -lovely cinnamon-brown shading of his back and wings, setting off the -marbled black and white, and his shyly confiding demeanor. I had -scarcely stopped before he flew to my side of the pool and stood as -near me as he could get--too near to be shot at. He too had been hit, -or so it seemed. One foot was painful, though he could put it down, if -necessary, and even take a limping step upon it. Happy bird! He had -fared well! - -Up the steep, grassy hill I started out of the road; but I soon halted -again, this time to gaze into the sky. Straight above me were numbers -of herring gulls, some far, far up under the fleecy cirrus clouds, -others much lower. All were resting upon the air, sailing in broad -circles. Round and round they went,--a kind of stationary motion, -a spectator might have called it; but in a minute or two they had -disappeared. They were progressing in circles, circle cutting circle. -It is the sea-gull’s way of taking a long flight. I remember it of old, -and have never seen anything to surpass it for gracefulness. If there -were only words to describe such things! But language is a clumsy tool. - -The hilltop offered beauty of another kind: the blue ocean, the broad, -brown marshes, dotted with haycocks innumerable, the hills landward, -a distant town, with its spires showing, the inlet yonder, whitened -with swimming gulls. Crickets chirped in the grass, herds of cattle -and sheep grazed peacefully on all sides, and when I turned my head, -there behind me, a mile away, perhaps, were the shining Ipswich dunes, -wave on wave of dazzling white sand. I ought to have stayed with the -picture, perhaps; but there were no longspurs, and somehow this was -a day for birds rather than for a landscape. I would return to the -muddy flats, and spend my time with the sandpipers and the plover. The -telltale yellow-legs were whistling, and who could guess what I might -see? - -At the little pool I must stop for another visit with my single -sandpiper. He would be there, I felt certain. And he was; as pretty -as before, and no more alarmed at my presence, though as he balanced -himself on one leg his body shook with a constant rhythmical pulsation, -as if his heart were beating more violently than a bird’s heart should. -He did not look happy, I thought. And why should he, far from home, -with a wounded foot, no company, and an unknown number of guns yet to -face before reaching the end of his long journey? He was hardly bigger -than a sparrow, but he was one of the creatures which lordly man, -endowed with “godlike reason,” a being of “large discourse,” so wise -and good that he naturally thinks of the Creator of all things as a -person very like himself, finds it amusing to kill. - -And when I came to the few rods of beach, there stood my seven -sandpipers, exactly as before. They stirred uneasily under my gaze, -whispering a few words to one another (“Will he shoot, do you think?”), -but they kept their places, bunched closely together for safety. Did -they know anything about their lonely brother--or sister--up yonder on -the hillside? If they noticed her absence, they probably supposed her -dead. Death is so common and so sudden, especially in migration time. - -Now I am back again on a grassy mound by the muddy flats, and the big -plover is still here. How alert he looks as he sees me approach! Yet -now, as an hour ago, he shows no inclination to fly. The tide is coming -in fast. He steps about in the deepening water with evident discomfort, -and whether he will or not, he must soon take to wing or wade ashore. -And while I am eyeing his motions my glass falls unexpectedly on two -sandpipers near him in the grass; pectoral sandpipers--grass-birds--I -soon say to myself, with acute satisfaction. It is many years -since I saw one. How small their heads look,--in contrast with the -plover’s,--and how thickly and finely their breasts are streaked! I -remember the portrait in Nelson’s “Birds of Alaska,” with its inflated -throat, a monstrous vocal sac, half as large as the bird itself. A -graceful wooer! - -They, too, are finding the tide a trouble, and no doubt are wishing the -human intruder would take himself off. Now, in spite of my presence, -one of them follows the other toward the land, scurrying from one bit -of tussock to another, half wading, half swimming. Time and tide wait -for no bird. Both they and the plover have given up all thoughts of -eating. They have enough to do to keep their eyes upon me and the water. - -The sandpipers, being smaller, make their retreat first. One, as he -finds himself so near a stranger, is smitten with sudden fright, and -runs by at full speed on his pretty dark-green legs. Yet both presently -become reassured, and fall to feeding with all composure almost about -my feet. I have been still so long that I must be harmless. And now the -plover himself takes wing (I am glad to find he can), but only for a -rod or two, alighting on a conical bit of island. There is nothing for -him to eat there, apparently, but at least the place will keep his feet -dry. He stands quiet, waiting. And so he continues to do for the hour -and more that I still remain. - -My own stay, I should mention, is by this time compulsory. I, too, -am on an island (I have just discovered the fact), and not choosing -to turn wader on my own account, must wait till the tide goes down. -It is no hardship. Every five minutes brings me something new. I -have only now noticed (a slight cry having drawn my attention) that -there are sandpipers of another kind here--a little flock of dunlins, -or redbacks. They are bunched on the pebbly edge of a second island -(which was not an island a quarter of an hour ago), nearer to me even -than the plover’s, and are making the best of the high tide, which -has driven them from their feeding-grounds, by taking a siesta. Once, -when I look that way,--which I can do only now and then, there are so -many distractions,--I find the whole eight with their bills tucked -under their wings. Now, isn’t that a pretty sight! Their name, as I -say, is the red-backed sandpiper; but at this season their upper parts -are of a uniform mouse color, or soft, dark gray--I hardly know how -to characterize it. It is very distinctive, whatever word we use, and -equally so is the shape of the bill, long and stout, with a downward -inflection at the tip. Eight birds, did I say? No, there are nine, for -I have just discovered another, not on the island, but under the very -edge of the grassy bank on which I am standing. He has a broken leg, -poor fellow, and seems to prefer being by himself; but by and by, with -a sudden cry of alarm, for which I can see no occasion, he flies to -rejoin his mates. - -Meanwhile, seven white-rumps have come and settled near them; the same -flock that I saw yonder on the roadside beach, I have little question. -Probably the encroaching tide has disturbed them also. At the same -time I hear distant voices of yellow-legs, and presently six birds are -seen flying in this direction. They wheel doubtfully at the unexpected -sight of a man, and drop to the ground beyond range; but I can see them -well enough. How tall they are, and how wide-awake they look, with -their necks stretched out; and how silly they are,--“telltales” and -“tattlers” indeed,--to publish their movements and whereabouts to every -gunner within a mile! While my head is turned they disappear, and I -hear them whistling again across the marsh. They are all gone, I think; -but as I look again toward my sandpipers’ island, behold! there stands -a tall fellow, his yellow legs shining, and his eye fastened upon me. -Either he has lost his reason, if he ever had any, or he knows I have -no gun. Perfectly still he keeps (he is not an absolute fool, I rejoice -to see) as long as I am looking at him. Then I look elsewhere, and -when my eye returns to his place, he is not there. He has only moved -behind the corner of the islet, however, as I find when I shift my own -position by a rod or two. He seems to be dazed, and for a wonder he -holds his tongue. - -Titlarks are about me in crowds. One is actually wading along the -shore, with the water up to his belly. Yes, he is doing it again. I -look twice to be sure of him. A flock of dusky ducks fly just above my -head, showing me the lining of their wings. Truly this is a birdy spot; -and luckily, though there are two or three “blinds” near, and guns -are firing every few minutes up and down the marshes, there is no one -here to disturb me and my friends. I could stay with them till night; -but what is that? A buggy is coming down the road out of the hills -with only one passenger. This is my opportunity. I pack up my glass, -betake myself to the roadside, and when the man responds to my question -politely, I take a seat beside him. As he gets out to unlatch the gate, -a minute afterward, a light-colored--dry-sand-colored--bird flies up -and perches on a low fence-rail. This is no wader, but is none the less -welcome. It is an Ipswich sparrow, I explain to my benefactor, who -waits for me to take an observation. The species was discovered here, -I tell him, and was named in the town’s honor. He seems interested. “I -shouldn’t have known it,” he says. So I have done some good to-day, -though I have thought only of enjoying myself. - - - - -ON THE NORTH SHORE AGAIN - - -If you have once seen a picture, says Emerson somewhere, never look at -it again. He means that hours of insight are so rare that a really high -and satisfying experience with a book, picture, landscape, or other -object of beauty is to be accepted as final, a favor of Providence -which we have no warrant to expect repeated. If you have seen a thing, -therefore, really seen it and communed with the soul of it, let that -suffice you. Attempts to live the hour over a second time will only -result in failure, or, worse yet, will cast a shadow over what ought to -have been a permanently luminous recollection. - -There is a modicum of sound philosophy in the advice. We must take -it as the counsel of an idealist, and follow it or not as occasion -bids. The words of such men, as one of them was given to saying, are -only for those who have ears to hear. We may be sure of one thing: -poems, landscapes, pictures, and all other works of art (art human or -superhuman) are never to be exhausted by one look, or by a hundred. If -a man is good for anything, and the poem or the landscape is good for -anything, he will find new meanings with new perusals. In other words, -we may turn upon Emerson and say: “Yes, but then, you know, we never -_do_ see a picture--a picture that _is_ a picture.” - -As was related a week ago, I spent the 12th of October on the North -Shore. I brought back the remembrance of a glorious piece of the -world’s beauty. In outline, I had it in my mind. But I knew perfectly, -both at the time and afterward, that I had not really made it my own. -I had been too much taken up with other things. The eye does not see -the landscape; nor does the mind see it. The eye is the lens, the -mind is the plate. The landscape prints itself upon the mind, through -the eye. But the mind must be sensitive and still, and--what is -oftener forgotten--the exposure must be sufficiently prolonged. The -clearest-eyed genius ever born never saw a landscape in ten minutes. - -On all grounds, then, I was entitled to another look. And this time, -perhaps, the Lapland longspurs would be there to be enjoyed with the -rest. I would go again, therefore; and on the morning of the 18th, long -before daylight, judging by the quietness of the trees outside that the -wind had gone down (for wind is a serious hindrance to quiet pleasure -at the seashore in autumn, and visits must be timed accordingly), I -determined to set out in good season and secure a longish day. Venus -and the old moon were growing pale in the east when I started forth, -and three hours afterward I was footing it through Ipswich village -toward East Street and the sea. - -As I crossed the marsh and approached the gate, a stranger overtook me. -We managed the business together, one pulling the gate to, the other -tending the hook and staple, and we spoke of the unusual greenness of -the hills before us, on which flocks and herds were grazing. “There’s -better feed now than there’s been all summer,” the stranger said. It -was easy to believe it. Those broad-backed, grassy hills are one of the -glories of the North Shore. - -I followed the road as it led me among them. A savanna sparrow had been -dodging along the edge of a ditch near the gate; titlark voices at once -became common, and after a turn or two I saw before me a bunch of shore -larks dusting themselves in the sandy middle of the track. They were -making thorough work of it, crowding their breasts and necks, and even -the sides of their heads into the soil, with much shaking of feathers -afterward. - -The road brought me to a beach, where were two or three houses, and, -across the way, a pond stocked with wooden geese and ducks, with an -underground blind for gunners in the side of the hill. Some delights -are so keen that it is worth elaborate preparations to enjoy them. Here -the titlarks were in extraordinary force, and I lingered about the -spot for half an hour, awaiting the longspurs that might be hoped for -in their company. Hoped for, but nothing more. I was still too early, -perhaps. - -Well, their absence, the fact of it once accepted, left me free-minded -for the main object of my trip. I would go up the hill, over the -grass, and take the prospect northward. A narrow depression, down -which a brook trickled with a pleasant, companionable noise, as if -it were talking to itself, afforded me shelter from the wind, and at -the same time bounded my outlook on either side, as a frame bounds a -picture. The hill fell away sharply to the water just beyond my feet, -and up and down the inlet gulls were flying. Once, to my pleasure, -two black-backed “coffin-bearers” passed, the only ones I was able to -discover among the thousands of herring gulls that filled the air and -the water, and crowded the sand-bars, the whole day long. Across the -blue water were miles of brown marsh, and beyond the marsh rose wooded -hills veiled with haze, the bright autumnal colors shining through. -Crickets were still musical, buttercups and dandelions starred the -turf, and once a yellow butterfly (Philodice) flitted near. The summer -was gone, but here were some of its children to keep it remembered. -Titlarks walked daintily about the grass, or balanced themselves upon -the boulders, and once I turned my head just in time to see a marsh -hawk sailing over the hill at my back, his white rump showing. - -When I had left the hills behind me, and was again skirting the muddy -flats, I found myself all at once near a few sandpipers,--a dozen, more -or less, of white-rumps,--one with a foot dragging, one with a leg held -up, and beside them a single red-back, or dunlin, staggering on one -leg, the same bird, it seemed likely, that I had pitied a week ago. I -pitied him still. Ornithology, studied under such conditions, was no -longer the cheerful, exhilarating science to which I am accustomed. It -was more like sociology. - -Perhaps I am sentimental. If so, may I be forgiven. There is no man but -has his weakness. The dunlin was nothing, I knew; one among thousands; -a few ounces of flesh with feathers on it; what if he did suffer? It -was none of my business. Why should I take other men’s amusements -sadly? The bird was greatly inferior to the being who shot him; at -least that is the commonly accepted theory; and the superior, as every -one but an anarchist must admit, has the rights of superiority. And -for all that, the dunlin seemed a pretty innocent, and I wished that -he had two good legs. As for his being only one of thousands, so am -I--and no very fine one either; but I shouldn’t like to be shot at from -behind a wall; and when I have a toothache, the sense of my personal -insignificance is of small use in dulling the pain. Poor dunlin! - -I allowed myself two hours from the gate back to the railroad station, -though it is less than an hour’s walk. Some of the fairest views are -to be obtained from the road; and there, I told myself, I should be -sheltered from the wind and could sit still at my ease. The first half -of the distance, too, would take me between pleasant hedgerows, in -which are many things worthy of a stroller’s notice. - -For some time, indeed, I did little but stop and look behind. The -marshes pulled me about: so level, so expansive, so richly brown, -so pointed with haycocks (once, the notion taking me, I counted far -enough to see that there were more than two hundred in sight), and so -beautifully backed by the golden autumnal hills. I can see them yet, -though I have nothing to say about them. - - “The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!” - -Trains of gulls went flying up the inlet as the tide went out. They -live by the sea’s almanac as truly as the clam-diggers, two of whom I -had watched, an hour before, sailing across the inlet in a rude boat -(more picturesque by half than a gentleman’s yacht), and setting about -their day’s work on a shoal newly uncovered. Thank Heaven, there are -still some occupations that cannot be carried on in a factory. - -The roadsides were bright with gay-colored fruits: barberries, thorn -apples, Roxbury waxwork, and rose-hips. Of thorn bushes there were at -least two kinds; one already bare-branched, with scattered small fruit; -the other still in leaf, and loaded with gorgeous clusters of large -red apples. More interesting to me than any of these were the frost -grapes; familiar acquaintances of an Old Colony boyhood, but now grown -to be strangers. They were shining black, ripe and juicy (of the size -of peas), and if their sweetness failed to tempt the palate, that, for -aught I know, may have been the eater’s fault rather than theirs. Why -might not their quality be of a too excellent sort, beyond his too -effeminate powers of appreciation? Is there any certainty that man’s -taste is final in such matters? Was my own criticism of them anything -more than a piece of unscientific, inconclusive impressionism? - -Surely they were not without a tang. The most exacting mouth could not -deny them individuality. I tried them, and retried them; but after all, -they seemed most in place on the vines. To me, in the old days, they -were known only as frost grapes. Others, it appears, have called them -chicken grapes, possum grapes, and winter grapes. No doubt they find -customers before the season is over. Thoreau should have liked them -and praised them, but I do not recall them in his books. Probably they -do not grow in Concord. They are of his kin, at all events, wildings -of the wild. I wish I had brought a bunch or two home with me. In my -present mood I believe they would “go to the spot.” - -But if I was glad to see the frost grapes, I was gladder still to see -a certain hickory tree. I was scarcely off the marsh before I came to -it, and had hardly put my eye upon it before I said to myself (although -so far as I could have specified, it looked like any other hickory; -but there is a kind of knowledge, or half knowledge, that does not -rest upon specifications), “There! That should be a bitternut tree.” -Now the bitternut is not to be called a rarity, I am assured; but -somehow I had never found it, notwithstanding I was a nut-gatherer in -my youth, and have continued to be one to this day, an early taste -for wild forage being one of the virtues that are seldom outgrown. -Well, something distracted my attention just then, and I contented -myself with putting a leaf and a handful of nuts into my pocket. Only -on getting home did I crack one and find it bitter. Now, several days -afterward, I have cracked another, and tested it more fully. The shell -is extremely thin,--like a pecan nut’s for fragility,--and the meat, -which is large and full, is both bitter and puckery, suggesting the -brown inner partitions of a pecan shell, which the eater learns so -carefully to avoid. In outward appearance the nut is a pig-nut pure and -simple, the reader being supposed to be enough of a countryman to know -that pig-nuts, like wild fruits in general, vary interminably in size, -shape, and goodness. - -Pretty butter-and-eggs still bloomed beside the stone wall, and the -“folksy mayweed” was plentiful about a barnyard. Out from the midst -of it scampered a rabbit as I approached the fence to look over. He -disappeared in the cornfield, his white tailtip showing last, and I -wondered where he belonged, as there seemed to be neither wood nor -shrubbery within convenient distance. - -Just beyond this point (after noticing a downy woodpecker in a -Balm-o’-Gilead tree, if the careful compositor will allow me that -euphonious Old Colony contraction), I had stopped to pick up a shagbark -when five children, the oldest a girl of nine or ten, came down the -road together. - -“Out of school, so early?” said I. - -“No,” was the instantaneous response; “we’ve got the whooping cough.” - -“Ah, that’s better than going to school, isn’t it?” said I, not so -careful of my moral influence as a descendant of the Puritans ought to -have been, perhaps; but I spoke from impulse, remembering myself how I -also was tempted. - -“Yes,” said one of the children; “No,” said another; and the reader may -believe which he will, looking into his own childish heart, if he can -still find it, as I hope he can. - -Apple trees were loaded; hollyhocks, marigolds, and even tender cannas -and dahlias, still brightened the gardens (so much for being near -the sea, even on the North Shore), but what I most admired were the -handsome yellow quinces in many of the dooryards. Quince preserve must -be a favorite dish in Ipswich. I thought I should like to live here. -I could smell the golden fruit--in my mind’s nose--clean across the -way. And when I reached the village square I stopped (no, I walked -slowly) to watch a real Old Colony game that I had not seen played for -many a day. Two young men had stuck a jackknife into the hard earthen -sidewalk and were “pitching cents.” It was like an old daguerreotype. -One of the gamesters was having hard luck, but was taking it merrily. -“I owe you six,” I heard him say, as his coin stood on edge and rolled -perversely away from the knife-blade. - -This was very near to “Meeting-house Green.” I hope I am doing no harm -to speak of it. - - - - -AUTUMNAL MORALITIES - - -For the month past my weekly talk has been more or less a traveler’s -tale--of things among the mountains and at the seaside. Now, on this -bright afternoon in the last week of October, a month that every -outdoor man saddens to see coming to an end (like May, it is never half -long enough), let me note a little of what is passing in the lanes and -by-roads nearer home. - -Leaves are rustling below and above. As is true sometimes in higher -circles, they seem to grow loquacious with age; the slightest occasion, -the merest nudge of suggestion, the faintest puff of the spirit sets -them off. For me they will never talk too much. I love their preaching -seven days in the week. The driest of them never teased my ears with a -dry sermon. I scuff along the path on purpose to stir them up. “Your -turn will come next,” I hear them saying; but the message does not -sound like bad news. I listen to it with a kind of pleasure, as to -solemn music. If the doctor or the clergyman had brought me the same -word, my spirit might have risen in rebellion; but the falling leaf may -say what it likes. It has poet’s leave. - -How gracefully they come to the ground, here one and there another; -slowly, slowly, with leisurely dips and turns, as if the breeze loved -them and would buoy them up till the last inevitable moment. Children -of air and sunshine, they must return to the dust. So all things move -in circles,--life and death, death and life. Happy leaves! they depart -without formalities, with no funereal trappings. The wind whispers to -them, and they follow. - -As I watch them falling, a gray squirrel startles me. I rejoice to see -him. He, too, is a falling leaf. In truth, his living presence takes -me by surprise. So many gunners have been in this wood of late, all so -murderously equipped, that I had thought every squirrel must before -this time have gone into the game-bag. Be careful, young fellow; you -will need all your spryness and cunning, all your knack of keeping -on the invisible side of the trunk, or your frolic will end in sudden -blackness. This is autumn, the sickly season for squirrels and birds. -“The law is off,” and the gun is loaded to kill you. Take a friend’s -advice, and fight shy of everything that walks upright “in the image of -God.” - -Yonder round-topped sweet birch tree is one of October’s masterpieces; -a sheaf of yellow leaves with the sun on them. How they shine! Yet it -is not so much they as the sunlight. Nay, it is both. Let the leaves -have the honor that belongs to them. In a week they will all be under -foot. To-day they are bright as the sun, and airy and frolicsome as -so many butterflies. Blessed are my eyes that see them. And look! how -the light (what a painter it is!) glorifies the lower trunk of the -white oak just beyond. The furrowed gray bark is so perfect a piece of -absolute beauty that, if it were framed and set up in a gallery, the -crowd--or the few that are better than a crowd--would be always before -it. So cheap and universal are visual delights, so little dependent -upon place or season--sunlight and the bark of a tree! - -In the branches overhead are chestnut-loving blackbirds, every one -with a crack in his voice. Far away a crow is cawing, and from another -direction a jay screams. These speak to the world at large. Half the -township may hear what they have to offer. I like them; may their -speech never be a whit softer or more musical; but if comparisons are -in order, I give my first vote for less public--more intimate--birds, -such as speak only to the grove or the copse. And even as I confess my -preference, a bluebird’s note confirms it: a voice that caresses the -ear; such a tone as no human mouth or humanly invented instrument can -ever produce the like of. He has no need to sing. His simplest talk is -music. - -Here, by the wayside, a few asters have sprung up after the scythe, -and are freshly in flower. How blue they are! And how much handsomer -a few stalks of them look now than a full acre did two months ago. -So acceptable is scarcity. There is nothing to equal it for the -heightening of values. It is only the poor who know what money is -worth. It is only in October and November that we feel all the charm -of _Aster lævis_. I think of Bridget Elia’s lament over the “good old -times” when she and her cousin were “not quite so rich.” Then the -spending of a few shillings had a zest about it. A purchase was an -event, a kind of festival. I believe in Bridget’s philosophy; for the -asters teach the same; yes, and the goldenrods also. They, too, have -come up in the wake of the scythe, and still dwarfed, having no time to -attain their natural growth, as if they knew that winter was upon them, -are already topped with yellow. I carry home a scanty half handful of -the two, asters and goldenrods, as treasure-trove. They are sure to be -welcome. When all the fields were bright with such things, they seemed -hardly worth house-room. This late harvest of blossoms is one small -compensation for all the ugliness inflicted upon the landscape by the -habit--inveterate with highway “commissioners”--of mowing back-country -roadsides. As if stubble were prettier than a hedge! - -Now I pass two long-armed white oaks, which I never come near without -thinking of a friend of mine and of theirs who used to walk hereabouts -with me; a real tree lover, who loves not species, not white oaks -and red oaks, but individual trees, and goes to see them as one -goes to see a man or a woman. This pair he always called the twins. -They have summered and wintered each other for a hundred years. Who -knows--putting the matter on grounds of pure science--whether they do -not enjoy each other’s companionship? Who knows that trees have no kind -of sentience? Not I. We take a world of things for granted; and if all -our neighbors chance to do the same, we let the general assumption pass -for certainty. If trees _do_ know anything, I would wager that it is -something worth knowing, something quite as good as is to be found in -any newspaper. - -Here are red maples as bare as December, and yonder is one that is -almost in full leaf; and by some freak of originality every leaf is -bright yellow. Three days more and it will be naked also. Under it -are white-alder bushes (_Clethra_) clothed in dark purple, and tall -blueberry bushes all in red, with yellow shadings by way of contrast. -This is in a swampy spot, where a lonesome hyla is peeping. Just -beyond, the drier ground is reddened--under the trees--with huckleberry -and dangleberry. Nobody who has not attended to the matter would -imagine how much of the brightness of our New England autumn--one -of the pageants of the world--is due to these lowly bushes, which -most people think of solely as useful in the production of pies and -puddings. Without being mown, the huckleberry bears a second crop--a -crop of color. It is twice blest; it blesses him that eats and him -that looks. In many parts of New England, at least, the autumnal -landscape could better spare the maples than the blueberries and the -huckleberries. Rum-cherry trees and shrubs--more shrubs than trees--are -dressed in lovely shades of yellow and salmon. Spicebushes wear plain -yellow of a peculiarly delicate cast. I roll a leaf in my hand and -find it still spicy. A bush looks handsomer, I believe, if it is known -to smell good. The same thought came to me a week ago while I was -admiring the sassafras leaves. They were then just at the point of -ripeness. Now they have turned to a dead brown. The maple’s way is in -better taste--to shed its leaves while they are still bright and fresh. -They are under my feet now, a carpet of red and yellow. - -One of the oddest bits of fall coloration (I cannot profess greatly -to like it) is the ghostly white--greenish white--of Roxbury waxwork -leaves. It is unique in these parts, so far as I can recall, but is -almost identical with the pallor of striped maple foliage (_Acer -Pennsylvanicum_) as one sees it in the White Mountains. Waxwork -pigments all go to the berries, it appears. These are showy enough to -suit the most barbaric taste, and are among the things that speak to me -strongest of far-away times, when my childish feet were just beginning -to wander in nature’s garden. The sight of them reminds me of what a -long time I have lived. - -A gust of wind strikes a tall willow just as I approach it. See the -leaves tumble! Thick and fast they come, a leafy shower, with none of -those pretty, hesitating, parachute-like reluctances which we noticed -the rounder and lighter birch leaves practicing half an hour ago. The -willow leaves, narrow and pointed, fall more like arrows. I am put in -mind, I cannot tell why, of an early morning hour, years ago, when I -happened to cross a city garden after the first killing frost, and -stopped near a Kentucky coffee-tree. Its foliage had been struck with -death. Not a breath was stirring, but the leaves, already blackened -and curled, dropped in one continuous rain. The tree was out of its -latitude, and had been caught with its year’s work half done. The frost -was a tragedy. This breeze among the willow branches is nothing so bad -as that. Its errand is all in the order of nature. It calls those who -are ready. - -My meditations are still running with the season, still playing with -mortality, when a blue jay quits a branch near by (I had not seen -him) and flies off in silence. The jay is a knowing bird. No need to -tell _him_ that there is a time for everything under the sun. He has -proverbial philosophy to spare. Hark! he has found his voice; like a -saucy schoolboy, who waits till he is at a safe distance and then puts -his thumb to his nose, and cries “Yaah, yaah!” - -Well, the reader may thank him for one thing. He has made an end of my -autumnal sermon, the text of which, if any one cares to look for it, -may be found in the sixty-fourth chapter of Isaiah, at the sixth verse. - - - - -A TEXT FROM THOREAU - - -“There is no more tempting novelty than this new November. No going -to Europe or to another world is to be named with it. Give me the old -familiar walk, post-office and all, with this ever new self, with this -infinite expectation and faith which does not know when it is beaten. -We’ll go nutting once more. We’ll pluck the nut of the world and crack -it in the winter evenings. Theatres and all other sight-seeing are -puppet shows in comparison. I will take another walk to the cliff, -another row on the river, another skate on the meadow, be out in the -first snow, and associate with the winter birds. Here I am at home. In -the bare and bleached crust of the earth, I recognize my friend.” - -Thus bravely did Thoreau enter upon the gray month. It was in 1858, -when he was forty-one years old. He wants nothing new, he assures -himself. He will “take the shortest way round and stay at home.” “Think -of the consummate folly of attempting to go away from _here_,” he says, -underscoring the final word. As if whatever place a man might move -to would not be “here” to him! As if he could run away from his own -shadow! So I interpret the italics. - -His protestations, characteristically unqualified and emphatic, imply -that thoughts of travel have beset him. Probably they beset every -outdoor philosopher at this short-day season. They are part of the -autumnal crop. Our northern world begins to look--in cloudy moods--like -a place to escape from. The birds have gone, the leaves have fallen, -the year is done. “Let us arise and go also,” an inward voice seems to -whisper. Not unlikely there is in us all the dormant remainder of an -outworn migratory instinct. Civilization has caged us and tamed us; -“hungry generations” have trodden us down; but below consciousness and -memory there still persists the blind stirring of ancestral impulse. -The fathers were nomads, and the children’s feet are still not quite -content with day’s work in a treadmill. - -Let our preferences be what they may, however, the greater number of -us must stay where we are put, and play the hand that is dealt to -us, happy if we can face the dark side of the year with a measure of -philosophy. If there is a new self, as Thoreau says, there will be a -new world and a new season. If we carry the tropics within us, we need -not dream of Florida. And even if there is no constraint upon our going -and coming, we need not be in haste to run away. We may safely wait -a week or two, at least. November is often not half so bad as it is -painted--not half so bad, indeed, as Thoreau himself sometimes painted -it. For the eleventh month was not one of his favorites. “November -Eat-Heart,” he is more than once moved to call it. The experience of -it puts his equanimity to the proof. Even his bravest words about -it sound rather like a defiance than a welcome,--a little as if he -were whistling to keep up his courage. With the month at its worst, -he confesses, he has almost to drive himself afield. He can hardly -decide upon any route; “all seem so unpromising, mere surface-walking -and fronting the cold wind.” “Surface-walking.” How excellent that is! -Every contemplative outdoor man knows what is meant, but only Thoreau -could have hit it off to such perfection in a word. - -I must admit that I am not sorry to find the Walden stoic once in a -long while overtaken by such a comparatively unheroic mood. He boasted -so often and so well (with all the rest he boasted of his boasting) -that it pleases me to hear him complain. So the weather could be too -much even for him, I say to myself, with something like a chuckle. He -was mortal, after all; and the day was sometimes dark, even in Concord. - -Not that he ever whimpered. And had he done so, in any moment of -weakness, it should never have been for me to lay a public finger upon -the fact. Nobody shall be more loyal to Thoreau than I am, though -others may understand him better and praise him more adequately. -If he complained, he did it “man-fashion,” and was within a man’s -right. To say that the worst of Massachusetts weather is never to be -spoken against is to say too much; it is stretching the doctrine of -non-resistance to the point of absurdity. As well forbid us to carry -umbrellas, or to put up lightning-rods. There is plenty of weather that -deserves to be spoken against. - -Only let it be done, as I say, “man-fashion;” and having said our say, -let us go about our business again, making the best of things as they -are--as Thoreau did. For, having owned his disrelish for what the gods -provided, he quickly recovered himself, and proceeded to finish his -entry in a cheerier strain. Matters are not so desperate with him, -after all. He has to force himself out-of-doors, it is true, but once -in the woods he often finds himself “unexpectedly compensated.” “The -thinnest yellow light of November is more warming and exhilarating than -any wine they tell of.” He meets with something that interests him, and -immediately the day is as warm as July--as if the wind had shifted from -northwest to south. There is the secret, in November as in May--to be -interested. Then there is no longer a question of “surface-walking.” -The soul is concerned, and life has begun anew. - -Thus far, the present November (I write on the 4th) has been unusually -mild; some days have been really summer-like, too warm for comfort; -but the sun has shone only by minutes--now and then an hour, at the -most. Deciduous trees are nearly bare, the oaks excepted; flowers are -few and mostly out of condition, though it would be easy to make a -pretty high-sounding list of names; and birds are getting to be almost -as scarce as in winter. There is no longer any quiet strolling in the -woods. If you wish to listen for small sounds you must stand still. The -ground is so thick with crackling leaves that it is impossible to go -silently. Everything prophesies of the death of the year. It is almost -time for the snow to fall and bury what remains of it. - -Yet in warm days one may still see dragon-flies on the wing. Yesterday -meadow larks were singing with the greatest abandon and in something -like a chorus. I must have seen a dozen, and most if not all of them -were in tune. On the 1st of the month a grouse drummed again and -again; an unseasonable piece of lyrical enthusiasm, one might think; -but I doubt if it was anything so very exceptional. Once, indeed, -a few years ago, I heard a grouse drum repeatedly in January, on a -cloudy day, when the ground in the woods was deep under snow. That, -I believe, was an event much out of the common, though by no means -without precedent. I wish Thoreau could have been there; he would have -improved the occasion so admirably. So long as the partridge can keep -his spirits up to the drumming point, why should the rest of us outdoor -people pull a long face over hard times and short rations? Shall we be -less manly than a bird? - -The partridge will neither migrate nor hibernate, but looks winter in -the eye and bids the wind whistle. It is too bad if we who command the -services of coal dealers and plumbers, tailors and butchers, doctors -and clergymen, cannot stand our ground with a creature that knows -neither house nor fuel, and has nothing for it, summer and winter, -but to live by his wits. To the partridge man must look like a weak -brother, a coddler of himself, ruined by civilization and “modern -improvements;” a lubber who would freeze to death where a chickadee -bubbles over with the very joy of living. - -With weather-braving souls like these Thoreau would associate; and so -will I. It is true, what all the moralists have told us, that it is -good for a man to keep company with his superiors. Not that in my own -case I look for their example and tuition to make me inherently better; -it is getting late for that; “nothing that happens after we are twelve -counts for very much;” I shall be content if they make me happier. -And so much I surely depend upon. Good spirits are contagious. It is -the great advantage of keeping a dog, that he has happiness to spare, -and gives to his master. So a flock of chickadees, or snowbirds, or -kinglets, or tree sparrows, or goldfinches brighten a man’s day. He -comes away smiling. I will go out now and prove it. - - - - -THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY - - -This wintry November forenoon I was on a sea beach; the sky clouded, -the wind high and cold, cutting to the marrow; a bleak and comfortless -place. A boy, dragging a child’s cart, was gathering chips of driftwood -along the upper edge of the sand,--one human figure, such as painters -use to make a lonesome scene more lonesome. A loon, well offshore, -sat rocking upon the water, now lifted into sight for an instant, now -lost behind a wave. Distant sails and a steamship were barely visible -through the fog. So much for the world on its seaward side. There was -little to cheer a man’s soul in that quarter. - -On the landward side were thickets of leafless rosebushes covered with -scarlet hips; groves of tall, tree-like, smooth-barked alders; swampy -tracts, wherein were ilex bushes bright with red Christmas berries, -and blueberry bushes scarcely less bright with red leaves. Sometimes -it was necessary to put up an opera-glass before I could tell one from -the other. Here was a marshy spot; dry, shivering sedges standing above -the ice, and among them four or five mud-built domes of muskrat houses. -Shrewd muskrats! They knew better than to be stirring abroad on a day -like this. “If you haven’t a house, why don’t you build one?” they -might have said to the man hurrying past, with his neck drawn down into -his coat collar. Here I skirted a purple cranberry bog, having tufts of -dwarfed, stubby bayberry bushes scattered over it, each with its winter -crop of pale-blue, densely packed, tightly held berry clusters. - -Not a flower; not a bird. Not so much as a crow or a robin in one -of the stunted savin trees. I remembered winter days here, a dozen -years ago, when the alder clumps were lively with tree sparrows, -myrtle warblers, and goldfinches. Now the whole peninsula was a place -forsaken. I had better have stayed away myself. Here, as so often -elsewhere, memory was the better sight. - -By a summer cottage upon the rocks was a ledge matted over with the -Japanese trailing white rose. There were no blossoms, of course, but -what with the leaves, still of a glossy green, and the bunches of -handsome, high-colored hips, the vine could hardly have been more -beautiful, I was ready to say, even when the roses were thickest upon -it. Beside another house a pink poppy still looked fresh. Frail, -belated child of summer! I could hardly believe my eyes. All its human -admirers were gone long since. Every cottage stood vacant. Nobody would -live here in this icy wind, if he could find another place to flee to. -I remembered Florida beaches, summery abodes, where every breath from -the sea brought a welcome coolness. Why should I not take the next -train southward? Shall a man be less sensible than a bird? - -That was five or six hours ago. Now I am a dozen miles inland. The air -is so still that the sifting snowflakes fall straight downward. Even -the finest twigs of the gray-birches, so sensitive to the faintest -breath, can hardly be seen to stir. A narrow foot-path under the -window is a line of white running through the green grass. Beyond that -is the brown hillside, brightened with a few pitch-pines; and then a -veil shuts down upon the world, with a spray of bare treetops breaking -through. It is the gray month in its grayest mood. - -Be it so. I will sit at my window and enjoy the world as it is. This -sombre day has a beauty and charm of its own--the charm of melancholy. -The wise course is to tune our thought to nature’s mood of soberness, -rather than to force a different note, profaning the hour, and -cheating ourselves with shallow talk and laughter. There is a time for -everything under the sun--L’ Allegro and Il Penseroso, each in its turn. - -Now is a time to think of what has been and of what will be. Only the -other day the year was young; grass was greening, violets were budding, -birds were mating and singing. Now the birds are gone, the flowers are -dead, the year is ending as all the years have ended before it. - -And as the year is, so are we. A few days ago we were children, just -venturing to run alone. We knew nothing, had seen nothing, looked -forward to nothing. Life for us was only a day in a house and a -dooryard, a span of playtime between two sleeps. - -A few days ago, I say. Yet what a weary distance we have traveled since -then, and what an infinity of things we have seen and dealt with. How -many thoughts we have had, coming we know not whence, how many hopes, -one making way for the other, how many dreams. We have made friends; -friends that were to be friends forever; and long, long ago, with no -fault on either side, the currents of the world carrying us, they and -we have drifted apart. It is all we can do now to recall their names -and their manner of being. Some of them we should pass for strangers if -we met them face to face. - -What a long procession of things and events have gone by us and been -forgotten. Almost we have forgotten our own childish names, it is so -many years since any one called us by them. Should we know ourselves, -even, if we met in the street the boy or girl of thirty or forty or -fifty years ago? Was it indeed we who lived then? who believed such -things, enjoyed such things, concerned ourselves with such things, -trembled with such fears, were lifted up by such hopes, felt ourselves -enriched by such havings? How shadowy and unreal they look now; and -once they were as substantial as life and death. Nay, it is some one -else whose past we are remembering. The boy and the man cannot be the -same. - -Shall we rejoice or be sad that we have outgrown ourselves thus -completely? Something of both, perhaps. It matters not. The year is -ending, the night is falling. The past is as if it had never been; the -future is nothing; and the present is less than either of them. Life is -a vapor; nothing, and less than nothing, and vanity. - -So we say to ourselves, not sadly, but with a kind of satisfaction -to have it so. Yet we love to live over the past, and, with less -assurance, to dream of the future. - - “The flower that once has blown forever dies.” - -Yes, we have heard that, and we will not dispute; this is not an hour -for disputing; but the flowers that bloomed forty years ago--the -iris and the four-o’clocks in a child’s garden--we can still see in -recollection’s magic glass. And they are brighter than any rose that -opened this morning. We have forgotten things without number; but other -things--we shall never forget them. A friend or two that died when they -and we were young; “the loveliest and the best;” we can see them more -plainly than most of those whose empty, conventionalized faces, each -like the other, each wearing its mask, we meet day by day in the common -round of business and pleasure. Death, which seemed to destroy them, -has but set them beyond the risk of alteration and forgetfulness. - -After all, the past is our one sure possession. There is our miser’s -chest. With that, while memory holds for us the key, we shall still be -rich. There we will spend our gray hours, with friends that have kept -their youth; one of the best of them our own true self, not as we were, -nor as we are, but as we meant to be. - - “These pleasures, Melancholy, give; - And I with thee will choose to live.” - - - - -IN THE OLD PATHS - - -For men who know how to bear themselves company there are few better -ways of improving a holiday, especially a home-keeping, home-coming, -family feast, like our autumnal Thanksgiving, than to walk in one’s -own childish steps--up through the old cattle pasture behind the old -homestead, into the old woods. Every jutting stone in the path--and -there are many--is just where it was. Your feet remember them perfectly -(as your hand remembers which way the door-knob turns, though you -yourself might be puzzled to tell), and of their own accord take -a zigzag course among them, coming down without fail in the clear -intermediary spaces. Or if, by chance, in some peculiarly awkward spot, -the toe of your boot forgets itself, the jar only helps you to feel -the more at home. You say with the poet, “I have been here before.” -Some things are unaltered, you are glad to find. The largest of the -trees have been felled, but nobody has dug out the protruding boulders -or blasted away the outcropping ledges. One good word we may say for -death. It lasts well. It is nothing like a vapor. - -Not a rod of the way but talks to you of something. Here, on the left, -down in the hollow by the swamp, you used to set snares. Once--fateful -day!--you found a partridge in the noose. Then what a fury possessed -you! If you had shot your first elephant you could hardly have been -more completely beside yourself. It was a cruel sight; you felt it so; -but you had caught a partridge! With all your boyish unskillfulness you -had lured the unhappy bird to his death. A spray of red barberries had -been too bright for his resistance. He discovered his mistake when the -cord began to pull. “Oh, why was I such a fool!” he thought; just as -you have thought more than once since then, when you have run your own -neck into some snare of the fowler. - -Yonder, on the right, grew little scattered patches of trailing -arbutus. Every spring you gathered a few blossoms, going thither day -after day, watching for them to open. And the patches are there still. -Some of them are no broader than a dinner plate, and the largest of -them would not cover the top of a bushel basket. For more than fifty -years--perhaps for more than five hundred--they have looked as they -do now; a few score of leaves and an annual crop of a dozen or two of -flowers. Their endurance, with so many greedy hands after them, is one -of the miracles. Probably they are older than any tree in the township. -It isn’t the tall things that live longest. - -Here the path goes through an opening in a rude stone wall, which was -tumbling down as long ago as you can remember. Beyond it, in your -day, stood a dense pine wood, a darksome, solemn place, where you -went quietly. Now, not a pine is left. A mere wilderness of hardwood -scrub. The old “cart-path,” which at this point swerved to the left, -has grown over till there is no following it. But the loss does not -matter. You take a trail among the boulders, a trail familiar to you -of old; the same that you took in winter, skates in hand, bound for -Jason Halfbrook’s meadow. Many a merry hour you spent there, heedless -of the cold. You could skate then, or thought you could. The backward -circle, the “Dutch roll,” the “spread-eagle,” these and other wonders -were in your repertory. They were feats to be proud of, and you made -the most of them. Nor need you feel ashamed now at the recollection. -When the Preacher said, “There is nothing better than that a man should -rejoice in his own works,” he was not thinking exclusively of an author -and his books. You did well to be proud while you were able. It was -pride, in part, that kept you warm. Now, if you stand beside a city -skating-resort, you see young fellows performing feats that throw all -your old-fashioned, countrified accomplishments into the shade. You -look on, open-mouthed. Boys of to-day have better skates than you had. -Perhaps they have better legs. One thing they do not have,--a better -time. - -This morning, however, you are not going to the Halfbrook meadow. There -is no ice, or none that will bear a man’s weight; and perhaps you -would not skate if there were. Do I take you to be too old? No, not -that; but you are out of practice. I should hate to see you risking -yourself well over on the outer edge, or attempting a sudden turnabout. -And you agree with me, I imagine, for you quit the trail at the Town -Path (the compositor will please allow the capitals--the path deserves -them) and turn your steps northward. The path, I say, deserves a proper -name. It is not strictly a highway, I am aware; if you were to stumble -into a hole here, the town could not be held liable for damages; -but it is a pretty ancient thoroughfare, nevertheless, a reasonably -straight course through the woods by the long way of them. Generation -after generation has traveled it. You are walking not only in your own -footsteps, but in those of your ancestors, who must have gone this -way many a time to speak and vote at town meeting. Some of the oldest -of them are buried in this very wood, less than half a mile back; a -resting-place such as you would like pretty well for yourself when the -time comes. - -You follow the path till it brings you near to a cliff. This is one of -the places you had in your eye on setting out. This land is yours, and -you have come to look at it. - -A strange thing it is, an astonishing impertinence, that a man should -assume to own a piece of the earth; himself no better than a wayfarer -upon it; alighting for a moment only; coming he knows not whence, going -he knows not whither. Yet convention allows the claim. Men have agreed -to foster one another’s illusions in this regard, as in so many others. -They knew, blindly, before any one had the wit to say it in so many -words, that “life is the art of being well deceived.” And so they have -made you owner of this acre or two of woodland. All the power of the -State would be at your service, if necessary, in maintaining the title. - -These tall pine trees are yours. You have sovereignty over them, to -use a word that is just now sweet in the American mouth. You may do -anything you like with them. They are older than you, I should guess, -and in the order of nature they will long outlive you; for aught I -know, also, it may be true, what Thoreau said (profanely, as some -thought), that they will go to as high a heaven; but for the time -being they have no rights that you are under the slightest obligation -to consider. You may kill them to-morrow, and nobody will accuse you of -murder. You may turn all their beauty to ashes, and it will be nobody’s -business to remonstrate. The trees are yours. - -I hope, notwithstanding, that you do not quite think so. I would rather -believe that you look upon your so-called proprietorship as little -more than a convenient legal fiction; of use, possibly, against human -trespassers, but having no force as against the right of the trees to -live a tree’s life and fulfill a tree’s end. - -One of them, I perceive, is dead already. Like many a human being we -have known, it had a poor start; no more than “half a chance,” as -the saying goes. It struck root on a ledge, in a cleft of rock, and -after a struggle of twenty or thirty years has found the conditions -too hard for it. Its neighbors all appear to be doing well, with the -exception of one that had its upper half blown away a few years ago by -a disrespectful wind. The wind is an anarchist; it bloweth where it -listeth, with small regard for human sovereignty. - -Your land, to my eye, is of a piece with all the land round about; or -it would be, only for its tall gray cliff. That is indeed a beauty, -a true distinction; not so tall as it was forty or fifty years ago, -of course, but still a brave and picturesque sight. I should like the -illusion of owning a thing like that myself. And the brook just beyond, -so narrow and so lively,--that, too, you may reasonably be proud of, -though it is nothing but a wet-weather stream, coming from the hill -and tumbling musically downward into Dyer’s Run, past one boulder and -another, from late autumn till late spring, and then going dry. You -have only pleasant memories of it, for you were oftenest here in the -wet season. It has always been one of your singularities, I remember, -to be less in the woods in summer than at other times. - -Now you have crossed your own boundary; but who would know it? You -yourself seem not to feel the transition. The wood is one; and really -it is all yours, as it is any man’s who has eyes to enjoy it. -Appreciation is ownership. - -So you go on, pausing here and there to admire a lichen-covered boulder -or stump (there is nothing prettier, look where you will), a cluster -of ferns, a few sprouts of holly, a sprinkling of pyrola leaves (green -with the greenness of all the summers of the world), or a bed of -fruit-bespangled partridge-berry vine, till by and by you begin to -feel the overshadowing, illusion-dispelling, soul-absorbing presence -of the wood itself. The voice of eternity is speaking in the pine -leaves. Your own identity slips away from you as you listen. You are -part of the whole; nay, you are not so much a part of it as lost in it. -The raindrop has fallen into the sea. For a moment you seem almost to -divine a meaning in that bold, pantheistical, much neglected scripture, -“That God may be all in all.” - -For a moment only. Then a cord snaps, and you come back to your puny -self and its limitations. You are looking at this and that, just as -before. A chickadee chirps, and you answer him. You are you again, a -man who used to be a boy. These are the old paths, and you are still -in the body. You will prove it an hour hence at the dinner-table. - - - - -THE PROSPERITY OF A WALK - - -A bird lover’s daily rations during a New England winter are somewhat -like Robinson Crusoe’s on his island in the wet season. “I eat a bunch -of raisins for my breakfast,” he says, “a piece of goat’s flesh or of -the turtle for my dinner, and two or three of the turtle’s eggs for my -supper.” Such a fare was ample for health, perhaps; and probably every -item of it was sufficiently appetizing, in itself considered; but after -the first week or two it must have begun to smack of monotony. The -castaway might have complained with some of old, “My soul loatheth this -light bread.” He might have complained, I say; I do not remember that -he did. What I do remember is that when, moved by pious feeling, he was -on the point of thanking God for having brought him to that place, he -suddenly restrained himself, or an influence from without restrained -him. “I know not what it was,” he says, “but something shocked my mind -at that thought, and I durst not speak the words. ‘How canst thou be -such a hypocrite?’ said I.” - -So I imagine that most bird-gazing men would hesitate to thank -the Divine Providence for a northern winter, with its rigors, its -inordinate length, and its destitution. They put up with it, make the -best of it, grumble over it as politely as may be; but they are not so -piously false-tongued as to profess that they like it. - -By the last of December they have begun, not exactly to tire of -chickadees and blue jays, but to sigh for something else, something to -go with these, something by way of variety. “Where are the crossbills,” -they ask, “and the redpoll linnets, and the pine grosbeaks?” All these -circumpolar species are too uncertain by half, or, better say, by two -thirds. Summering at the apex of the globe, so to speak, with Europe, -Asia, and America equally at their elbow, they seem to flit southward -along whatever meridian happens to take their fancy. Once in a while -chance brings them our way, but only once in a while. Last winter we -had redpolls and both kinds of crossbills, the white-wings for the -first time in many years. They made a bright season. This winter, to -the best of my knowledge, not one of these hyperborean species has sent -so much as a deputation for our enlivenment. - -And to make matters worse, even our regular local stand-bys seem to -be less numerous than usual. Tree sparrows and snowbirds are both -abnormally scarce, by my reckoning. As for the Canadian nuthatches, -which helped us out so nobly a year ago, they are not only absent now, -but were so throughout the fall. I have not seen nor heard one in -Massachusetts since the middle of May, a most unusual--to the best of -my recollection a quite unprecedented--state of things. I should like -very much to know the explanation of the mystery. - -The daily birds at present, as I find them, are the chickadee -(which deserves to head all lists), the Carolina nuthatch, the -downy woodpecker, the crow, and the jay. Less regularly, but pretty -frequently (every day, if the walk is long enough), one meets with -tree sparrows, goldfinches, snowbirds, brown creepers, flickers, and -golden-crowned kinglets. Twice since December came in I have seen -a shrike. Once I heard a single pine finch passing, invisible, far -overhead. On the same day (December 2) I caught the fine staccato calls -of a purple finch, without seeing the author of them. On the 2d and 3d -three or four rusty blackbirds were unexpectedly in the neighborhood. -Quail and grouse are never absent, of course, but I happen to have seen -neither of them of late, though one day I heard the breezy quoiting of -a quail, greatly to my pleasure. On the 14th I came upon a single robin -in the woods, the first since November 21. He was perched in a leafless -treetop, and was calling at the top of his voice, as if he had friends, -or hoped that he had, somewhere within hearing. The sight was rather -dispiriting than otherwise. He looked unhappy, in a cold wind, with the -sky clouded. He had better have gone south before this time, I thought. -Half an hour afterward I heard the quick, emphatic, answer-demanding -challenge of a hairy woodpecker (as much louder and sharper than the -downy’s as the bird is bigger), and on starting in his direction saw -him take wing. Him I should never think of commiserating. He can look -out for himself. These, with English sparrows (“the poor ye have always -with you”), Old Squaws, herring gulls, and loons, make up my December -list of twenty-two species. It might be worse, I suppose. I remember -the remark of a friend of mine on a similar occasion. “Well,” said he, -“the month is only half gone. You ought to see as many more before the -end of it.” He was strong in arithmetic, but weak in ornithology. If -bird lists could be made on his plan, we should have our hands full in -the dullest season. Even in January, I would engage to find more than -three hundred species within a mile of my doorstep. - -As matters are, we must come back (we cannot do so too often, in -winter especially) to the good and wholesome doctrine that pleasure -is not in proportion to numbers or rarity. It depends upon the kind -and degree of sympathy excited. One day, in one mood, you will derive -more inspiration from a five-minute chat with a chickadee than on -another day, in some mood of dryness, you would get from the sight -of nightingales and birds of paradise. Worldlings and matter-of-fact -men do not know it, but what quiet nature lovers (not scenery hunting -tourists) go to nature in search of is not the excitement of novelty, -but a refreshment of the sensibilities. You may call it comfort, -consolation, tranquillity, peace of mind, a vision of truth, an -uplifting of the heart, a stillness of the soul, a quickening of the -imagination, what you will. It is of different shades, and so may be -named in different words. It is theirs who have the secret, and the -rest would not divine your meaning though your speech were transparency -itself. - -To my thinking, no one, not even Thoreau, or Jefferies, or Wordsworth, -ever said a truer word about it than Keats dropped in one of his -letters. Nothing in his poems is more deeply poetical. “The setting sun -will always set me to rights,” he says, “or if a sparrow come before -my window, I take part in his existence and pick about the gravel.” -There you have the soul of the matter. “I take part in his existence.” -When you do that, the bird or the flower may be never so common or so -humble. Your walk has prospered. - - - - -SIGNS OF SPRING - - -They are not imaginary, but visible and tangible. I have brought them -home from the woods in my hands, and here they lie before me. I call -them my books of the Minor Prophets. - -This one is an alder branch. Along its whole length, spirally disposed -at intervals of an inch or two, are fat, purplish leaf-buds, each on -its stalk. As I look at them I can see, only four months away, the -tender, richly green, newly unfolded, partly grown leaves. How daintily -they are crinkled! And how prettily the edges are cut! It is like the -work of fairy fingers. And what perfection of veining and texture! I -have never heard any one praise them; but half the things that bring a -price in florists’ shops are many degrees less beautiful. - -Still more to the purpose, perhaps, more conspicuous, at all events, -as well as nearer to maturity, and so more distinctly prophetic of -spring, are the two kinds of flower-buds that adorn the ends of the -twigs. These also are of a deep purplish tint, which in the case of -the larger (staminate) catkins turns to a lovely green on the shaded -under side. Flower-buds, I call them; but they are rather packages -of bud-stuff wrapped tightly against the weather, cover overlapping -cover. The best shingling of the most expert carpenter could not be -more absolutely rain-proof. “Now do your worst,” says the alder. The -mud freezes about its roots and the water about the base of its stem, -but it keeps its banners flying. Why it should be at such pains to -anticipate the season is more than I can tell. Perhaps it is none of my -business. Enough that it is the alder’s way. There is no swamp in New -England but has a shorter and brighter winter because of it. - -This smooth, freckled, reddish-barked twig is black birch (or sweet -birch), taken from a sapling, and therefore bearing no aments, which -on adult trees are already things of grace and promise. I broke it -(it invites breaking by its extreme fragility) for its leaf-buds, -pointed, parti-colored,--brown and yellowish green,--tender-looking, -but hardy enough to withstand all the rigors of New England frost. The -broken end of the branch, where I get the spicy fragrance of the inner -bark, brings back a sense of half-forgotten boyish pleasures. I used -to nibble the bark in spring. A little dry it was, as I remember it, -but it had the spicy taste of wintergreen (checkerberry), without the -latter’s almost excessive pungency, or bite. Some of my country-bred -readers must have been accustomed to eat the tender reddish young -checkerberry leaves, and will understand perfectly what I mean by that -word “bite.” I wonder if they had our curious Old Colony name for -those vernal dainties. It sounds like cannibalism, but we gathered -them and ate them in all innocence (the taste is on my tongue now) as -“youngsters.” No doubt the tree gets its name, “sweet birch,” from this -savoriness of its green inner bark, rather than from the pedagogic -employment of its branches in schoolrooms as a means of promoting the -sweet uses of adversity. - -Now I take up another freckled, easily broken twig, with noticeably -short branchlets, some of them less than an inch in length. Every one, -even the shortest, is set with brown globular buds of the size of -pin-heads. Toward the tip the main stem also bears clusters of such -tiny spheres. If you do not know the branch by sight, I must ask you -to smell or taste the bark. “Sassafras?” No, though the guess is not -surprising. It is spice-bush. The buds are flower-buds. The shrub is -one of our very early bloomers, and makes its preparations accordingly. -While flowers are still scarce enough to attract universal attention, -it is thickly covered with sessile or almost sessile yellow rosettes, -till it looks for all the world like the early-flowering cornel -(_Cornus Mas_), which blossoms about the same time in gardens. Seeing -these spice-bush buds, though January is still young, I can almost see -May-day; and when I snap the brittle stem and sniff the fresh wood, I -can almost believe that I have snapped off half a century from my life. -What a good and wholesome smell it is! Among the best of nature’s own. - -Here is a poplar twig, with well-developed, shapely buds. I pull off -the outer coverings and lay bare a mass of woolly fibres, fine and -soft, within which the tender blossoms lie in germ. And next is a -willow stem. Already, though winter is no more than a fortnight old, -the “pussy” has begun to push off its dark coverlid, as if it were in -haste to be up and feel the sun. Yes, spring will soon be here, and the -willow proposes not to be caught napping. - -These long, slender, cinnamon-colored, silky buds, like shoemakers’ -awls for shape, are from a beech tree. The package is done up so -tightly and skillfully that my clumsy human fingers cannot undo it -without tearing it in pieces. Layer after layer I remove, taking all -pains, and here at the heart is the softest of vegetable silk. How did -the wood learn to secrete such delicacies, and to wrap them with such -miraculous security? Why could it not wait till spring, and save the -need of all this caution? I do not know. How should I? But I am glad of -every such vernal prophecy, as well as of every such proof of vegetable -intelligence. It would be strange if a beech tree could not do some -things better than you and I can. Every dog knows his own trick. - -Next comes a dry, homely, crooked, blackish, dead-looking twig, the -slender divisions of which are tipped with short clusters of very -fine purplish buds, rich in color, but so small as readily to escape -notice. This I broke from a bush in a swampy place. It is _Leucothoë_, -a plant of special interest to me for personal reasons. Year after -year, as I turned the leaves of Gray’s Manual on one errand and -another, I read this romantic-sounding Greek name, and wondered what -kind of plant it stood for. Then, during a May visit to the mountains -of North Carolina, I came upon a shrub growing mile after mile along -roadsides and brooksides, loaded down, literally, with enormous crops -of sickishly sweet, white flower-clusters. At first I took it for some -species of _Andromeda_, but on bringing it to book found it to be -Leucothoë. I was delighted to see it. It is a satisfaction to have a -familiar name begin to mean something. Finally, a year or two later, -passing in winter through a bit of swamp where I had been accustomed -to wander as a child, with no thought of finding anything new (as if -there were not something new everywhere), I stopped before a bush -bearing purple buds and clusters of dry capsules. The capsules might -have been those of Andromeda, for aught I should have noticed, but the -buds had a novel appearance and told a different story. Again I betook -myself to the Manual, and lo! this bush, growing in the swamp that I -should have thought I knew better than any other in the world, turned -out to be another species--our only northern one--of Leucothoë. So I -might have fitted name and thing together long ago, if I had kept my -eyes open. As Hamlet said, “There’s the rub.” Keeping one’s eyes open -isn’t half so easy as it sounds. Really, the bush is one that nobody -except a botanist ever sees (which is the reason, doubtless, why it -has no vernacular name); or if here and there a man does see it, it -is sure to be in flowering time (in middle June), when he passes it -by without a second glance as “high-bush blueberry.” I am pleased to -have it growing on my present beat, and to give it a place here in my -collection of Minor Prophets. - -How little the two (Leucothoë and blueberry) resemble each other at -this time of the year may be seen by comparing the stem I have been -talking about with the one lying next to it--a short twig, every -branchlet of which ends in a very bright, extremely handsome (if one -stops to regard it) pinkish globe. This is the high-bush blueberry in -its best winter estate. Every bud is like a jewel. - -Only one branch remains to be spoken of, for I took but a small -handful: a dark-green--blackish-green--tarnished stem, the two branches -of which bear each a terminal bud of the size of a pea. This specimen -you will know at once by its odor, if you were ever happy enough to -dig sassafras roots, or to eat sassafras lozenges, such as used to -come--perhaps they do still--rolled up in paper, as bankers roll up -coins. “Sassafras lossengers,” we called them, and the shopkeeper (who -is living yet, and still “tending store” at ninety-odd) seemed never in -doubt as to what we meant. Each kind of lozenge, peppermint, cayenne, -checkerberry, and the rest, came always in paper of a certain color. -Can I be wrong in my recollection of the sassafras tint? I would soon -find out if I could go into the old store. I would lay five cents upon -the counter (the price used to be less than that, but it may have gone -up since my last purchase), and say, “A roll of sassafras lossengers.” -And I miss my guess, or the wrapper would be yellow.[3] - - - - -OLD COLONY BERRY PASTURES - - -The last holiday of the century found me in the place where I was born, -with weather made on purpose for out-of-door pleasures--warm, bright, -and still. A sudden inspiration took me. I would go to see the old -berry pastures--not all of them (the forenoon would hardly be long -enough for that), but two or three of the nearest, on opposite sides of -the same back road. It would be a kind of second boyhood. - -As I traveled the road itself, past two or three houses that were not -there in the old time, two at least of the older wayside trees greeted -me with the season’s compliments. Or possibly it was I that greeted -them. In this kind of intercourse, it is hard to tell speaker from -hearer. We greeted each other, let us say, though they are the older, -and by good rights should have spoken first. They have held their own -exceedingly well, far better than the clerk who is writing about them, -and for anything that appears, bid fair to be hale and hearty at the -next century-mark. - -One is a pear tree; none of your modern, high-bred, superfine, -French-named dwarfs, rather shrubs than trees, twenty of which -may grow, without crowding, in a scanty back garden, but a burly, -black-barked, stubby-branched, round-topped giant. It looks to-day -exactly as it did when my boyish legs first took me by it. In these -many years it has borne thousands of bushels of pears, all of which -must have served some use, I suppose, in the grand economy of things, -though I have no idea what. No man, woman, or child, I am reasonably -sure, ever had the hardihood to eat one. And still the tree holds up -its head and wears a brave, unashamed, undiscourageable look. Long may -it stand in its corner, a relic and remembrancer of Puritanic times. - -The other is an apple tree, one of those beneficent creations, good -Samaritans among fruit trees, that bear a toothsome, early-ripening -crop, and spill a generous portion of it on the roadward side of the -wall. I remember it perfectly--the fruit, I mean--color, shape, and -flavor. Every year I see apples of the same name in the market, but -somehow I can never buy any that look or taste half so good as those -that I used in lucky moments to find here, waiting for me, in the -roadside grass. - -Those were Old Testament times in New England. Gleanings belonged to -“the poor and the stranger.” Who could dispute our title? We believed -in special providences; and edible windfalls on the nigh side of the -fence were among the chiefest of them. Schoolboys of the present day, I -take for granted, are brought up under a different code. They would go -past such temptations with their hands in their pockets and without a -squint sideways. They apprehend no difference between “picking up” an -apple and stealing one. Such is the evolution of morality. The day of -the gleaner is past. Naomi and Ruth have become mythical personages, as -much so as Romulus and Remus. - -I was going first to Harvey White’s pasture (not to dwell unsafely upon -confessions that begin to seem like thin ice), and by and by came to -the wood-path leading to it. How perfectly I remembered the place: -this speedy, uphill curve to the left, rounding the hill; this dense -bunch of low-branched evergreens a little farther on, under which, -with our pails full (or half full--we could not work miracles, though -we lived under the Mosaic economy), we used to creep for rest and -shade while trudging homeward on blazing summer noons. But the path -was surprisingly overgrown. At short intervals thorny smilax vines -(cat-briers) were sprawling over the very middle of it, and had to -be edged through cautiously. The appearance of things grew less and -less familiar. I must be on the right track, but surely I had gone far -enough. The broad clearing should be close at hand. I went on and on. -Yes, here was the old stone wall between Harvey White’s pasture and -Pine-tree pasture. But the pastures themselves? They were not here. -Then it came over me, with all the force and suddenness of a direct -revelation, that forty years is a long time. In less time than that a -pasture may become a forest. I pushed about a little, in one direction -and another, and finding nothing but woods, returned to the path and -retraced my steps. I might as well try to find my own lost youth as -those well-remembered huckleberry patches. - -Even in that far-away time--so the recollection comes to me now--the -place was not strictly a pasture. It had been such, no doubt, and -Harvey White, whoever he was, had owned it. Probably his cattle had -once been pastured there. Now he owned no land, being nothing but a -clod himself, and this broad clearing would not have kept a single cow -from starvation. The wilderness was claiming its own again. Instead of -the grass had come up the huckleberry bushes, the New England heather. -These, with a sprinkling of blackberry vines, barberry bushes, and -savins, filled the place from end to end. We knew them all. In the -season we gathered huckleberries, blackberries, and barberries (the -last made what some gastronomic cobbler called felicitously “shoe-peg -sauce”), while the young cone-shaped cedars were of use as landmarks. -We could leave a pail or basket in the shelter of one, and with good -luck have no great difficulty in finding it again. - -That was forty years ago. Now, the huckleberry bushes have followed -the grass. Massachusetts land belongs to the woods. Clear it never -so thoroughly, and with half a chance the trees will have it back -again. If you will climb any Massachusetts hill, not directly upon -the seashore,--and I am not certain that even that exception need be -made,--you will see the truth of this at once. Something like it, I -remember, was the first thing I thought of when I stood first on Mount -Wachusett. There lay the whole State, so to speak, outspread below; and -it was all a forest. - -In this very Old Colony town many acres that were once excellent -pasturage are now so perfectly reconverted to woodland that no ordinary -walker over them would suspect that they had ever been anything else. -If this has happened within twenty miles of Boston, within half the -lifetime of a man, there seems to be no great danger that the State -will ever be deforested; and those of us who love wild things, and look -upon civilization as a mixed good, may be cheered accordingly. - -For to-day, however, I had something else in my eye; and once back in -the road I started for the entrance to what we children knew familiarly -as “Millstone”--that is to say, Millstone Pasture; a large, irregular -clearing, or half clearing, distinguished by the presence of two broad -flat boulders, lying one upon the other. This was among the best of -our foraging grounds; a boy’s wild orchard--orchard and garden in -one. Here we gathered all the berries before named, and besides them -checkerberries (boxberries), dangleberries, and grapes. - -The path leading into it was still open, but there was no need to go -far to discover that here, as in Harvey White’s, the wood had got -the upper hand of everything else. “I should starve here,” I said -to myself, “at the very height of the berry season.” Nothing looked -natural--nothing but the superimposed boulders. They had suffered no -change, or none except an inevitable “subjective” dwindling. As for -the old apple orchard near them (in which I shot my last bird upwards -of twenty years ago), it was more like a cedar grove, although by -searching for them one could still discover a few stumps and ruins of -what had once been apple trees. “Perish your civilization!” Mother -Nature seemed to be saying. “Give me a few years, and I will undo the -whole of it.” I was half glad to hear her. The planter of the orchard -was dead long ago, and his work had followed him. - -But the holly trees! They are Nature’s own children. I would have a -look at them, remembering perfectly, I thought, the exact spot where -a pretty bunch used to grow. And I found them, after a protracted -search--but no longer a pretty clump. One tree was perhaps fifteen -feet high--a beanpole, which still put forth at the very top a few -branchlets, one or two feet in length, just to prove itself alive. The -rest of the bunch had been cut down to the ground. All that remained -was a few suckers, each with a spray of green leaves. The sight was -pitiful. Poor trees! They were surrounded by a dense wood, instead -of standing in the open, as they had done in my day. And between -the competition of the pines and the knives and axes of collectors -of Christmas greenery, they were nigh to extermination. By and by, -however, before many years, the pines will fall under the axe. Then, I -dare say, the old holly roots will have their turn again. Then, too, -the checkerberry vines will enjoy a few years of fruitfulness. So the -wheel of fortune goes round, all the world over, in the wood no less -than in the city. There is no scotching it. As well try to scotch the -earth itself. All things are at seesaw. - - “They say the lion and the lizard keep - The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep; - And Bahrám, that great hunter--the wild ass - Stamps o’er his head, but cannot break his sleep.” - -If such things have happened, if Nineveh and Babylon flourished and -came to naught, why wonder at the decline and fall of Old Colony berry -pastures? - - - - -SQUIRRELS, FOXES, AND OTHERS - - -“Do you know where there are any flying squirrels?” I asked a friend, -two or three weeks ago. My friend, I should mention, is a farmer, -living a mile or two away from the village, and, being much out-of-doors -with his eyes open, has sometimes good things to show me. With -all the rest, he has more than once taken me to a flying squirrel’s -tree and given me a chance to see the creature “fly.” - -This peculiar member of the squirrel family, as all readers may be -presumed to know, is nocturnal in its habits, and for that reason is -seldom seen by ordinary strollers. Once my friend, who was just then at -work in the woods, found a hollow tree in which one was living, and we -visited the spot together. I posted myself conveniently, and he went up -to the tree and hammered upon it with his axe. Out peeped the squirrel -at a height of perhaps twenty feet, and as the blows continued it -“took wing” and came to the ground safely, and more or less gracefully, -alighting at the foot of another tree some distance away. At all -other times I have seen the flight from outside nests, as they may be -called--bulky aggregations of leaves and twigs placed in the bare tops -of moderately tall, slender trees, preferably gray-birches, and mostly -in swampy woods. - -On the present occasion my friend told me that he knew of no nests now -in use, but that if I would come to his house the next morning he would -go with me in search of some. I called for him at the hour appointed. -Squirrels or no squirrels, it is always worth while to take a walk in -good company. - -He led me along the highway for a quarter of a mile, and then struck -into a wood-road, which presently brought us into a swampy forest, with -here and there a bit of pond, which we must go out of our way to cross -on the ice (a light snow had covered it within twenty-four hours), -on the lookout for fox tracks and what not. We were headed for the -“city-house lot,” he told me. - -“The city-house lot,” said I; “what is that?” - -“Why, there used to be two or three houses over in this direction. -The largest of them, the one that stood the longest, was known as the -city-house. More than fifty years ago, before my father came here to -live, it was moved to a place on the main road. You must remember it. -It was pulled down, or fell to pieces, within six or eight years.” - -I did remember it, but had never known its name or its history. The -surprising thing about the story was the fact that there was no -indication of a road hereabout, nor any sign that there had ever been -one; and all the while we were plunging deeper and deeper into the -woods, now following a foot-path, now leaving it for a short cut among -the trees. By and by we came to a drier spot, and an old cellar-hole. -This was not the city-house cellar, however, but that of some smaller -house. About it were evidences of a former clearing, though a casual -observer would scarcely have noticed them. Tufts of beard-grass stood -above the snow,--“Indian grass,” my guide called it,--and the remains -of an ancient stone wall still marked the line, if one might guess, -where the grazing-land had been divided from the tillage. It was a farm -in ruins. - -Soon we came to a larger cellar-hole, of which, as of the smaller one, -bushes and trees had long ago taken possession. Here had stood the city -house, a “frame” structure (whence its name, probably), a famous affair -in its day, the pride of its owner’s heart. It was one of five or six -houses, if I understood my informant correctly, that had once been -scattered over this part of the town of Weston (or what is at present -the town of Weston) within a radius of a mile or so. Of them all not a -trace remains now but so many half-filled cellars. - -I thought of something I had been saying lately about the manner in -which the forest reclaims Massachusetts land as soon as its human -possessors let go their hold upon it. Now it was suggested to me -that if a man is ambitious to do something that will last, he had -better not set up a house or a monument, but dig a hole in the ground. -Humility helps to permanence. The lower you get, the less danger of -falling. Nature is slower to fill up than to pull down, though she will -do either with all thoroughness, give her time enough. To her a man’s -life is but a clock’s tick, and all his constructions are but child’s -play in the sand. A trite bit of moralizing? Well, perhaps it is; but -it sounded anything but trite, as the old cellar-hole spoke it to me. A -word is like a bullet: its force is in the power behind it. - -Not far beyond this point we found ourselves in a gray-birch swamp. -Here, if anywhere, should be the nests we were in search of. And soon -we began to see them, one here, another there. We followed the same -course with them all; my companion shook or jarred the tree, while I -stood off and watched for the squirrels. And the result was alike in -all cases. Every nest was empty. We tried at least a score, and had -our labor for our pains. “There _are_ no flying squirrels this year,” -my companion kept saying. Perhaps they had migrated. With one or two -exceptions, indeed, the nests could be set down in advance--from their -color and evident dilapidation--as being at least a year old. - -Once we started a rabbit, and here and there a few chickadees accosted -us. Once, I think, we heard the voice of a golden-crowned kinglet. For -the rest, the woods seemed to be deserted, and at the end of our long -détour we came back to the road half a mile above the point at which we -had left it. - -And still the world is not depopulated, even in winter, nor are all the -pretty wild animals asleep. The snakes are, to be sure, and the frogs -(though hylas were peeping late in December), and the chipmunks and the -woodchucks; but there is abundant life stirring, nevertheless. - -Yesterday I called on my friend again, and together we walked up the -road--a back-country thoroughfare. This time, also, a light snow had -just fallen, and my companion, better informed than I in such matters, -began to discuss footprints with me. - -“You know this one?” he asked. - -“Oh, yes; a rabbit.” - -“And this one?” - -“A fox,” said I, doubtfully. - -“Yes, indeed. See the shape and size of the foot. Yes, that’s a fox.” - -“And this one?” - -“Oh, that’s a kitty.” (A cat, he meant to say.) “Strange how many cats -are prowling about this country at night,” he continued. “I have caught -two this season, and C---- has caught two.” - -“Do you skin them?” - -“Yes,” with a laugh. - -Here were red-squirrel tracks, and here a big dog’s, and here again a -fox’s. At another point a bevy of quail had crossed the road. “One, -two, three,” my farmer began to count. “Yes; there were twelve.” I had -remarked, just before, that I hadn’t seen a quail for I didn’t know -how long. “And look here,” he said, as we approached the farm on our -return. He led the way to a diminutive chicken-coop sitting by itself -in the orchard. A single hen, which had been ailing, was confined in -it, he said. A fox had gone round and round it in the night, and once -had stopped to scratch at the back side of it. - -“He knew what was in there,” said I. The farmer laughed. - -“Oh, he is an old fellow,” he answered. “I have a trap set for him just -where he used to pass. Now he crosses the field, but he goes round that -spot! I see his tracks. They say it is easy to trap foxes. Perhaps it -is; but it isn’t for me.” - -Yet he has shown me--not this year--more than one handsome skin. - -Once, too, he showed me the fox himself. Hounds were baying in the -distance as I came to the house on my Sunday morning walk, and we spoke -of their probable course. He thought it likely that they would cross a -certain field, and taking a by-road that would carry us within sight of -it, we kept our eyes out till the dogs seemed to have diverged in the -wrong direction. Then I was walking carelessly along, talking as usual -(a bad habit of mine), when my companion seized me by both shoulders -and swung me sharply about. “Look at that!” he said. And there stood -the fox, five or ten rods away, facing us squarely. He had come up -a little rise of ground, and had stopped as he saw us. But for my -friend’s muscular assistance, I should have missed him, near as he was, -for in one second he was gone; and though we scaled the wall instantly -and ran up the slope, we got no further sight of him. - -Yes, if you are a discouraged, winter-killed nature lover, who has -begun to think that Massachusetts woods--woods within sight of the -State House dome--are pretty much devoid of wild life, go out after -a light snowfall and read the natural history record of a single -night. We shall not be without woods, nor will the woods be without -inhabitants, for a good while yet. - - - - -WINTER AS IT WAS - - -With the wind howling from the northwest, and the mercury crouching -below the zero mark, it seems a good time to sit in the house and think -of winter as it used to be. What is the advantage of growing old, if -one cannot find an hour now and then for the pleasures of memory? - -The year’s end is for the young. Such is the order of the world, -the universal paradox. Opposite seeks opposite. And _we_ were young -once,--a good while ago,--and for us, also, winter was a bright -and busy season, its days all too short and too few. I speak of -“week-days,” be it understood. As for winter Sundays, in an unwarmed -meeting-house (though the sermon might be like the breath of -Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace), we should have been paragons of early piety, -beings too good to live, if we had wished the hours longer. Let their -miseries be forgotten. - -On week-days, once out of school, we wasted no time. We knew where we -were going, and we went on the run. We were boys, not men. Some of -us, at least, were not yet infected with the idea that we ever should -be men. We aspired neither to men’s work nor to men’s pleasures. We -aimed not at self-improvement. We thought not of getting rich. We -might recite “Excelsior” in the schoolroom, but it did us no harm; -our innocence was incorruptible. Two things we did: we skated, and -we slid down-hill. There was always either snow or ice. The present -demoralization of the seasons had not yet begun. Winter was winter. -Snowdrifts were over your head, and ice was three feet thick. And -zero--for boys who slept in attics to which no particle of artificial -heat ever penetrated, zero was something like summer. Young America was -tough in those days. - -I recall at this moment the bitterly cold day when one of our -number skated into an airhole on Whitman’s Pond. It was during the -noon recess. His home was a mile or more east of the pond, and the -schoolhouse was at least a mile west of the pond. He sank into the -water up to his chin, and saved himself with difficulty, the airhole -luckily being small and the ice firm about the edges. What would a -twentieth-century boy do under such circumstances? I can only guess. -But I know what Charles H. did. He came back to the schoolhouse first, -to make his apologies to the master; I can see him now, as he came in -smiling, looking just a little foolish; then he ran home--three miles, -perhaps--to change his clothing. And he is living still. Oh, yes, we -were tough,--or we died young. - -That was while we were in the high school, when I was perhaps eleven -or twelve years old. But my liveliest recollections of winter antedate -that period by several years. Then sliding down-hill was our dearest -excitement. Ours was “no great of a hill,” to use a form of speech -common among us; I smile now as I go past it; but it could not have -suited us better if it had been made on purpose; and no half holiday -or moonlight evening was long enough to exhaust our enjoyment of the -exercise--walking up and sliding down, walking up and sliding down. -“Monotonous,” do I hear some one say? It was monotony such as would -have ended too soon though it had lasted forever. If I had a thousand -dollars to spend in an afternoon’s sport now, I should not know how -to get half as much exhilaration out of it as two hours on that -snow-covered slope afforded. There is something in a boy’s spirits that -a man’s money can never buy, nor a man’s will bring back to him. - -As years passed, we ventured farther from home to a steeper and longer -declivity. Glorious hours we spent there, every boy riding his own -sled after his own fashion. Boys who _were_ boys rode “side-saddle” or -“belly-bump;” but here and there a timid soul, or one who considered -the toes of his boots, condescended to an upright position, feet -foremost, like a girl--in the language of the polite people, _sur son -séant_. - -Later still came the day of the double-runner, when we slid down-hill -gregariously, as it were, or, if you will, in chorus (the word is -justified), every boy’s arms clinging to the boy in front of him. Older -fellows now took a hand with us, and we resorted to the highway. With -the icy track at its smoothest, we went the longer half of a mile, and -had a mile and a half to walk back, the “going” being slippery enough -to double the return distance. - -At this time it was that there came a passing rage (such as communities -are suddenly taken with, now and then, for a certain amusement--golf, -croquet, or what not) for coasting in a huge pung. Grown people, men -and women, filled it, while one man sat on a hand-sled between the -thills and guided its course. Near the foot of the hill the road took -a pretty sharp turn, with a stone wall on the awkward side of the way; -but the excitement more than paid for the risk, and by sheer good luck -a thaw intervened before anybody was killed. - -There was quiet amusement in the neighborhood, I remember, because Mrs. -C., who was distressingly timid about riding behind a horse (she could -never be induced to get into a carriage unless the animal were “old -as Time and slow as cold molasses”), saw no danger in this automobile -on runners, which traveled at the rate of a mile a minute, more or -less, with nothing between its occupants and sudden death except the -strength and skill of the amateur steersman, who must keep his own seat -and steer the heavy load behind him. So it is. A man goes into battle -with a cheer, but turns pale at finding himself number thirteen at the -dinner-table. - -Sliding down-hill was such sport as no language can begin to describe; -but skating was unspeakably better. Those first skates! I wish I had -them still, though I would show them with caution, lest the irreverent -should laugh. They would be a spectacle. How voluminously the irons -curled up in front! And how gracefully as well! A piece of true -artistry. And how comfortably they were cut off short behind, so that -you could stop “in short metre,” no matter what speed you had on, by -digging your heels into the ice. And what a complicated harness of -straps was required to keep them in place. Those straps had much to -answer for in the way of cold feet, to say nothing of the passion we -were thrown into when one of them broke; and we a mile or two from -home, with the ice perfection--“a perfect glare”--and the fun at its -height. This was before the day of “rockers,” of which I had a pair -later,--and a proud boy I was. Pretty treacherous we found them to -start with, or rather to stop with; but for better or worse we got the -hang of their peculiarities before our skulls were irreparably broken. - -Skating then was like whist-playing now,--an endless study. You thought -you were fairly good at it till a new boy came along and showed you -tricks such as you had never dreamed of; just as you thought, perhaps, -that you could play whist till you sat opposite a man who asked, in -a tone between bewilderment and asperity, why on earth you led him a -heart at a certain critical stage, or why in the name of common sense -you didn’t know that the ten of clubs was on your left. Art is long. -It was true then, as it is now. But what matter? We skated for fun, -as we did everything else (out of school), except to shovel paths and -saw wood. Those things were work. And work was longer even than art. -Work was never done. So it seemed. And how bleak and comfortless the -weather was while we were doing it! A cruel world, and no mistake. But -half an hour afterward, on the hillside or the pond, the breeze was -just balmy, and life--there was no time to think how good we found it. -No doubt it is true, as the poet said,-- - - “There’s something in a flying horse, - There’s something in a huge balloon;” - -but there’s more, a thousand times over, in being a boy. - - - - -“DOWN AT THE STORE” - - -I talked, a week ago, as if, in my time as a boy, we lived out-of-doors -every day, and all day long, regardless of everything that winter -could do to hinder us. That was an exaggeration. Now and then there -came a time when the weather shook itself loose, as it were, and bore -down upon us with banners flying. Then the strong man bowed himself, -and even the playful boy took to his burrow. The pond might be smooth -as glass, but he did not skate; the hill-track might be in prime -condition, but he did not slide. He sang low, and waited for a change. - -Not that he stayed at home from school. Let no degenerate reader, the -enfeebled victim of modern ideas, think that. The day of coddling had -not yet dawned upon New England. There was no bell then to announce -a full holiday, or “one session,” because of rain or snow. And as -truly as “school kept,” so truly the boy was expected to be there. No -alternative was so much as considered. But on such a morning as we now -have in mind he went at full speed, looking neither to right nor left, -and he thanked his stars when he came in sight of the village store. -That, whether going or coming, he hailed as a refuge. Possibly he had a -cent in his pocket, a real “copper,” and felt it in danger of burning -through; but cent or no cent, he went in to warm his fingers and his -ears, and incidentally to listen to the talk of the assembled loafers. - -I can see them now, one perched upon a barrel-head, one on a pile of -boxes, three or four occupying a long settee, and one, wearing a big -light-colored overcoat, who came every day, sitting like a lord in the -comfortable armchair in front of the cylinder stove. This last man was -not rich; neither was he in any peculiar sense a social favorite; he -said little and bought less; but he always had the chief seat. I used -to wonder what would happen if some day he should come in and find it -occupied. But on that point it was idle to speculate. As well expect -a simple congressman to drop into the Speaker’s chair, leaving that -functionary to dispose of his own corporeal dignity as best he could. -Prescription, provided it be old enough, is the best of titles. What -other has the new king of Great Britain and Ireland? - -If it was shortly before schooltime, on one of those mornings when the -weather seemed to be laying itself out to establish a record, the talk -was likely to be of thermometers. - -“My glass was down to nineteen below,” one man would say, by way of -starting the ball. - -“Mine touched twenty at half-past six,” the next one would remark. - -And so the topic would go round, the mercury dropping steadily, notch -by notch. As I said a week ago, winter was winter in those days. It may -have occurred to me, sometimes, that the man who managed to speak last -had a decided moral advantage over his rivals. He could save the honor -of his thermometer at the least possible expense of veracity. - -So far things were not very exciting, though on the whole rather more -so, perhaps, than studying a geography lesson (as if it were anything -to me which were the principal towns in Indiana!); but now, not -unlikely, the conversation would shift to hunting exploits. This was -more to the purpose. Wonderful game had been shot, first and last, down -there in the Old Colony; almost everything, it seemed to a listening -boy, except lions and elephants. If Mr. Roosevelt had lived in those -times, he need not have gone to the Rocky Mountains in search of -adventure. - -I listened with both ears. There never was a boy who did not like -to hear of doings with a gun. I remember still one of my very early -excitements in that line. I was on my way home at noon when a flock of -geese flew directly over the street, honking loudly. At that moment a -shoemaker ran out of his little shop, gun in hand, and aiming straight -upward, let go a charge. Nothing dropped, to my intense surprise and -no small disappointment; but I had seen the shot fired, and that was -something--as is plain from the fact that I remember it so vividly -these many years afterward. The names of the principal towns of Indiana -long ago folded their tents like the Arabs and silently stole away, but -I can still see that shoemaker running out of his shop. - -It was a common practice, I was to learn as I grew older, for -shoemakers to keep a loaded gun standing in a corner, ready for such -contingencies. There was a tradition in the town that a certain man (I -have forgotten his name, or I would bracket it with Mr. Roosevelt’s) -had once brought down a goose in this way. It is by no means -impossible; for flocks of geese were an everyday sight in the season (I -am sure I have seen twenty in an afternoon), and sometimes, in thick -weather, they almost grazed the chimney-tops. Geese (of that kind) have -grown sadly fewer since then, and perhaps have learned to fly higher. - -After the hunting reminiscences would likely enough come a discussion -of fast horses, Flora Temple and others--including “Mart” So-and-So’s -of our village; or possibly (and this I liked best of all, I think), -the conversation would flag, and old Jason Andcut would begin whistling -softly to himself. Then I was all ears. Such a tone as he had, -especially in the lower register! And such trills and bewitching turns -of melody! Why, it was almost as good as the Weymouth Band, which in -those days was every whit as famous as the Boston Symphony Orchestra -is now. When it played the “Wood-up Quickstep” or “Departed Days,” the -whole town was moved, and one boy that I knew was almost in heaven. - -In fact, ours was a musical community. The very man who now occupied -the armchair in front of the stove (how plainly he comes before me as -I write, taking snuff and reading the shopkeeper’s newspaper of the -evening before) had acquired the competency of which he was supposed -to be possessed by playing the flute (or was it the clarinet?) in a -Boston theatre orchestra; and at this very minute three younger men of -the village were getting rich in the same sure and easy manner. As -for whistling, there was hardly a boy in the street but was studying -that accomplishment, though none of them could yet come within a mile -of Jason Andcut. His was indeed “a soft and solemn-breathing sound,” -as unlike the ear-piercing notes which most pairs of puckered lips -gave forth as the luscious fruit of his own early pear tree (“Andcut’s -pears,” we always called them) was unlike certain harsh and crabbed -things that looked like pears, to be sure, but tied your mouth up in a -hard knot if, in a fit of boyish hunger, you were ever rash enough to -set your teeth in one. The good man! I should love to hear his whistle -now; I believe I should like it almost as well as Mr. Longy’s oboe; -but the last of those magical improvisations was long ago finished. I -have heard good whistling since (not often, but I have heard it, both -professional and amateur), but nothing to match that soliloquistic -pianissimo, which I stole close to the man’s elbow to get my fill of. -Was the prosperity of the music partly in the boyish ear that heard it? - -That corner-grocery gathering was one of our institutions; I might -almost say the chief of them--casino and lyceum in one. If somebody -once called the place a “yarn factory,” that was only in the way of a -joke. On a rainy holiday it was a great resource. There were always -talkers and listeners there,--the two essentials,--and the talk was -often racy, though never, so far as I know, unfit for a boy’s hearing. -The town supported no local newspaper, nor did we feel the need of -any. You could get all the news there was, and more too, “down at the -store.” If the regular members of the club failed to bring it in, the -baker or the candy peddler would happen along to supply the lack. And -after all, say what you will, word of mouth is better than printers’ -ink. - -And while you listened to the talk, you could be eating a stick of -barber’s-pole candy or a cent’s worth of dates, or, if your wealth -happened to admit of such extravagance, you could enjoy, after -the Cranford fashion, quite unembarrassed by Cranford pudicity, a -two-cent orange. Those were the days of small things. Dollars did not -grow on every bush. Seven-year-old boys, at all events, were not -yet accustomed to go about jingling a pocketful of silver. Once, I -remember, I saw a little chap sidle up to the counter and look long at -the jack-knives and other temptations displayed in the showcase. By and -by the shopkeeper espied a possible customer, and came round to see -what was wanted. - -“How much are those tops?” asked the boy, pointing with his finger. - -“Ten cents,” was the answer. - -The boy was silent. He was thinking it over. Then he said: “I’ll take -two cents’ worth of peanuts.” - -Poor fellow! I have seen many a grown man since then who was obliged -to content himself with the same kind of philosophy. And who shall say -it is not a good one? If you cannot spend the summer in Europe, take a -day at the seashore. If you miss of an election to Congress, bid for a -place on the school committee. If you cannot write ten-thousand-dollar -novels, write--well, write a weekly column in a newspaper. There is -always something within a capable man’s reach, though it be only “two -cents’ worth of peanuts.” - - - - -BIRDS AT THE WINDOW - - -The winter has continued birdless, not only in eastern Massachusetts, -but, as far as I can learn, throughout New England. Letters from -eastern Maine, the White Mountain region, and western Massachusetts all -bring the same story: no birds except the commonest--chickadees and the -like. Crossbills, redpolls, and pine grosbeaks have left us out in the -cold. - -The only break in the season’s monotony with me has been a flock of six -purple finches, seen on the 29th of January. I was nearing home, in -a side street, thinking of nothing in particular, when I heard faint -conversational notes close at hand, and stopping to look, saw first one -and then another of the bright carmine birds; for five of the six were -handsome adult males. All were eating savin berries, and conversing in -their characteristic soft staccato. It was by all odds the brightest -patch of feathers of the new century. The birds must be wintering not -far away, I suppose; but though I have been up and down that road a -dozen times since February came in, I have seen nothing more of them. -Within a month they will be singing, taking the winds of March with -music. No more staccato then, but the smoothest of fluency. - -Much the birdiest spot known to me just now is under our own -windows--under them and against them, as shall presently be explained. -Indeed, we may be said to be running a birds’ boarding-house, and we -are certainly doing an excellent business. “Meals at all hours,” our -signboard reads. We “set a good table,” as the trade expression is, -and our guests, who, being experienced travelers, know a good thing -when they see it, have spread the news. There is no advertisement so -effective as a satisfied customer. - -The earliest comers are the blue jays. They anticipate the first call -for breakfast, appearing before sunrise. Jays are a shrewd set. They -can put two and two together with the sharpest of us. Man, they have -discovered, is a laggard in the morning. Then is their time. In very -bad weather, indeed, they come at all hours; but they are always wary. -If I raise the window an inch or two and set it down with a slam, away -they go; though, likely as not, I look out again five minutes later -to find them still there. In times of dearth one may reasonably risk -something for a good piece of suet. - -The jays take what they can, somewhat against our will. The table -is spread for smaller people: for downy woodpeckers, white-breasted -nuthatches, and chickadees, with whom appears now and then, always -welcome, a brown creeper. The table is set for them, I say; and they -seem to know it. They come not as thieves, but as invited guests, or, -better still, as members of the family. No opening and shutting of -windows puts them to flight. Why should it? There are at least a dozen -baiting-places about the house, and they know every one of them. Though -the fare is everywhere the same, they seem to find a spice of variety -in taking a bite at one table after another. - -My own principal enjoyment of the business, at present, is connected -with a new toy, if I may call it so: a small, loosely knit, or -crocheted, bag--made of knitting-cotton, I think I was told--sent to -me by a correspondent in Vermont. Into this, following the donor’s -instructions, I have put nutmeats and hung it out of a window of my -working-room, throwing a cord over the top of the upper sash, and -allowing the bag to dangle against the pane. - -At first I broke the nuts into small pieces, but I soon learned better -than that. Now I divide the filbert once, and for the most part the -birds (chickadees only, thus far) have to stay on the bag and eat, -instead of pulling out the pieces whole and making off with them. The -sight is a pretty one--as good as a play. I am careful not to fill -the bag, and the feeder is compelled to hang bottom side up under -it, and strike upward. The position is graceful and not in the least -inconvenient, and possesses, moreover, a great economical advantage: -the crumbs, some of which are of necessity spilled, drop on the eater’s -breast, instead of to the ground. I see him stop continually to pick -them off. “Gather up the fragments,” he says, “that nothing be lost.” - -When one of the pieces in the bag is so far nibbled away that a corner -of it can be pulled through one of the interstices, matters become -exciting. Then comes the tug of war. The eater, who knows that his -time is limited, grows almost frantic. He braces himself and pulls, -twitching upward and downward and sidewise (“Come out, there, will -you?”), while the wind blows him to and fro across the pane, and one -or two of his mates sit upon the nearest branch of the elm, eyeing -him reproachfully. “You greedy thing!” they say. “Are you going to -stay there forever?” Often their patience gives out (I do not wonder), -and one after another they swoop down past the window, not to strike -the offender, but to offer him a hint in the way of moral suasion. -Sometimes one alights, with more or less difficulty, on the narrow -middle sash just below, and talks to him; or one hovers near the bag, -or even perches sidewise on the string, just above, as much as to say, -“Look out!” Then I hear a burst of little, hurried, sweet-sounding, -angry notes--always the same, or so nearly the same that my ear is -unable to detect the difference. - -Generally these manœuvres are successful; but now and then the feeder -is so persistently greedy that I am tempted to assert a landlord’s -prerogative and tell him to begone. Only once have I ever seen two -birds clinging to the bag together, although so far as I can make out, -there is nothing to hinder their doing so; and even then they were not -eating, but waiting to see which should give place to the other. - -All in all, it is a very pleasing show. It is good to see the innocent -creatures so happy. Nobody could look at them, their black eyes -shining, their black bills striking into the meats, all their motions -so expressive of eager enjoyment, without feeling glad on their -account. And with all the rest, it may be said that an ease-loving man, -with a meddlesome New England conscience, is not always sorry to have a -decent, or better than decent, excuse for dropping work once in a while -to look out of the window. Who says we are idle while we are taking a -lesson in natural history? I do not know how many times I have broken -off (seeing a bird’s shadow in the room, or hearing a tap on the pane) -while writing these few paragraphs. - -Once, indeed, I saw something like actual belligerency. Two birds -reached the bag at the same instant, and neither was inclined to -withdraw. They came together, bill to bill, each with a volley of those -fine, spitfire notes of which I spoke just now, and in the course of -the set-to, which was over almost before it began, one of them struck -beak-first against the window, as if he were coming through. Then both -flew to the elm branches, fifteen feet away, and in a moment more one -of them came back and took a turn at feeding. I am not going to take -in the bag for fear of the immoral effects of excessive competition. -Competition--among customers--is the life of trade. I am glad to see my -table so popular. - -The nuthatches, of which we have at least two, male and female, as I -know by the different color of their crowns, have not yet discovered -the nuts, but come regularly to the suet in the trees, and pretty -often to a piece that is nailed upon one of my window-sills. I hear the -fellow’s pleasant, contented, guttural, grunting notes, and rise to -look at him, liking especially to watch the tidbits as they travel one -after another between his long mandibles. Even if he does not call out, -I know that it is he, and not a chickadee, by the louder noise he makes -in driving his bill into the fat. - -I have fancied, all winter, that the birds--these two nuthatches, I -mean--were mated, seeing them so often together; and perhaps they are; -but the other day I witnessed a little performance that seemed to put -another complexion upon the case. I was leaving the yard when I heard -bird notes, repeated again and again, which I did not recognize. To the -best of my recollection they were quite new. I looked up into a tree, -and there were the two nuthatches, one chasing the other from branch -to branch, with that peculiarly dainty, fluttering, mincing action of -the wings, a sort of will-you-be-mine motion, which birds are given to -using in the excitement of courtship. There could be no doubt of it, -though it was only the 10th of February: Corydon was already “paying -attentions” to Phyllis. Success to him! I notice, also, that chickadees -are beginning to whistle a “Phœbe” with considerable frequency, though -there is nothing in the weather to encourage them. Birds have an -almanac of their own. Spring is coming. - - - - -A GOOD-BY TO WINTER - - -Winter is not quite done, but it will be by the time this “Clerk” is -printed. That is to say, _my_ winter will be done. In this respect, as -in many others, I am a conservative. My calendar is of the old school. -“There are four seasons in the year--spring, summer, autumn or fall, -and winter.” So we began our school compositions; and by “spring” we -meant the spring months--March, April, and May. The temperature might -belie the almanac; there might be “six weeks’ sledding in March;” but -when March began, spring began. - -And by the way, what a capital subject that was--“The Seasons”! A theme -without beginning and without end; a theme to be taken seriously or -humorously, in prose or verse; a theme of universal interest. Best -of all, there was no difficulty about the first sentence. No need to -sit for half an hour chewing the end of one’s pencil and waiting for -inspiration. Down it went: “There are four seasons in the year--spring, -summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” We never omitted to say “autumn or -fall;” the synonymy helped out the page, and gave us the more time in -which to consider what we should say next. That is the great difficulty -in authorship. On that shoal many a good ship has struck. A man who -always has something to say next is bound to get on--as a “space -writer,” if as nothing else. - -Our opening remark was not strictly original, but we did not mind. It -was true, if it wasn’t new; and without being told, I think we had -discovered--by intuition, I suppose--what older heads seem to have -learned by rule, that it is good rhetoric, so to speak, to begin with -a quotation. I was pleased, the other day, to see a brilliant essayist -commending it as an excellent and becoming practice to leapfrog into -one’s subject over the back of some famous predecessor. Such was our -custom, for better or worse, till a certain master (I am tempted to -name him, but forbear) announced just before the fatal day, that -compositions on “The Seasons” would no longer be accepted. That was -cruelty to authors. He spoke with a smile, but it was a smile of -malice. I have never forgiven him. He is living still, a preacher of -the gospel. When Saturday night comes, and he finds himself hard put -to it for the morrow’s sermon (as I have no doubt he often does--I -hope so, at all events), does he never remember the day when with the -word of his mouth he deprived thirty or forty young innocents of their -easiest and best appreciated text? He is righteously punished. Let him -preach to himself, some Sunday, from Numbers xxxii. 23, “Be sure your -sin will find you out.” - -Why shouldn’t one write about the seasons, I wonder. There is -scarcely anything more important, or more universally interesting, -than the weather. Ten to one it was the first thing we all thought -of this morning. And the seasons are nothing but weather in large -packages--weather at wholesale. Their changes are our epochs, our -date-points. But for them, all days being alike, there would be no -calendar. It is well known that people who live in the tropics seldom -know their own age. How should they, with nothing to distinguish one -time of year from another? Young or old, they have never learned that -“there are four seasons in the year.” - -We are better off. Life with us is not all in the present tense. As -Hamlet said, we look before and after. (Hence it is, I suppose, that -we have “such large discourse,” and continue, some of us, to write -compositions.) We live by expectation. “Behold,” says the weather, -“I make all things new.” Every day is another one, and every season -also. At this very minute a miraculous change is at hand. A great and -effectual door is about to swing on its hinges, and I, for one, wish -to be awake to see it; not to wake up by and by and find the door wide -open. - -So far from wearying of the seasons as an old story, I am more -intensely interested in them than ever. If any of my fellow citizens -are not just now thinking daily of the passing of winter and the advent -of spring, I should like to know what they are made of. For myself, I -am like a man in jail. My term is about to expire, and I am notching -off the days one by one on a stick. “Three more,” say I; “two more.” -“Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.” And I am ready to hang -my cap on the horns of the moon. - -“You are too much in haste,” some man will say; the same that said, -“How are the dead raised up?” But I know better. It is one happy effect -of ornithological habits that they shorten the winter. There will -be no spring flowers for a good while yet, but there will be spring -birds within a fortnight, perhaps within a week; nay, there may be -some before night. Indeed, I have just come in from a two-hour jaunt, -and at almost every step my ears were open for the first vernal note. -I have seen bluebirds, before now, earlier than this; and what has -happened once may happen again. So, while the wind blew softly from -the southwest, and all the hills were mantled with a dreamy haze, I -chose a course that would take me past one apple orchard after another; -and, as I say, my ears (which I often think are better ornithologists -than their owner,--if he is their owner) kept themselves wide awake. -If that sweet voice, “Purity, purity” (with all bird lovers I thank -Mr. Burroughs for the word)--if that heavenly voice, the gentlest of -prophets, was on the breeze, they meant to hear it. - -They heard nothing, but that is not to say that they listened to no -purpose. They heard nothing, and they heard much; for there is an ear -within the ear, and the new year’s voice--which is the bluebird’s--was -in the deepest and truest sense already audible. The ornithologist -failed to catch it; for him _Sialia sialis_ is still to look for; but -the other man was in better luck. - -The “new year’s voice,” I say; for the year begins with spring. We had -the seasons in their true order when we were school-children--“spring, -summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” It must have been some very old -and prosy chronologist that arranged their progression as our almanacs -now give it. The young are better instructed. Does not the Scripture -say, “The last shall be first”? - -And within three days--I can hardly believe it--the old year will -be done. So let it be. Its passing brings us so much nearer the -grave; worse yet, perhaps, it leaves us with our winter’s work half -accomplished; but our eyes are forward. After all, our work is not -important. We are twice too busy; living as our neighbors do, rather -than according to the law of our own being; playing the fool (there -is no fool like the busy one); selling our birthright for a mess of -pottage. The great thing, especially in springtime, is to lie wide open -to the life that enfolds us, while the “gentle deities” show us, for -our delight,-- - - “The lore of colors and of sounds, - The innumerable tenements of beauty.” - -Yes, that is the wisdom we should pray for. The youngest of us will not -see many springs. Let us see the most that we can of this one. So much -there will be to look at! Now, of all times, we may say with one of -old, “Lord, that I might receive my sight.” What a new world we should -find ourselves living in! I can hardly imagine it. - - - - -BIRD SONGS AND BIRD TALK - - -I mentioned a fortnight ago a flock of half a dozen purple finches -(linnets) seen and heard conversing softly among themselves in some -roadside savin trees on the 29th of January. They must be passing the -winter somewhere not far away, I ventured to guess. “Within a month,” I -added, “they will be singing, taking the winds of March with music.” - -This forenoon (March 5) I had walked up the same pleasant by-road, -meaning to follow it for a mile or two, but finding myself -insufficiently shod for so deep a slush, I turned back after going only -a little way. It was too bad I should have been so improvident, I said -to myself; but accident is often better than the best-laid plan, and -so it was now. As I neared the bunch of cedars--which I have looked -into day after day as I have passed, hoping to find the linnets again -there--I descried some smallish bird in one of the topmost branches -of a tall old poplar across the field. My opera-glass brought him -nearer, but still not near enough, till presently he turned and took -an attitude. “Ah, yes,” said I; “a purple finch.” Attitude and gait, -though there may be nothing definable about them, are often almost as -good as color and feature for purposes of identification. I had barely -named the bird before he commenced singing, and as he moved into a -slightly better light (the sky being clouded) I saw that he was a red -one. He seemed to be not yet in full voice; perhaps he was not in full -spirits; but he ran through with his long, rapid, intricate, sweetly -modulated warble with perfect fluency, and very much to my pleasure. -It was the first song of spring. The linnet is of the true way of -thinking; spring, with him, begins with the turn of the month. - -Purple finches, by the bye, are among the birds of which it has been -said--by Minot, and perhaps by others--that both sexes sing. I hope -the statement is true; I could never see any reason in the nature of -things why female birds should not have musical susceptibilities and -musical accomplishments; but I am constrained to doubt. It is most -likely, I think, that the opinion has arisen from the fact that adult -males--a year or more old, and fathers of families--sometimes continue -to wear the gray, sparrow-like costume of the gentler sex. - -My bird of this morning dropped from his perch while I was trying to -get nearer to him, and could not be found again. I still suppose that -the flock is spending the season somewhere not far off. I have lived -with myself too long to imagine that birds must be absent because I -fail to discover them. - -Half an hour before, in almost the same place, I had stopped to -look at six birds perched in a bare treetop. They were so silent, -so motionless, and so closely bunched, that I put up my opera-glass -expecting to find them cedar waxwings. Instead, they were nothing but -blue jays. While my glass was still on them, the whole flock seemed to -be taken with a dancing fit. This lasted for a quarter of a second, -more or less, and was so quickly over that I cannot say positively -that it was anything more than an optical illusion. The next moment all -hands took flight with loud screams. They did not go far, and presently -crossed the road in front of me, still screaming lustily, for no reason -that I could discover signs of. However, the blue jay is as far as -possible from being a fool, and whenever he talks it is safe concluding -that he has something to say. - -It has long been an opinion of mine that the jay language is worthy of -systematic study. Some man with a gift of patience and a genius for -linguistics should undertake a jay dictionary; setting down not only -all jay words and phrases, but giving us, as far as possible, their -meaning and their English equivalents. It would make a sizable volume, -and would be a real contribution to knowledge. - -All bird language, I have no doubt, is full of significance. It -has been evolved exactly as human language has been, and while it -is presumably less copious and less nicely shaded than ours, it is -probably less radically unlike it than we may have been accustomed -to assume. That it has something answering to our “parts of speech” -we may almost take for granted. It could scarcely be intelligible--as -it assuredly is--if some words did not express action, others things, -and still others quality. Verbs, substantives, adjectives, and -adverbs,--these, at least, all real language must possess. The jay -tongue has them, I would warrant, in rudimentary forms, but in good -number and of clearly defined significance. - -Jays are natural orators; for among birds, as among men, there are -“diversities of operations.” “All species are not equally eloquent,” -said Gilbert White. And the same capable naturalist made another shrewd -remark, which I would commend to the man, whoever he may be, who shall -undertake the jay-English dictionary that I have been desiderating. -“The language of birds,” said White, “is very ancient, and, like other -ancient modes of speech, very elliptical; little is said, but much is -meant and understood.” - -The blue jay, I am confident, though I do not profess to be a jay -scholar, makes a large use of interjections. This will constitute one -of the difficulties with which his lexicographer will have to contend; -for interjections, as all students of foreign tongues know, are among -the hardest words to render from one language to another. A literal -translation is liable to convey almost no meaning. When a Spaniard -grows red in the face and vociferates, “_Jesús, María y José!”_ he is -not thinking of the holy family, but in all likelihood of something -very, very different; and when a devout New England deacon hears -some surprising piece of news, and responds with “My conscience!” he -is not thinking at all of the voice of God in the soul of man. Such -phrases--and the jay language, I feel sure, is full of them--are not -so much expressions of thought as vents for feeling. You may call -them safety-valves. Emotion is like steam. If you stop the nose of -the tea-kettle, off goes the cover. The hotter the blood, of course, -the more need for such exclamatory outlets; and the jay, unless his -behavior belies him, is Spaniard, Italian, and Frenchman all in one. -I pity his lexicographer if he undertakes to render all his subject’s -emotions in prim literary English. But I hope he will do the best he -can, and I promise to buy his book. - -The linnet’s was the first spring song, I said; but it was first -by an inch only; for even while I was setting down the paragraph a -white-breasted nuthatch broke into a whistle close by my window. I -turned at once to look at him. There he stood, in the top of the elm, -perched crosswise upon a small twig, just as a sparrow might have been, -and every half a minute throwing forward his head and emitting that -peculiar whistle, broken into eight or ten syllables. Between times -he looked to right and left, as if he had been calling for some one -and was expecting a response. No response came, and after a little he -disappeared. - -That was the second spring song, and a good one, though not to be -compared with the linnet’s for musical quality. Now, say I, who bids -for the third place? Perhaps it will be a bluebird, perhaps a robin, -perhaps a song sparrow. - - - - -CHIPMUNKS, BLUEBIRDS, AND ROBINS - - -The season was opened, formally, on the 10th of March. I am speaking -for myself. Friday, the 8th, brought genuine spring weather, sunny -and warm, an ideal day for the first bluebird; but I was obliged to -waste it in the city. The 9th was rainy and cold, and though I spent -some hours out-of-doors, I saw no vernal signs. Birds of all sorts -were never so few. The next morning--cloudy, with a raw northeasterly -wind--I was fifteen minutes away from home when a squirrel came out of -the woods on one side of the way and ran across the road before me. It -was a chipmunk, my first one of the new year, wide-awake and quick on -its legs; and it was hardly in the hazel bushes on the other side of -the road before another joined it, and the two chased each other out of -sight. Spring had come. - -Chickarees and gray squirrels have been common enough throughout -the cold weather, but the chipmunk, or striped squirrel, takes to -its burrow in the late autumn, and sleeps away the winter. In other -words, along with the woodchuck (the largest and the smallest of our -New England squirrels being alike in this respect), it migrates--into -the “land of Nod.” I imagine, however, that its sleep is not so sound -but that it wakes up now and then to feed, though as to this point I -know really nothing, my impression arising wholly from the fact that -chipmunks store away food. They would hardly do this, I should think, -unless they expected to find a use for it. - -Late in September, five months ago, I went to visit friends in the -White Mountains, and one of the first things I heard from them was that -Betty had disappeared. She had not been seen for about two months. -Betty was a chipmunk that had been in the habit of coming upon the -piazza, and had grown tame under kind treatment till she would take -food from her friends’ fingers and even climb into their laps. Once, -indeed, the lady of the house, having gone upstairs, noticed the -presence of something heavy in her pocket (she is a naturalist, and -for that reason, I suppose, still wears a pocket in her gown), and on -putting her hand into it, found Betty inside. - -But, as I say, Betty had suddenly discontinued her visits, and there -was mourning at the cottage. Worse yet, there was wrath, and the stable -cat had barely escaped with his life. But now, on a Sunday noon, when -the cottagers appeared at the hotel dinner-table, they announced with -beaming faces that there was great news: Betty had returned! I must -come over and see her; for up to this time I knew her charms only by -report. - -As soon as dinner was finished, therefore, we repaired to the cottage -veranda, and pretty soon, while we were talking of one thing and -another, the lady said, “Ah, here she is! Here’s Betty!” Filberts had -been provided, and she began at once to climb into our laps after -them. She carried them away three at a time,--one in each cheek-pouch -and one between her teeth,--going and coming in the most industrious -and businesslike manner. She would pass the winter in a state of -hibernation, without a doubt, but her conduct obviously implied that -she expected to see a time now and then when a bite of something to eat -would “come handy.” - -My 10th of March chipmunks were a welcome sight. I wondered how long -they had been awake. For several days, probably. And I tried to imagine -what it must be like to open one’s eyes after a five months’ nap. -Hibernation has the look of a miracle. And yet, what is it but a longer -sleep? Well, perhaps sleep itself is a miracle--as truly so as life or -thought. Probably, the world being all of a piece, if we understood one -thing we should understand everything. Who knows? Anyhow, spring had -come. - -But there were no bluebirds. I kept on for two hours, past the -likeliest of places, but saw and heard nothing. It was too bad, but -there was no help for it. Bluebirds, blackbirds, song sparrows, fox -sparrows, all were still to be looked for. - -Then I sat indoors for an hour or two; I would stay in till afternoon, -I thought; books, also, are a world, as Wordsworth said; but pretty -soon the sun shone out; things looked too inviting. “I will go over as -far as Longfellow’s Pond,” said I. “Perhaps there will be something in -that quarter.” That was a happy thought. I was hardly in the old cattle -pasture, feeling it good to have the grass under my feet once more, -all bleached and sodden though it was, when I stopped. Wasn’t that a -bluebird’s note? No, it was probably nothing but my imagination. But -the sound reached me again; faint, fugacious, just grazing the ear. I -put up my hands to my ears’ help, and stood still. Yes, I certainly -heard it; and this time I got its direction. A glance that way and I -saw the bird, pretty far off, at the tip of an elm sapling standing by -itself down in a sheltered hollow. I leveled my field-glass upon him -(it was well I had brought it), made sure of his color, a piece of pure -loveliness, and hastened to get nearer. Before I could turn the corner -of the intervening wire fence, however, he took flight, and another -with him. I followed hastily, and was approaching some roadside maples -when the voice was heard anew, and the two birds, both calling, mounted -into the air and vanished beyond the wood northward. - -What a sweet voice the bluebird’s is! Calling or singing, it is the -very soul of music. And the spring was really open. I went home in high -spirits. - -This happened on the 10th. Now it is the 13th. I have seen no more -bluebirds, and song sparrows are still missing; but this morning an -ecstatic purple finch warbled, and better still (for somehow, I do not -know how or why, it gave me more pleasure), a flicker called again and -again in his loud, peremptory, long-winded manner. He, or another like -him, has been in the neighborhood all winter, but this was his first -spring utterance. It was no uncertain sound. - -The bluebird peeps in upon us, as it were. His air is timid. “Is winter -really gone?” he seems to say; but the flicker is a breezier customer. -His mood is positive. He pushes the door wide open, and slams it back -against the wall. “Spring, spring!” he shouts, and all the world may -hear him. Soon he and the downy will begin their amorous drumming on -dry stubs and flakes of resonant bark. - -This was early in the morning. Since then I have been over to the -cattle pasture, and in it found a flock of ten or twelve robins. They -were feeding in the grass, but at my approach flew into some savin -trees and fell to eating berries. As seems to be always true at this -time of the year, they were in splendid color, and apparently in the -very pink of physical condition; their bills were never so golden, it -seemed to me, nor their heads so velvety black, nor their eyelids so -white. They would not sing, but it was like the best of music to hear -them cackle softly as they flew from the grass into the cedars. Say -what you will, the robin is a pretty fine bird, especially in March. - - - - -MARCH SWALLOWS - - -The birds are having their innings. They have been away and have come -back, and even the most stolid citizen is for the moment aware of their -presence. I rejoice to see them so popular. - -Two or three mornings ago I met a friend in the road, a farmer, one -of the happy men, good to talk with, who glory in their work. A phœbe -was calling from the top of an elm, and as we were near the farmer’s -house I asked, “How long has the phœbe been here?” He looked up, saw -the bird, and answered with a smile, “He must have just come. I haven’t -heard him before.” I made some remark about its being pleasant to have -such creatures with us again, and he responded, as I knew he would, in -the heartiest manner. “Oh, I do love to see them!” he said. - -I was reminded of a lady of whom I had been told the day before. She -had felt obliged, as I heard the story, to attend a meeting of the -woman’s club, but remarked to one of her assembled sisters that she had -had half a mind to stay at home. The truth was, she explained, that -two or three meadow larks were singing gloriously in the rear of her -house, and she could hardly bear to come away and leave them. I hope -her self-denial was rewarded. - -On the same day I heard of a servant who hastened into the sitting-room -to say to her mistress, “Oh, Mrs. ----! there’s a little bird out in -the hedge singing to beat the band.” The newcomer proved to be a song -sparrow, and the lady of the house was fully as enthusiastic as the -servant in her welcome of it, though I dare say she expressed herself -in less picturesque language. - -And I know another house, still nearer home, where a few days ago the -dinner-table was actually deserted for a time, in the very midst of the -meal. Three bluebirds, with snowbirds, goldfinches, and chickadees, had -suddenly appeared under the windows. “There! there! In the maple! Will -you look at him! Oh-h-h!” The dinner might “get cold,” as the prudent -housewife suggested, but it did not matter. Such a color as those -bluebirds displayed was better than anything that an eater could put -into his mouth. - -Yes, as I say, the birds are having their innings. In whichever -direction I walk, in town or country, I am asked about them. A -schoolgirl stopped me in the street the other day. “Can you tell -me what that bird is?” she inquired. A white-breasted nuthatch was -whistling over our heads in a shade tree. Possibly the study of live -birds will be as fashionable a few years hence as the wearing of dead -ones was a few years ago. - -On the 22d of March, as I stood listening to a most uncommonly -brilliant song sparrow (now is the time for such things, before the -greater artists monopolize our attention) and the outgivings of a too -chary fox sparrow, the first cowbird of the year announced himself. -Polygamist, shirk, and, by all our human standards, general reprobate, -I was still glad to hear him. He is what he was made. Few birds are -more interesting, psychologically, if one wishes an object of study. - -Saturday, the 23d, was cloudless, a rare event at this time of the -year, and with an outdoor neighbor I made an excursion to Wayland, to -see what might be visible and audible in those broad Sudbury River -meadows. - -We took a “round” familiar to us (to one of us, at least), down the -road to the north bridge and causeway, thence through the woods on the -opposite side of the river to a main thoroughfare, or turnpike, and -back to the village again over the south causeway. Meadow larks were -in full tune, now from a treetop, now from a fence-post. They were my -first ones since the autumn, and their music was relished accordingly. - -As we stopped on the bridge to look down the blue river and across the -overflowed meadow lands to a gray, flat-topped hill far beyond toward -Concord, we suddenly discovered a shining white object on the surface -of the water. It proved to be a duck, one of two, jet black and snow -white, and presumably a merganser, though it was too far away to be -made out with positiveness. Thoreau, I remember, makes frequent mention -of mergansers and golden-eyes in his March journals. - -We were admiring this couple (a couple only in the looser sense of the -word, for both birds were drakes), when all at once some small far-away -object “swam into my ken.” “A swallow!” said I, and even as I spoke a -second one came into the field of the glass. Yes, there they were, two -white-breasted swallows, sailing about over the meadows on the 23d of -March. How unspeakably beautiful they looked, their lustrous blue-green -backs with the bright sun shining on them! The date must constitute a -“record,” I assured my companion. Once before, at least, I had seen -swallows in March, but that, I felt certain, was on one of the last -days of the month. Strange that such creatures should have ventured so -far northward thus early. If Gilbert White could see them, he would -be more firmly convinced than ever that swallows “lay themselves up -in holes and caverns, and do, insect-like and bat-like, come forth -at mild times, and then retire again to their latebræ.” For my own -part, not being able to accept this doctrine, I contented myself with -Americanizing Shakespeare. “Swallows,” said I,-- - - “Swallows that come before the daffodil dares, - And take the winds of March with beauty.” - -I could hardly recover from my excitement, which was renewed an hour -afterward when, on the southern causeway, a third bird (or one of the -same two) passed near us. But now see how untrustworthy a clerk a man’s -memory is! On reaching home I turned at once to my book of dates, and -behold, it was exactly four years ago to an hour, March 23, 1897, that -I saw two white-breasted swallows about a pond here in Wellesley. We -had broken no “record,” after all. But I imagine the Rev. Gilbert White -saying, “Yes, yes; you will notice that in both cases the birds were -seen in the immediate neighborhood of water.” And there is no doubt -that such places are the ones in which to look most hopefully for the -first swallows of the year. - -All this time a herring gull, a great beauty in high plumage, was -sailing up and down the meadows like a larger swallow. He, too, was one -of Thoreau’s river friends at this season; and since we are talking of -dates, I note it as a coincidence that precisely forty-two years ago -(March 23, 1859), he entered in his journal that he saw “come slowly -flying from the southwest a great gull, of voracious form, which at -length, by a sudden and steep descent, alighted in Fair Haven Pond [a -wide place in the river], scaring up a crow which was seeking its food -on the edge of the ice.” Our bird, also, made one “sudden and steep -descent,” and picked from the ice some small, dark-colored object, -which at our distance might have been a dead leaf. But if Thoreau saw -ducks and gulls, he saw no March swallows. His earliest date for them, -so far as the printed journals show, seems to have been April 5. - -The woods brought us nothing,--beyond a chickadee or two,--but we -were hardly out of them before we heard the blue jay scream of a -red-shouldered hawk, and presently saw first one bird and then another -(rusty shoulder and all) sailing above us. A grand sight it is, a -soaring and diving hawk. May it never become less frequent. I must -quote Thoreau once more, this time from memory, and for substance only. -I am with him, heart and soul, when he prays for more hawks, though at -the cost of fewer chickens. And I like the spirit of a friend of mine -who girdled a tall pine tree in his woods, that it might serve as a -perching station for such visitors. - -As we approached the village again, we came upon two phœbes. Like the -white-breasted swallow, the phœbe winters in Florida, and is by a -long time the earliest member of its family to arrive in New England. -Red-winged blackbirds were numerous, of course, every one a male, and -in one place we passed a flock of crow blackbirds feeding on the ground. - -Not the least interesting bird of the forenoon was a shrike, sitting -motionless and dumb in an apple tree. The shrike has all the -attractiveness of singularity. He is no lover of his kind, save as -the lion loves the lamb and the hawk the chicken. Lonesome? No, I -thank you. Except in breeding-time, he is sufficient unto himself. -Even when he happens to feel like conversation, he goes not in search -of company. He is like the amiable philosopher who was asked by some -busybody why he so often talked to himself. “Well,” said he, “for two -reasons: first, I like to talk to a sensible man, and secondly, I -like to hear a sensible man talk.” In the present instance the shrike -may very well have considered that there was little occasion for his -talking, either to himself or to anybody else, since a bunch of twenty -masculine redwings in some willow trees near by were chattering in -chorus until, to use a good Old Colony phrase, a man could hardly hear -himself think. Blackbird loquacity, each particular bird sputtering “to -beat the band,” is one of the wonders of the world. - - - - -WOODCOCK VESPERS - - -When I came to this town to live, in April, ten years ago, one of my -first concerns was to find a woodcock resort. The friend with whom I -commonly took a stroll at sundown had never heard the “evening hymn” -of that bird, and, knowing him for a lover of “the poetry of earth,” I -was eager to help him to a new pleasure. If the thing was to be done at -all, it must be done soon, as the bird’s musical season is brief. So we -walked and made inquiries. - -A farmer, who knew the region well, told us that woodcock used to be -common about a certain swamp, but had not been so, he thought, of -recent years. We visited it, of course, but heard nothing. Then the -same man bethought himself of a likelier place, farther away. Thither, -also, we went, having to hasten our steps, for the bird must be caught -at precisely such a minute, between daylight and dark. Still we had -our labor for our pains. And so the season passed, with nothing done. - -Then, a year or two afterward, walking one afternoon in a quiet back -road, I startled a woodcock from directly beside the track. “Well, -well,” said I, “here is the very place;” for I noticed not far off a -bit of alder swamp, with a wood behind it and an open field near by. -All the conditions were right, and on the first available evening, with -something like assurance, I made my way thither. Yes, the bird was -there, in the full ecstasy of his wonderful performance--for wonderful -it surely is. - -My friend was not with me, however, and for one reason or another, -now past recall, another year went by without our being able to visit -the spot together at the necessary minute. Then a day came. He heard -the bird (well I remember the hour), was delighted beyond measure, -and that very evening, still under the spell of the “miracle,” put -his impressions of it on paper. The next day they were printed, and I -remember still my pleasure when the most competent of all men to speak -of such a matter sent me word that it was the best description of the -performance that he had ever seen. If any of my readers desire to see -it, it is to be found in a little volume of most delightful outdoor -essays entitled “The Listener in the Country.” - -All this I lived over again last evening as I went, alone, to the same -spot--not having visited it on this errand for several years--to see -whether the bird would still be true to his old tryst. I believed that -he would be, in spite of the skepticism of a wide-awake man who lives -almost within stone’s throw of the place; for though woodcock are -said to be growing less and less common, I have strong faith in the -conservative disposition of all such creatures. Once they have a place -to their mind, they are likely to hold it. - -Fox sparrows were singing in their best manner as I passed on my way, -and I would gladly have stayed to listen; their season, also, is a -short one; but I kept to my point. - -And after all, I arrived a few minutes ahead of time. Up and down the -road I paced (no one in sight, nor any danger of any one), with an -ear always awake for a certain note, the “bleat,” so called, of the -woodcock. Should I hear it? It was fast getting dark, the western sky -covered with black clouds (a great disadvantage), with only scattered -gleams of bright color, very narrow, just on the horizon. Hark! Yes; -that was it--_Spneak_. There is no putting the sound into letters, but -those who know the call of the nighthawk may understand sufficiently -well what I am trying to express, for the two notes are almost -identical. - -With this note, single, repeated for a considerable time at intervals -of perhaps half a minute,--the bird still on the ground, and turning -about, so that some of his utterances sound three or four times as -far away as others,--with this strange, unmusical, almost ridiculous -overture the woodcock invariably introduces his evening recital. I -wait, therefore, leaning against the heavy stone wall, costly and -unromantic, with which the rich new owner of the land has lately fenced -his possession, till all at once the silence is broken by the familiar -whistling noises made by the heavy bird as he leaves the ground. This -time they are unusually faint, and are lost almost immediately. Only -for my acquaintance with the matter I should assume that the bird had -flown away, and that my evening was lost. As it is, I continue to -listen. Once and again I catch the sounds. The fellow is still rising. -I can see him, but only in my mind’s eye. Those black clouds hide him -quite as effectually as if he were behind them. Still I can see him. -I know he has gone up in a broad spiral--up, up, up, as on a winding -staircase. - -Now, after silence, begins a different sound, more musical, more -clearly vocal; breathless, broken, eager, passionate, ecstatic. And -now, far aloft in the sky, where the clouds are of a lighter color, I -suddenly catch sight of the bird, a dark speck, shooting this way and -that, descending in sharp zigzags, whistling with his last gasps. And -now, as if exhausted,--and well he may be,--he drops to earth (I see -him come down) very near me, much nearer than I had thought. - -_Spneak_, he calls. I know exactly what is coming. At intervals, just -as before, he repeats the sound, till suddenly he is on the wing -again, whistling as he goes. He flies straight from me,--for this time, -by good luck, I see him as he starts,--and mounts and mounts. Then, -far, far up, he whistles, _zip, zip_, and then, when he can stay no -longer, comes down in crazy zigzags. - -A wonderful display. If a man could be as truly enraptured as the -woodcock seems to be, he would know the joys of the blest. I wonder -how many thousand Aprils this cumbrous-looking, gross-looking, -unpoetical-looking bird has been disporting himself thus at heaven’s -gate. There must be a real soul in a creature, no matter what his -appearance, who is capable of such transports and ravishments, such -marvelous upliftings, such mad reaches after the infinite. - -I listen and wonder, and then come away, meditating on what I have seen -and heard. The last of the small birds have fallen silent. Only a few -hylas are peeping as I pass a cranberry meadow. Then, halfway home, as -the road traverses a piece of woods, with a brook singing on one side, -and the moon peeping through fleecy clouds, suddenly I halt. That was -a screech owl’s voice, was it not? Yes; faint, tremulous, sweet, a -mere breath, the falling, quavering strain again reaches my ear. The -bird is somewhere beyond the brook. I wonder how far. Well up on the -wooded hillside, I think it likely. I put my hands behind my ears and -hearken. Again and again I hear it; true music! music and poetry in -one; the voice of the night. But look! What is that dark object just -before me on a low branch not two rods away? There is no light with -which to be sure of its outlines; a tuft of dead leaves, perhaps; but -it is of a screech owl’s size. Another phrase. Yes, it comes from that -spot, or I am tricked. And now the bird moves, and the next instant -takes wing. But he goes only a few feet, and alights even nearer to me -than before. How soft his voice is! Almost as soft as his flight. How -different from the woodcock’s panting, breathless whistle! Though I can -see him, and could almost touch him, the tremulous measure might still -be coming from the depths of the wood. I listen with all my ears, till -an approaching carriage turns a corner in the road below. I hope the -owl will not mind; but as the wheels come near he leaves his perch, -flies directly before my face (with no more noise than if a feather -were falling through the air), and disappears in the forest opposite. - -Two good birds I have listened to. The evening has been kind to me. Two -birds? nay, two poets: a poet in a frenzy, and a poet dreaming. - - - - -UNDER APRIL CLOUDS - - -“Good-morning.” - -“Ah, good-morning. How are you?” - -I was on what I suppose is habitually the most crowded sidewalk in -Boston, where men in haste are always to be seen betaking themselves to -the street as the only means of making headway. A hand was laid on my -shoulder. A business man, one of the busiest, I should think he must -be, had come up behind me. He was looking happy. Yes, he said, he was -very well. “And yesterday,” he continued, “I had a great pleasure. I -saw my first fox-colored sparrow, and heard him sing.” - -No wonder his face shone. His condition was enviable. The fox sparrow -is a noble bird, with a most musical voice, the prince of all sparrows. -To hear him for the first time--if one does hear him--is a real event. -A man might well walk a crowded city sidewalk the next day and smile -to himself at the memory of such high fortune. - -After all, happiness is a good thing. Not so desirable, perhaps, -as a great office, or a mint of money, but a pretty good thing, -nevertheless. It is encouraging, in these days of far-sought pleasures -and prodigal expense, to see men get it at a low rate and on innocent -terms. - -For myself, I think I have never known fox sparrows more plentiful than -for the past week. From our human point of view their present migration -has been eminently favorable; from the birds’ point of view it has -probably been in the highest degree unfavorable, the prolonged spell of -cloudy and rainy weather having made night flights difficult, not to -say impossible. The travelers have been obliged to stay where the storm -had caught them, and we, at this intermediate station, have profited by -their misfortune. - -On the 7th I stood in the midst of as fine a flock as a man could -wish to see. A thick cloud enveloped us; we might have been on a -mountain-top; but for the minute it had ceased raining, and the -birds were in a lively mood. Sometimes as many as five or six were -singing together, while a chorus of snowbirds trilled the prettiest of -accompaniments; a concert worthy of Easter or any other festival. - -The weather has been of a kind to keep night-traveling migrants here, I -say; which is as much as to say that it has been of a sort to prevent -other such birds from arriving. There have been no bright nights, I -think, since April came in. So it happens, according to my theory -(which may be as sound or as unsound as the reader pleases), that -although it is now the 10th of the month, there has been, for my eye, -no sign of chipper, field sparrow, or vesper sparrow. How should there -be? How should such creatures find their way, with the fog and the rain -blinding them night after night? No doubt they are impatient to be at -home again in the old dooryards, the old savin-dotted pastures, and the -old hay-fields. By and by the clouds will vanish, and they will hasten -northward in crowds. The night air will be full of them, and the next -day all outdoor, bird-loving people will be in clover. - -Unfavorable as the weather is, however, and against all probabilities, -one cannot quite forego seasonable expectations. I pass the border -of a grass field. A sparrow sings in the distance, and I stop to -listen. Could that have been a vesper sparrow? The song comes again. -No; it begins a little in the vesper’s manner; the opening measure is -unusually smooth and unemphatic; but the bird is only a song sparrow. -It is no shrewder than Peter. Its speech bewrayeth it. - -One kingfisher I have seen, shooting through the misty air far aloft, -his long wings making him look at that height like some seabird or -wader. I remember when the sight--not uncommon in spring--was to me an -insoluble mystery. As for calling the bird a kingfisher, such a thought -never occurred to me. I knew the kingfisher well enough, or imagined -that I did, but not at that altitude and flying in that strong, -purposeful manner. Yet even at such times he commonly sounds his rattle -before him, as if he wished his identity and his whereabouts to be -known. - -I have seen also a single marsh hawk. That was on the 9th, and the -circumstances of the case were ludicrous. I had stopped to look down -from a wooded hilltop into a swampy pool, where ducks sometimes alight, -when I saw a white object moving rapidly along the farther side of the -swamp, now visible, now hidden behind a veil of trees and shrubbery. A -road runs along that border of the swamp, and I took this moving white -object for a bundle which a boy was carrying upon a bicycle (making -pretty quick time), till suddenly I perceived that it was only a marsh -hawk’s rump! A redwing had given chase to the hawk--mostly for sport, -I imagine, or just to keep his hand in; for I do not suppose he could -have had any real grudge to settle. Probably this is the first case on -record in which a hawk was ever mistaken for a wheelman. - -Two evenings ago I made a solitary excursion to an extensive swamp and -meadow, hoping to witness, or at least to hear, the aerial performance -of the snipe. The air was full of a Scotch mist, and the sky cloudy. If -the birds were there, and in a performing mood, they would be likely -to get under way in good season. I waded across the meadow out of -the sight of houses, and, having found what seemed to be a promising -position, I took it and held it for perhaps an hour. But I heard none -of those strange, ghostly, swishing noises that I was listening for. -Perhaps the birds had not yet arrived. Perhaps this was not a snipe -meadow. - -For a time robins and song sparrows made music more or less remote, -and an unseen fox sparrow, nearer at hand, amused me with excellent -imitations of the brown thrasher’s smacking kiss. Then, as it grew -really dark, I relinquished the hunt and started homeward. And then the -real music began; for as I approached the highway I heard the whistle -of a woodcock, and presently discovered that, for the first time in my -life, I was walking through what might be called a veritable woodcock -concert. Once three birds were vocal together; one was “bleating” on -the right, another on the left, while a third was at the very height -of his ecstasy overhead. For a mile or more I walked under a shower of -this incomparable, indescribable music. It dropped into my ears like -rain from heaven. - -One bird was calling just over the roadside wall. I stole nearer and -nearer, taking a few cautious steps after each bleat, till finally I -could hear the water dropping into the hogshead. I wonder how many -readers will know what I mean by that. After each call, as a kind of -pendant to it, there comes, if you are very, very close, a curious -small sound, exactly as if a drop of water (the comparison is not mine) -had fallen into a hogshead already half full. I had not heard it for -years. In fact, I had forgotten it, and heard it now for the first few -times without recollecting what it was. - -Then the bird rose--always invisible, of course, for by this time there -was no thought of seeing anything--and went skyward in broad circles, -till he was at the top of his flight, and when he descended he came to -earth on the other side of the road, a good distance away. He had seen -me, I suppose, with those big bull’s-eyes of his, which do so much to -heighten the oddity of his personal appearance. - -He was the last of his kind. For the rest of my walk I heard no music -except the sweet whistling of hylas here and there, and once, in a -woodland pool, the grating chorus of a set of wood frogs. - -Butterflies are waiting for sunshine--like the rest of us; I have -not seen so much as an Antiopa; and the only wild flowers I have yet -picked are the pretty red blossoms (pistillate blossoms) of the hazel; -tiny things, floral egrets, if you please to call them so, of a lively -and beautiful color. Sunshine or no sunshine, they were in bloom for -Easter. - - - - -FLYING SQUIRRELS AND SPADE-FOOT FROGS - - -It is pleasant to realize familiar truths anew; to have it brought -freshly to mind, for example, how many forms of animal life there are -about us of which we seldom get so much as a glimpse. - -In all my tramping over eastern Massachusetts I have met with two -foxes. One I saw for perhaps the tenth part of a second, the other for -perhaps two or three seconds. And probably my experience has not been -exceptional. In this one particular it would be safe to wager that not -one in ten of those who read this article will be able to boast of any -great advantage over the man who wrote it. Yet every raiser of poultry -hereabout will certify that foxes are by no means uncommon, and I know -a man living within fifteen miles of the State House who, last winter, -by a kind of “still hunt”--without a dog--killed three foxes in as -many successive days. Reynard has fine gifts of invisibility, but a man -with foxes on his mind will be likely to find them. - -This same near neighbor of mine takes now and then an otter; only three -or four weeks ago he showed me the skin of one on its stretching-board; -and the otter is an animal that I not only have never seen in this part -of the world, but never expect to see. I haven’t that kind of an eye. -As for muskrats, the trapper takes them almost without number; “rats,” -he calls them; while to me it is something like an event if once or -twice a year I happen to come upon one swimming in a brook. - -Another of these seclusive races, that manage to live close about us -unespied by all except the most inquisitive of their human neighbors, -is the race of flying squirrels. Whether they are more or less -common than red squirrels, gray squirrels, and chipmunks, it would -be difficult to say; but while red squirrels, gray squirrels, and -chipmunks flit before you wherever you go, you may haunt the woods -from year’s end to year’s end without seeing hide or hair of their -interesting cousin. Flying squirrels stir abroad after dark; not -because their deeds are evil (though they are said to like small birds -and birds’ eggs), but because--well, as the wise old nursery saw very -conclusively puts it, because “it is their nature to.” - -Several times during the past winter I made attempts to see them (the -story of one of these attempts has been told in a previous chapter), -but always without success, though twice I was taken to a nest that -was known to be in use. The other day I went to the same place again, -the friend who conducted me having found a squirrel there that very -forenoon. He shook the tree, a small gray-birch, with a nest of leaves -and twigs perched in its top, and out peeped the squirrel. “See him?” -said my friend. “Yes.” Then he gave the tree a harder shake, and in -a moment the creature spread his “wings” and sailed gracefully away, -landing on the trunk of an oak not far off, at about the height of -my head. There he clung, his large handsome eye, full of a startled -emotion, fastened upon me. I wondered if he would let me put my hand -on him; but as I approached within three or four yards he scrambled -up the tree into the small branches at the top. He was going to take -another flight, if the emergency seemed to call for it, and the higher -he could get, the better. The oak was too big to be shaken, but a -smaller tree stood near it. This my companion shook in the squirrel’s -face, and again he took flight. This time he passed squarely over my -head, showing a flat outspread surface sailing through the air, looking -not the least in the world like a squirrel or any other quadruped. -Again he struck against a trunk, and again he ran up into the treetop. -And again he was shaken off. - -Four times he flew, and then I protested that I had seen enough and -would not have him molested further. We left him in a maple-top, -surrounded by handsome red flower-clusters. - -The flight, even under such unnatural conditions, is a really pretty -performance, the surprising thing about it being the ease and grace -with which the acrobat manages to take an upward turn toward the end of -his course, so as always to alight head uppermost against the bole. - -It would be fun to see such a carnival as Audubon describes, when two -hundred or more of the squirrels were at play in the evening, near -Philadelphia, running up the trees and sailing away, like boys at the -old game of “swinging off birches.” “Scores of them,” he says, “would -leave each tree at the same moment, and cross each other, gliding like -spirits through the air, seeming to have no other object in view than -to indulge a playful propensity.” - -Compared with that, mine was a small show; but it was so much better -than nothing. - -Two mornings later (April 30) I was walking up the main street of our -village, lounging along, waiting for an electric car to overtake me, -when I heard loud batrachian voices from a field on my left hand. -“Aha!” said I, “the spade-foots are out again.” It had occurred to -me within a day or two that this should be their season, if, as is -believed, their appearance above ground is conditioned upon an unusual -rainfall. - -Some years ago, when I was amusing myself for a little with the study -of toads and frogs, checking Dr. J. A. Allen’s annotated list of the -Massachusetts batrachia, I became very curious about this peculiar -and little understood species, known scientifically as _Scaphiopus -holbrookii_, or the solitary spade-foot. It was originally described -from South Carolina, I read, and was first found in Massachusetts, near -Salem, about 1810. Its cries were said to have been heard at a distance -of half a mile, and were mistaken for those of young crows. For more -than thirty years afterward the frogs were noticed at this place only -three times. They were described as burrowing in the ground, coming -forth only to spawn, and that, as far as could be ascertained, at very -irregular intervals, sometimes many years in length. - -This, as I say, I read in Dr. Allen’s catalogue, to the great -sharpening of my curiosity. If I ever heard such noises, I should be -prepared to guess at the author of them. Well, some years afterward -(it was almost exactly eight years ago), fresh from a first visit to -Florida, where my ears had grown expectant of strange sounds (a great -use of travel), I stepped out of my door one evening in late April, and -was hardly in the street before I heard somewhere ahead of me a chorus -of stentorian frog-notes. “That should be the spade-foot’s voice,” I -said to myself, with full conviction. I hastened forward, traced the -tumult to a transient pool in a field, and as I neared the place picked -up a board that lay in the grass, and with it, by good fortune, turned -the first frog I came in sight of into a specimen. This I sent to the -batrachian specialist at Cambridge, who answered me, as I knew he -would, that it was Scaphiopus. - -My spade-foots of yesterday morning were in the same spot. I could not -stay then to look at them, for at that moment the car came along. I -left it at a favorite place in the next township, and had gone a mile -or so on foot when from another transient roadside pool I heard the -spade-foot’s voice again. This was most interesting. I skirted the -water, trying to get within reach of one of the performers. The attempt -was unsuccessful; but in the course of it I saw for the first time the -creature in the act of calling. And every time I saw him I laughed. He -lay stretched out at full length upon the surface of the pool, floating -high, as if he were somehow peculiarly buoyant. Then suddenly his hind -parts dropped, his head flew up, his enormous white, or pinkish-white, -vocal sac was instantaneously inflated (like a white ball on the -water), and the grating call was given out; after which the creature’s -head dropped, his hinder parts bobbed up into place (sometimes he was -nearly overset by the violence of the action), and again he lay silent. - -This same ludicrous performance--which by the watch was repeated every -three or four seconds--I observed more at length in the other pool -after my return. It seems to be indulged in only so long as the frogs -are unmated. I took it for the call of the male, the “lusty bachelor.” -At the same moment couples lay here and there upon the water, all -silent as dead men. - -That was yesterday afternoon. At night, as had been true the evening -previous (the neighbors in at least four of the nearer houses having -noticed the uproar), the chorus was loud. I could hear it from my -window, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. This morning there is no -sign of batrachian life about the place. Within a very short time--long -before the tadpoles, which will be hatched in two or three days, can -possibly have matured--the pool will in the ordinary course of nature -have dried up, and all those eggs will have gone to waste. - -A strange life it seems. What do the frogs live on underground? Why do -they omit, year after year, to come forth and lay their eggs? Do they -wait to be drowned out, and then (like thrifty farmers, who improve a -wet season in which to marry) proceed to perpetuate the species? - -These and many other questions it would be easy to ask. Especially one -would like to read from the inside the story of the life and adventures -of the young, which grow from the egg to maturity--through tadpole to -frog--without seeing father or mother. What a little we know! And how -few are the things we see! - - - - -THE WARBLERS ARE COMING - - -They are a grand army. The Campbells are nowhere in the comparison, -whether for numbers or looks. And this is their month. Let us all go -out to see them and cry them welcome. - -They are late, most exceptionally so. I have never known anything to -match it. Brave travelers as they are (some of them, yes, many of them, -are on a three or four thousand mile journey; and a long flight it is -for a five-inch bird, from South America to the arctic circle)--brave -travelers as they are, they cannot contend against the inevitable, -and our April weather, this year, was too much even for a bird’s -punctuality. - -The yellow warbler, for example, one of the prettiest of the tribe, -is by habit one of the truest to his schedule. In any ordinary season -he may be confidently expected to arrive in our Boston country on -the first day of May. If conditions favor his passage, he may even -anticipate the date, perhaps by forty-eight hours. This year not a -yellow warbler was to be seen up to May 6. Then, between the evening -of the 6th and the morning of the 7th, the birds dropped into their -accustomed places, and in the early forenoon, when I went out to look -for them, they were singing as cheerily as if they had never been away. -With nothing but their wits and their wings to depend upon, I thought -they had done exceedingly well. To me, on such terms, South America -would seem a very long way off. - -The same night brought the Nashville warblers. On the 6th not one was -visible, for I made it my business to look. On the morning of the 7th -I had no need to search for them. In all the old haunts, among the -pitch-pines and the gray-birches, they were flitting about and singing, -as fresh as larks and as lively as crickets. They, too, have come from -the tropics, and will go as far north, some of them, as “Labrador and -the fur countries.” A bold spirit may live under a few feathers. - -With them, I am pretty sure, came a goodly detachment of myrtle -warblers (yellow-rumps), though the advance guards of that host (two -birds were all that fell under my eye) were seen on the 18th of April. -The great host is still to come; for the myrtles _are_ a host,--a -multitude that no man can number. As I listen to their soft, dreamy -trill on these fair spring mornings, when the tall valley willows -are all in their earliest green,--a sight worth living for,--I seem -sometimes to be for the moment on the heights of the White Mountains. -Well I remember how much I enjoyed their quiet breath of song on the -snowy upper slopes of Mt. Moosilauke in May a year ago. For the myrtle, -notwithstanding his name, is a great lover of knee-high spruces. - -He is a lovely bird, wherever he lives, and it is good to see him -flourish, though by so doing he forfeits the peculiar charm of novelty. -Everything considered, I am bound to say, that is not so regrettable a -loss. If he were as scarce as some of his relatives, every collector’s -hand would be against him. Czars and rare birds must pay the price. - -The first member of the family to make his appearance with me this -spring was the pine warbler. He was trilling in a pine grove (his name -is one of the few that fit) on April 17. “The warblers are coming,” he -said. Not so pronounced a beauty as many of his tribe, he is one of the -most welcome. He braves the season, and with his lack of distinguishing -marks and his preference for pine-tops, he offers an instructive deal -of puzzlement to beginners in ornithology. His song is simplicity -itself, and, rightly or wrongly, always impresses me as the coolest of -the cool. - -I stood the other day between a pine warbler and a thrasher. The -thrasher sang like one possessed. He might have been crazy, beside -himself with passion. Operatic composers, aiming at something new and -brilliant in the way of a “mad scene,” should borrow a leaf out of -the planting bird’s repertory. The house would “come down,” I could -warrant. The pine warbler sang as one hums a tune at his work. Among -birds, as among humans, it takes all kinds to make a world. - -After the advent of the myrtle warblers, on April 18, eleven days -elapsed with no new arrivals, so far as I discovered, except a few -chipping sparrows, first seen on the 23d! The weather was doing its -worst. Then, on the 29th, I saw three yellow palm warblers. They were -singing, as they usually are at this season--singing and wagging their -tails, and incidentally putting me in mind of Florida, where in winter -they are seen of every one. It is noticeable that these three earliest -of the warblers all have, by way of song, a brief trill. Very much -alike the three efforts are, yet clearly enough distinguished, if one -hears them often enough. The best and least of them is the myrtle’s, I -being judge. - -The yellow palm warbler ought to be a Southerner of the Southerners, -one would say, from his tropical appellation; but the truth is that he -makes his home from Nova Scotia northward, and visits the land of palms -only in the cold season. He is a low-keeping bird (for a warbler), much -on the ground, very bright in color, and well marked by a red crown, -from which he is often called the yellow redpoll. If he could only -keep his tail still! - -Next in order was the black-throated green (May 4), which, take him for -all in all, is perhaps my favorite of the whole family. He is the bird -of the white pine, as the pine warbler is the bird of the pitch-pine. -And now we have a real song; no longer a simple trill, but a highly -characteristic, sweetly modulated tune--or two tunes, rather, perfectly -distinguished one from the other, and equally charming. If the voice is -rough, it is sweetly and musically rough. I would not for anything have -it different. - -What a vexatiously pleasant time I had, years ago, in tracing the voice -home to its author! How vividly I remember the day when I lay flat on -my face in a woodland path, opera-glass in hand, a manual open before -me, and the bird singing at intervals from a pine tree opposite; and a -neighbor, who had known me from boyhood, coming suddenly down the path. -I may err in my recollection (it was long ago), but I think I heard the -music for weeks before I satisfied myself as to the identity of the -singer. “Trees, trees, murmuring trees:” so I once translated the first -of the two songs; and to this day I do not see how to improve upon the -version. He is talking of the Weymouth pine, I like to believe. - -Black-and-white creeping warblers have been common since the 4th (under -normal weather conditions they should have been here a fortnight -sooner), and on the 6th the oven-bird took possession of the drier -woods. He looks very little like a warbler, but those who ought to know -whereof they speak class him with that family. I have not yet heard -his flight song, but he has no idea of keeping silence. As is true of -every real artist, he is in love with his part. With what a daintily -self-conscious grace he walks the boards! It is a kind of music to -watch him. He makes me think continually of the little ghost in Mrs. -Slosson’s story. Like that insubstantial reality he is always saying: -“Don’t you want to hear me speak my piece?” And whether the answer is -yes or no, it is no matter--over he goes with it. - -Yesterday my first blue yellow-back was singing, and to-day (May 8) -the first chestnut-sides are with me. And there are numbers to follow. -From now till the end of the month they will be coming and going--a -procession of beauty. In my mind I can already see them: the gorgeous -redstart, the lovely blue golden-wing, the splendid magnolia, and the -more splendid Blackburnian, the Cape May (a “seldom pleasure”), and the -multitudinous blackpoll--these and many others that are no less worthy. -At this time of the year a man should have nothing to do but to live in -the sun and look at the passing show. - - - - -INDEX - - - - -INDEX - - - Alder, 159. - black, 135. - - Anemone, 3. - - Apple, 51. - - Arbutus, trailing, 4, 143. - - Asters, 59, 120. - - Azalea, swamp, 22. - - - Barberry, 111, 172. - - Bayberry, 136. - - Beech, 163. - - Bees, 58. - - Birch, sweet, 119, 160. - - Bittern, 31. - least, 30. - - Bitternut, 113. - - Blackbird, crow, 120, 240. - red-winged, 39, 240, 241, 254. - rusty, 155. - - Blackberry, 172. - - Bladderwort, 22. - - Blueberry, 123, 136, 166. - - Bluebird, 16, 52, 83, 120, 217, 230, 231, 234. - - Bobolink, 19, 52, 83. - - Butter-and-eggs, 114. - - Butterflies, 57, 85, 108. - - - Canna, 62, 115. - - Catbird, 6, 7. - - Catnip, 54. - - Cat-tail, 28. - - Cedar, red, 39, 172. - - Checkerberry, 161, 174, 176 - - Cherry, rum, 123. - - Chestnut, 34. - - Chewink, 24. - - Chickadee, black-capped, 22, 60, 64, 66, 67, 73, 134, 150, 153, 154, - 182, 205, 206, 234, 239. - - Chicory, 27. - - Chipmunk, 182, 226, 227. - - Chokecherry, 41. - - Clethra, 122. - - Clover, rabbit-foot, 23. - - Coffee-tree, 125. - - Columbine, 3. - - Corn, 52. - - Cornel, dwarf, 4. - - Cowbird, 235. - - Cowslip, 3. - - Creeper, brown, 155. - - Crickets, 65. - - Crossbill, red, 154. - white-winged, 154. - - Crow, 24, 39, 42, 65, 154. - - - Dahlia, 115. - - Dangleberry, 123, 174. - - Desmodium nudiflorum, 36. - - Duck, dusky, 102. - - - Finch, Lincoln, 70. - pine, 155. - purple, 8, 155, 203, 219, 225, 231. - - Flicker, 64, 155, 231. - - Flycatcher, least, 6. - - Forsythia, 2. - - Fox, 183, 258. - - Frog, spade-foot, 262. - wood, 257. - - Frost grape, 111. - - - Galium, yellow, 21. - - Gallinule, Florida, 32. - - Gerardia, 36. - - Goldenrod, 59, 121. - - Goldfinch, 8, 27, 63, 134, 136, 155, 234. - - Goose, Canada, 198. - - Grass, 50, 76. - - Grosbeak, rose-breasted, 5, 47, 72. - - Grouse, ruffed, 83, 133, 143, 155. - - Gull, black-backed, 108. - herring, 95, 108, 111, 156, 238. - - - Hardhack, 21, 37, 38, 39. - - Hawk, red-shouldered, 239. - marsh, 108, 254. - - Heron, great blue, 94. - green, 31. - night, 31. - - Holly, 150, 175. - - Huckleberry, 123, 172. - - Hummingbird, 58, 61, 88. - - - Indigo-bird, 47, 70. - - - Jay, blue, 38, 120, 125, 154, 204, 221. - - Jewel-weed, 26, 58, 62. - - Joe Pye weed, 57. - - - Kingbird, 6, 24, 40, 52. - - Kingfisher, 253. - - Kinglet, golden-crowned, 134, 155, 182. - - - Lady’s-slipper, 4. - - Lark, shore, 107. - meadow, 19, 132, 234, 236. - - Leucothoë, 164. - - Loosestrife, swamp, 57. - - Lucky-bug, 57. - - - Maple, red, 122, 124. - striped, 124. - - Maryland yellow-throat, 6, 60. - - Mayweed, 54, 114. - - Meadow-beauty, 37. - - Meadow-sweet, 21. - - Morning-glory, 26. - - Mullein, 21. - - Muskrat, 136, 259. - - - Nuthatch, red-breasted, 154. - white-breasted, 35, 154, 205, 209, 225, 235. - - - Old-maid’s pinks, 54. - - Old Squaw, 156. - - Oriole, Baltimore, 5, 7, 39, 60. - - Otter, 259. - - Oven-bird, 7, 273. - - Owl, screech, 248. - - - Partridge-berry, 150. - - Pennyroyal, 38. - - Phœbe, 22, 40, 60, 233, 240. - - Pickerel-weed, 29. - - Pine, pitch, 35. - - Plover, black-bellied, 92, 97, 99. - - - Quail, 41, 155. - - Quince, 115. - - - Rail, Carolina, 31, 33. - Virginia, 31. - - Raspberry, 21. - - Redpoll, 153, 154. - - Redstart, 7, 12, 55, 274. - - Robin, 60, 67, 155, 232, 255. - - Rose, swamp, 26. - - - Sandpiper, pectoral, 98. - red-backed, 99, 109. - white-rumped, 93, 94, 96, 97, 100, 109. - - Sassafras, 3, 124, 166. - - Saxifrage, 3. - - Shadbush, 3. - - Shrike, 155, 240. - - Snipe, 25, 254. - - Snowbird, 134, 154, 155, 234, 252. - - Sparrow, chipping, 19, 70, 271. - English, 14, 16, 52, 156. - field, 24, 39. - fox, 235, 244, 250, 255. - grasshopper, 17. - Ipswich, 102. - savanna, 18, 107. - song, 19, 38, 60, 68, 234, 235, 253. - swamp, 13, 22. - tree, 134, 136, 154, 155. - vesper, 19, 24, 253. - white-throated, 6, 69. - - Spatter-dock, 29. - - Spice-bush, 3, 123, 162. - - Squirrel, gray, 118, 227, 259. - flying, 177, 259. - red, 227, 259. - - Swallow, barn, 38. - tree, 15, 16, 237. - - Swift, 38. - - - Tanager, scarlet, 36, 47, 60, 72. - - Thimbleberry, 21. - - Thorn, 111. - - Thoroughwort, 38. - - Thrasher, brown, 23, 270. - - Thrush, northern water, 13, 61, 71. - Swainson, 7, 69. - wood, 7. - - Titlark, 93, 94, 102, 107, 108. - - - Veery, 6, 23. - - Vireo, Philadelphia, 71. - red-eyed, 7, 55, 73. - solitary, 23. - warbling, 6, 60, 67. - yellow-throated, 6, 60, 67. - - - Warbler, black-and-white, 273. - Blackburnian, 274. - blackpoll, 68, 73, 274. - black-throated blue, 10. - black-throated green, 23, 73, 272. - blue golden-winged, 274. - Canadian, 22. - Cape May, 274. - chestnut-sided, 7, 274. - golden, 6, 267. - magnolia, 274. - myrtle, 73, 136, 269. - Nashville, 7, 268. - parula (blue yellow-backed), 6, 274. - pine, 68, 270. - prairie, 7. - yellow palm, 271. - - Waxwing, cedar, 8. - - Waxwork, Roxbury, 111, 124. - - Woodchuck, 182. - - Woodcock, 242, 255. - - Woodpecker, downy, 114, 154, 205. - hairy, 155. - red-headed, 42. - - Wood pewee, 60, 67. - - Wren, long-billed marsh, 30. - - - Yellow-legs, greater, 96, 101. - - - - - The Riverside Press - _Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. - Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._ - - - - -FOOTNOTES: - - -[1] 1900. - -[2] The formal record will be found in the _Auk_, vol. xviii. p. 394. - -[3] How fallible a thing is a man’s memory! The wrapper was not -yellow, but green. Yellow was for lemon. So more than one friendly -correspondent has made haste to inform me, and the venerable shopkeeper -himself has sent me a roll of the “lossengers” to prove it. My -compliments to him. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLERK OF THE WOODS*** - - -******* This file should be named 64727-0.txt or 64727-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/4/7/2/64727 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: The Clerk of the Woods</p> -<p>Author: Bradford Torrey</p> -<p>Release Date: March 6, 2021 [eBook #64727]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: US-ascii</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLERK OF THE WOODS***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by Steve Mattern, David E. Brown,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (https://www.pgdp.net)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (https://archive.org)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/clerkofwoods00torr - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="50%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph1"><span class="antiqua">Books by Mr. Torrey.</span></p> - - -<div class="hangingindent"> - -<p>THE CLERK OF THE WOODS. 16mo, -$1.10, <i>net.</i> Postpaid, $1.20.</p> - -<p>FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA. 16mo, $1.10, -<i>net.</i> Postpaid, $1.19.</p> - -<p>EVERYDAY BIRDS. Elementary Studies. -With twelve colored Illustrations reproduced -from Audubon. Square 12mo, $1.00.</p> - -<p>BIRDS IN THE BUSH. 16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>A RAMBLER’S LEASE. 16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>THE FOOT-PATH WAY. 16mo, gilt top, -$1.25.</p> - -<p>A FLORIDA SKETCH-BOOK. 16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>SPRING NOTES FROM TENNESSEE. -16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>A WORLD OF GREEN HILLS. 16mo, $1.25.</p> -</div> - - -<p class="center"> -HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Boston and New York.</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1>THE CLERK OF THE WOODS</h1> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="titlepage"> -<p><span class="xxlarge">THE CLERK<br /> -OF THE WOODS</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> - -<span class="xlarge">BRADFORD TORREY</span></p> - - -<p>“News of birds and blossoming.”<br /> -<span class="indent2"><span class="smcap">Shelley.</span></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/titlelogo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - -<p>BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> -<span class="large">HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY</span><br /> -<span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press, Cambridge</span><br /> -1904</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p class="center"> -COPYRIGHT 1903 BY BRADFORD TORREY<br /> -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br /> -<br /> -<i>Published September, 1903</i></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">PREFATORY NOTE</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> chapters of this book were written -week by week for simultaneous publication -in the “Evening Transcript” of Boston and -the “Mail and Express” of New York, and -were intended to be a kind of weekly chronicle -of the course of events out-of-doors, as -witnessed by a natural-historical observer. -The title of the volume is the running title -under which the articles were printed in the -“Evening Transcript.” It was chosen as -expressive of the modest purpose of the -writer, whose business was not to be witty -or wise, but simply to “keep the records.”</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[vii]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Short Month</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Full Migration</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_9"> 9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Favorite Round</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_17"> 17</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">In the Cambridge Swamp</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25"> 25</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Quiet Afternoon</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34"> 34</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Popular Woodpeckers</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42"> 42</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Late Summer Notes</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50"> 50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Wood Silence</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_60"> 60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Southward Bound</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67"> 67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Four Dreamers</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_74"> 74</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Day in Franconia</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82"> 82</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">With the Waders</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_91"> 91</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">On the North Shore Again</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_104"> 104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Autumnal Moralities</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_117"> 117</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Text from Thoreau</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127"> 127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Pleasures of Melancholy</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_135"> 135</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">In the Old Paths</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_142"> 142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Prosperity of a Walk</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_152"> 152</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Signs of Spring</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_159"> 159</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Old Colony Berry Pastures</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_168"> 168</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Squirrels, Foxes, and Others</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177"> 177</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Winter as it was</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_186"> 186</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“<span class="smcap">Down at the Store</span>”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_194"> 194</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Birds at the Window</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_203"> 203</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Good-by to Winter</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_212"> 212</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Bird Songs and Bird Talk</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_219"> 219</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Chipmunks, Bluebirds, and Robins</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_226"> 226</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">March Swallows</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_233"> 233</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Woodcock Vespers</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_242"> 242</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Under April Clouds</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_250"> 250</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Flying Squirrels and Spade-foot Frogs</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_258"> 258</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Warblers are coming</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_267"> 267</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Index</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_275"> 275</a></td></tr> -</table> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="ph2">THE CLERK OF THE WOODS</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> -<p class="ph3">THE CLERK OF THE WOODS</p> -</div> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A SHORT MONTH</h2> - - - -<p><span class="smcap">May</span> is the shortest month in the year. -February is at least twice as long. For a -month is like a movement of a symphony; -and when we speak of the length of a piece -of music we are not thinking of the number -of notes in it, but of the time it takes to -play them. May is a scherzo, and goes like -the wind. Yesterday it was just beginning, -and to-day it is almost done. “If we could -only hold it back!” an outdoor friend of -mine used to say. And I say so, too. At -the most generous calculation I cannot have -more than a hundred more of such months -to hope for, and I wish the Master’s <i>baton</i> -would not hurry the <i>tempo</i>. But who knows? -Perhaps there will be another series of concerts, -in a better music hall.</p> - -<p>The world hereabout will never be more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -beautiful than it was eight or ten days ago, -with the sugar maples and the Norway -maples in bloom and the tall valley willows -in young yellow-green leaf. And now forsythia -is having its turn. How thick it is! -I should not have believed it half so common. -Every dooryard is bright with its sunny -splendor. “Sunshine bush,” it deserves to -be called, with no thought of disrespect for -Mr. Forsyth, whoever he may have been. -I look at the show while it lasts. In a week -or two the bushes will all have gone out of -commission, so to speak, till the year comes -round again. Shrubs are much in the case -of men and women; the amount of attention -they receive depends mainly on the -dress they happen to have on at the moment. -In my next-door neighbor’s yard there is a -forsythia bush, not exceptionally large or -handsome, that gives me as much pleasure -as one of those wonderful tulip beds of which -the Boston city gardeners make so much -account. Are a million tulips, all of one -color, crowded tightly together and bordered -by a row of other tulips, all of another color, -really so much more beautiful than a hundred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -or two, of various tints, loosely and -naturally disposed? I ask the question without -answering it, though I could answer it -easily enough, so far as my own taste is -concerned.</p> - -<p>Already there is much to admire in the -wild garden. Spice-bush blossoms have come -and gone, and now the misty shad-blow is -beginning to whiten all the hedges and the -borders of the wood, while sassafras trees -have put forth pretty clusters of yellowish -flowers for the few that will come out to -see them. Sun-bright, cold-footed cowslips -still hold their color along shaded brooks. -“Marsh marigolds,” some critical people tell -us we must call them. That is a good name, -too; but the flowers are no more marigolds -than cowslips, and with or without reason -(partly, it may be, because my unregenerate -nature resents the “must”), I like the -word I was brought up with. Anemones and -violets are becoming plentiful, and the first -columbines already swing from the clefts -of outcropping ledges. With them one is -almost certain to find the saxifrage. The -two are fast friends, though very unlike; the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -columbine drooping and swaying so gracefully, -its honey-jars upside down, the saxifrage -holding upright its cluster of tiny white -cups, like so many wine-glasses on a tray. -Both are children’s flowers,—an honorable -class,—and have in themselves, to my apprehension, -a kind of childish innocence and -sweetness. If we picked no other blossoms, -down in the Old Colony, we always picked -these two—these and the nodding anemone -and the pink lady’s-slipper.</p> - -<p>This showy orchid, by the way, I was -pleased a year ago to see in bloom side by -side with the trailing arbutus. One was -near the end of its flowering season, the other -just at the beginning, but there they stood, -within a few yards of each other. This was -in the Franconia Notch, at the foot of Echo -Lake, where plants bloom when they can, -rather than according to any calendar known -to down-country people; where within the -space of a dozen yards you may see the -dwarf cornel, for example, in all stages of -growth; here, where a snowbank stayed late, -just peeping out of the ground, and there, -in a sunnier spot, already in full bloom.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>In May the birds come home. This is -really what makes the month so short. -There is no time to see half that is going -on. In this town alone it would take a -score of good walkers, good lookers, and -good listeners to welcome all the pretty -creatures that will this month return from -their winter’s exile. Some came in March, -of course, and more in April; but now they -are coming in troops. It is great fun to see -them; a pleasure inexpressible to wake in -the morning, as I did this morning (May 8), -and still lying in bed, to hear the first breezy -fifing of a Baltimore oriole, just back over -night after an eight months’ absence. Birds -must be lovers of home to continue living in -a climate where life is possible to them only -four months of the year.</p> - -<p>Six days ago (May 2) a rose-breasted -grosbeak gladdened the morning in a similar -manner, though he was a little farther away, -so that I did not hear him until I stepped -out upon the piazza. I stood still a minute -or two, listening to the sweet “rolling” warble, -and then crossed the street to have a -look at the rose color. It was just as bright -as I remembered it.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>Golden warblers (summer yellow-birds) -made their appearance on the last day of -April. The next morning one had dropped -into an ideal summering place, a bit of thicket -beside a pond and a lively brook,—good -shelter, good bathing, and plenty of insects,—and -from the first moment seemed to have -no thought of looking farther. I see and -hear him every time I pass the spot. The -same leafless thicket (but it will be leafy -enough by and by) is now inhabited by a -catbird. I found him on the 6th, already -much at home, feeding, singing, and mewing. -Between him and his small, high-colored -neighbor there is no sign of rivalry or ill-feeling; -but if another catbird or a second -warbler should propose settlement in that -clump of shrubbery, I have no doubt there -would be trouble.</p> - -<p>May-day brought me the yellow-throated -vireo, the parula warbler, the white-throated -sparrow, and the least flycatcher, the last -two pretty late, by my reckoning. On the -2d came the warbling vireo, the veery,—a -single silent bird, the only one I have yet -seen,—the kingbird, the Maryland yellow-throat,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -the oven-bird, and the chestnut-sided -warbler, in addition to the grosbeak before -mentioned. Then followed a spell of cold, -unfavorable weather, and nothing more was -listed until the 6th. That day I saw a -Nashville warbler,—several days tardy,—a -catbird, and a Swainson thrush. On May -7, I heard my first prairie warbler, and to-day -has brought the oriole, the wood thrush, -one silent red-eyed vireo (it is good to know -that this voluble “preacher” <i>can</i> be silent), -and the redstart. It never happened to me -before, I think, to see the Swainson thrush -earlier than the wood. That I have done so -this season is doubtless the result of some -accident, on one side or the other. The -Swainson was a little ahead of his regular -schedule, I feel sure; but on the other hand, -it may almost be taken for granted that a -few wood thrushes have been in the neighborhood -for several days. The probability -that any single observer will light upon the -very first silent bird of a given species that -drops into a township must be slight indeed. -What we see, we tell of; but that is -only the smallest part of what happens.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>Some of our winter birds still go about in -flocks, notably the waxwings, the goldfinches, -and the purple finches. Two days ago I -noticed a goldfinch that was almost in full -nuptial dress; as bright as he ever would -be, I should say, but with the black and the -yellow still running together a little here and -there. Purple finches are living high—in -two senses—just at present; feeding on the -pendent flower-buds of tall beech trees. A -bunch of six or eight that I watched the -other day were literally stuffing themselves, -till I thought of turkeys stuffed with chestnuts. -Their capacity was marvelous, and -I left them still feasting. All the while one -of them kept up a happy musical chatter. -There is no reason, I suppose, why a poet -should not be a good feeder.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A FULL MIGRATION</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">One</span> of my friends, a bird lover like myself, -used to complain that by the end of May he -was worn out with much walking. His days -were consumed at a desk,—“the cruel -wood,” as Charles Lamb called it,—but so -long as migrants were passing his door he -could not help trying to see them. Morning -and night, therefore, he was on foot, -now in the woods, now in the fields, now in -shaded by-roads, now in bogs and swamps. -To see all kinds of birds, a man must go to -all kinds of places. Sometimes he trudged -miles to visit a particular spot, in which he -hoped to find a particular species. Before -the end of the month he must have one hundred -and twenty or one hundred and twenty-five -names in his “monthly list;” and to -accomplish this, much leg-work was necessary.</p> - -<p>I knew how to sympathize with him. -Short as May is,—too short by half,—I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -have before now felt something like relief -at its conclusion. Now, then, I have said, -the birds that are here will stay for at least -a month or two, and life may be lived a little -more at leisure.</p> - -<p>This year,<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> by all the accounts that reach -me, the migration has been of extraordinary -fullness. Only last night a man took a seat -by me in an electric car and said, what for -substance I have heard from many others, -that he and his family, who live in a desirably -secluded, woody spot, had never before -seen so many birds, especially so many warblers.</p> - -<p>How wiser men than myself explain this -unusual state of things I do not know. To -me it seems likely that the unseasonable -cold weather caught the first large influx of -May birds in our latitude, and held them -here while succeeding waves came falling in -behind them. The current was dammed, -so to speak, and of course the waters rose.</p> - -<p>Some persons, I hear, had strange experiences. -I am told of one man who picked -a black-throated blue warbler from a bush,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -as he might have picked a berry. I myself -noted in New Hampshire, what many noted -hereabouts, the continual presence of warblers -on the ground. ’Tis an ill wind that -blows nobody good, and our multitude of -young bird students—for, thank Heaven, -they <i>are</i> a multitude—had the opportunity -of many years to make new acquaintances. -A warbler in the grass is a comparatively -easy subject.</p> - -<p>After all, the beginners have the best of -it. No knowledge is so interesting as new -knowledge. It may be plentifully mixed -with ignorance and error. Much of it may -need to be unlearned. Young people living -about me began to find scarlet tanagers -early in April; one boy or girl has seen a -scissor-tailed flycatcher, and orchard orioles -seem to be fairly common; but at least new -knowledge has the charm of freshness. And -what a charm that is!—a morning rose, -with the dew on it. The old hand may -almost envy the raw recruit—the young -woman or the boy, to whom the sight of a -rose-breasted grosbeak, for instance, is like -the sight of an angel from heaven, so strange,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -so new-created, so incredibly bright and -handsome.</p> - -<p>I love to come upon a group or a pair of -such enthusiasts at work in the field, as I -not seldom do; all eyes fastened upon a -bush or a branch, one eager, low voice trying -to make the rest of the company see -some wonderful object of which the lucky -speaker has caught sight. “There, it has -moved to that lower limb! Right through -there! Don’t you see it? Oh, what a -beauty!”</p> - -<p>I was down by the river the other afternoon. -Many canoes were out, and presently -I came to an empty one drawn up -against the bank. A few steps more and I -saw, kneeling behind a clump of shrubbery, -a young man and a young woman, each with -an opera-glass, and the lady with an open -notebook. “It’s a redstart, isn’t it?” I -heard one of them say.</p> - -<p>It was too bad to disturb them, but I hope -they forgave a sympathetic elderly stranger, -who, after starting toward them and then -sidling off, finally approached near enough -to suggest, with a word of apology, that perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -they would like to see a pretty bunch -of water thrushes just across the way, about -the edges of the pool under yonder big -willow. They seemed grateful, however -they may have felt. “Water thrushes!” -the young lady exclaimed, and with hasty -“Thank you’s,” very politely expressed, they -started in the direction indicated. It is to -be hoped that they found also the furtive -swamp sparrow, of whose presence the bashful -intruder, in the perturbation of his spirits, -forgot to inform them. If they did find -it, however, they were sharp-eyed, or were -playing in good luck.</p> - -<p>I went on down the river a little way, and -soon met three Irish-American boys coming -out of a thicket at the water’s edge. One -of them lifted his cap. “Seen any good -birds to-day?” he inquired. I answered in -the affirmative, and turned the question upon -its asker. Yes, he said, he had just seen -a catbird and an oriole. I remarked that -there were other people out on the same errand. -“Yes,” said he, pointing toward the -brier thicket, “there’s a couple down there -now looking at ’em.” Then I noticed a second<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -empty canoe with its nose against the -bank.</p> - -<p>This was on a Saturday. Saturday afternoon -and Sunday are busy people’s days in -the woods. For their sakes I am always -glad to meet them there—bird students, -flower pickers, or simple strollers; yet I -have learned to look upon those times as -my poorest, and to choose others so far as I -can. One does not enjoy nature to great -advantage at a picnic. There are woods and -swamps of which on all ordinary occasions I -almost feel myself the owner, but of which -on Saturday and Sunday I have scarcely so -much as a rambler’s lease. This I have -learned, however,—and I pass the secret -on,—that the Sunday picnic does not usually -begin till after nine o’clock in the forenoon.</p> - -<p>When bird study becomes more general -than it is now, as it ought to do, the community -will perhaps find means—or, to -speak more correctly, will use means, since -there is no need of finding them—to restrain -the present enormous overproduction -of English sparrows, and so to give certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -of our American beauties a chance to -live.</p> - -<p>Two days ago I was walking through a -tract of woodland, following the highway, -when I noticed, to my surprise, a white-breasted -martin (tree swallow) just over -my head. The next moment he fluttered -before a hole in one of the big telegraph -poles. His mate came out, and he alighted -in the entrance, facing outward. And there -he sat, while I in my turn took a seat upon -the opposite bank and fell to watching him. -The light struck him squarely, and it was -good to see his blue-purple crown and his -bright black eye shining in the sun. He -had nothing to do inside, it appeared, but -was simply on guard in his mate’s absence. -Once he yawned. “She’s gone a good -while,” he seemed to say. But he kept his -post till she returned. Then, with a chirrup, -he was off, and she dropped into the cavity -out of sight.</p> - -<p>All this was nothing of itself. But why -should a pair of white-breasted martins, -farm-loving, village-loving, house-haunting -birds, a delight to the eye, and as innocent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -as they are beautiful—why should such -birds be driven to seek a home in a telegraph -pole in the woods? The answer was -ready. I walked on, and by and by came -to a village, young and I dare say thriving, -but overrun from end to end with English -sparrows, whose incessant clatter—</p> - -<p class="center">Soul-desolating strains—alas! too many—</p> - -<p>filled my ears. Not a bluebird, not a tree -swallow, nor, to all appearance, any place -for one.</p> - -<p>And so it is generally. One of my fellow -townsmen, however, has an estate which -forms a bright exception. There one sees -bluebirds and martins. Year after year, -punctual as the spring itself, they are back -in their old places. And why? Because the -owner of the estate, by a little shooting, -mercifully persistent and therefore seldom -necessary, keeps the English sparrows out. -My thanks to him. His is the only colony -of martins anywhere in my neighborhood.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A FAVORITE ROUND</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> three days of heat, a cool morning. -I take an electric car, leave it at a point -five miles away, and in a semicircular -course come round to the track again a mile -or two nearer home. This is one of my favorite -walks, such as every stroller finds for -himself, affording a pleasant variety within -comfortable distance.</p> - -<p>First I come to a plain on which are hay-fields, -gardens, and apple orchards; an open, -sunny place where, in the season, one may -hope to find the first bluebird, the first vesper -sparrow, or the first bobolink. A spot -where things like these have happened to one -has henceforth a charm of its own. Memory -walks beside us, as it were, and makes good -all present deficiencies.</p> - -<p>I am hardly here this morning before the -tiny, rough voice of a yellow-winged sparrow -reaches me from a field in which the new-mown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -grass lies in windrows. Grass or -stubble, he can still be happy, it appears. -The grasshopper sparrow—to give him his -better name—is one of the quaintest of -songsters, his musical effort being more like -an insect’s than a bird’s; yet he is as fully -inspired, as completely absorbed in his work, -to look at him, as any mockingbird or thrush. -I watched one a few days ago as he sat at -the top of a dwarf pear tree. How seriously -he took himself! No “minor poet” of a -human sort ever surpassed him in that respect; -head thrown back, and bill most -amazingly wide open, all for that ragged -thread of a tune, which nevertheless was decidedly -emphatic and could be heard a surprisingly -long distance. I smiled at him, -but he did not mind. When minor poets -cease writing, then, we may guess, the grasshopper -sparrow will quit singing. Far be -the day. To be a poet is to be a poet, and -distinctions of major and minor are of trifling -consequence. The yellow-wing counts -with the savanna, but is smaller and has even -less of a voice. Impoverished grass fields -are his favorite breeding-places, and he is -generally a colonist.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>This morning (it is July 10) the vesper -sparrow is singing here also, with the song -sparrow and the chipper. And while I am -listening to them—but mainly to the vesper—the -sickle stroke (as I believe Mr. -Burroughs calls it) of a meadow lark cuts -the air. It is a good concert, vesper sparrow -and lark going most harmoniously together; -and to make it better still, a bobolink -pours out one copious strain. Him I -am especially glad to hear. After the grass -is cut one feels as if bobolink days were -over.</p> - -<p>However, the grass is not all cut yet. I -hear the rattle of a distant mowing-machine -as I walk, and by and by come in -sight of a man swinging a scythe. That is -the poetry of farming—from the spectator’s -point of view; and I think from the -mower’s also, when he is cutting his own -grass and is his own master. I like to -watch him, at all events. Every motion he -makes is as familiar to me as the swaying -of branches in the wind. How long will it -be, I wonder, before young people will be -asking their seniors what a scythe was like,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -and how a man used it? Pictures of it will -look odd enough, we may be sure, after the -thing itself is forgotten.</p> - -<p>While I am watching the mower (now he -pauses a moment, and with the blade of his -scythe tosses a troublesome tangle of grass -out of his way, with exactly the motion that -I have seen other mowers use a thousand -times; but I look in vain for him to put the -end of the snathe to the ground, pick up a -handful of grass, and wipe down the blade)—while -I am watching him a bluebird -breaks into song, and a kingbird flutters -away from his perch on a fence-wire. After -all, the glory of a bird is his wings; and -the kingbird knows it. In another field -men are spreading hay—with pitchforks, -I mean; and that, too, is poetry. In truth, -by the old processes, hay could not be made -except with graceful motions, unless it were -by a novice, some man from the city or out -of a shop. A green hand with a rake, it -must be confessed, is a subject for laughter -rather than for rhymes. The secret of -graceful raking is like the secret of graceful -writing,—a light touch.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>Raspberries and thimbleberries are getting -ripe (they do not need to be “<i>dead</i> ripe,” -thimbleberries especially, for an old country -boy), and meadow-sweet and mullein are in -bloom. Hardback, standing near them, has -not begun to show the pink.</p> - -<p>Now I turn the corner, leaving the farms -behind, and as I do so I bethink myself of a -bed of yellow galium just beyond. It ought -to be in blossom. And so it is—the prettiest -sight of the morning, and of many mornings. -I stand beside it, admiring its beauty -and inhaling its faint, wholesomely sweet -odor. Bedstraw, it is called. If it will keep -that fragrance, why should mattresses ever -be filled with anything else? This is the -only patch of the kind that I know, and -I felicitate myself upon having happened -along at just the right minute to see it in -all its sweetness and beauty. Year after -year it blooms here on this roadside, and -nowhere else; millions of tiny flowers of a -really exquisite color, yellow with much of -green in it, a shade for which in my ignorance -I have no name.</p> - -<p>The road soon runs into a swamp, and I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -stop on the bridge. Swamp sparrows are -trilling on either side of me—a spontaneous, -effortless kind of music, like water running -down-hill. A phœbe chides me gently; -passengers are expected to use the bridge -to cross the brook upon, she intimates, not -as a lounging-place, especially as her nest is -underneath. Yellow bladderworts lift their -pretty hoods above the slimy, black water, -and among them lies a turtle, thrusting his -head out to enjoy the sun. Once I see him -raise a foreclaw and scratch the underside of -his neck. The most sluggish and cold-blooded -animal that ever lived must now and then -be taken with an itching, I suppose.</p> - -<p>Beyond the bridge the woods are full of -white azalea (they are full of it <i>now</i>, that is -to say, so long as the bushes are in blossom), -but I listen in vain for the song of a Canadian -warbler, whom I know to be living -somewhere in its shadow. A chickadee, -looking as if she had been through the wars, -her plumage all blackened and bedraggled, -makes remarks to me as I pass. The cares -of maternity have spoiled her beauty, and -perhaps ruffled her temper, for the time being.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -A veery snarls, and a thrasher’s resonant -kiss makes me smile. If he knew it, -he would smile in his turn, perhaps, at my -“pathetic fallacy.” The absence of music -here, just where I expected it most confidently, -is disappointing, but I do not stay to -grieve over the loss. As the road climbs to -dry ground again, I remark how close to its -edge the rabbit-foot clover is growing. It -is at its prettiest now, the grayish green heads -tipped with pink. If it were as uncommon -as the yellow bedstraw, perhaps I should -think it quite as beautiful. I have known it -since I have known anything (“pussies,” we -called it), but I never dreamed of its being -a clover till I began to use a botany book. -All the way along I notice how it cleaves to -the very edge of the track. “Let me have -the poorest place,” it says. And it thrives -there. Such is the inheritance of the meek.</p> - -<p>Here in the pine woods a black-throated -green warbler is dreaming audibly, and, better -still, a solitary vireo, the only one I have -heard for a month or more, sings a few -strains, with that sweet, falling cadence of -which he alone has the secret. From a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -bushy tract, where fire has blackened everything, -a chewink speaks his name, and then -falls to repeating a peculiarly jaunty variation -of the family tune. Dignity is hardly the -chewink’s strong point. Now a field sparrow -gives out a measure. There is an artist! -Few can excel him, though many can make -more show. Like the vesper sparrow, he has -a gift of sweet and holy simplicity. And -what can be better than that? Overhead, -hurrying with might and main toward the -woods, flies a crow, with four kingbirds after -him. Perhaps he suffers for his own misdeeds; -perhaps for those of his race. All -crows look alike to kingbirds, I suspect.</p> - -<p>This, and much beside, while I rest in the -shade of a pine, taking the beauty of the -clouds and listening to the wind in the treetops. -The best part of every ramble is the -part that escapes the notebook.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">IN THE CAMBRIDGE SWAMP</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Once</span> a year, at least, I must visit the great -swamp in Cambridge, one of the institutions -of the city, as distinctive, not to say -as famous, as the university itself. It is -sure to show me something out of the ordinary -run (its courses in ornithology are said -to be better than any the university offers); -and even if I were disappointed on that -score, I should still find the visit worth -while for the sake of old times, and old -friends, and the good things I remember. -At the present minute I am thinking especially -of that enthusiastic, wise-hearted, -finely gifted, greatly lamented nature lover, -Frank Bolles, whom I met here for the first -time one evening when it was too dark to -see his face. We had come on the same -errand, to watch the strange aerial evolutions -of the April snipe. Who could have -supposed then that he would be dead so soon, -and the world so much the poorer?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>Now it is July. The tall swamp rosebushes -are in full flower, here and there a -clump, the morning sun heightening their -beauty, though for the most part there is -no getting near them without wading to the -knees. More accessible, as well as more -numerous, are the trailing morning-glory -vines (<i>Convolvulus sepium</i>), with showy, -trumpet-shaped, pink-and-white blossoms; -and in one place I stop to notice a watery-stemmed -touch-me-not, or jewel-weed, from -which a solitary frail-looking, orange-colored -flower is hanging—the first of the year. -What thousands on thousands will follow -it; no meadow’s edge or boggy spot will be -without them. The pendent jewel makes me -think of hummingbirds, which is another -reason for liking to look at it. Years ago I -used to plant some of its red and white congeners -(balsams, we called them) in a child’s -garden. I wish I were a botanist; I am -always wishing so; but I am thankful to -know enough of the science to be able to -recognize a few such relationships between -native “weeds” and cultivated exotics. -Somehow the weeds look less weedy for that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -knowledge; as the most commonplace of -mortals becomes interesting to average humanity -if it is whispered about that he is -fourth cousin to the king. The world is -not yet so democratic that anything, even a -plant, can be rated altogether by itself.</p> - -<p>The gravelly banks of the railroad, on -which I go dry-shod through the swamp, are -covered with a forest of chicory; a thrifty -immigrant, tall, coarse, scraggy, awkward, -homely, anything you will, but a great -brightener of our American waysides on -sunny midsummer forenoons. It attracts -much notice, and presumably gives much -pleasure, to judge by the number of persons -who ask me its name. May the town fathers -spare it! The bees and the goldfinches -will thank them, if nobody else. -Here I am interested to see that a goodly -number of the plants—but not more than -one in fifty, perhaps—bear full crops of -pure white flowers; a rarity to me, though -I am well used to pink ones. Gray’s Manual -by the by, a Cambridge book, makes no -mention of white flowers, while Britton and -Brown’s Illustrated Flora says nothing about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -a pink variety. In a multitude of books -there is safety, or, if not quite that, something -less of danger. The pink and the -white flowers are reversions to former less -highly developed states, I suppose, if certain -modern theories are to be trusted. I -have read somewhere that the acid of ants -turns the blue of chicory blossoms to a -bright red, and that European children are -accustomed to throw the flowers into ant -hills to watch the transformation. Perhaps -some young American reader will be moved -to try the experiment.</p> - -<p>The best plants, however, those that I -enjoy most for to-day, at all events, are the -cat-tails. How they flourish!—“like a -tree planted by the rivers of water.” And -how straight they grow! They must be -among the righteous. We may almost say -that they make the swamp. Certainly, when -they are gone the swamp will be gone. -Both kinds are here, the broad-leaved and -the narrow-leaved, equally rank, though -<i>angustifolia</i> has perhaps a little the better -of the other in point of height. The two -can be distinguished at a glance, and afar<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -off, by a difference in color, if by nothing -else. “Cat-tails” and “cat-tail flags,” the -Manual and the Illustrated Flora call them; -but I was brought up to say “cat-o’-nine-tails,” -with strong emphasis on the numeral, -and am glad to find that more romantic-sounding -name recognized by the latest big -dictionary. Not that the name has any particular -appropriateness; but like my fellows, -I have been trained to venerate a dictionary, -especially an “unabridged,” as hardly less -sacred than the Bible, and am still much -relieved whenever my own usage, past or -present, happens to be supported by such -authority.</p> - -<p>Rankness is the swamp’s note, we may -say. Look at the spatter-dock leaves and -the pickerel-weed! The tropics themselves -could hardly do better. And what a maze -and tangle of vegetation!—as if the earth -could produce more than the air could find -room for. So much for plenty of water -and a wholesome depth of black mud. One -thinks of the scriptural phrase about paths -that “drop fatness.”</p> - -<p>Ever since I arrived, the short, hurried,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -gurgling trill of the long-billed marsh wren -has been in my ears. If I have been here -an hour, I must have heard that sound five -hundred times. Once only, and only for an -instant, I saw one of the singers. I have not -been on the watch for them, to be sure; but -if it had been earlier in the season I should -have seen them whether I tried to do so or -not. It must be that the little aerial song-flights, -then so common and so cheerful to -look at, are now mostly over.</p> - -<p>In such a place, however, populous as it -is, one does not expect to <i>see</i> many birds—blackbirds -being left out of the reckoning—at -any time. Swamp ornithology is mainly -a matter of “earsight.” Birds that live in -cat-tail beds and button-bush thickets are -very little on the wing. Here a least bittern -may coo day after day, and season after season, -and it will be half a lifetime before you -see him do it. I have made inquiries far and -near in the likeliest quarters, and have yet -to learn, even at second hand, of any man -who has ever had that good fortune. Once, -for five minutes, I entertained a lively hope -of accomplishing the feat myself, but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -bird was too wary for me; and a miss is as -good as a mile. No doubt I shall die without -the sight.</p> - -<p>So the Carolina rail will whistle and the -Virginia rail call the pigs, but it will be a -memorable hour when you detect either of -them in the act. You will hear the sounds -often enough; I hear them to-day; and much -less frequently you will see the birds stepping -with dainty caution along a favorite -runway, or feeding about the edges of their -cover. But to see them utter the familiar -notes, that is another story.</p> - -<p>This morning I see on the wing a night -heron (so I call him, without professing absolute -certainty), a bittern (flying from one -side of the railroad tracks to the other), and -a little green heron, but no rail of either -species, although I sit still in favorable -places—where at other times I have seen -them—with exemplary patience. In hunting -of this kind, patience must be mixed with -luck. It pleases my imagination to think -what numbers of birds there are all about -me, each busy with its day’s work, and not -one of them visible for an instant, even by -chance.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>I go to the top of a grassy mound, and seat -myself where I have a lengthwise view of a -ditch. Here, ten years ago, more or less, I -saw my first gallinule. We had heard his -outcries for some days (I speak of myself -and two better men), and a visiting New -York ornithologist had told us that they were -probably the work of a gallinule. They came -always from the most inaccessible parts of -the swamp, where it seemed hopeless to wade -in pursuit of the bird, since we wished to see -him alive; but turning the question over in -my mind, I bethought myself of this low hilltop, -with its command of an open stretch of -water between a broad expanse of cat-tails -and a wood. Hither I came, therefore. If -there was any virtue in waiting, the thing -should be done. And sure enough, in no -very long time out paddled the bird, with -those queer bobbing motions which I was to -grow familiar with afterward—a Florida -gallinule, with a red plate on his forehead. -Again and again I saw him (patience was -easy now), and when I had seen enough—for -that time—and was on my way back to -the railway station, I met the foremost of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -New England, ornithologists coming down -the track. He was on the same hunt, and -together we returned to the place I had left; -and together we saw the bird. A week or -two later he found the nest, and a Massachusetts -record was established.</p> - -<p>This, I say, was ten years ago. To-day -there is no gallinule, or none for me. The -best thing I hear, the most characteristically -swampy, is the odd <i>diminuendo</i> whistle of a -Carolina rail. “We are all here,” he says; -“you ought to come oftener.” And I think -I will.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A QUIET AFTERNOON</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> running hither and thither in search -of beauty or novelty, try a turn in the nearest -wood. So my good genius whispered to -me just now; and here I am. I believe it -was good advice.</p> - -<p>This venerable chestnut tree, with its -deeply furrowed, shadow-haunted, lichen-covered -bark of soft, lovely grays and grayish -greens, is as stately and handsome as -ever. How often I have stopped to admire -it, summer and winter, especially in late -afternoon, when the level sunlight gives it a -beauty beyond the reach of words. Many a -time I have gone out of my way to see it, as -I would have gone to see some remembered -landscape by a great painter.</p> - -<p>There is no feeling proud in such company. -Anything that can stand still and -grow, filling its allotted place and contented -to fill it, is enough to put our futile human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -restlessness to the blush. The wind has -long ago blown away some of its branches, -but it does not mind. It is busy with its -year’s work. I see the young burrs, no -bigger than the end of my little finger. -When the nuts are ripe the tree will let -them fall and think no more about them. -How different from a man! When he does -a good thing, if by chance he ever does, he -must put his hands behind his ears in hopes -to hear somebody praising him. Mountains -and trees make me humble. I feel like a -poor relation.</p> - -<p>The pitch-pines are no longer at their -best estate. They are brightest when we -need their brightness most, in late winter -and early spring. This year, at least, the -summer sun has faded them badly; but -their fragrance is like an elixir. It is one -of the glories of pine needles, one of the -things in which they excel the rest of us, -that they smell sweet, not “in the dust” -exactly, but after they are dead.</p> - -<p>A nuthatch in one of the trees calls “Tut, -tut, tut,” and is so near me that I hear his -claws scratching over the dry bark. A busy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -and cheerful body. Just beyond him a scarlet -tanager is posed on a low, leafless twig. -Like the pine leaves, he looks out of condition. -I am sure I have seen brighter ones. -He is silent, but his mate, somewhere in the -oak branches over my head, keeps up an -emphatic <i>chip-cherr, chip-cherr</i>. Yes, I see -her now, and the red one has gone up to -perch at her side. She cocks her head, -looking at me first out of one eye and then -out of the other, and repeats the operation -two or three times, like a puzzled microscopist -squinting at a doubtful specimen; and -all the while she continues to call, though I -know nothing of what she means. Once -her mate approaches too near, and she opens -her bill at him in silence. He understands -the sign and keeps his distance. I admire -his spirit. It is better than taking a city.</p> - -<p>The earliest of the yellow gerardias is in -bloom, and a pretty desmodium, also (<i>D. -nudiflorum</i>), with a loose raceme of small -pink flowers, like miniature sweet-pea blossoms, -on a slender leafless stalk. These are -in the wood, amidst the underbrush. As I -come out into a dry, grassy field I find the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -meadow-beauty; an odd creature, with a tangle -of long stamens; bright-colored, showy -in its intention, so to speak, but rather curious -than beautiful, in spite of its name; especially -because the petals have not the grace -to fall when they are done, but hang, withered -and discolored, to spoil the grace of -later comers. The prettiest thing about it -all, after the freshly opened first flower, is -the urn-shaped capsule. That, to me, is of -really classic elegance.</p> - -<p>Now I have crossed the road and am -seated on a chestnut stump, with my back -against a tree, on the edge of a broad, rolling, -closely cropped cattle pasture, a piece -of genuine New England. Scattered loosely -over it are young, straight, slender-waisted, -shoulder-high cedars, and on my right hand -is a big patch of hardhack, growing in tufts -of a dozen stalks each, every one tipped with -an arrow-head of pink blossoms. The whole -pasture is full of sunshine. Down at the -lower end is a long, narrow, irregular-shaped -pond. I cannot see it because of a natural -hedge against the fence-row on my left; but -somehow the landscape takes an added beauty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -from the water’s presence. The truth is, -perhaps, that I do see it.</p> - -<p>High overhead a few barn swallows and -chimney swifts are scaling, each with happy-sounding -twitters after its kind. A jay -screams, but so far off as merely to emphasize -the stillness. Once in a while a song sparrow -pipes; a cheerful, honest voice. When -there is nothing better to do I look at the -hardhack. The spiræas are a fine set; many -of them are honored in gardens; but few are -more to my liking, after all, than this old -friend (and enemy) of my boyhood. Whether -it is really useful as an herb out of which to -make medicinal “tea” I feel no competency -to say, though I have drunk my share of the -decoction. It is not a virulent poison: so -much I feel reasonably sure of. Hardhack, -thoroughwort, and pennyroyal,—with the <i>o</i> -left out,—these were the family herbalist’s -trinity in my day. Now, in these better -times of pellets and homœopathic allopathy, -children hardly know what medicine-taking -means. We remember, we of an older generation. -“Pinch your nose and swallow it, -and I will give you a cent.” Does that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -sound vulgar in the nice ears of modern -readers? Well, we earned our money.</p> - -<p>Now an oriole’s clear August fife is heard. -A short month, and he will be gone. And -hark! A most exquisite strain by one of the -best of field sparrows. I have never found -an adjective quite good enough for that bit -of common music. I believe there <i>is</i> none. -Nor can I think of any at this moment with -which to express the beauty of this summer -afternoon. Fairer weather was never seen -in any corner of the world. Four crows fly -over the field in company. The hindmost of -them has a hard time with a redwing, which -strikes again and again. “Give it to him!” -say I. Between crow and man I am for -the crow; but between the crow and the -smaller bird I am always for the smaller -bird. Whether I am right or wrong is not -the question here. This is not my day for -arguing, but for feeling.</p> - -<p>How pretty the hardhack is! Though it -stands up rather stiff, it feels every breath -of wind. Its beauty grows on me as I look, -which is enough of itself to make this a profitable -afternoon. There is no beauty so -welcome as new beauty in an old friend.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>A kingbird, one of two or three hereabout, -comes to sit on a branch over my -head. He is full of twitters, which sound -as if they might be full of meaning; but -there is no interpreter. He, too, like the -oriole, is on his last month. I have great -respect for kingbirds. A phœbe shows herself -in the hedge, flirting her tail airily as -she alights. “Pretty well, I thank you,” -she might be saying. Every kind of bird -has motions of its own, no doubt, if we look -sharply enough. The phœbe’s may be seen -of all men.</p> - -<p>I had meant to go out and sit awhile -under the spreading white oak yonder, on -the upper side of the pasture, near the -huckleberry patches; but why should I? -Well enough is well enough, I say to myself; -and it sounds like good philosophy, -in weather like this. It may never set the -millpond on fire; but then, I don’t wish to -set it on fire.</p> - -<p>And although I go on mentioning particulars, -a flower, a bird, a bird’s note, it -is none of these that I am really enjoying. -It is the day—the brightness and the quiet,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -and the comfort of a perfect temperature. -Great is weather. No man is to blame for -talking about it, unless his talk is twaddle. -Out-of-door people know that few things -are more important. A quail’s whistle, a -thought too strenuous, perhaps, for such an -hour,—a breezy <i>quoit</i>,—breaks my disquisition -none too soon; else I might have -been brought in guilty under my own ruling.</p> - -<p>As I get over the fence, on my start -homeward, I notice a thrifty clump of chokecherry -shrubs on the other side of the way, -hung with ripening clusters, every cherry a -jewel as the sun strikes it. They may hang -“for all me,” as schoolboys say. My country-bred -taste is pretty catholic in matters of -this kind, but it extends not to chokecherries. -They should be eaten by campaign orators -as a check upon fluency.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">POPULAR WOODPECKERS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> are two birds in Newton, the present -summer, that have perhaps attracted -more attention than any pair of Massachusetts -birds ever attracted before; more, by -a good deal, I imagine, than was paid to a -pair of crows that, for some inexplicable -reason, built a nest and reared a brood of -young a year ago in a back yard on Beacon -Hill, in Boston. I refer to a pair of red-headed -woodpeckers that have a nest (at -this moment containing young birds nearly -ready to fly) in a tall dead stump standing -on the very edge of the sidewalk, like a -lamp-post. The road, it should be said, is -technically unfinished; one of those “private -ways,” not yet “accepted” by the city -and therefore legally “dangerous,” though -in excellent condition and freely traveled. -If the birds had intended to hold public -receptions daily,—as they have done without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -intending it,—they could hardly have -chosen a more convenient spot. The stump, -which is about twenty-five feet in height, -stands quite by itself in the middle of a -small open space, with a wooded amphitheatrical -knoll at its back, while on the other -side it is overlooked by the windows of several -houses, the nearest almost within stone’s -throw. So conspicuous is it, indeed, that -whenever I go there, as I do once in two or -three days, to see how matters are coming -on, I am almost sure to see the birds far in -advance of my arrival.</p> - -<p>They are always there. I heard of them -through the kindness of a stranger, on the -26th of June. His letter reached me (in -Boston) at two o’clock in the afternoon, and -at half-past three I was admiring the birds. -It cannot be said that they welcomed my attentions. -From that day to this they have -treated me as an intruder. “You have -stayed long enough.” “We are not at home -to-day.” “Come now, old inquisitive, go -about your business.” Things like these -they repeat to me by the half hour. Then, -in audible asides, they confide to each other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -what they think of me. “Watch him,” says -one at last. “I must be off now after a -few grubs.” And away she goes, while her -mate continues to inform me that I am a -busybody, a meddler in other birds’ matters, -a common nuisance, a duffer, and everything -else that is disreputable. All this is -unpleasant. I feel as I imagine a baseball -umpire feels when the players call him a -“gump” and the crowd yells “robber;” but -like the umpire, I bear it meekly and hold -my ground. A good conscience is a strong -support.</p> - -<p>In sober truth I have been scrupulously -careful of the birds’ feelings; or, if not of -their feelings, at least of their safety. I -began, indeed, by being almost ludicrously -careful. The nest was a precious secret, I -thought. I must guard it as a miser guards -his treasure. So, whenever a foot-passenger -happened along the highway at my back, I -made pretense of being concerned with anything -in the world rather than with that -lamp-post of a stump. What was Hecuba -to me, or I to Hecuba? I pretty soon -learned, however, that such precautions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -were unnecessary. The whole town, or at -least the whole neighborhood, was aware of -the birds’ presence. Every school-teacher -in the city, one man told me, had been there -with his or her pupils to see them. So -popular is ornithology in these modern days. -He had seen thirty or forty persons about -the place at once, he said, all on the same -errand. “Look at the bank there,” he -added. “They have worn it smooth by sitting -on it.”</p> - -<p>I have not been fortunate enough to assist -at any such interesting “function,” but -I have had plenty of evidence to prove the -truth of what I said just now—that the -birds and their nest have become matters -of common knowledge. On my third visit, -just as I was ready to come away, a boy -turned the corner on a bicycle, holding his -younger sister in front of him.</p> - -<p>“Are they here?” he inquired as he dismounted.</p> - -<p>“Who?” said I.</p> - -<p>“The red-headed woodpeckers,” he answered.</p> - -<p>He had known about the nest for some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -weeks. Oh, yes, everybody knew it. So-and-so -found it (I forget the name), and -pretty soon it was all over Newtonville. A -certain boy, whose wretched name also I -have forgotten, had talked about shooting -one of the birds; he could get a dollar and -a half for it, he professed; but policeman -Blank had said that a dollar and a half -wouldn’t do a boy much good if he got hold -of him. He—my informant, a bright-faced, -manly fellow of eleven or twelve—had -brought his younger sister down to see the -birds. He thought they were very handsome. -“There!” said he, as one of them -perched on a dead tree near by, “look!” and -he knelt behind the little girl and pointed -over her shoulder till she got the direction. -After all, I thought, a boy is almost as pretty -as a woodpecker. His father and mother -were Canadians, and had told him that birds -of this kind were common where they used -to live. Then he lifted his sister upon the -wheel, jumped up behind her, and away they -trundled.</p> - -<p>At another time an older boy came along, -also on a bicycle, and stopped for a minute’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -chat. He, too, was in the secret, and had -been for a good while. “Pretty nice birds,” -his verdict was. And at a later visit a man -with his dog suddenly appeared. “Handsome, -aren’t they?” he began, by way of -good-morning. He had seen one of them as -long ago as when snow was on the ground, -but he didn’t discover the nest. He was -looking in the wrong place. Since then he -had spent hours in watching the birds, and -believed that he could tell the female’s voice -from the male’s. “There!” said he; “that’s -the mother’s call.” He was acquainted with -all the birds, and could name them all, he -said, simply by their notes; and he told me -many things about them. There were grosbeaks -here. Did I know them? And tanagers, -also. Did I know them? And another -bird that he was especially fond of; a beautiful -singer, though it never sang after the -early part of the season; the indigo-bird, its -name was. Did I know that?</p> - -<p>As will readily be imagined, we had a good -session (one doesn’t fall in with so congenial -a spirit every day in the week), though it -ran a little too exclusively to questions and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -answers, perhaps; for I, too, am a Yankee. -He was the man who told me about the -throngs of sightseers that came here. The -very publicity of the thing had been the -birds’ salvation, he was inclined to believe. -The entire community had taken them under -its protection, and with so many windows -overlooking the place, and the police on the -alert (I had noticed a placard near by, signed -by the chief, laying down the law and calling -upon all good citizens to help him enforce it), -it would have been hard for anybody to meddle -with the nest without coming to grief. -At all events, the birds had so far escaped -molestation, and the young, as I have said, -would soon be on the wing. One of them -was thrusting its full-grown, wide-awake, -eager-looking, mouse-colored head out of the -aperture as we talked.</p> - -<p>“But why so much excitement over a family -of woodpeckers?” some reader may be -asking. Rarity, my friend; rarity and brilliant -feathers. So far as appears from the -latest catalogue of Massachusetts birds, this -Newton nest is one of a very small number -ever found in the State, and the very first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -one ever recorded from the eastern half of -it.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> Put that fact with the further one that -the birds are among the showiest in North -America, real marvels of beauty,—splendid -colors, splendidly laid on,—and it is plain -to see why a city full of nature lovers should -have welcomed this pair with open arms and -watched over their welfare as one watches -over the most honored of guests. For my -part, I should not think it inappropriate if -the mayor were to order the firing of a salute -and the ringing of bells on the happy morning -when the young birds take wing. Tons -of gunpowder have been burnt, before now, -with less reason.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">LATE SUMMER NOTES</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">On</span> this bright morning I am passing fields -and kitchen gardens that I have not seen -since a month ago. Then the fields were -newly mown stubble-fields, such as all men -who knew anything of the luxury of a bare-footed -boyhood must have in vivid remembrance. -(How gingerly, with what a sudden -slackening of the pace, we walked over them, -if circumstances made such a venture necessary,—in -pursuit of a lost ball, or on our -way to the swimming-hole,—setting the -foot down softly and stepping high! I can -see the action at this minute, as plainly as I -see yonder fence-post.) Now the first thing -that strikes the eye is the lively green of the -aftermath. It looks as soft as a velvet carpet. -I remember what I used to hear in -haying time, that cattle like the second crop -best. I should think they would.</p> - -<p>Grass is man’s patient friend. Directly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -or indirectly, we may say, he subsists upon -it. Nay, the Scripture itself declares as -much, in one of its most familiar texts. It -is good to see it so quick to recover from the -cruel work of the scythe, so responsive to the -midsummer rains, its color so deep, its leaves -so full of sap. It is this spirit of hopefulness, -this patience under injury, that makes -shaven lawns possible.</p> - -<p>As to the beauty of grass, no man appreciates -it, I suppose, unless he has lived where -grass does not grow. “When I go back to -New England,” said an exile in Florida, “I -will ask for no garden. Let me have grass -about the house, and I can do without roses.”</p> - -<p>The century ends with an apple year; and -every tree is in the fashion. The old, the -decrepit, the solitary, not one of them all but -got the word in season; as there is no woman -in Christendom but learns somehow, before -it is too late, whether sleeves are to be worn -loose or tight. Along the roadside, in the -swamp, in the orchard, everywhere the story -is the same. Apple trees are all freemasons. -This hollow shell of a trunk, with one last -battered limb keeping it alive, received its -cue with the rest.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>In the orchard, where the trees are younger -and more pliable, a man would hardly know -them for the same he saw there in May and -June; so altered are they in shape, so -smoothly rounded at the top, so like Babylonian -willows in the droop of the branches. -Baldwins are turning red—greenish red—and -russets are already rusty. “Yes,” says -the owner of the orchard, “and much good -will it do me.” Apples are an “aggravating -crop,” he declares. “First there are none; -and then there are so many that you cannot -sell them.” Human nature is never satisfied; -and, for one, I think it seldom has reason -to be.</p> - -<p>A bobolink, which seems to be somewhere -overhead, drops a few notes in passing. “I -am off,” he says. “Sorry to go, but I know -where there is a rice-field.” From the orchard -come the voices of bluebirds and kingbirds. -Not a bird is in song; and what is -more melancholy, the road and the fields are -thick with English sparrows.</p> - -<p>Now I stop at the smell of growing corn, -which is only another kind of grass, though -the farmer may not suspect the fact, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -perhaps would not believe you if you told him -of it; more than he would believe you if you -told him that clover is <i>not</i> grass. He and -his cow know better. A queer set these -botanists, who get their notions from books! -Corn or grass, here grow some acres of it, -well tasseled (“all tosselled out”), with -the wind stirring the leaves to make them -shine. Does the odor, with which the breeze -is loaded, come from the blossoms, or from -the substance of the plant itself? A new -question for me. I climb the fence and put -my nose to one of the tassels. No, it is not -in them, I think. It must be in the stalk -and leaves; and I adopt this opinion the -more readily because the odor itself—the -memory of which is part of every country -boy’s inheritance—is like that of a vegetable -rather than of a flower, a smell rather than -a perfume. I seem to recall that the stalk -smelled just so when we cut it into lengths -for cornstalk fiddles; and the nose, as everyone -must have remarked, has a good memory, -for the reason, probably, that it is so near -the brain.</p> - -<p>I turn the corner, and go from the garden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -to the wild. First, however, I rest for a few -minutes under a wide-branching oak opposite -the site of a vanished house. You would -know there had been a house here at some -time, even if you did not see the cellar-hole, -by the old-maid’s pinks along the fence. -How fresh they look! And how becomingly -they blush! They are worthy of their name. -Age cannot wither them. Less handsome -than carnations, if you will, but faithful, -home-loving souls; not requiring to be waited -upon, but given rather to waiting upon others. -Like mayweed and catnip, they are what I -have heard called “folksy plants;” though on -second thought I should rather say “homey.” -There is something of the cat about them; -a kind of local constancy; they stay by the -old place, let the people go where they will. -Probably they would grow in front of a new -house,—even a Queen Anne cottage, so-called,—if -necessity were laid upon them, -but who could imagine it? It would be -shameful to subject them to such indignity. -They are survivals, livers in the past, lovers -of things as they were, charter members, I -should say, of the Society of Colonial Dames.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>As I come to the edge of the swamp I see -a leaf move, and by squeaking draw into -sight a redstart. The pretty creature peeps -at me furtively, wondering what new sort of -man it can be that makes noises of that kind. -To all appearance she is very desirous not to -be seen; yet she spreads her tail every few -seconds so as to display its bright markings. -Probably the action has grown to be habitual -and, as it were, automatic. A bird may be -unconsciously coquettish, I suppose, as well -as a woman or a man. It is a handsome tail, -anyhow.</p> - -<p>Somewhere just behind me a red-eyed -vireo is singing in a peculiar manner; repeating -his hackneyed measure with all his -customary speed,—forty or fifty times a -minute,—but with no more than half his -customary voice, as if his thoughts were -elsewhere. I wish he would sing so always. -It would be an easy way of increasing his -popularity.</p> - -<p>Not far down the road are three roughly -dressed men,—of the genus tramp, if I read -the signs aright,—coming toward me; and -I notice with pleasure that when they reach<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -the narrow wooden bridge over the brook -they turn aside, as by a common impulse, -to lean over the rail and look down into -the water. When I get there I shall do -the same thing. So will every man that -comes along, unless he happens to be on -“business.”</p> - -<p>Running water is one of the universal -parables, appealing to something primitive -and ineradicable in human nature. Day -and night it preaches—sermons without -words. It is every man’s friend. The most -stolid find it good company. For that reason, -largely, men love to fish. They are -poets without knowing it. They have never -read a line of verse since they outgrew -Mother Goose; they never consciously admire -a landscape; they care nothing for a -picture, unless it is a caricature, or tells a -story; but they cannot cross moving water -without feeling its charm.</p> - -<p>Well, in that sense of the word, I too am -a poet. The tramps and I have met and -passed each other, and I am on the bridge. -The current is almost imperceptible (like -the passage of time), and the black water<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> -is all a tangle of cresses and other plants. -Lucky bugs dart hither and thither upon -its surface, quick to start and quick to stop -(quick to quarrel, also,—like butterflies,—so -that two of them can hardly meet -without a momentary set-to), full of life, -and, for anything that I know, full of -thought; true poets, perhaps, in ways of -their own; for why should man be so narrow-minded -as to assume that his way is of -necessity the only one?</p> - -<p>On either side of the brook, as it winds -through the swamp, are acres of the stately -Joe Pye weed, or purple boneset, one of the -tallest of herbs. I am beginning to think -well of its color,—which is something like -what ladies know as “crushed strawberry,” -if I mistake not,—though I used to look -upon it rather disdainfully and call it faded. -The plant would be better esteemed in that -regard, I dare say, if it did not so often invite -comparison with the cardinal flower. I -note it as one of the favorites of the milk-weed -butterfly.</p> - -<p>Here on the very edge of the brook is the -swamp loosestrife, its curving stems all reaching<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -for the water, set with rosy bloom. My -attention is drawn to it by the humming of -bees, a busy, contented, content-producing -sound. How different from the hum of the -factory that I passed an hour ago, through -the open windows of which I saw men hurrying -over “piece-work,” every stroke like -every other, every man a machine, or part -of a machine, rather, for doing one thing. I -wonder whether the dreariness of the modern -“factory system” may not have had something -to do with the origin and rapid development -of our nineteenth-century breed of -peripatetic thieves and beggars.</p> - -<p>Above the music of the bees I hear, of a -sudden, a louder hum. “A hummingbird,” -I say, and turn to look at a jewel-weed. Yes, -the bird is there, trying the blossoms one -after another. Then she drops to rest upon -an alder twig (always a dead one) directly -under my nose, where I see her darting out -her long tongue, which flashes in the sunlight. -I say “she.” She has a whitish -throat, and is either a female or a male of -the present season. Did any one ever see a -hummingbird without a thrill of pleasure? -Not I.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>As I go on I note, half sadly, half gladly, -some tokens of waning summer; especially -a few first blossoms of two of the handsomest -of our blue asters, <i>lævis</i> and <i>patens</i>. -Soon the dusty goldenrod will be out, and -then, whatever the almanac-makers may say, -autumn will have come. Every dry roadside -will publish the fact.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WOOD SILENCE</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> scarcity of birds and bird music, of -which I spoke a week ago, still continues. -The ear begins to feel starved. A tanager’s -<i>chip-cherr</i>, or the prattle of a company of -chickadees, is listened to more eagerly than -the wood thrush’s most brilliant measures -were in June and July. Since September -came in (it is now the 8th) I have heard -the following birds in song: robins, half a -dozen times, perhaps, in snatches only; a -Maryland yellow-throat, once; warbling vireos, -occasionally, in village elms; yellow-throated -vireos, rarely, but more frequently -than the last; a song sparrow (only one!), -amusing himself with a low-voiced, inarticulate -warble, rather humming than singing; -an oriole, blowing a few whistles, on the 4th; -a phœbe, on a single occasion; wood pewees, -almost daily, oftener than all the foregoing -species together.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>Except a single water thrush, on the first -day of the month, I have seen no land bird -that could be set down with certainty as a -migrant, and in the eight days I have listed -but thirty-seven species. And of this number -twelve are represented in my notes by a -single individual only. My walks have been -short, it is fair to say, but they have taken -me into good places. I could spin a long -chapter on the birds I have not seen; but -perhaps the best thing I could do, writing -merely as an ornithologist, would be to make -the week’s record in two words: “No quorum.”</p> - -<p>My last hummingbird (but I hope for -others before the month ends) was seen on -the 2d. He was about a bed of tall cannas -in a neighbor’s dooryard, thrusting his tongue -into the flowers, one after another, and I -went near and focused my opera-glass upon -him, taking my fill of his pretty feathers and -prettier movements. It was really the best -music of the week. The sun was on his -emerald back and wings, making them shine.</p> - -<p>One thing that pleased me, as it always -does, was his address in flying backwards.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -Into the flower he would dart, stay a longer -or shorter time, as he found occasion, and -then like a flash draw out and back away, -his wings all the while beating themselves to -a film of light. I wonder if any other of -our common hovering birds—the kingbird, -for example, or the kingfisher—can match -the hummer in this regard.</p> - -<p>A second thing that interested me was his -choice of blossoms. My neighbor’s canna -bed is made up in about equal parts of two -kinds of plants, one with red blossoms, the -other with yellow. The hummer went to -the red flowers only. He must have probed -a hundred, I should say. As for the yellow -ones, he seemed not to know they were there. -Now, was not this a plain case of color preference? -It looked so, surely; but I remembered -that hummingbirds are persistent -haunters of the yellow blossoms of the jewel-weed, -and concluded that something besides -a difference of color must account for what -appeared to be this fellow’s well-considered -line of conduct. It is hard work, but as far -as possible, let us abstain from hasty generalizations.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>There is no music sweeter than wood silence. -I am enjoying it now. It is not -strictly silence, though it is what we call by -that name. There is no song. No one -speaks. The wind is not heard in the -branches. But there is a nameless something -in the air, an inaudible noise, or an -audible stillness, of which you become conscious -if you listen for it; a union of fine -sounds, some of which, as you grow inwardly -quiet, you can separate from the rest—beats -of distant crickets, few and faint, and a hum -as of tiny wings. Now an insect passes -near, leaving a buzz behind him, but for a -second only. Then, before you can hear it, -almost, a frog out in the swamp yonder has -let slip a quick, gulping, or string-snapping -syllable. Once a small bird’s wings are -heard, just heard and no more. Far overhead -a goldfinch passes, with rhythmic calls, -smooth and soft, not so much sounds as a -more musical kind of silence.</p> - -<p>The morning sun strikes aslant through -the wood, illuminating the trunks of the -trees, especially a cluster of white birches. -A lovely sisterhood! I can hardly take my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -eyes from them. In general all the leaves -are motionless, but now and then a tree, or -it may be a group of two or three at once, is -jostled for an instant by a touch too soft for -my coarser human apprehension. “<i>Dee-dee</i>,” -says a titmouse; “Here,” answers a flicker. -But both speak under their breath, as if they -felt the spell of the hour. Listen! was that -a hyla or a bird? There is no telling, so -elusive and so distant-seeming was the sound. -And anon it has ceased altogether.</p> - -<p>Now, for the smallest fraction of a second, -I see the flash of a moving shadow. The -flicker’s, perhaps. Yes, for presently he calls -as in spring, but only for four or five notes. -If it were April, with the vernal inspiration -in his throat, there would be four or five -times as many, and all the woods would be -ringing. And now the breeze freshens, and -the leaves make a chorus. No thrush’s song -could be sweeter. It is not a rustle. There -is no word for it, unless we call it a murmur, -a rumor. Even while we are trying to name -it, it is gone. Leaves are true Friends, they -speak only as the spirit moves. “<i>Wicker, -wicker</i>,” says the woodpecker, and his voice -is in perfect tune with the silence.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>How still and happy the boulders look, -with friendly bushes and ferns gathered -about them, and parti-colored lichens giving -them tones of beauty! Men call them dead. -“Dead as a stone,” has even passed into a -proverb. “Stone dead,” we say. But I -doubt. They would smile, inwardly, I think -to hear us. We have small idea, the wisest -of us, what we mean by life and death. Men -who hurry to and fro, scraping money together -or chasing a ball, consider themselves -alive. The trees, and even the stones, know -better.</p> - -<p>Yes, that is a crow, cawing; but far, far -off. Distance softens sound as it softens -the landscape, and as time, which is only -another kind of distance, softens grief. A -cricket at my elbow plays his tune, irregularly -and slowly. The low temperature -slackens his <i>tempo</i>. Now he is done. There -is only the stirring of leaves. Some of the -birch leaves, I see, are already turning yellow, -and once in a while, as the wind whispers -to one of them, it lets go its hold and -drops. “Good-by,” I seem to hear it say; -“my summer is done.” How tenderly the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -air lets it down, as loving arms lower a -child to its burial. Yet the trees are still -happy. And so am I. The wood has blessed -me. I have sensations, but no thoughts. It -is for this that I have been sitting here at -this silent concert. I wish for nothing. -The best that such an hour can do for us is -to put us into a mood of desirelessness, of -complete passivity; such a mood as mystics -covet for a permanent possession; a state -of surrender, selflessness, absorption in the -infinite. I love the feeling. All the trees -have it, I think.</p> - -<p>So I sit in their shadow, my eyes returning -again and again to those dazzling white -birch boles, where loose shreds of filmy bark -twinkle as the breeze and the sunlight play -upon them. Once two or three chickadees -come into the branches over my head and -whisper things to each other. Very simple -their utterances sound, but perhaps if I -could understand them I should know more -than all the mystics.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">SOUTHWARD BOUND</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Although</span> it is the 20th of September, the -autumnal migration of birds, as seen in this -neighborhood, is still very light. Robins -are scattered throughout the woods in loose -flocks—a state of things not to be witnessed -in summer or winter; the birds rising -singly from the ground as the walker -disturbs them, sometimes all silent, at other -times all cackling noisily. Chickadees, too, -are in flocks, cheerful companies, good to -meet in any weather; behaving just as they -will continue to do until the nesting season -again breaks the happy assembly up into -happier pairs.</p> - -<p>My wood pewee—a particular bird in a -grove near by—whistled pretty constantly -till the 17th, and a warbling vireo was still -true to his name on the 19th. I have heard -no yellow-throated vireos since the 6th, and -conclude that they must have taken their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -departure. May joy go with them. This -morning, for the first time in several weeks, -a pine warbler was trilling. Song sparrows -have grown numerous within a few days, but -are almost entirely silent. One fellow sang -his regular song—not his confused autumnal -warble—on the 19th. I had not heard -it before since the month opened.</p> - -<p>No blackpoll warblers showed themselves -with me till the 18th, though I had word of -their presence elsewhere a few days earlier. -On that day I saw three; yesterday and to-day -have shown but one bird each. The -movement is barely begun.</p> - -<p>I should like to know how common it is -for blackpolls to sing on their southward -migration. Eleven years ago, in September, -1889, they came very early,—or I had the -good fortune to see them very early,—and -on the 4th and 5th of the month a few were -“in full song,” so my notes record, “quite -as long and full as in May.” I had never -heard them sing before in autumn, nor have -I ever had that pleasure since. Neither -have I ever again seen them so early. Probably -the two things—the song and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -exceptional date—were somehow connected. -At the time, I took the circumstance as an -indication that the adult males migrate in -advance of the great body of the species; -and I fancied that, having detected them -once thus early and thus musical, I should -be likely to repeat the experience. If I am -ever to do so, however, I must be about it. -Eleven years is a large slice out of an adult -man’s remaining allowance.</p> - -<p>On the 18th I found a single olive-backed -thrush, silent, in company with a flock of -robins, or in the same grove with them—a -White Mountain bird, thrice welcome; and -this morning a few white-throated sparrows -appeared. The first one that I saw—the -only one, in fact—was a young fellow, and -as I caught sight of him facing me, with his -clear white throat, and his breast prettily -streaked, with a wash of color across it, I -was half in doubt what to call him. While -I was taking observations upon his plumage, -trying to make him look like himself, he -began to <i>chip</i>, as if to help me out, and a -second one unseen fell to singing near by; -a very feeble and imperfect rendering of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -dear old tune, but well marked by the “Peabody” -triplets. It was a true touch of -autumn, a voice from the hills.</p> - -<p>Shortly before this I had spent a long -time in watching the actions of a Lincoln -finch. He was feeding upon Roman worm-wood -seeds by the roadside, in company with -two or three chipping sparrows; very meek -and quiet in his demeanor, and happily not -disposed to resent my inquisitiveness, which -I took pains to render as little offensive as -possible. I had not seen the like of him -since May, and have seen so few of his race -at any time that every new one still makes -for me an hour of agreeable excitement.</p> - -<p>In the same neighborhood an indigo-bird -surprised me with a song. He was as badly -out of voice as the white-throat, but his spirit -was good, and he sang several times over. -One would never have expected music from -him, to look at his plumage. The indigo -color was largely moulted away—only the -rags of it left. It was really pitiful to see -him; so handsome a coat, now nothing but -shreds and patches. Most likely he was -not a traveler from farther north, but a lingering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -summer resident of our own, as I -remember to have seen three birds of his -name in the same spot fifteen days ago. It -would be interesting to know whether bright -creatures of this kind do not feel humiliated -and generally unhappy when they find their -beauty dropping away from them, like leaves -from the branch, as the summer wanes.</p> - -<p>The best bird of the month, so far,—better -even than the Lincoln finch,—was a -Philadelphia vireo, happened upon all unexpectedly -on the 17th. I had stopped, as I -always do in passing, to look down into a -certain dense thicket of shrubbery, through -which a brook runs, a favorite resort for -birds of many kinds. At first the place -seemed to be empty, but in answer to some -curiosity-provoking noises on my part a -water thrush started up to balance himself -on a branch directly under my nose, and the -next moment a vireo hopped into full sight -just beyond him; a vireo with plain back -and wings, with no dark lines bordering the -crown, and having the under parts of a bright -yellow. He was most obliging; indeed, he -could hardly have been more so, unless he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -had sung for me, and that was something -not fairly to be expected. For a good while -he kept silence. Then, in response to a jay’s -scream, he began snarling, or complaining, -after the family manner. I enjoyed the sight -of him as long as I could stay (he was the -second one I had ever seen with anything -like certainty), and when I returned, an -hour later, he was still there, and still willing -to be looked at.</p> - -<p>And then, to heighten my pleasure, a -rose-breasted grosbeak, invisible, but not far -away, broke into a strain of most entrancing -music; with no more than half his spring -voice, to be sure, but with all his May sweetness -of tone and inflection. Again and -again he sang, as if he were too happy to -stop. I had heard nothing of the kind for -weeks, and shall probably hear nothing more -for months. It was singing to be remembered, -like Sembrich’s “Casta Diva,” or -Nilsson’s “I know that my Redeemer -liveth.”</p> - -<p>Scarlet tanagers are still heard and seen -occasionally,—one was calling to-day,—but -none of them in tune, or wearing so much as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -a single scarlet feather. Here and there, -too, as we wander about the woods, we meet—once -in two or three days, perhaps—a -lonesome-acting, silent red-eyed vireo. A -great contrast there is between such solitary -lingerers and the groups of gossiping chickadees -that one falls in with in the same -places; so merry-hearted, so bubbling over -with high spirits, so ready to be neighborly. -When I whistle to them, and they whistle -back, I feel myself befriended.</p> - -<p>Within a few days we must have the -grand September influx of warblers—crowds -of blackpolls, myrtles, black-throated greens, -and many more. For two months yet the -procession will be passing.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">FOUR DREAMERS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I remember</span> the first man I ever saw sitting -still by himself out-of-doors. What his -name was I do not know. I never knew. -He was a stranger, who came to visit in our -village when I was perhaps ten years old. I -had crossed a field, and gone over a low hill -(not so low then as now), and there, in the -shade of an apple tree, I beheld this stranger, -not fishing, nor digging, nor eating an apple, -nor picking berries, nor setting snares, -but sitting still. It was almost like seeing a -ghost. I doubt if I was ever the same boy -afterward. Here was a new kind of man. -I wondered if he was a poet! Even then I -think I had heard that poets sometimes acted -strangely, and saw things invisible to others’ -ken.</p> - -<p>I should not have been surprised, I suppose, -to have found a man looking at a picture, -some “nice,” high-colored “chromo,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -such as was a fashionable parlor ornament in -our rural neighborhood, where there was more -theology to the square foot (and no preacher -then extant with orthodoxy strait enough to -satisfy it, though some could still make the -blood curdle) than there was of art or poetry -to the square acre; but to be looking at Nat -Shaw’s hayfield and the old unpainted house -beyond—that marked the stranger at once -as not belonging in the ranks of common -men. If he was not a poet, he must be at -least a scholar. Perhaps he was going to be -a minister, for he seemed too young to be one -already. A minister had to think, of course -(so I thought then), else how could he -preach? and perhaps this man was meditating -a sermon. I fancied I should like to hear a -sermon that had been studied out-of-doors.</p> - -<p>Times have changed with me. Now I sit -out-of-doors myself, and by myself, and look -for half an hour together at a tree, or a -bunch of trees, or a lazy brook, or a stretch -of green meadow. And I know that such -things can be enjoyed by one who is neither -a poet nor a preacher, but just a quite ordinary, -uneducated mortal, who happens, by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -the grace of God, to have had his eyes opened -to natural beauty and his heart made sensitive -to the delights of solitude. I have -learned that it is possible to enjoy scenery at -home as well as abroad,—scenery without -mountains or waterfalls; scenery that no -tourist would call “fine;” a bit of green -valley, an ancient apple orchard, a woodland -vista, an acre of marsh, a cattle pasture. In -fact, I have observed that painters choose -quiet subjects like these oftener than any of -the more exceptional and stupendous manifestations -of nature. Perhaps it is because -such subjects are easier; but I suspect not. -I suspect, indeed, that they are harder, and -are preferred because, to the painter’s eye, -they are more permanently beautiful.</p> - -<p>At this very moment I am looking at a -patch of meadow inclosing a shallow pool of -standing water, over the surface of which a -high wind is chasing little waves. A few -low alders are near it, and the grass is green -all about. That of itself is a sight to make -a man happy. For the world just now is -consumed with drought. All the uplands are -sere, and every roadside bush is begrimed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -with dust. I have come through the woods -to this convenient knoll on purpose to find relief -from the prevailing desolation—to rest -my eyes upon green grass. For the eye loves -green grass as well, almost, as the throat loves -cold water.</p> - -<p>Even in my boyish country neighborhood, -though nobody, or nobody that I knew -(which may have been a very different matter), -did what I am now doing, there were -some, I think (one or two, at least), who in -their own way indulged much the same tastes -that I have come to felicitate myself upon -possessing. I remember one man, dead long -since, who was continually walking the fields -and woods, always with a spaniel at his heels, -alone except for that company. He often -carried a gun, and in autumn he snared partridges -(how I envied him his skill!); but I -believe, as I look back, that best and first of -all he must have loved the woods and the silence. -He was supposed to have his faults. -No doubt he had. I have since discovered -that most men are in the same category. I -believe he used to “drink,” as our word was -then. But I think now that I should have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -liked to know him, and should have found -him congenial, if I had been mature enough, -and could have got below the protective crust -which naturally grows over a man whose -ways of life and thought are different from -those of all the people about him. I have -little question that when he was out of the -sight of the world he was accustomed to sit as -I do to-day, and look and look and dream.</p> - -<p>One thing he did not dream of,—that a -boy to whom he had never spoken would be -thinking of him forty years after he had -taken his last ramble and snared his last -grouse.</p> - -<p>“An idler,” said his busier neighbors, -though he earned his own living and paid -his own scot.</p> - -<p>“A misspent life,” said the clergy, though -he harmed no one.</p> - -<p>But who can tell? “Who knoweth the -interpretation of a thing?” Perhaps his, -also, was—for him—a good philosophy. -As one of the ancients said, “A man’s mind -is wont to tell him more than seven men that -sit upon a tower.” If we are not born alike, -why should we be bound to live alike? “A<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -handful with quietness” is not so bad a portion.</p> - -<p>Yes, but time is precious. Time once past -never returns.</p> - -<p>True.</p> - -<p>We must make the best of it, therefore.</p> - -<p>True.</p> - -<p>By making more shoes.</p> - -<p>Nay, that is not so certain.</p> - -<p>The sun is getting low. Longer and -longer tree-shadows come creeping over the -grass, making the light beyond them so much -the brighter and lovelier. The oak leaves -shimmer as the wind twists the branches. -The green aftermath is of all exquisite shades. -A beautiful bit of the world. The meadow -is like a cup. For an hour I have been -drinking life out of it.</p> - -<p>Now I will return home by a narrow -path, well-worn, but barely wide enough for -a man’s steps; a path that nobody uses, so -far as I know, except myself. Till within -a year or two it belonged to a hermit, who -kept it in the neatest possible condition. -That was his chief employment. His path -was the apple of his eye. He was as jealous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -over it as the most fastidious of village -householders is over his front-yard lawn. -Not a pebble, nor so much as an acorn, must -disfigure it. Fallen twigs were his special -abhorrence, though he treated them handsomely. -Little piles or stacks of them were -scattered at short intervals along the way, -neatly corded up, every stick in line. I noticed -these mysterious accumulations before -I had ever seen the maker of them, and wondered -not a little who could have been to so -much seemingly aimless trouble. At first -I imagined that some one must have laid -the wood together with a view to carrying it -home for the kitchen stove. But the bits -were too small, no bigger round, many of -them, than a man’s little finger; not even -Goody Blake could have thought such things -worth pilfering for firewood; and besides, it -was plain that many of them had lain where -they were over at least one winter.</p> - -<p>The affair remained a riddle until I saw -the man himself. This I did but a few -times, a long way apart, and always at a -little distance. Generally his eyes were fastened -on the ground. Sometimes he had a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -stick in his hand, and was brushing leaves -and other litter out of the path. Perhaps -he had married a model housekeeper in his -youth, and had gone mad over the spring -cleaning. He always saw me before I could -get within easy speaking range; and he had -the true woodman’s knack of making himself -suddenly invisible. Sometimes I was almost -ready to believe that he had dropped into -the ground. Evidently he did not mean to -be talked with. Perhaps he feared that I -should ask impertinent questions. More -likely he thought me crazy. If not, why -should I be wandering alone about the woods -to no purpose? I had no path to keep in -order.</p> - -<p>And perhaps I am a little crazy. Medical -men insist upon it that the milder forms -of insanity are much more nearly universal -than is commonly supposed. Perfectly sound -minds, I understand them to intimate, are -quite as rare as perfectly sound bodies. At -that rate there cannot be more than two or -three truly sane men in this small town; -and the probabilities are that I am not one -of them.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A DAY IN FRANCONIA</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is the most delightful of autumn days, -too delightful, it seemed to me this morning, -to have been designed for anything like -work. Even a walking vacationer, on pedestrian -pleasures bent, would accept the -weather’s suggestion, if he were wise. Long -hours and short distances would be his programme; -a sparing use of the legs, with a -frequent resort to convenient fence-rails and -other seasonable invitations. There are -times, said I, when idleness itself should be -taken on its softer side; and to-day is one of -them.</p> - -<p>Thus minded, I turned into the Landaff -Valley shortly after breakfast, and at the -old grist-mill crossed the river and took my -favorite road along the hillside. As I passed -the sugar grove I remembered that it was -almost exactly four months since I had spent -a delicious Sunday forenoon there, seated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -upon a prostrate maple trunk. Then it was -spring, the trees in fresh leaf, the grass newly -sprung, the world full of music. Bobolinks -were rollicking in the meadow below, and -swallows twittered overhead. Then I sat in -the shade. Now there was neither bobolink -nor swallow, and when I looked about for a -seat I chose the sunny side of the wall.</p> - -<p>Only four months, and the year was already -old. But the mountains seemed not to know -it. Washington, Jefferson, and Adams; -Lafayette, Haystack, and Moosilauke;—not -a cloud was upon one of them. And between -me and them lay the greenest of valleys.</p> - -<p>So for the forenoon hours I sat and walked -by turns; stopping beside a house to enjoy -a flock of farm-loving birds,—bluebirds -especially, with voices as sweet in autumn as -in spring,—loitering under the long arch of -willows, taking a turn in the valley woods, -where a drumming grouse was almost the -only musician, and thence by easy stages -sauntering homeward for dinner.</p> - -<p>For the afternoon I have chosen a road -that might have been made on purpose for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -the man and the day. It is short (two miles, -or a little more, will bring me to the end of -it), it starts directly from the door, with no -preliminary plodding through dusty village -streets, and it is not a thoroughfare, so that -I am sure to meet nobody, or next to nobody, -the whole afternoon long. At any -rate, no wagon loads of staring “excursionists” -will disturb my meditations. It is substantially -level, also; and once more (for a -man cannot think of everything at once) it is -wooded on one side and open to the afternoon -sun on the other. For the present occasion, -furthermore, it is perhaps a point in its favor -that it does not distract me with mountain -prospects. Mountains are not for all moods; -there are many other things worth looking at. -Here, at this minute, as I come up a slope, -I face halfway about to admire a stretch of -Gale River, a hundred feet below, flowing -straight toward me, the water of a steely -blue, so far away that it appears to be motionless, -and so little in volume that even -the smaller boulders are no more than half -covered. Beyond it the hillside woods are -gorgeously arrayed—pale green, with reds<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -and yellows of all degrees of brilliancy. The -glory of autumn is nearly at the full, and at -every step the panorama shifts. As for the -day, it continues perfect, deliciously cool in -the shade, deliciously warm in the sun, with -the wind northwesterly and light. Many -yellow butterflies are flitting about, and once -a bright red angle-wing alights in the road -and spreads itself carefully to the sun. While -I am looking at it, sympathizing with its -comfort, I notice also a shining dark blue -beetle—an oil-beetle, I believe it is called—as -handsome as a jewel, traveling slowly -over the sand.</p> - -<p>I have been up this way so frequently of -late that the individual trees are beginning -to seem like old friends. It would not take -much to make me believe that the acquaintance -is mutual. “Here he is again,” I fancy -them saying one to another as I round a turn. -Some of them are true philosophers, or their -looks belie them. Just now they are all -silent. Even the poplars cannot talk, it appears -(a most worthy example), without a -breath of inspiration to set them going. The -stillness is eloquent. A day like this is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -crown of the year. It is worth a year’s life -to enjoy it. There is much to see, but best -of all is the comfort that wraps us round and -the peace that seems to brood over the world. -If the first day was of this quality, we need not -wonder that the maker of it took an artist’s -pride in his work and pronounced it good.</p> - -<p>As for the road, there is still another thing -to be said in its praise: While it follows a -straight course, it is never straight itself for -more than a few rods together. If you look -ahead a little space you are sure to see it running -out of sight round a corner, beckoning -you after it. A man would be a poor stick -who would not follow. Every rod brings a new -picture. How splendid the maple leaves are, -red and yellow, with the white boles of the -birches, as white as milk, or, truer still, as -white as chalk, to set off their brightness. I -could walk to the world’s end on such an invitation.</p> - -<p>But the road, as I said, is a short one. Its -errand is only to three farms, and I am -now on the edge of the first of them. Here -the wood moves farther away, and mountains -come into view,—Lafayette, Haystack, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -the Twins, with the tips of Washington, Jefferson, -and Adams. Then, when the second -of the houses is passed, the prospect narrows -again. An extremely pretty wood of tall, -straight trees, many fine poplars among them -(and now they are all talking), is close at -my side. The sunlight favors me, falling -squarely on the shapely, light-colored trunks -(some of the poplars are almost as white as -the birches), and filling the whole place with -splendor. I go on, absorbed in the lovely -spectacle, and behold, it is as if a veil were -suddenly removed. The wood is gone, and -the horizon is full of mountain-tops. I have -come to the last of the farms, and in another -minute or two am at the door.</p> - -<p>There is nobody at home, to my regret, and -I sit down upon the doorstep. Moosilauke, -Kinsman, Cannon, Lafayette, Haystack, the -Twins, Washington, Clay, Jefferson, Adams, -and Madison—these are enough, though -there are others, too, if a man were trying to -make a story. All are clear of clouds, and, -like the trees of the wood, have the western -light full on them. Even without the help -of a glass I see a train ascending Mt. Washington.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -Happy passengers, say I. Would -that I were one of them! The season is ending -in glory at the summit, for this is almost -or quite its last day, and there cannot have -been many to match it, the whole summer -through.</p> - -<p>I loiter about the fields for an hour or -more, looking at the blue mountains and the -nearer, gayer-colored hills, but the occupant -of the house is nowhere to be found. I was -hoping for a chat with him. A seeing man, -who lives by himself in such a place as this, -is sure to have something to talk about. The -last time I was here he told me a pretty story -of a hummingbird. He was in the house, as -I remember it, when he heard the familiar, -squeaking notes of a hummer, and thinking -that their persistency must be occasioned by -some unusual trouble, went out to investigate. -Sure enough, there hung the bird in -a spider’s web attached to a rosebush, while -the owner of the web, a big yellow-and-brown, -pot-bellied, bloodthirsty rascal, was turning -its victim over and over, winding the web -about it. Wings and legs were already fast, -so that all the bird could do was to cry for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -help. And help had come. The man at once -killed the spider, and then, little by little, for -it was an operation of no small delicacy, unwound -the mesh in which the bird was entangled. -The lovely creature lay still in his -open hand till it had recovered its breath, -and then flew away. Who would not be glad -to play the good Samaritan in such guise? -As I intimated just now, you may talk with -a hundred smartly dressed, smoothly spoken -city men without hearing a piece of news half -so important or interesting.</p> - -<p>It is five o’clock when I leave the farms -and am again skirting the woods. Now I -face the sun, the level rays of which transfigure -the road before me till its beauty is -beyond all attempt at description. I look at -it as for a very few times in my life I have -looked at a painted landscape, with unspeakable -enjoyment. The subject is of the simplest: -a few rods of common grassy road, -arched with bright leaves and drenched in -sunshine; but the suggestion is infinite. -After this the way brings me into sight of the -fairest of level green meadows, with pools of -smooth water—“water stilled at even”—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -scattered farmhouses. The day is ending -right; and when I reach the hotel piazza -and look back, there in the east is the full -moon rising in all her splendor, attended by -rosy clouds.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WITH THE WADERS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 12th of October was a day. There are -few like it in our Massachusetts calendar. -And by a stroke of good fortune I had -chosen it for a trip to Eagle Hill, on the -North Shore. All things were near perfection; -the only drawbacks to my enjoyment -being a slight excess of warmth and -an unseasonable plague of mosquitoes.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is <i>too</i> fine,” said the stable-keeper, -who drove me down from the railroad station. -“It won’t last. It’s what we call a -weather breeder.”</p> - -<p>“So be it,” thought I. Just then I was -not concerned with to-morrow. Happy men -seldom are. The stable-keeper spoke more -to the purpose when he told me that during -the recent storm a most exceptional number -of birds had been driven in. A certain gunner, -Cy Somebody, had shot twenty-odd dollars’ -worth in one day. “There he is now,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -he remarked after a while, as a man and a -dog crossed the road just before us. “Any -birds to-day, Cy?” he inquired. The man -nodded a silent affirmative—a very unusual -admission for a Yankee sportsman to make, -according to my experience.</p> - -<p>I was hardly on foot before I began to -find traces of this good man’s work. The -first bird I saw was a sandpiper with one -wing dragging on the ground. Near it was -an unharmed companion which, even when -I crowded it a little hard, showed no disposition -to consult its own safety. “Well -done,” said I. “‘There is a friend that -sticketh closer than a brother.’”</p> - -<p>A few steps more, and a larger bird -stirred amid the short marsh herbage beyond -the muddy flat—a black-bellied plover, -or “beetle-head.” He also must be disabled, -I thought, to be staying in such a place; -and perhaps he was. At all events he would -not fly, but edged about me in a half circle, -with the wariest kind of motions (there was -no sign of cover for him, the grass coming -no more than to his knees), always with his -big black eye fastened upon me, while my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -field-glass brought him near enough to show -all the beauty of his spots.</p> - -<p>He was well worth looking at (“What -short work a gunner would make of him!” -I kept repeating to myself), but I could not -stay. Titlark voices were in the air. The -birds must be plentiful on the grassy hills -beyond; with them there might be Lapland -longspurs; and I followed the road. This -presently brought me to a bit of pebbly -beach, along which I was carelessly walking -when a lisping sound caused me to glance -down at my feet. There on the edge of -the water was a bunch of seven sandpipers; -white-rumps, as I soon made out, though -my first thought had been of something else. -One of them hobbled upon one leg, but the -others seemed thus far to have escaped injury. -There they stood, huddled together -as if on purpose for some pot-shooter’s convenience, -while I drew them within arm’s -length; pretty creatures, lovely in their foolish -innocence; more or less nervous under -my inspection, but holding their ground, -each with its long black bill pointed against -the breeze. “We who are about to die -salute you,” they might have been saying.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>Having admired them sufficiently, I passed -on. Titlarks were beginning to abound, but -where were the longspurs? A shot was -fired some distance away, and as I looked -in that direction two great blue herons went -flying across the marsh, each with his legs -behind him. It was good to see them still -able to fly.</p> - -<p>Then something—I have no idea what; -no sight or sound that I was sensible of—told -me to look at a bird beside the little -pool of water I had just passed. It was -another white-rumped sandpiper, all by himself, -nearer to me even than those I had left -a little way back. What a beauty he was!—his -dark eye (which I could see winking), -the lovely cinnamon-brown shading of his -back and wings, setting off the marbled -black and white, and his shyly confiding -demeanor. I had scarcely stopped before -he flew to my side of the pool and stood -as near me as he could get—too near to -be shot at. He too had been hit, or so it -seemed. One foot was painful, though he -could put it down, if necessary, and even -take a limping step upon it. Happy bird! -He had fared well!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>Up the steep, grassy hill I started out of -the road; but I soon halted again, this time -to gaze into the sky. Straight above me -were numbers of herring gulls, some far, far -up under the fleecy cirrus clouds, others -much lower. All were resting upon the air, -sailing in broad circles. Round and round -they went,—a kind of stationary motion, -a spectator might have called it; but in a -minute or two they had disappeared. They -were progressing in circles, circle cutting -circle. It is the sea-gull’s way of taking a -long flight. I remember it of old, and have -never seen anything to surpass it for gracefulness. -If there were only words to describe -such things! But language is a -clumsy tool.</p> - -<p>The hilltop offered beauty of another -kind: the blue ocean, the broad, brown -marshes, dotted with haycocks innumerable, -the hills landward, a distant town, with its -spires showing, the inlet yonder, whitened -with swimming gulls. Crickets chirped in -the grass, herds of cattle and sheep grazed -peacefully on all sides, and when I turned -my head, there behind me, a mile away,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -perhaps, were the shining Ipswich dunes, -wave on wave of dazzling white sand. I -ought to have stayed with the picture, perhaps; -but there were no longspurs, and -somehow this was a day for birds rather -than for a landscape. I would return to -the muddy flats, and spend my time with -the sandpipers and the plover. The telltale -yellow-legs were whistling, and who could -guess what I might see?</p> - -<p>At the little pool I must stop for another -visit with my single sandpiper. He would -be there, I felt certain. And he was; as -pretty as before, and no more alarmed at -my presence, though as he balanced himself -on one leg his body shook with a constant -rhythmical pulsation, as if his heart were -beating more violently than a bird’s heart -should. He did not look happy, I thought. -And why should he, far from home, with a -wounded foot, no company, and an unknown -number of guns yet to face before reaching -the end of his long journey? He was hardly -bigger than a sparrow, but he was one of -the creatures which lordly man, endowed -with “godlike reason,” a being of “large<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -discourse,” so wise and good that he naturally -thinks of the Creator of all things as -a person very like himself, finds it amusing -to kill.</p> - -<p>And when I came to the few rods of -beach, there stood my seven sandpipers, -exactly as before. They stirred uneasily -under my gaze, whispering a few words to -one another (“Will he shoot, do you -think?”), but they kept their places, -bunched closely together for safety. Did -they know anything about their lonely -brother—or sister—up yonder on the hillside? -If they noticed her absence, they -probably supposed her dead. Death is so -common and so sudden, especially in migration -time.</p> - -<p>Now I am back again on a grassy mound -by the muddy flats, and the big plover is -still here. How alert he looks as he sees -me approach! Yet now, as an hour ago, -he shows no inclination to fly. The tide is -coming in fast. He steps about in the -deepening water with evident discomfort, and -whether he will or not, he must soon take -to wing or wade ashore. And while I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -eyeing his motions my glass falls unexpectedly -on two sandpipers near him in the -grass; pectoral sandpipers—grass-birds—I -soon say to myself, with acute satisfaction. -It is many years since I saw one. How -small their heads look,—in contrast with -the plover’s,—and how thickly and finely -their breasts are streaked! I remember the -portrait in Nelson’s “Birds of Alaska,” with -its inflated throat, a monstrous vocal sac, -half as large as the bird itself. A graceful -wooer!</p> - -<p>They, too, are finding the tide a trouble, -and no doubt are wishing the human intruder -would take himself off. Now, in -spite of my presence, one of them follows -the other toward the land, scurrying from -one bit of tussock to another, half wading, -half swimming. Time and tide wait for no -bird. Both they and the plover have given -up all thoughts of eating. They have enough -to do to keep their eyes upon me and the -water.</p> - -<p>The sandpipers, being smaller, make their -retreat first. One, as he finds himself so -near a stranger, is smitten with sudden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -fright, and runs by at full speed on his -pretty dark-green legs. Yet both presently -become reassured, and fall to feeding with -all composure almost about my feet. I have -been still so long that I must be harmless. -And now the plover himself takes wing (I -am glad to find he can), but only for a rod -or two, alighting on a conical bit of island. -There is nothing for him to eat there, apparently, -but at least the place will keep his -feet dry. He stands quiet, waiting. And -so he continues to do for the hour and more -that I still remain.</p> - -<p>My own stay, I should mention, is by this -time compulsory. I, too, am on an island -(I have just discovered the fact), and not -choosing to turn wader on my own account, -must wait till the tide goes down. It is no -hardship. Every five minutes brings me -something new. I have only now noticed -(a slight cry having drawn my attention) -that there are sandpipers of another kind -here—a little flock of dunlins, or redbacks. -They are bunched on the pebbly edge of a -second island (which was not an island a -quarter of an hour ago), nearer to me even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -than the plover’s, and are making the best -of the high tide, which has driven them from -their feeding-grounds, by taking a siesta. -Once, when I look that way,—which I can -do only now and then, there are so many -distractions,—I find the whole eight with -their bills tucked under their wings. Now, -isn’t that a pretty sight! Their name, as -I say, is the red-backed sandpiper; but at -this season their upper parts are of a uniform -mouse color, or soft, dark gray—I -hardly know how to characterize it. It is -very distinctive, whatever word we use, and -equally so is the shape of the bill, long and -stout, with a downward inflection at the tip. -Eight birds, did I say? No, there are nine, -for I have just discovered another, not on -the island, but under the very edge of the -grassy bank on which I am standing. He -has a broken leg, poor fellow, and seems to -prefer being by himself; but by and by, -with a sudden cry of alarm, for which I can -see no occasion, he flies to rejoin his mates.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, seven white-rumps have come -and settled near them; the same flock that -I saw yonder on the roadside beach, I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -little question. Probably the encroaching -tide has disturbed them also. At the same -time I hear distant voices of yellow-legs, and -presently six birds are seen flying in this -direction. They wheel doubtfully at the -unexpected sight of a man, and drop to the -ground beyond range; but I can see them -well enough. How tall they are, and how -wide-awake they look, with their necks -stretched out; and how silly they are,—“telltales” -and “tattlers” indeed,—to publish -their movements and whereabouts to -every gunner within a mile! While my -head is turned they disappear, and I hear -them whistling again across the marsh. -They are all gone, I think; but as I look -again toward my sandpipers’ island, behold! -there stands a tall fellow, his yellow -legs shining, and his eye fastened upon me. -Either he has lost his reason, if he ever had -any, or he knows I have no gun. Perfectly -still he keeps (he is not an absolute -fool, I rejoice to see) as long as I am looking -at him. Then I look elsewhere, and -when my eye returns to his place, he is not -there. He has only moved behind the corner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -of the islet, however, as I find when I shift -my own position by a rod or two. He seems -to be dazed, and for a wonder he holds his -tongue.</p> - -<p>Titlarks are about me in crowds. One is -actually wading along the shore, with the -water up to his belly. Yes, he is doing it -again. I look twice to be sure of him. A -flock of dusky ducks fly just above my head, -showing me the lining of their wings. Truly -this is a birdy spot; and luckily, though -there are two or three “blinds” near, and -guns are firing every few minutes up and -down the marshes, there is no one here to -disturb me and my friends. I could stay -with them till night; but what is that? A -buggy is coming down the road out of the -hills with only one passenger. This is my -opportunity. I pack up my glass, betake -myself to the roadside, and when the man -responds to my question politely, I take a seat -beside him. As he gets out to unlatch the -gate, a minute afterward, a light-colored—dry-sand-colored—bird -flies up and perches -on a low fence-rail. This is no wader, but -is none the less welcome. It is an Ipswich<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -sparrow, I explain to my benefactor, who -waits for me to take an observation. The -species was discovered here, I tell him, and -was named in the town’s honor. He seems -interested. “I shouldn’t have known it,” -he says. So I have done some good to-day, -though I have thought only of enjoying myself.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">ON THE NORTH SHORE AGAIN</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> you have once seen a picture, says -Emerson somewhere, never look at it again. -He means that hours of insight are so rare -that a really high and satisfying experience -with a book, picture, landscape, or other object -of beauty is to be accepted as final, a -favor of Providence which we have no warrant -to expect repeated. If you have seen a thing, -therefore, really seen it and communed with -the soul of it, let that suffice you. Attempts -to live the hour over a second time will only -result in failure, or, worse yet, will cast a -shadow over what ought to have been a permanently -luminous recollection.</p> - -<p>There is a modicum of sound philosophy -in the advice. We must take it as the counsel -of an idealist, and follow it or not as occasion -bids. The words of such men, as one -of them was given to saying, are only for -those who have ears to hear. We may be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -sure of one thing: poems, landscapes, pictures, -and all other works of art (art human -or superhuman) are never to be exhausted -by one look, or by a hundred. If a man is -good for anything, and the poem or the landscape -is good for anything, he will find new -meanings with new perusals. In other words, -we may turn upon Emerson and say: “Yes, -but then, you know, we never <i>do</i> see a picture—a -picture that <i>is</i> a picture.”</p> - -<p>As was related a week ago, I spent the -12th of October on the North Shore. I -brought back the remembrance of a glorious -piece of the world’s beauty. In outline, I -had it in my mind. But I knew perfectly, -both at the time and afterward, that I had -not really made it my own. I had been too -much taken up with other things. The eye -does not see the landscape; nor does the mind -see it. The eye is the lens, the mind is the -plate. The landscape prints itself upon the -mind, through the eye. But the mind must -be sensitive and still, and—what is oftener -forgotten—the exposure must be sufficiently -prolonged. The clearest-eyed genius ever -born never saw a landscape in ten minutes.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>On all grounds, then, I was entitled to -another look. And this time, perhaps, the -Lapland longspurs would be there to be enjoyed -with the rest. I would go again, therefore; -and on the morning of the 18th, long -before daylight, judging by the quietness of -the trees outside that the wind had gone down -(for wind is a serious hindrance to quiet -pleasure at the seashore in autumn, and visits -must be timed accordingly), I determined to -set out in good season and secure a longish -day. Venus and the old moon were growing -pale in the east when I started forth, and -three hours afterward I was footing it -through Ipswich village toward East Street -and the sea.</p> - -<p>As I crossed the marsh and approached -the gate, a stranger overtook me. We managed -the business together, one pulling the -gate to, the other tending the hook and -staple, and we spoke of the unusual greenness -of the hills before us, on which flocks -and herds were grazing. “There’s better -feed now than there’s been all summer,” -the stranger said. It was easy to believe it. -Those broad-backed, grassy hills are one of -the glories of the North Shore.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>I followed the road as it led me among -them. A savanna sparrow had been dodging -along the edge of a ditch near the gate; -titlark voices at once became common, and -after a turn or two I saw before me a bunch -of shore larks dusting themselves in the -sandy middle of the track. They were making -thorough work of it, crowding their -breasts and necks, and even the sides of -their heads into the soil, with much shaking -of feathers afterward.</p> - -<p>The road brought me to a beach, where -were two or three houses, and, across the -way, a pond stocked with wooden geese and -ducks, with an underground blind for gunners -in the side of the hill. Some delights -are so keen that it is worth elaborate preparations -to enjoy them. Here the titlarks -were in extraordinary force, and I lingered -about the spot for half an hour, awaiting the -longspurs that might be hoped for in their -company. Hoped for, but nothing more. -I was still too early, perhaps.</p> - -<p>Well, their absence, the fact of it once -accepted, left me free-minded for the main -object of my trip. I would go up the hill,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -over the grass, and take the prospect northward. -A narrow depression, down which a -brook trickled with a pleasant, companionable -noise, as if it were talking to itself, afforded -me shelter from the wind, and at the -same time bounded my outlook on either -side, as a frame bounds a picture. The hill -fell away sharply to the water just beyond -my feet, and up and down the inlet gulls -were flying. Once, to my pleasure, two -black-backed “coffin-bearers” passed, the -only ones I was able to discover among the -thousands of herring gulls that filled the air -and the water, and crowded the sand-bars, -the whole day long. Across the blue water -were miles of brown marsh, and beyond the -marsh rose wooded hills veiled with haze, -the bright autumnal colors shining through. -Crickets were still musical, buttercups and -dandelions starred the turf, and once a yellow -butterfly (Philodice) flitted near. The -summer was gone, but here were some of its -children to keep it remembered. Titlarks -walked daintily about the grass, or balanced -themselves upon the boulders, and once I -turned my head just in time to see a marsh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -hawk sailing over the hill at my back, his -white rump showing.</p> - -<p>When I had left the hills behind me, and -was again skirting the muddy flats, I found -myself all at once near a few sandpipers,—a -dozen, more or less, of white-rumps,—one -with a foot dragging, one with a leg -held up, and beside them a single red-back, -or dunlin, staggering on one leg, the same -bird, it seemed likely, that I had pitied a -week ago. I pitied him still. Ornithology, -studied under such conditions, was no longer -the cheerful, exhilarating science to which -I am accustomed. It was more like sociology.</p> - -<p>Perhaps I am sentimental. If so, may I -be forgiven. There is no man but has his -weakness. The dunlin was nothing, I knew; -one among thousands; a few ounces of flesh -with feathers on it; what if he did suffer? -It was none of my business. Why should -I take other men’s amusements sadly? The -bird was greatly inferior to the being who -shot him; at least that is the commonly accepted -theory; and the superior, as every one -but an anarchist must admit, has the rights<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -of superiority. And for all that, the dunlin -seemed a pretty innocent, and I wished that -he had two good legs. As for his being only -one of thousands, so am I—and no very -fine one either; but I shouldn’t like to be -shot at from behind a wall; and when I -have a toothache, the sense of my personal -insignificance is of small use in dulling the -pain. Poor dunlin!</p> - -<p>I allowed myself two hours from the gate -back to the railroad station, though it is less -than an hour’s walk. Some of the fairest -views are to be obtained from the road; and -there, I told myself, I should be sheltered -from the wind and could sit still at my ease. -The first half of the distance, too, would -take me between pleasant hedgerows, in -which are many things worthy of a stroller’s -notice.</p> - -<p>For some time, indeed, I did little but stop -and look behind. The marshes pulled me -about: so level, so expansive, so richly -brown, so pointed with haycocks (once, the -notion taking me, I counted far enough to -see that there were more than two hundred -in sight), and so beautifully backed by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -golden autumnal hills. I can see them yet, -though I have nothing to say about them.</p> - -<p class="center">“The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!”</p> - -<p>Trains of gulls went flying up the inlet as -the tide went out. They live by the sea’s -almanac as truly as the clam-diggers, two of -whom I had watched, an hour before, sailing -across the inlet in a rude boat (more picturesque -by half than a gentleman’s yacht), and -setting about their day’s work on a shoal -newly uncovered. Thank Heaven, there are -still some occupations that cannot be carried -on in a factory.</p> - -<p>The roadsides were bright with gay-colored -fruits: barberries, thorn apples, Roxbury -waxwork, and rose-hips. Of thorn -bushes there were at least two kinds; one -already bare-branched, with scattered small -fruit; the other still in leaf, and loaded with -gorgeous clusters of large red apples. More -interesting to me than any of these were the -frost grapes; familiar acquaintances of an -Old Colony boyhood, but now grown to be -strangers. They were shining black, ripe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -and juicy (of the size of peas), and if their -sweetness failed to tempt the palate, that, -for aught I know, may have been the eater’s -fault rather than theirs. Why might not -their quality be of a too excellent sort, beyond -his too effeminate powers of appreciation? -Is there any certainty that man’s -taste is final in such matters? Was my own -criticism of them anything more than a piece -of unscientific, inconclusive impressionism?</p> - -<p>Surely they were not without a tang. The -most exacting mouth could not deny them -individuality. I tried them, and retried -them; but after all, they seemed most in -place on the vines. To me, in the old days, -they were known only as frost grapes. -Others, it appears, have called them chicken -grapes, possum grapes, and winter grapes. -No doubt they find customers before the season -is over. Thoreau should have liked them -and praised them, but I do not recall them -in his books. Probably they do not grow in -Concord. They are of his kin, at all events, -wildings of the wild. I wish I had brought a -bunch or two home with me. In my present -mood I believe they would “go to the spot.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>But if I was glad to see the frost grapes, -I was gladder still to see a certain hickory -tree. I was scarcely off the marsh before I -came to it, and had hardly put my eye upon -it before I said to myself (although so far -as I could have specified, it looked like any -other hickory; but there is a kind of knowledge, -or half knowledge, that does not rest -upon specifications), “There! That should -be a bitternut tree.” Now the bitternut is -not to be called a rarity, I am assured; but -somehow I had never found it, notwithstanding -I was a nut-gatherer in my youth, and -have continued to be one to this day, an early -taste for wild forage being one of the virtues -that are seldom outgrown. Well, something -distracted my attention just then, and -I contented myself with putting a leaf and a -handful of nuts into my pocket. Only on -getting home did I crack one and find it bitter. -Now, several days afterward, I have -cracked another, and tested it more fully. -The shell is extremely thin,—like a pecan -nut’s for fragility,—and the meat, which is -large and full, is both bitter and puckery, -suggesting the brown inner partitions of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -pecan shell, which the eater learns so carefully -to avoid. In outward appearance the -nut is a pig-nut pure and simple, the reader -being supposed to be enough of a countryman -to know that pig-nuts, like wild fruits in -general, vary interminably in size, shape, and -goodness.</p> - -<p>Pretty butter-and-eggs still bloomed beside -the stone wall, and the “folksy mayweed” -was plentiful about a barnyard. Out -from the midst of it scampered a rabbit as I -approached the fence to look over. He disappeared -in the cornfield, his white tailtip -showing last, and I wondered where he belonged, -as there seemed to be neither wood -nor shrubbery within convenient distance.</p> - -<p>Just beyond this point (after noticing a -downy woodpecker in a Balm-o’-Gilead tree, -if the careful compositor will allow me that -euphonious Old Colony contraction), I had -stopped to pick up a shagbark when five -children, the oldest a girl of nine or ten, -came down the road together.</p> - -<p>“Out of school, so early?” said I.</p> - -<p>“No,” was the instantaneous response; -“we’ve got the whooping cough.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>“Ah, that’s better than going to school, -isn’t it?” said I, not so careful of my moral -influence as a descendant of the Puritans -ought to have been, perhaps; but I spoke -from impulse, remembering myself how I -also was tempted.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said one of the children; “No,” -said another; and the reader may believe -which he will, looking into his own childish -heart, if he can still find it, as I hope he -can.</p> - -<p>Apple trees were loaded; hollyhocks, marigolds, -and even tender cannas and dahlias, -still brightened the gardens (so much for being -near the sea, even on the North Shore), -but what I most admired were the handsome -yellow quinces in many of the dooryards. -Quince preserve must be a favorite dish in -Ipswich. I thought I should like to live -here. I could smell the golden fruit—in -my mind’s nose—clean across the way. -And when I reached the village square I -stopped (no, I walked slowly) to watch a -real Old Colony game that I had not seen -played for many a day. Two young men -had stuck a jackknife into the hard earthen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -sidewalk and were “pitching cents.” It was -like an old daguerreotype. One of the gamesters -was having hard luck, but was taking -it merrily. “I owe you six,” I heard him -say, as his coin stood on edge and rolled perversely -away from the knife-blade.</p> - -<p>This was very near to “Meeting-house -Green.” I hope I am doing no harm to -speak of it.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">AUTUMNAL MORALITIES</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> the month past my weekly talk has been -more or less a traveler’s tale—of things -among the mountains and at the seaside. -Now, on this bright afternoon in the last -week of October, a month that every outdoor -man saddens to see coming to an end (like -May, it is never half long enough), let me -note a little of what is passing in the lanes -and by-roads nearer home.</p> - -<p>Leaves are rustling below and above. As -is true sometimes in higher circles, they seem -to grow loquacious with age; the slightest -occasion, the merest nudge of suggestion, the -faintest puff of the spirit sets them off. For -me they will never talk too much. I love -their preaching seven days in the week. The -driest of them never teased my ears with a -dry sermon. I scuff along the path on purpose -to stir them up. “Your turn will come -next,” I hear them saying; but the message<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -does not sound like bad news. I listen to it -with a kind of pleasure, as to solemn music. -If the doctor or the clergyman had brought -me the same word, my spirit might have -risen in rebellion; but the falling leaf may -say what it likes. It has poet’s leave.</p> - -<p>How gracefully they come to the ground, -here one and there another; slowly, slowly, -with leisurely dips and turns, as if the breeze -loved them and would buoy them up till the -last inevitable moment. Children of air and -sunshine, they must return to the dust. So -all things move in circles,—life and death, -death and life. Happy leaves! they depart -without formalities, with no funereal trappings. -The wind whispers to them, and they -follow.</p> - -<p>As I watch them falling, a gray squirrel -startles me. I rejoice to see him. He, too, -is a falling leaf. In truth, his living presence -takes me by surprise. So many gunners -have been in this wood of late, all so -murderously equipped, that I had thought -every squirrel must before this time have -gone into the game-bag. Be careful, young -fellow; you will need all your spryness and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -cunning, all your knack of keeping on the -invisible side of the trunk, or your frolic will -end in sudden blackness. This is autumn, -the sickly season for squirrels and birds. -“The law is off,” and the gun is loaded to -kill you. Take a friend’s advice, and fight -shy of everything that walks upright “in the -image of God.”</p> - -<p>Yonder round-topped sweet birch tree is -one of October’s masterpieces; a sheaf of -yellow leaves with the sun on them. How -they shine! Yet it is not so much they as -the sunlight. Nay, it is both. Let the -leaves have the honor that belongs to them. -In a week they will all be under foot. To-day -they are bright as the sun, and airy and -frolicsome as so many butterflies. Blessed -are my eyes that see them. And look! how -the light (what a painter it is!) glorifies the -lower trunk of the white oak just beyond. -The furrowed gray bark is so perfect a piece -of absolute beauty that, if it were framed -and set up in a gallery, the crowd—or the -few that are better than a crowd—would -be always before it. So cheap and universal -are visual delights, so little dependent upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> -place or season—sunlight and the bark of a -tree!</p> - -<p>In the branches overhead are chestnut-loving -blackbirds, every one with a crack in -his voice. Far away a crow is cawing, and -from another direction a jay screams. These -speak to the world at large. Half the -township may hear what they have to offer. -I like them; may their speech never be a -whit softer or more musical; but if comparisons -are in order, I give my first vote for less -public—more intimate—birds, such as -speak only to the grove or the copse. And -even as I confess my preference, a bluebird’s -note confirms it: a voice that caresses the -ear; such a tone as no human mouth or humanly -invented instrument can ever produce -the like of. He has no need to sing. -His simplest talk is music.</p> - -<p>Here, by the wayside, a few asters have -sprung up after the scythe, and are freshly -in flower. How blue they are! And how -much handsomer a few stalks of them look -now than a full acre did two months ago. So -acceptable is scarcity. There is nothing to -equal it for the heightening of values. It is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -only the poor who know what money is worth. -It is only in October and November that we -feel all the charm of <i>Aster lævis</i>. I think -of Bridget Elia’s lament over the “good old -times” when she and her cousin were “not -quite so rich.” Then the spending of a few -shillings had a zest about it. A purchase -was an event, a kind of festival. I believe -in Bridget’s philosophy; for the asters teach -the same; yes, and the goldenrods also. -They, too, have come up in the wake of the -scythe, and still dwarfed, having no time to -attain their natural growth, as if they knew -that winter was upon them, are already -topped with yellow. I carry home a scanty -half handful of the two, asters and goldenrods, -as treasure-trove. They are sure to be -welcome. When all the fields were bright -with such things, they seemed hardly worth -house-room. This late harvest of blossoms -is one small compensation for all the ugliness -inflicted upon the landscape by the habit—inveterate -with highway “commissioners”—of -mowing back-country roadsides. As if -stubble were prettier than a hedge!</p> - -<p>Now I pass two long-armed white oaks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -which I never come near without thinking -of a friend of mine and of theirs who used -to walk hereabouts with me; a real tree -lover, who loves not species, not white oaks -and red oaks, but individual trees, and goes -to see them as one goes to see a man or a -woman. This pair he always called the -twins. They have summered and wintered -each other for a hundred years. Who knows—putting -the matter on grounds of pure -science—whether they do not enjoy each -other’s companionship? Who knows that -trees have no kind of sentience? Not I. -We take a world of things for granted; and -if all our neighbors chance to do the same, -we let the general assumption pass for certainty. -If trees <i>do</i> know anything, I would -wager that it is something worth knowing, -something quite as good as is to be found in -any newspaper.</p> - -<p>Here are red maples as bare as December, -and yonder is one that is almost in full leaf; -and by some freak of originality every leaf -is bright yellow. Three days more and it -will be naked also. Under it are white-alder -bushes (<i>Clethra</i>) clothed in dark purple, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -tall blueberry bushes all in red, with yellow -shadings by way of contrast. This is in a -swampy spot, where a lonesome hyla is peeping. -Just beyond, the drier ground is reddened—under -the trees—with huckleberry -and dangleberry. Nobody who has not -attended to the matter would imagine how -much of the brightness of our New England -autumn—one of the pageants of the world—is -due to these lowly bushes, which most -people think of solely as useful in the production -of pies and puddings. Without being -mown, the huckleberry bears a second crop—a -crop of color. It is twice blest; it -blesses him that eats and him that looks. In -many parts of New England, at least, the -autumnal landscape could better spare the -maples than the blueberries and the huckleberries. -Rum-cherry trees and shrubs—more -shrubs than trees—are dressed in -lovely shades of yellow and salmon. Spicebushes -wear plain yellow of a peculiarly delicate -cast. I roll a leaf in my hand and find -it still spicy. A bush looks handsomer, I believe, -if it is known to smell good. The same -thought came to me a week ago while I was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -admiring the sassafras leaves. They were -then just at the point of ripeness. Now they -have turned to a dead brown. The maple’s -way is in better taste—to shed its leaves -while they are still bright and fresh. They -are under my feet now, a carpet of red and -yellow.</p> - -<p>One of the oddest bits of fall coloration -(I cannot profess greatly to like it) is the -ghostly white—greenish white—of Roxbury -waxwork leaves. It is unique in these -parts, so far as I can recall, but is almost -identical with the pallor of striped maple -foliage (<i>Acer Pennsylvanicum</i>) as one sees -it in the White Mountains. Waxwork pigments -all go to the berries, it appears. These -are showy enough to suit the most barbaric -taste, and are among the things that speak -to me strongest of far-away times, when my -childish feet were just beginning to wander -in nature’s garden. The sight of them reminds -me of what a long time I have lived.</p> - -<p>A gust of wind strikes a tall willow just -as I approach it. See the leaves tumble! -Thick and fast they come, a leafy shower, -with none of those pretty, hesitating, parachute-like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> -reluctances which we noticed the -rounder and lighter birch leaves practicing -half an hour ago. The willow leaves, narrow -and pointed, fall more like arrows. I am put -in mind, I cannot tell why, of an early morning -hour, years ago, when I happened to cross -a city garden after the first killing frost, and -stopped near a Kentucky coffee-tree. Its -foliage had been struck with death. Not a -breath was stirring, but the leaves, already -blackened and curled, dropped in one continuous -rain. The tree was out of its latitude, -and had been caught with its year’s work -half done. The frost was a tragedy. This -breeze among the willow branches is nothing -so bad as that. Its errand is all in the order -of nature. It calls those who are ready.</p> - -<p>My meditations are still running with the -season, still playing with mortality, when a -blue jay quits a branch near by (I had not -seen him) and flies off in silence. The jay -is a knowing bird. No need to tell <i>him</i> that -there is a time for everything under the sun. -He has proverbial philosophy to spare. Hark! -he has found his voice; like a saucy schoolboy, -who waits till he is at a safe distance and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -then puts his thumb to his nose, and cries -“Yaah, yaah!”</p> - -<p>Well, the reader may thank him for one -thing. He has made an end of my autumnal -sermon, the text of which, if any one cares to -look for it, may be found in the sixty-fourth -chapter of Isaiah, at the sixth verse.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A TEXT FROM THOREAU</h2> -</div> - - -<p>“<span class="smcap">There</span> is no more tempting novelty than -this new November. No going to Europe -or to another world is to be named with it. -Give me the old familiar walk, post-office -and all, with this ever new self, with this -infinite expectation and faith which does not -know when it is beaten. We’ll go nutting -once more. We’ll pluck the nut of the -world and crack it in the winter evenings. -Theatres and all other sight-seeing are puppet -shows in comparison. I will take another -walk to the cliff, another row on the -river, another skate on the meadow, be out -in the first snow, and associate with the -winter birds. Here I am at home. In the -bare and bleached crust of the earth, I recognize -my friend.”</p> - -<p>Thus bravely did Thoreau enter upon the -gray month. It was in 1858, when he was -forty-one years old. He wants nothing new,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -he assures himself. He will “take the -shortest way round and stay at home.” -“Think of the consummate folly of attempting -to go away from <i>here</i>,” he says, underscoring -the final word. As if whatever -place a man might move to would not be -“here” to him! As if he could run away -from his own shadow! So I interpret the -italics.</p> - -<p>His protestations, characteristically unqualified -and emphatic, imply that thoughts -of travel have beset him. Probably they -beset every outdoor philosopher at this short-day -season. They are part of the autumnal -crop. Our northern world begins to look—in -cloudy moods—like a place to escape -from. The birds have gone, the leaves have -fallen, the year is done. “Let us arise and -go also,” an inward voice seems to whisper. -Not unlikely there is in us all the dormant -remainder of an outworn migratory instinct. -Civilization has caged us and tamed us; -“hungry generations” have trodden us -down; but below consciousness and memory -there still persists the blind stirring of ancestral -impulse. The fathers were nomads,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -and the children’s feet are still not quite -content with day’s work in a treadmill.</p> - -<p>Let our preferences be what they may, -however, the greater number of us must -stay where we are put, and play the hand -that is dealt to us, happy if we can face the -dark side of the year with a measure of -philosophy. If there is a new self, as Thoreau -says, there will be a new world and a -new season. If we carry the tropics within -us, we need not dream of Florida. And -even if there is no constraint upon our going -and coming, we need not be in haste to run -away. We may safely wait a week or two, -at least. November is often not half so bad -as it is painted—not half so bad, indeed, -as Thoreau himself sometimes painted it. -For the eleventh month was not one of his -favorites. “November Eat-Heart,” he is -more than once moved to call it. The experience -of it puts his equanimity to the -proof. Even his bravest words about it -sound rather like a defiance than a welcome,—a -little as if he were whistling to keep up -his courage. With the month at its worst, -he confesses, he has almost to drive himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -afield. He can hardly decide upon any -route; “all seem so unpromising, mere surface-walking -and fronting the cold wind.” -“Surface-walking.” How excellent that is! -Every contemplative outdoor man knows -what is meant, but only Thoreau could have -hit it off to such perfection in a word.</p> - -<p>I must admit that I am not sorry to find -the Walden stoic once in a long while overtaken -by such a comparatively unheroic mood. -He boasted so often and so well (with all -the rest he boasted of his boasting) that it -pleases me to hear him complain. So the -weather could be too much even for him, I -say to myself, with something like a chuckle. -He was mortal, after all; and the day was -sometimes dark, even in Concord.</p> - -<p>Not that he ever whimpered. And had -he done so, in any moment of weakness, it -should never have been for me to lay a public -finger upon the fact. Nobody shall be -more loyal to Thoreau than I am, though -others may understand him better and praise -him more adequately. If he complained, he -did it “man-fashion,” and was within a man’s -right. To say that the worst of Massachusetts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -weather is never to be spoken against -is to say too much; it is stretching the -doctrine of non-resistance to the point of -absurdity. As well forbid us to carry umbrellas, -or to put up lightning-rods. There -is plenty of weather that deserves to be -spoken against.</p> - -<p>Only let it be done, as I say, “man-fashion;” -and having said our say, let us go -about our business again, making the best of -things as they are—as Thoreau did. For, -having owned his disrelish for what the gods -provided, he quickly recovered himself, and -proceeded to finish his entry in a cheerier -strain. Matters are not so desperate with -him, after all. He has to force himself out-of-doors, -it is true, but once in the woods he -often finds himself “unexpectedly compensated.” -“The thinnest yellow light of November -is more warming and exhilarating -than any wine they tell of.” He meets with -something that interests him, and immediately -the day is as warm as July—as if the -wind had shifted from northwest to south. -There is the secret, in November as in May—to -be interested. Then there is no longer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -a question of “surface-walking.” The soul -is concerned, and life has begun anew.</p> - -<p>Thus far, the present November (I write -on the 4th) has been unusually mild; some -days have been really summer-like, too warm -for comfort; but the sun has shone only by -minutes—now and then an hour, at the -most. Deciduous trees are nearly bare, the -oaks excepted; flowers are few and mostly -out of condition, though it would be easy to -make a pretty high-sounding list of names; -and birds are getting to be almost as scarce -as in winter. There is no longer any quiet -strolling in the woods. If you wish to listen -for small sounds you must stand still. -The ground is so thick with crackling leaves -that it is impossible to go silently. Everything -prophesies of the death of the year. -It is almost time for the snow to fall and -bury what remains of it.</p> - -<p>Yet in warm days one may still see dragon-flies -on the wing. Yesterday meadow -larks were singing with the greatest abandon -and in something like a chorus. I -must have seen a dozen, and most if not -all of them were in tune. On the 1st of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -the month a grouse drummed again and -again; an unseasonable piece of lyrical enthusiasm, -one might think; but I doubt if -it was anything so very exceptional. Once, -indeed, a few years ago, I heard a grouse -drum repeatedly in January, on a cloudy -day, when the ground in the woods was -deep under snow. That, I believe, was an -event much out of the common, though by -no means without precedent. I wish Thoreau -could have been there; he would have improved -the occasion so admirably. So long -as the partridge can keep his spirits up to -the drumming point, why should the rest of -us outdoor people pull a long face over hard -times and short rations? Shall we be less -manly than a bird?</p> - -<p>The partridge will neither migrate nor -hibernate, but looks winter in the eye and -bids the wind whistle. It is too bad if we -who command the services of coal dealers -and plumbers, tailors and butchers, doctors -and clergymen, cannot stand our ground with -a creature that knows neither house nor fuel, -and has nothing for it, summer and winter, -but to live by his wits. To the partridge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -man must look like a weak brother, a coddler -of himself, ruined by civilization and -“modern improvements;” a lubber who -would freeze to death where a chickadee -bubbles over with the very joy of living.</p> - -<p>With weather-braving souls like these -Thoreau would associate; and so will I. It -is true, what all the moralists have told us, -that it is good for a man to keep company -with his superiors. Not that in my own -case I look for their example and tuition to -make me inherently better; it is getting late -for that; “nothing that happens after we -are twelve counts for very much;” I shall -be content if they make me happier. And -so much I surely depend upon. Good spirits -are contagious. It is the great advantage -of keeping a dog, that he has happiness to -spare, and gives to his master. So a flock -of chickadees, or snowbirds, or kinglets, or -tree sparrows, or goldfinches brighten a man’s -day. He comes away smiling. I will go out -now and prove it.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> wintry November forenoon I was on -a sea beach; the sky clouded, the wind high -and cold, cutting to the marrow; a bleak -and comfortless place. A boy, dragging a -child’s cart, was gathering chips of driftwood -along the upper edge of the sand,—one -human figure, such as painters use to make -a lonesome scene more lonesome. A loon, -well offshore, sat rocking upon the water, -now lifted into sight for an instant, now lost -behind a wave. Distant sails and a steamship -were barely visible through the fog. -So much for the world on its seaward side. -There was little to cheer a man’s soul in that -quarter.</p> - -<p>On the landward side were thickets -of leafless rosebushes covered with scarlet -hips; groves of tall, tree-like, smooth-barked -alders; swampy tracts, wherein were ilex<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -bushes bright with red Christmas berries, -and blueberry bushes scarcely less bright -with red leaves. Sometimes it was necessary -to put up an opera-glass before I could -tell one from the other. Here was a marshy -spot; dry, shivering sedges standing above -the ice, and among them four or five mud-built -domes of muskrat houses. Shrewd -muskrats! They knew better than to be -stirring abroad on a day like this. “If you -haven’t a house, why don’t you build one?” -they might have said to the man hurrying -past, with his neck drawn down into his -coat collar. Here I skirted a purple cranberry -bog, having tufts of dwarfed, stubby -bayberry bushes scattered over it, each with -its winter crop of pale-blue, densely packed, -tightly held berry clusters.</p> - -<p>Not a flower; not a bird. Not so much -as a crow or a robin in one of the stunted -savin trees. I remembered winter days here, -a dozen years ago, when the alder clumps -were lively with tree sparrows, myrtle warblers, -and goldfinches. Now the whole peninsula -was a place forsaken. I had better -have stayed away myself. Here, as so often -elsewhere, memory was the better sight.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>By a summer cottage upon the rocks was -a ledge matted over with the Japanese trailing -white rose. There were no blossoms, of -course, but what with the leaves, still of a -glossy green, and the bunches of handsome, -high-colored hips, the vine could hardly have -been more beautiful, I was ready to say, even -when the roses were thickest upon it. Beside -another house a pink poppy still looked -fresh. Frail, belated child of summer! I -could hardly believe my eyes. All its human -admirers were gone long since. Every cottage -stood vacant. Nobody would live here -in this icy wind, if he could find another -place to flee to. I remembered Florida -beaches, summery abodes, where every breath -from the sea brought a welcome coolness. -Why should I not take the next train southward? -Shall a man be less sensible than a -bird?</p> - -<p>That was five or six hours ago. Now I -am a dozen miles inland. The air is so still -that the sifting snowflakes fall straight downward. -Even the finest twigs of the gray-birches, -so sensitive to the faintest breath, -can hardly be seen to stir. A narrow foot-path<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -under the window is a line of white -running through the green grass. Beyond -that is the brown hillside, brightened with a -few pitch-pines; and then a veil shuts down -upon the world, with a spray of bare treetops -breaking through. It is the gray month -in its grayest mood.</p> - -<p>Be it so. I will sit at my window and -enjoy the world as it is. This sombre day -has a beauty and charm of its own—the -charm of melancholy. The wise course is -to tune our thought to nature’s mood of soberness, -rather than to force a different note, -profaning the hour, and cheating ourselves -with shallow talk and laughter. There is a -time for everything under the sun—L’ Allegro -and Il Penseroso, each in its turn.</p> - -<p>Now is a time to think of what has been -and of what will be. Only the other day the -year was young; grass was greening, violets -were budding, birds were mating and singing. -Now the birds are gone, the flowers are dead, -the year is ending as all the years have ended -before it.</p> - -<p>And as the year is, so are we. A few -days ago we were children, just venturing to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -run alone. We knew nothing, had seen -nothing, looked forward to nothing. Life -for us was only a day in a house and a dooryard, -a span of playtime between two sleeps.</p> - -<p>A few days ago, I say. Yet what a weary -distance we have traveled since then, and -what an infinity of things we have seen and -dealt with. How many thoughts we have -had, coming we know not whence, how many -hopes, one making way for the other, how -many dreams. We have made friends; -friends that were to be friends forever; and -long, long ago, with no fault on either side, -the currents of the world carrying us, they -and we have drifted apart. It is all we can -do now to recall their names and their manner -of being. Some of them we should pass -for strangers if we met them face to face.</p> - -<p>What a long procession of things and -events have gone by us and been forgotten. -Almost we have forgotten our own childish -names, it is so many years since any one called -us by them. Should we know ourselves, -even, if we met in the street the boy or girl -of thirty or forty or fifty years ago? Was -it indeed we who lived then? who believed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -such things, enjoyed such things, concerned -ourselves with such things, trembled with -such fears, were lifted up by such hopes, felt -ourselves enriched by such havings? How -shadowy and unreal they look now; and once -they were as substantial as life and death. -Nay, it is some one else whose past we are -remembering. The boy and the man cannot -be the same.</p> - -<p>Shall we rejoice or be sad that we have -outgrown ourselves thus completely? Something -of both, perhaps. It matters not. The -year is ending, the night is falling. The -past is as if it had never been; the future is -nothing; and the present is less than either -of them. Life is a vapor; nothing, and less -than nothing, and vanity.</p> - -<p>So we say to ourselves, not sadly, but with -a kind of satisfaction to have it so. Yet we -love to live over the past, and, with less assurance, -to dream of the future.</p> - -<p class="center">“The flower that once has blown forever dies.”</p> - -<p>Yes, we have heard that, and we will -not dispute; this is not an hour for disputing; -but the flowers that bloomed forty years<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -ago—the iris and the four-o’clocks in a -child’s garden—we can still see in recollection’s -magic glass. And they are brighter -than any rose that opened this morning. We -have forgotten things without number; but -other things—we shall never forget them. -A friend or two that died when they and we -were young; “the loveliest and the best;” -we can see them more plainly than most of -those whose empty, conventionalized faces, -each like the other, each wearing its mask, -we meet day by day in the common round of -business and pleasure. Death, which seemed -to destroy them, has but set them beyond -the risk of alteration and forgetfulness.</p> - -<p>After all, the past is our one sure possession. -There is our miser’s chest. With that, -while memory holds for us the key, we shall -still be rich. There we will spend our gray -hours, with friends that have kept their -youth; one of the best of them our own true -self, not as we were, nor as we are, but as we -meant to be.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“These pleasures, Melancholy, give;</div> -<div class="verse">And I with thee will choose to live.”</div> -</div></div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">IN THE OLD PATHS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> men who know how to bear themselves -company there are few better ways of improving -a holiday, especially a home-keeping, -home-coming, family feast, like our autumnal -Thanksgiving, than to walk in one’s -own childish steps—up through the old cattle -pasture behind the old homestead, into -the old woods. Every jutting stone in the -path—and there are many—is just where -it was. Your feet remember them perfectly -(as your hand remembers which way the -door-knob turns, though you yourself might -be puzzled to tell), and of their own accord -take a zigzag course among them, coming -down without fail in the clear intermediary -spaces. Or if, by chance, in some peculiarly -awkward spot, the toe of your boot forgets itself, -the jar only helps you to feel the more at -home. You say with the poet, “I have been -here before.” Some things are unaltered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -you are glad to find. The largest of the -trees have been felled, but nobody has dug -out the protruding boulders or blasted away -the outcropping ledges. One good word we -may say for death. It lasts well. It is nothing -like a vapor.</p> - -<p>Not a rod of the way but talks to you of -something. Here, on the left, down in the -hollow by the swamp, you used to set snares. -Once—fateful day!—you found a partridge -in the noose. Then what a fury possessed -you! If you had shot your first elephant -you could hardly have been more completely -beside yourself. It was a cruel sight; you -felt it so; but you had caught a partridge! -With all your boyish unskillfulness you had -lured the unhappy bird to his death. A -spray of red barberries had been too bright -for his resistance. He discovered his mistake -when the cord began to pull. “Oh, -why was I such a fool!” he thought; just -as you have thought more than once since -then, when you have run your own neck into -some snare of the fowler.</p> - -<p>Yonder, on the right, grew little scattered -patches of trailing arbutus. Every spring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -you gathered a few blossoms, going thither -day after day, watching for them to open. -And the patches are there still. Some of -them are no broader than a dinner plate, and -the largest of them would not cover the top -of a bushel basket. For more than fifty -years—perhaps for more than five hundred—they -have looked as they do now; a few -score of leaves and an annual crop of a dozen -or two of flowers. Their endurance, with so -many greedy hands after them, is one of the -miracles. Probably they are older than any -tree in the township. It isn’t the tall things -that live longest.</p> - -<p>Here the path goes through an opening in -a rude stone wall, which was tumbling down -as long ago as you can remember. Beyond -it, in your day, stood a dense pine wood, a -darksome, solemn place, where you went -quietly. Now, not a pine is left. A mere -wilderness of hardwood scrub. The old -“cart-path,” which at this point swerved to -the left, has grown over till there is no following -it. But the loss does not matter. You -take a trail among the boulders, a trail familiar -to you of old; the same that you took in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -winter, skates in hand, bound for Jason -Halfbrook’s meadow. Many a merry hour -you spent there, heedless of the cold. You -could skate then, or thought you could. -The backward circle, the “Dutch roll,” the -“spread-eagle,” these and other wonders -were in your repertory. They were feats to -be proud of, and you made the most of them. -Nor need you feel ashamed now at the recollection. -When the Preacher said, “There is -nothing better than that a man should rejoice -in his own works,” he was not thinking exclusively -of an author and his books. You did -well to be proud while you were able. It was -pride, in part, that kept you warm. Now, -if you stand beside a city skating-resort, you -see young fellows performing feats that throw -all your old-fashioned, countrified accomplishments -into the shade. You look on, open-mouthed. -Boys of to-day have better skates -than you had. Perhaps they have better -legs. One thing they do not have,—a better -time.</p> - -<p>This morning, however, you are not going -to the Halfbrook meadow. There is no ice, -or none that will bear a man’s weight; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -perhaps you would not skate if there were. -Do I take you to be too old? No, not that; -but you are out of practice. I should hate -to see you risking yourself well over on the -outer edge, or attempting a sudden turnabout. -And you agree with me, I imagine, for you -quit the trail at the Town Path (the compositor -will please allow the capitals—the -path deserves them) and turn your steps -northward. The path, I say, deserves a proper -name. It is not strictly a highway, I am -aware; if you were to stumble into a hole -here, the town could not be held liable for -damages; but it is a pretty ancient thoroughfare, -nevertheless, a reasonably straight -course through the woods by the long way -of them. Generation after generation has -traveled it. You are walking not only in -your own footsteps, but in those of your ancestors, -who must have gone this way many -a time to speak and vote at town meeting. -Some of the oldest of them are buried in this -very wood, less than half a mile back; a -resting-place such as you would like pretty -well for yourself when the time comes.</p> - -<p>You follow the path till it brings you near<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -to a cliff. This is one of the places you had -in your eye on setting out. This land is -yours, and you have come to look at it.</p> - -<p>A strange thing it is, an astonishing impertinence, -that a man should assume to own -a piece of the earth; himself no better than -a wayfarer upon it; alighting for a moment -only; coming he knows not whence, going he -knows not whither. Yet convention allows -the claim. Men have agreed to foster one -another’s illusions in this regard, as in so -many others. They knew, blindly, before any -one had the wit to say it in so many words, -that “life is the art of being well deceived.” -And so they have made you owner of this -acre or two of woodland. All the power of -the State would be at your service, if necessary, -in maintaining the title.</p> - -<p>These tall pine trees are yours. You have -sovereignty over them, to use a word that is -just now sweet in the American mouth. You -may do anything you like with them. They -are older than you, I should guess, and in the -order of nature they will long outlive you; -for aught I know, also, it may be true, what -Thoreau said (profanely, as some thought),<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -that they will go to as high a heaven; but -for the time being they have no rights that -you are under the slightest obligation to consider. -You may kill them to-morrow, and nobody -will accuse you of murder. You may -turn all their beauty to ashes, and it will be -nobody’s business to remonstrate. The trees -are yours.</p> - -<p>I hope, notwithstanding, that you do not -quite think so. I would rather believe that -you look upon your so-called proprietorship -as little more than a convenient legal fiction; -of use, possibly, against human trespassers, -but having no force as against the right of -the trees to live a tree’s life and fulfill a tree’s -end.</p> - -<p>One of them, I perceive, is dead already. -Like many a human being we have known, -it had a poor start; no more than “half a -chance,” as the saying goes. It struck root -on a ledge, in a cleft of rock, and after a -struggle of twenty or thirty years has found -the conditions too hard for it. Its neighbors -all appear to be doing well, with the exception -of one that had its upper half blown -away a few years ago by a disrespectful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -wind. The wind is an anarchist; it bloweth -where it listeth, with small regard for human -sovereignty.</p> - -<p>Your land, to my eye, is of a piece with all -the land round about; or it would be, only -for its tall gray cliff. That is indeed a beauty, -a true distinction; not so tall as it was forty -or fifty years ago, of course, but still a brave -and picturesque sight. I should like the illusion -of owning a thing like that myself. And -the brook just beyond, so narrow and so lively,—that, -too, you may reasonably be proud of, -though it is nothing but a wet-weather stream, -coming from the hill and tumbling musically -downward into Dyer’s Run, past one boulder -and another, from late autumn till late -spring, and then going dry. You have only -pleasant memories of it, for you were oftenest -here in the wet season. It has always been -one of your singularities, I remember, to be -less in the woods in summer than at other -times.</p> - -<p>Now you have crossed your own boundary; -but who would know it? You yourself seem -not to feel the transition. The wood is one; -and really it is all yours, as it is any man’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -who has eyes to enjoy it. Appreciation is -ownership.</p> - -<p>So you go on, pausing here and there to -admire a lichen-covered boulder or stump -(there is nothing prettier, look where you -will), a cluster of ferns, a few sprouts of -holly, a sprinkling of pyrola leaves (green -with the greenness of all the summers of the -world), or a bed of fruit-bespangled partridge-berry -vine, till by and by you begin to -feel the overshadowing, illusion-dispelling, -soul-absorbing presence of the wood itself. -The voice of eternity is speaking in the pine -leaves. Your own identity slips away from -you as you listen. You are part of the -whole; nay, you are not so much a part of -it as lost in it. The raindrop has fallen into -the sea. For a moment you seem almost to -divine a meaning in that bold, pantheistical, -much neglected scripture, “That God may -be all in all.”</p> - -<p>For a moment only. Then a cord snaps, -and you come back to your puny self and -its limitations. You are looking at this and -that, just as before. A chickadee chirps, and -you answer him. You are you again, a man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -who used to be a boy. These are the old -paths, and you are still in the body. You -will prove it an hour hence at the dinner-table.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE PROSPERITY OF A WALK</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">A bird</span> lover’s daily rations during a New -England winter are somewhat like Robinson -Crusoe’s on his island in the wet season. -“I eat a bunch of raisins for my breakfast,” -he says, “a piece of goat’s flesh or of the -turtle for my dinner, and two or three of the -turtle’s eggs for my supper.” Such a fare -was ample for health, perhaps; and probably -every item of it was sufficiently appetizing, -in itself considered; but after the first week -or two it must have begun to smack of monotony. -The castaway might have complained -with some of old, “My soul loatheth -this light bread.” He might have complained, -I say; I do not remember that -he did. What I do remember is that when, -moved by pious feeling, he was on the point -of thanking God for having brought him to -that place, he suddenly restrained himself, or -an influence from without restrained him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> -“I know not what it was,” he says, “but -something shocked my mind at that thought, -and I durst not speak the words. ‘How -canst thou be such a hypocrite?’ said I.”</p> - -<p>So I imagine that most bird-gazing men -would hesitate to thank the Divine Providence -for a northern winter, with its rigors, -its inordinate length, and its destitution. -They put up with it, make the best of it, -grumble over it as politely as may be; but -they are not so piously false-tongued as to -profess that they like it.</p> - -<p>By the last of December they have begun, -not exactly to tire of chickadees and blue -jays, but to sigh for something else, something -to go with these, something by way of -variety. “Where are the crossbills,” they -ask, “and the redpoll linnets, and the pine -grosbeaks?” All these circumpolar species -are too uncertain by half, or, better say, by -two thirds. Summering at the apex of the -globe, so to speak, with Europe, Asia, and -America equally at their elbow, they seem -to flit southward along whatever meridian -happens to take their fancy. Once in a -while chance brings them our way, but only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -once in a while. Last winter we had redpolls -and both kinds of crossbills, the white-wings -for the first time in many years. They made -a bright season. This winter, to the best of -my knowledge, not one of these hyperborean -species has sent so much as a deputation for -our enlivenment.</p> - -<p>And to make matters worse, even our regular -local stand-bys seem to be less numerous -than usual. Tree sparrows and snowbirds -are both abnormally scarce, by my reckoning. -As for the Canadian nuthatches, which helped -us out so nobly a year ago, they are not only -absent now, but were so throughout the fall. -I have not seen nor heard one in Massachusetts -since the middle of May, a most unusual—to -the best of my recollection a quite unprecedented—state -of things. I should like -very much to know the explanation of the -mystery.</p> - -<p>The daily birds at present, as I find them, -are the chickadee (which deserves to head -all lists), the Carolina nuthatch, the downy -woodpecker, the crow, and the jay. Less -regularly, but pretty frequently (every day, -if the walk is long enough), one meets with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -tree sparrows, goldfinches, snowbirds, brown -creepers, flickers, and golden-crowned kinglets. -Twice since December came in I have -seen a shrike. Once I heard a single pine -finch passing, invisible, far overhead. On -the same day (December 2) I caught the fine -staccato calls of a purple finch, without seeing -the author of them. On the 2d and 3d -three or four rusty blackbirds were unexpectedly -in the neighborhood. Quail and grouse -are never absent, of course, but I happen to -have seen neither of them of late, though one -day I heard the breezy quoiting of a quail, -greatly to my pleasure. On the 14th I came -upon a single robin in the woods, the first -since November 21. He was perched in a -leafless treetop, and was calling at the top -of his voice, as if he had friends, or hoped -that he had, somewhere within hearing. The -sight was rather dispiriting than otherwise. -He looked unhappy, in a cold wind, with the -sky clouded. He had better have gone south -before this time, I thought. Half an hour -afterward I heard the quick, emphatic, answer-demanding -challenge of a hairy woodpecker -(as much louder and sharper than the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> -downy’s as the bird is bigger), and on starting -in his direction saw him take wing. Him -I should never think of commiserating. He -can look out for himself. These, with English -sparrows (“the poor ye have always with -you”), Old Squaws, herring gulls, and loons, -make up my December list of twenty-two -species. It might be worse, I suppose. I -remember the remark of a friend of mine on -a similar occasion. “Well,” said he, “the -month is only half gone. You ought to see -as many more before the end of it.” He was -strong in arithmetic, but weak in ornithology. -If bird lists could be made on his plan, we -should have our hands full in the dullest season. -Even in January, I would engage to -find more than three hundred species within -a mile of my doorstep.</p> - -<p>As matters are, we must come back (we -cannot do so too often, in winter especially) -to the good and wholesome doctrine that -pleasure is not in proportion to numbers or -rarity. It depends upon the kind and degree -of sympathy excited. One day, in one mood, -you will derive more inspiration from a five-minute -chat with a chickadee than on another<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span> -day, in some mood of dryness, you would get -from the sight of nightingales and birds of -paradise. Worldlings and matter-of-fact men -do not know it, but what quiet nature lovers -(not scenery hunting tourists) go to nature -in search of is not the excitement of novelty, -but a refreshment of the sensibilities. You -may call it comfort, consolation, tranquillity, -peace of mind, a vision of truth, an uplifting -of the heart, a stillness of the soul, a quickening -of the imagination, what you will. It -is of different shades, and so may be named -in different words. It is theirs who have the -secret, and the rest would not divine your -meaning though your speech were transparency -itself.</p> - -<p>To my thinking, no one, not even Thoreau, -or Jefferies, or Wordsworth, ever said -a truer word about it than Keats dropped -in one of his letters. Nothing in his poems -is more deeply poetical. “The setting sun -will always set me to rights,” he says, “or -if a sparrow come before my window, I take -part in his existence and pick about the -gravel.” There you have the soul of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> -matter. “I take part in his existence.” -When you do that, the bird or the flower -may be never so common or so humble. -Your walk has prospered.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">SIGNS OF SPRING</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">They</span> are not imaginary, but visible and -tangible. I have brought them home from -the woods in my hands, and here they lie -before me. I call them my books of the -Minor Prophets.</p> - -<p>This one is an alder branch. Along its -whole length, spirally disposed at intervals -of an inch or two, are fat, purplish leaf-buds, -each on its stalk. As I look at them -I can see, only four months away, the tender, -richly green, newly unfolded, partly grown -leaves. How daintily they are crinkled! -And how prettily the edges are cut! It is -like the work of fairy fingers. And what -perfection of veining and texture! I have -never heard any one praise them; but half -the things that bring a price in florists’ -shops are many degrees less beautiful.</p> - -<p>Still more to the purpose, perhaps, more -conspicuous, at all events, as well as nearer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -to maturity, and so more distinctly prophetic -of spring, are the two kinds of flower-buds -that adorn the ends of the twigs. These -also are of a deep purplish tint, which in -the case of the larger (staminate) catkins -turns to a lovely green on the shaded under -side. Flower-buds, I call them; but they -are rather packages of bud-stuff wrapped -tightly against the weather, cover overlapping -cover. The best shingling of the most -expert carpenter could not be more absolutely -rain-proof. “Now do your worst,” -says the alder. The mud freezes about its -roots and the water about the base of its -stem, but it keeps its banners flying. Why -it should be at such pains to anticipate the -season is more than I can tell. Perhaps it -is none of my business. Enough that it is -the alder’s way. There is no swamp in New -England but has a shorter and brighter winter -because of it.</p> - -<p>This smooth, freckled, reddish-barked -twig is black birch (or sweet birch), taken -from a sapling, and therefore bearing no -aments, which on adult trees are already -things of grace and promise. I broke it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -(it invites breaking by its extreme fragility) -for its leaf-buds, pointed, parti-colored,—brown -and yellowish green,—tender-looking, -but hardy enough to withstand all the -rigors of New England frost. The broken -end of the branch, where I get the spicy -fragrance of the inner bark, brings back a -sense of half-forgotten boyish pleasures. I -used to nibble the bark in spring. A little -dry it was, as I remember it, but it had the -spicy taste of wintergreen (checkerberry), -without the latter’s almost excessive pungency, -or bite. Some of my country-bred -readers must have been accustomed to eat -the tender reddish young checkerberry -leaves, and will understand perfectly what -I mean by that word “bite.” I wonder if -they had our curious Old Colony name for -those vernal dainties. It sounds like cannibalism, -but we gathered them and ate them -in all innocence (the taste is on my tongue -now) as “youngsters.” No doubt the tree -gets its name, “sweet birch,” from this -savoriness of its green inner bark, rather -than from the pedagogic employment of -its branches in schoolrooms as a means of -promoting the sweet uses of adversity.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>Now I take up another freckled, easily -broken twig, with noticeably short branchlets, -some of them less than an inch in -length. Every one, even the shortest, is set -with brown globular buds of the size of pin-heads. -Toward the tip the main stem also -bears clusters of such tiny spheres. If you -do not know the branch by sight, I must ask -you to smell or taste the bark. “Sassafras?” -No, though the guess is not surprising. -It is spice-bush. The buds are flower-buds. -The shrub is one of our very early -bloomers, and makes its preparations accordingly. -While flowers are still scarce enough -to attract universal attention, it is thickly -covered with sessile or almost sessile yellow -rosettes, till it looks for all the world like -the early-flowering cornel (<i>Cornus Mas</i>), -which blossoms about the same time in gardens. -Seeing these spice-bush buds, though -January is still young, I can almost see May-day; -and when I snap the brittle stem and -sniff the fresh wood, I can almost believe -that I have snapped off half a century from -my life. What a good and wholesome smell -it is! Among the best of nature’s own.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>Here is a poplar twig, with well-developed, -shapely buds. I pull off the outer -coverings and lay bare a mass of woolly -fibres, fine and soft, within which the tender -blossoms lie in germ. And next is a willow -stem. Already, though winter is no more -than a fortnight old, the “pussy” has begun -to push off its dark coverlid, as if it were in -haste to be up and feel the sun. Yes, spring -will soon be here, and the willow proposes -not to be caught napping.</p> - -<p>These long, slender, cinnamon-colored, -silky buds, like shoemakers’ awls for shape, -are from a beech tree. The package is done -up so tightly and skillfully that my clumsy -human fingers cannot undo it without tearing -it in pieces. Layer after layer I remove, -taking all pains, and here at the heart is the -softest of vegetable silk. How did the wood -learn to secrete such delicacies, and to wrap -them with such miraculous security? Why -could it not wait till spring, and save the -need of all this caution? I do not know. -How should I? But I am glad of every -such vernal prophecy, as well as of every -such proof of vegetable intelligence. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -would be strange if a beech tree could not -do some things better than you and I can. -Every dog knows his own trick.</p> - -<p>Next comes a dry, homely, crooked, blackish, -dead-looking twig, the slender divisions -of which are tipped with short clusters of -very fine purplish buds, rich in color, but so -small as readily to escape notice. This I -broke from a bush in a swampy place. It -is <i>Leucothoë</i>, a plant of special interest to -me for personal reasons. Year after year, -as I turned the leaves of Gray’s Manual on -one errand and another, I read this romantic-sounding -Greek name, and wondered what -kind of plant it stood for. Then, during a -May visit to the mountains of North Carolina, -I came upon a shrub growing mile after -mile along roadsides and brooksides, loaded -down, literally, with enormous crops of sickishly -sweet, white flower-clusters. At first I -took it for some species of <i>Andromeda</i>, but -on bringing it to book found it to be Leucothoë. -I was delighted to see it. It is a -satisfaction to have a familiar name begin to -mean something. Finally, a year or two -later, passing in winter through a bit of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -swamp where I had been accustomed to wander -as a child, with no thought of finding -anything new (as if there were not something -new everywhere), I stopped before a -bush bearing purple buds and clusters of dry -capsules. The capsules might have been -those of Andromeda, for aught I should have -noticed, but the buds had a novel appearance -and told a different story. Again I betook -myself to the Manual, and lo! this -bush, growing in the swamp that I should -have thought I knew better than any other -in the world, turned out to be another -species—our only northern one—of Leucothoë. -So I might have fitted name and -thing together long ago, if I had kept my -eyes open. As Hamlet said, “There’s the -rub.” Keeping one’s eyes open isn’t half -so easy as it sounds. Really, the bush is -one that nobody except a botanist ever sees -(which is the reason, doubtless, why it has -no vernacular name); or if here and there -a man does see it, it is sure to be in flowering -time (in middle June), when he passes -it by without a second glance as “high-bush -blueberry.” I am pleased to have it growing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> -on my present beat, and to give it a place -here in my collection of Minor Prophets.</p> - -<p>How little the two (Leucothoë and blueberry) -resemble each other at this time of -the year may be seen by comparing the stem -I have been talking about with the one lying -next to it—a short twig, every branchlet -of which ends in a very bright, extremely -handsome (if one stops to regard it) pinkish -globe. This is the high-bush blueberry in -its best winter estate. Every bud is like a -jewel.</p> - -<p>Only one branch remains to be spoken of, -for I took but a small handful: a dark-green—blackish-green—tarnished -stem, the two -branches of which bear each a terminal bud -of the size of a pea. This specimen you will -know at once by its odor, if you were ever -happy enough to dig sassafras roots, or to -eat sassafras lozenges, such as used to come—perhaps -they do still—rolled up in paper, -as bankers roll up coins. “Sassafras lossengers,” -we called them, and the shopkeeper -(who is living yet, and still “tending store” -at ninety-odd) seemed never in doubt as to -what we meant. Each kind of lozenge,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -peppermint, cayenne, checkerberry, and the -rest, came always in paper of a certain color. -Can I be wrong in my recollection of the -sassafras tint? I would soon find out if I -could go into the old store. I would lay five -cents upon the counter (the price used to be -less than that, but it may have gone up since -my last purchase), and say, “A roll of sassafras -lossengers.” And I miss my guess, or -the wrapper would be yellow.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">OLD COLONY BERRY PASTURES</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> last holiday of the century found me in -the place where I was born, with weather -made on purpose for out-of-door pleasures—warm, -bright, and still. A sudden inspiration -took me. I would go to see the old berry -pastures—not all of them (the forenoon -would hardly be long enough for that), but -two or three of the nearest, on opposite sides -of the same back road. It would be a kind -of second boyhood.</p> - -<p>As I traveled the road itself, past two or -three houses that were not there in the old -time, two at least of the older wayside trees -greeted me with the season’s compliments. -Or possibly it was I that greeted them. In -this kind of intercourse, it is hard to tell -speaker from hearer. We greeted each -other, let us say, though they are the older, -and by good rights should have spoken first. -They have held their own exceedingly well,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -far better than the clerk who is writing about -them, and for anything that appears, bid fair -to be hale and hearty at the next century-mark.</p> - -<p>One is a pear tree; none of your modern, -high-bred, superfine, French-named dwarfs, -rather shrubs than trees, twenty of which may -grow, without crowding, in a scanty back -garden, but a burly, black-barked, stubby-branched, -round-topped giant. It looks to-day -exactly as it did when my boyish legs -first took me by it. In these many years it -has borne thousands of bushels of pears, all -of which must have served some use, I suppose, -in the grand economy of things, though -I have no idea what. No man, woman, or -child, I am reasonably sure, ever had the -hardihood to eat one. And still the tree -holds up its head and wears a brave, unashamed, -undiscourageable look. Long may -it stand in its corner, a relic and remembrancer -of Puritanic times.</p> - -<p>The other is an apple tree, one of those -beneficent creations, good Samaritans among -fruit trees, that bear a toothsome, early-ripening -crop, and spill a generous portion of it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -on the roadward side of the wall. I remember -it perfectly—the fruit, I mean—color, -shape, and flavor. Every year I see apples -of the same name in the market, but somehow -I can never buy any that look or taste -half so good as those that I used in lucky -moments to find here, waiting for me, in the -roadside grass.</p> - -<p>Those were Old Testament times in New -England. Gleanings belonged to “the poor -and the stranger.” Who could dispute our -title? We believed in special providences; -and edible windfalls on the nigh side of -the fence were among the chiefest of them. -Schoolboys of the present day, I take for -granted, are brought up under a different -code. They would go past such temptations -with their hands in their pockets and without -a squint sideways. They apprehend no -difference between “picking up” an apple -and stealing one. Such is the evolution of -morality. The day of the gleaner is past. -Naomi and Ruth have become mythical personages, -as much so as Romulus and Remus.</p> - -<p>I was going first to Harvey White’s pasture -(not to dwell unsafely upon confessions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -that begin to seem like thin ice), and by -and by came to the wood-path leading to it. -How perfectly I remembered the place: this -speedy, uphill curve to the left, rounding the -hill; this dense bunch of low-branched evergreens -a little farther on, under which, with -our pails full (or half full—we could not -work miracles, though we lived under the -Mosaic economy), we used to creep for rest -and shade while trudging homeward on -blazing summer noons. But the path was -surprisingly overgrown. At short intervals -thorny smilax vines (cat-briers) were sprawling -over the very middle of it, and had to -be edged through cautiously. The appearance -of things grew less and less familiar. I -must be on the right track, but surely I had -gone far enough. The broad clearing should -be close at hand. I went on and on. Yes, -here was the old stone wall between Harvey -White’s pasture and Pine-tree pasture. But -the pastures themselves? They were not -here. Then it came over me, with all the -force and suddenness of a direct revelation, -that forty years is a long time. In less time -than that a pasture may become a forest. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -pushed about a little, in one direction and -another, and finding nothing but woods, returned -to the path and retraced my steps. I -might as well try to find my own lost youth as -those well-remembered huckleberry patches.</p> - -<p>Even in that far-away time—so the recollection -comes to me now—the place was -not strictly a pasture. It had been such, no -doubt, and Harvey White, whoever he was, -had owned it. Probably his cattle had once -been pastured there. Now he owned no land, -being nothing but a clod himself, and this -broad clearing would not have kept a single -cow from starvation. The wilderness was -claiming its own again. Instead of the grass -had come up the huckleberry bushes, the New -England heather. These, with a sprinkling -of blackberry vines, barberry bushes, and -savins, filled the place from end to end. We -knew them all. In the season we gathered -huckleberries, blackberries, and barberries -(the last made what some gastronomic cobbler -called felicitously “shoe-peg sauce”), -while the young cone-shaped cedars were of -use as landmarks. We could leave a pail or -basket in the shelter of one, and with good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -luck have no great difficulty in finding it -again.</p> - -<p>That was forty years ago. Now, the -huckleberry bushes have followed the grass. -Massachusetts land belongs to the woods. -Clear it never so thoroughly, and with half -a chance the trees will have it back again. -If you will climb any Massachusetts hill, -not directly upon the seashore,—and I am -not certain that even that exception need -be made,—you will see the truth of this at -once. Something like it, I remember, was -the first thing I thought of when I stood first -on Mount Wachusett. There lay the whole -State, so to speak, outspread below; and it -was all a forest.</p> - -<p>In this very Old Colony town many acres -that were once excellent pasturage are now -so perfectly reconverted to woodland that no -ordinary walker over them would suspect -that they had ever been anything else. If -this has happened within twenty miles of -Boston, within half the lifetime of a man, -there seems to be no great danger that the -State will ever be deforested; and those of -us who love wild things, and look upon civilization<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -as a mixed good, may be cheered -accordingly.</p> - -<p>For to-day, however, I had something else -in my eye; and once back in the road I -started for the entrance to what we children -knew familiarly as “Millstone”—that is to -say, Millstone Pasture; a large, irregular -clearing, or half clearing, distinguished by -the presence of two broad flat boulders, lying -one upon the other. This was among -the best of our foraging grounds; a boy’s -wild orchard—orchard and garden in one. -Here we gathered all the berries before -named, and besides them checkerberries -(boxberries), dangleberries, and grapes.</p> - -<p>The path leading into it was still open, -but there was no need to go far to discover -that here, as in Harvey White’s, the wood -had got the upper hand of everything else. -“I should starve here,” I said to myself, -“at the very height of the berry season.” -Nothing looked natural—nothing but the -superimposed boulders. They had suffered -no change, or none except an inevitable -“subjective” dwindling. As for the old -apple orchard near them (in which I shot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> -my last bird upwards of twenty years ago), -it was more like a cedar grove, although by -searching for them one could still discover -a few stumps and ruins of what had once -been apple trees. “Perish your civilization!” -Mother Nature seemed to be saying. -“Give me a few years, and I will -undo the whole of it.” I was half glad to -hear her. The planter of the orchard was -dead long ago, and his work had followed -him.</p> - -<p>But the holly trees! They are Nature’s -own children. I would have a look at -them, remembering perfectly, I thought, -the exact spot where a pretty bunch used to -grow. And I found them, after a protracted -search—but no longer a pretty clump. -One tree was perhaps fifteen feet high—a -beanpole, which still put forth at the very -top a few branchlets, one or two feet in -length, just to prove itself alive. The rest -of the bunch had been cut down to the -ground. All that remained was a few -suckers, each with a spray of green leaves. -The sight was pitiful. Poor trees! They -were surrounded by a dense wood, instead<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -of standing in the open, as they had done -in my day. And between the competition -of the pines and the knives and axes -of collectors of Christmas greenery, they -were nigh to extermination. By and by, -however, before many years, the pines will -fall under the axe. Then, I dare say, the -old holly roots will have their turn again. -Then, too, the checkerberry vines will enjoy -a few years of fruitfulness. So the wheel of -fortune goes round, all the world over, in -the wood no less than in the city. There -is no scotching it. As well try to scotch -the earth itself. All things are at seesaw.</p> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“They say the lion and the lizard keep</div> -<div class="verse">The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep;</div> -<div class="indent">And Bahrám, that great hunter—the wild ass</div> -<div class="verse">Stamps o’er his head, but cannot break his sleep.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>If such things have happened, if Nineveh -and Babylon flourished and came to naught, -why wonder at the decline and fall of Old -Colony berry pastures?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">SQUIRRELS, FOXES, AND OTHERS</h2> -</div> - - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Do</span> you know where there are any flying -squirrels?” I asked a friend, two or three -weeks ago. My friend, I should mention, -is a farmer, living a mile or two away from -the village, and, being much out-of-doors -with his eyes open, has sometimes good things -to show me. With all the rest, he has more -than once taken me to a flying squirrel’s -tree and given me a chance to see the creature -“fly.”</p> - -<p>This peculiar member of the squirrel -family, as all readers may be presumed to -know, is nocturnal in its habits, and for that -reason is seldom seen by ordinary strollers. -Once my friend, who was just then at work -in the woods, found a hollow tree in which -one was living, and we visited the spot together. -I posted myself conveniently, and -he went up to the tree and hammered upon -it with his axe. Out peeped the squirrel at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -a height of perhaps twenty feet, and as the -blows continued it “took wing” and came -to the ground safely, and more or less gracefully, -alighting at the foot of another tree -some distance away. At all other times I -have seen the flight from outside nests, as -they may be called—bulky aggregations of -leaves and twigs placed in the bare tops of -moderately tall, slender trees, preferably gray-birches, -and mostly in swampy woods.</p> - -<p>On the present occasion my friend told -me that he knew of no nests now in use, but -that if I would come to his house the next -morning he would go with me in search -of some. I called for him at the hour -appointed. Squirrels or no squirrels, it is -always worth while to take a walk in good -company.</p> - -<p>He led me along the highway for a quarter -of a mile, and then struck into a wood-road, -which presently brought us into a -swampy forest, with here and there a bit of -pond, which we must go out of our way to -cross on the ice (a light snow had covered -it within twenty-four hours), on the lookout -for fox tracks and what not. We were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -headed for the “city-house lot,” he told -me.</p> - -<p>“The city-house lot,” said I; “what is -that?”</p> - -<p>“Why, there used to be two or three -houses over in this direction. The largest -of them, the one that stood the longest, was -known as the city-house. More than fifty -years ago, before my father came here to -live, it was moved to a place on the main -road. You must remember it. It was -pulled down, or fell to pieces, within six or -eight years.”</p> - -<p>I did remember it, but had never known -its name or its history. The surprising -thing about the story was the fact that there -was no indication of a road hereabout, nor -any sign that there had ever been one; -and all the while we were plunging deeper -and deeper into the woods, now following -a foot-path, now leaving it for a short cut -among the trees. By and by we came to a -drier spot, and an old cellar-hole. This was -not the city-house cellar, however, but that -of some smaller house. About it were evidences -of a former clearing, though a casual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -observer would scarcely have noticed them. -Tufts of beard-grass stood above the snow,—“Indian -grass,” my guide called it,—and -the remains of an ancient stone wall still -marked the line, if one might guess, where -the grazing-land had been divided from the -tillage. It was a farm in ruins.</p> - -<p>Soon we came to a larger cellar-hole, of -which, as of the smaller one, bushes and trees -had long ago taken possession. Here had -stood the city house, a “frame” structure -(whence its name, probably), a famous affair -in its day, the pride of its owner’s -heart. It was one of five or six houses, if I -understood my informant correctly, that had -once been scattered over this part of the -town of Weston (or what is at present the -town of Weston) within a radius of a mile or -so. Of them all not a trace remains now -but so many half-filled cellars.</p> - -<p>I thought of something I had been saying -lately about the manner in which the forest -reclaims Massachusetts land as soon as its -human possessors let go their hold upon it. -Now it was suggested to me that if a man is -ambitious to do something that will last, he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -had better not set up a house or a monument, -but dig a hole in the ground. Humility -helps to permanence. The lower you get, -the less danger of falling. Nature is slower -to fill up than to pull down, though she will -do either with all thoroughness, give her -time enough. To her a man’s life is but a -clock’s tick, and all his constructions are -but child’s play in the sand. A trite bit of -moralizing? Well, perhaps it is; but it -sounded anything but trite, as the old cellar-hole -spoke it to me. A word is like a -bullet: its force is in the power behind it.</p> - -<p>Not far beyond this point we found ourselves -in a gray-birch swamp. Here, if anywhere, -should be the nests we were in search -of. And soon we began to see them, one -here, another there. We followed the same -course with them all; my companion shook -or jarred the tree, while I stood off and -watched for the squirrels. And the result -was alike in all cases. Every nest was -empty. We tried at least a score, and had -our labor for our pains. “There <i>are</i> no -flying squirrels this year,” my companion -kept saying. Perhaps they had migrated.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -With one or two exceptions, indeed, the nests -could be set down in advance—from their -color and evident dilapidation—as being at -least a year old.</p> - -<p>Once we started a rabbit, and here and -there a few chickadees accosted us. Once, -I think, we heard the voice of a golden-crowned -kinglet. For the rest, the woods -seemed to be deserted, and at the end of -our long détour we came back to the road -half a mile above the point at which we had -left it.</p> - -<p>And still the world is not depopulated, -even in winter, nor are all the pretty wild -animals asleep. The snakes are, to be sure, -and the frogs (though hylas were peeping -late in December), and the chipmunks and -the woodchucks; but there is abundant life -stirring, nevertheless.</p> - -<p>Yesterday I called on my friend again, -and together we walked up the road—a -back-country thoroughfare. This time, also, -a light snow had just fallen, and my companion, -better informed than I in such matters, -began to discuss footprints with me.</p> - -<p>“You know this one?” he asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>“Oh, yes; a rabbit.”</p> - -<p>“And this one?”</p> - -<p>“A fox,” said I, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed. See the shape and size of -the foot. Yes, that’s a fox.”</p> - -<p>“And this one?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s a kitty.” (A cat, he meant -to say.) “Strange how many cats are prowling -about this country at night,” he continued. -“I have caught two this season, and -C—— has caught two.”</p> - -<p>“Do you skin them?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” with a laugh.</p> - -<p>Here were red-squirrel tracks, and here a -big dog’s, and here again a fox’s. At another -point a bevy of quail had crossed the -road. “One, two, three,” my farmer began -to count. “Yes; there were twelve.” I -had remarked, just before, that I hadn’t -seen a quail for I didn’t know how long. -“And look here,” he said, as we approached -the farm on our return. He led the way to -a diminutive chicken-coop sitting by itself in -the orchard. A single hen, which had been -ailing, was confined in it, he said. A fox -had gone round and round it in the night,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -and once had stopped to scratch at the back -side of it.</p> - -<p>“He knew what was in there,” said I. -The farmer laughed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is an old fellow,” he answered. -“I have a trap set for him just where he -used to pass. Now he crosses the field, but -he goes round that spot! I see his tracks. -They say it is easy to trap foxes. Perhaps -it is; but it isn’t for me.”</p> - -<p>Yet he has shown me—not this year—more -than one handsome skin.</p> - -<p>Once, too, he showed me the fox himself. -Hounds were baying in the distance as I -came to the house on my Sunday morning -walk, and we spoke of their probable course. -He thought it likely that they would cross -a certain field, and taking a by-road that -would carry us within sight of it, we kept -our eyes out till the dogs seemed to have -diverged in the wrong direction. Then I -was walking carelessly along, talking as -usual (a bad habit of mine), when my companion -seized me by both shoulders and -swung me sharply about. “Look at that!” -he said. And there stood the fox, five or ten<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -rods away, facing us squarely. He had come -up a little rise of ground, and had stopped -as he saw us. But for my friend’s muscular -assistance, I should have missed him, near as -he was, for in one second he was gone; and -though we scaled the wall instantly and ran -up the slope, we got no further sight of -him.</p> - -<p>Yes, if you are a discouraged, winter-killed -nature lover, who has begun to think that -Massachusetts woods—woods within sight -of the State House dome—are pretty much -devoid of wild life, go out after a light snowfall -and read the natural history record of a -single night. We shall not be without woods, -nor will the woods be without inhabitants, -for a good while yet.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WINTER AS IT WAS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">With</span> the wind howling from the northwest, -and the mercury crouching below the zero -mark, it seems a good time to sit in the house -and think of winter as it used to be. What -is the advantage of growing old, if one cannot -find an hour now and then for the pleasures -of memory?</p> - -<p>The year’s end is for the young. Such is -the order of the world, the universal paradox. -Opposite seeks opposite. And <i>we</i> were young -once,—a good while ago,—and for us, also, -winter was a bright and busy season, its days -all too short and too few. I speak of “week-days,” -be it understood. As for winter Sundays, -in an unwarmed meeting-house (though -the sermon might be like the breath of -Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace), we should have -been paragons of early piety, beings too good -to live, if we had wished the hours longer. -Let their miseries be forgotten.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>On week-days, once out of school, we -wasted no time. We knew where we were -going, and we went on the run. We were -boys, not men. Some of us, at least, were -not yet infected with the idea that we ever -should be men. We aspired neither to -men’s work nor to men’s pleasures. We -aimed not at self-improvement. We thought -not of getting rich. We might recite “Excelsior” -in the schoolroom, but it did us -no harm; our innocence was incorruptible. -Two things we did: we skated, and we slid -down-hill. There was always either snow -or ice. The present demoralization of the -seasons had not yet begun. Winter was -winter. Snowdrifts were over your head, -and ice was three feet thick. And zero—for -boys who slept in attics to which no -particle of artificial heat ever penetrated, -zero was something like summer. Young -America was tough in those days.</p> - -<p>I recall at this moment the bitterly cold -day when one of our number skated into an -airhole on Whitman’s Pond. It was during -the noon recess. His home was a mile or -more east of the pond, and the schoolhouse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -was at least a mile west of the pond. He sank -into the water up to his chin, and saved himself -with difficulty, the airhole luckily being -small and the ice firm about the edges. What -would a twentieth-century boy do under such -circumstances? I can only guess. But I -know what Charles H. did. He came back -to the schoolhouse first, to make his apologies -to the master; I can see him now, as he -came in smiling, looking just a little foolish; -then he ran home—three miles, perhaps—to -change his clothing. And he is living still. -Oh, yes, we were tough,—or we died young.</p> - -<p>That was while we were in the high school, -when I was perhaps eleven or twelve years -old. But my liveliest recollections of winter -antedate that period by several years. Then -sliding down-hill was our dearest excitement. -Ours was “no great of a hill,” to use a form -of speech common among us; I smile now -as I go past it; but it could not have -suited us better if it had been made on purpose; -and no half holiday or moonlight evening -was long enough to exhaust our enjoyment -of the exercise—walking up and sliding -down, walking up and sliding down. “Monotonous,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -do I hear some one say? It was -monotony such as would have ended too soon -though it had lasted forever. If I had a -thousand dollars to spend in an afternoon’s -sport now, I should not know how to get half -as much exhilaration out of it as two hours -on that snow-covered slope afforded. There -is something in a boy’s spirits that a man’s -money can never buy, nor a man’s will bring -back to him.</p> - -<p>As years passed, we ventured farther from -home to a steeper and longer declivity. -Glorious hours we spent there, every boy -riding his own sled after his own fashion. -Boys who <i>were</i> boys rode “side-saddle” or -“belly-bump;” but here and there a timid -soul, or one who considered the toes of his -boots, condescended to an upright position, -feet foremost, like a girl—in the language -of the polite people, <i>sur son séant</i>.</p> - -<p>Later still came the day of the double-runner, -when we slid down-hill gregariously, -as it were, or, if you will, in chorus (the -word is justified), every boy’s arms clinging -to the boy in front of him. Older fellows -now took a hand with us, and we resorted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -to the highway. With the icy track at its -smoothest, we went the longer half of a mile, -and had a mile and a half to walk back, the -“going” being slippery enough to double -the return distance.</p> - -<p>At this time it was that there came a passing -rage (such as communities are suddenly -taken with, now and then, for a certain -amusement—golf, croquet, or what not) -for coasting in a huge pung. Grown people, -men and women, filled it, while one man -sat on a hand-sled between the thills and -guided its course. Near the foot of the hill -the road took a pretty sharp turn, with a -stone wall on the awkward side of the way; -but the excitement more than paid for the -risk, and by sheer good luck a thaw intervened -before anybody was killed.</p> - -<p>There was quiet amusement in the neighborhood, -I remember, because Mrs. C., who -was distressingly timid about riding behind -a horse (she could never be induced to get -into a carriage unless the animal were “old -as Time and slow as cold molasses”), saw -no danger in this automobile on runners, -which traveled at the rate of a mile a minute,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -more or less, with nothing between its -occupants and sudden death except the -strength and skill of the amateur steersman, -who must keep his own seat and steer the -heavy load behind him. So it is. A man -goes into battle with a cheer, but turns pale -at finding himself number thirteen at the -dinner-table.</p> - -<p>Sliding down-hill was such sport as no -language can begin to describe; but skating -was unspeakably better. Those first skates! -I wish I had them still, though I would -show them with caution, lest the irreverent -should laugh. They would be a spectacle. -How voluminously the irons curled up in -front! And how gracefully as well! A -piece of true artistry. And how comfortably -they were cut off short behind, so that -you could stop “in short metre,” no matter -what speed you had on, by digging your -heels into the ice. And what a complicated -harness of straps was required to keep them -in place. Those straps had much to answer -for in the way of cold feet, to say nothing of -the passion we were thrown into when one -of them broke; and we a mile or two from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -home, with the ice perfection—“a perfect -glare”—and the fun at its height. This -was before the day of “rockers,” of which -I had a pair later,—and a proud boy I -was. Pretty treacherous we found them to -start with, or rather to stop with; but for -better or worse we got the hang of their -peculiarities before our skulls were irreparably -broken.</p> - -<p>Skating then was like whist-playing now,—an -endless study. You thought you were -fairly good at it till a new boy came along -and showed you tricks such as you had -never dreamed of; just as you thought, perhaps, -that you could play whist till you sat -opposite a man who asked, in a tone between -bewilderment and asperity, why on earth -you led him a heart at a certain critical stage, -or why in the name of common sense you -didn’t know that the ten of clubs was on -your left. Art is long. It was true then, -as it is now. But what matter? We -skated for fun, as we did everything else -(out of school), except to shovel paths and -saw wood. Those things were work. And -work was longer even than art. Work was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> -never done. So it seemed. And how bleak -and comfortless the weather was while we -were doing it! A cruel world, and no mistake. -But half an hour afterward, on the -hillside or the pond, the breeze was just -balmy, and life—there was no time to think -how good we found it. No doubt it is true, -as the poet said,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“There’s something in a flying horse,</div> -<div class="verse">There’s something in a huge balloon;”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>but there’s more, a thousand times over, in -being a boy.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">“DOWN AT THE STORE”</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I talked</span>, a week ago, as if, in my time as -a boy, we lived out-of-doors every day, and -all day long, regardless of everything that -winter could do to hinder us. That was an -exaggeration. Now and then there came a -time when the weather shook itself loose, as -it were, and bore down upon us with banners -flying. Then the strong man bowed -himself, and even the playful boy took to -his burrow. The pond might be smooth -as glass, but he did not skate; the hill-track -might be in prime condition, but he -did not slide. He sang low, and waited for -a change.</p> - -<p>Not that he stayed at home from school. -Let no degenerate reader, the enfeebled -victim of modern ideas, think that. The -day of coddling had not yet dawned upon -New England. There was no bell then to -announce a full holiday, or “one session,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -because of rain or snow. And as truly as -“school kept,” so truly the boy was expected -to be there. No alternative was so -much as considered. But on such a morning -as we now have in mind he went at full -speed, looking neither to right nor left, and -he thanked his stars when he came in sight -of the village store. That, whether going -or coming, he hailed as a refuge. Possibly -he had a cent in his pocket, a real “copper,” -and felt it in danger of burning -through; but cent or no cent, he went in -to warm his fingers and his ears, and incidentally -to listen to the talk of the assembled -loafers.</p> - -<p>I can see them now, one perched upon a -barrel-head, one on a pile of boxes, three or -four occupying a long settee, and one, wearing -a big light-colored overcoat, who came -every day, sitting like a lord in the comfortable -armchair in front of the cylinder stove. -This last man was not rich; neither was he -in any peculiar sense a social favorite; he -said little and bought less; but he always -had the chief seat. I used to wonder what -would happen if some day he should come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> -in and find it occupied. But on that point -it was idle to speculate. As well expect a -simple congressman to drop into the Speaker’s -chair, leaving that functionary to dispose -of his own corporeal dignity as best -he could. Prescription, provided it be old -enough, is the best of titles. What other -has the new king of Great Britain and Ireland?</p> - -<p>If it was shortly before schooltime, on -one of those mornings when the weather -seemed to be laying itself out to establish a -record, the talk was likely to be of thermometers.</p> - -<p>“My glass was down to nineteen below,” -one man would say, by way of starting the -ball.</p> - -<p>“Mine touched twenty at half-past six,” -the next one would remark.</p> - -<p>And so the topic would go round, the -mercury dropping steadily, notch by notch. -As I said a week ago, winter was winter in -those days. It may have occurred to me, -sometimes, that the man who managed to -speak last had a decided moral advantage -over his rivals. He could save the honor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -of his thermometer at the least possible expense -of veracity.</p> - -<p>So far things were not very exciting, -though on the whole rather more so, perhaps, -than studying a geography lesson (as -if it were anything to me which were the -principal towns in Indiana!); but now, not -unlikely, the conversation would shift to -hunting exploits. This was more to the -purpose. Wonderful game had been shot, -first and last, down there in the Old Colony; -almost everything, it seemed to a listening -boy, except lions and elephants. If Mr. -Roosevelt had lived in those times, he need -not have gone to the Rocky Mountains in -search of adventure.</p> - -<p>I listened with both ears. There never -was a boy who did not like to hear of doings -with a gun. I remember still one of -my very early excitements in that line. I -was on my way home at noon when a flock -of geese flew directly over the street, honking -loudly. At that moment a shoemaker -ran out of his little shop, gun in hand, and -aiming straight upward, let go a charge. -Nothing dropped, to my intense surprise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -and no small disappointment; but I had -seen the shot fired, and that was something—as -is plain from the fact that I remember -it so vividly these many years afterward. -The names of the principal towns of Indiana -long ago folded their tents like the Arabs -and silently stole away, but I can still see -that shoemaker running out of his shop.</p> - -<p>It was a common practice, I was to learn -as I grew older, for shoemakers to keep a -loaded gun standing in a corner, ready for -such contingencies. There was a tradition -in the town that a certain man (I have forgotten -his name, or I would bracket it with -Mr. Roosevelt’s) had once brought down a -goose in this way. It is by no means impossible; -for flocks of geese were an everyday -sight in the season (I am sure I have -seen twenty in an afternoon), and sometimes, -in thick weather, they almost grazed -the chimney-tops. Geese (of that kind) -have grown sadly fewer since then, and perhaps -have learned to fly higher.</p> - -<p>After the hunting reminiscences would -likely enough come a discussion of fast -horses, Flora Temple and others—including<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -“Mart” So-and-So’s of our village; or -possibly (and this I liked best of all, I -think), the conversation would flag, and old -Jason Andcut would begin whistling softly -to himself. Then I was all ears. Such a -tone as he had, especially in the lower register! -And such trills and bewitching turns -of melody! Why, it was almost as good -as the Weymouth Band, which in those days -was every whit as famous as the Boston -Symphony Orchestra is now. When it -played the “Wood-up Quickstep” or “Departed -Days,” the whole town was moved, -and one boy that I knew was almost in -heaven.</p> - -<p>In fact, ours was a musical community. -The very man who now occupied the armchair -in front of the stove (how plainly he -comes before me as I write, taking snuff and -reading the shopkeeper’s newspaper of the -evening before) had acquired the competency -of which he was supposed to be possessed by -playing the flute (or was it the clarinet?) -in a Boston theatre orchestra; and at this -very minute three younger men of the village -were getting rich in the same sure and easy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -manner. As for whistling, there was hardly -a boy in the street but was studying that -accomplishment, though none of them could -yet come within a mile of Jason Andcut. -His was indeed “a soft and solemn-breathing -sound,” as unlike the ear-piercing notes -which most pairs of puckered lips gave forth -as the luscious fruit of his own early pear -tree (“Andcut’s pears,” we always called -them) was unlike certain harsh and crabbed -things that looked like pears, to be sure, but -tied your mouth up in a hard knot if, in -a fit of boyish hunger, you were ever rash -enough to set your teeth in one. The good -man! I should love to hear his whistle -now; I believe I should like it almost as -well as Mr. Longy’s oboe; but the last of -those magical improvisations was long ago -finished. I have heard good whistling since -(not often, but I have heard it, both professional -and amateur), but nothing to match -that soliloquistic pianissimo, which I stole -close to the man’s elbow to get my fill of. -Was the prosperity of the music partly in -the boyish ear that heard it?</p> - -<p>That corner-grocery gathering was one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -of our institutions; I might almost say the -chief of them—casino and lyceum in one. -If somebody once called the place a “yarn -factory,” that was only in the way of a joke. -On a rainy holiday it was a great resource. -There were always talkers and listeners there,—the -two essentials,—and the talk was -often racy, though never, so far as I know, -unfit for a boy’s hearing. The town supported -no local newspaper, nor did we feel -the need of any. You could get all the news -there was, and more too, “down at the -store.” If the regular members of the club -failed to bring it in, the baker or the candy -peddler would happen along to supply the -lack. And after all, say what you will, word -of mouth is better than printers’ ink.</p> - -<p>And while you listened to the talk, you -could be eating a stick of barber’s-pole candy -or a cent’s worth of dates, or, if your wealth -happened to admit of such extravagance, you -could enjoy, after the Cranford fashion, quite -unembarrassed by Cranford pudicity, a two-cent -orange. Those were the days of small -things. Dollars did not grow on every bush. -Seven-year-old boys, at all events, were not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -yet accustomed to go about jingling a pocketful -of silver. Once, I remember, I saw a -little chap sidle up to the counter and look -long at the jack-knives and other temptations -displayed in the showcase. By and by the -shopkeeper espied a possible customer, and -came round to see what was wanted.</p> - -<p>“How much are those tops?” asked the -boy, pointing with his finger.</p> - -<p>“Ten cents,” was the answer.</p> - -<p>The boy was silent. He was thinking it -over. Then he said: “I’ll take two cents’ -worth of peanuts.”</p> - -<p>Poor fellow! I have seen many a grown -man since then who was obliged to content -himself with the same kind of philosophy. -And who shall say it is not a good one? If -you cannot spend the summer in Europe, -take a day at the seashore. If you miss of -an election to Congress, bid for a place on -the school committee. If you cannot write -ten-thousand-dollar novels, write—well, -write a weekly column in a newspaper. -There is always something within a capable -man’s reach, though it be only “two cents’ -worth of peanuts.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">BIRDS AT THE WINDOW</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> winter has continued birdless, not only -in eastern Massachusetts, but, as far as I can -learn, throughout New England. Letters -from eastern Maine, the White Mountain -region, and western Massachusetts all bring -the same story: no birds except the commonest—chickadees -and the like. Crossbills, -redpolls, and pine grosbeaks have left -us out in the cold.</p> - -<p>The only break in the season’s monotony -with me has been a flock of six purple -finches, seen on the 29th of January. I was -nearing home, in a side street, thinking of -nothing in particular, when I heard faint conversational -notes close at hand, and stopping -to look, saw first one and then another of -the bright carmine birds; for five of the six -were handsome adult males. All were eating -savin berries, and conversing in their -characteristic soft staccato. It was by all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> -odds the brightest patch of feathers of the -new century. The birds must be wintering -not far away, I suppose; but though I have -been up and down that road a dozen times -since February came in, I have seen nothing -more of them. Within a month they will -be singing, taking the winds of March with -music. No more staccato then, but the -smoothest of fluency.</p> - -<p>Much the birdiest spot known to me just -now is under our own windows—under them -and against them, as shall presently be explained. -Indeed, we may be said to be running -a birds’ boarding-house, and we are certainly -doing an excellent business. “Meals -at all hours,” our signboard reads. We “set -a good table,” as the trade expression is, and -our guests, who, being experienced travelers, -know a good thing when they see it, have -spread the news. There is no advertisement -so effective as a satisfied customer.</p> - -<p>The earliest comers are the blue jays. -They anticipate the first call for breakfast, -appearing before sunrise. Jays are a shrewd -set. They can put two and two together with -the sharpest of us. Man, they have discovered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -is a laggard in the morning. Then -is their time. In very bad weather, indeed, -they come at all hours; but they are always -wary. If I raise the window an inch or two -and set it down with a slam, away they go; -though, likely as not, I look out again five -minutes later to find them still there. In -times of dearth one may reasonably risk -something for a good piece of suet.</p> - -<p>The jays take what they can, somewhat -against our will. The table is spread for -smaller people: for downy woodpeckers, -white-breasted nuthatches, and chickadees, -with whom appears now and then, always -welcome, a brown creeper. The table is set -for them, I say; and they seem to know it. -They come not as thieves, but as invited -guests, or, better still, as members of the -family. No opening and shutting of windows -puts them to flight. Why should it? -There are at least a dozen baiting-places -about the house, and they know every one -of them. Though the fare is everywhere -the same, they seem to find a spice of variety -in taking a bite at one table after another.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>My own principal enjoyment of the business, -at present, is connected with a new toy, -if I may call it so: a small, loosely knit, or -crocheted, bag—made of knitting-cotton, I -think I was told—sent to me by a correspondent -in Vermont. Into this, following -the donor’s instructions, I have put nutmeats -and hung it out of a window of my working-room, -throwing a cord over the top of the -upper sash, and allowing the bag to dangle -against the pane.</p> - -<p>At first I broke the nuts into small pieces, -but I soon learned better than that. Now I -divide the filbert once, and for the most part -the birds (chickadees only, thus far) have to -stay on the bag and eat, instead of pulling -out the pieces whole and making off with -them. The sight is a pretty one—as good -as a play. I am careful not to fill the bag, -and the feeder is compelled to hang bottom -side up under it, and strike upward. The -position is graceful and not in the least inconvenient, -and possesses, moreover, a great -economical advantage: the crumbs, some of -which are of necessity spilled, drop on the -eater’s breast, instead of to the ground. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -see him stop continually to pick them off. -“Gather up the fragments,” he says, “that -nothing be lost.”</p> - -<p>When one of the pieces in the bag is so -far nibbled away that a corner of it can be -pulled through one of the interstices, matters -become exciting. Then comes the tug of -war. The eater, who knows that his time is -limited, grows almost frantic. He braces -himself and pulls, twitching upward and -downward and sidewise (“Come out, there, -will you?”), while the wind blows him to -and fro across the pane, and one or two of -his mates sit upon the nearest branch of the -elm, eyeing him reproachfully. “You greedy -thing!” they say. “Are you going to stay -there forever?” Often their patience gives -out (I do not wonder), and one after another -they swoop down past the window, not to -strike the offender, but to offer him a hint -in the way of moral suasion. Sometimes one -alights, with more or less difficulty, on the -narrow middle sash just below, and talks to -him; or one hovers near the bag, or even -perches sidewise on the string, just above, as -much as to say, “Look out!” Then I hear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> -a burst of little, hurried, sweet-sounding, -angry notes—always the same, or so nearly -the same that my ear is unable to detect the -difference.</p> - -<p>Generally these manœuvres are successful; -but now and then the feeder is so persistently -greedy that I am tempted to assert -a landlord’s prerogative and tell him to begone. -Only once have I ever seen two birds -clinging to the bag together, although so far -as I can make out, there is nothing to hinder -their doing so; and even then they were -not eating, but waiting to see which should -give place to the other.</p> - -<p>All in all, it is a very pleasing show. It is -good to see the innocent creatures so happy. -Nobody could look at them, their black eyes -shining, their black bills striking into the -meats, all their motions so expressive of eager -enjoyment, without feeling glad on their account. -And with all the rest, it may be said -that an ease-loving man, with a meddlesome -New England conscience, is not always sorry -to have a decent, or better than decent, excuse -for dropping work once in a while to -look out of the window. Who says we are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -idle while we are taking a lesson in natural -history? I do not know how many times I -have broken off (seeing a bird’s shadow in -the room, or hearing a tap on the pane) while -writing these few paragraphs.</p> - -<p>Once, indeed, I saw something like actual -belligerency. Two birds reached the bag at -the same instant, and neither was inclined to -withdraw. They came together, bill to bill, -each with a volley of those fine, spitfire notes -of which I spoke just now, and in the course -of the set-to, which was over almost before it -began, one of them struck beak-first against -the window, as if he were coming through. -Then both flew to the elm branches, fifteen -feet away, and in a moment more one of them -came back and took a turn at feeding. I -am not going to take in the bag for fear of -the immoral effects of excessive competition. -Competition—among customers—is the -life of trade. I am glad to see my table so -popular.</p> - -<p>The nuthatches, of which we have at least -two, male and female, as I know by the different -color of their crowns, have not yet discovered -the nuts, but come regularly to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -suet in the trees, and pretty often to a piece -that is nailed upon one of my window-sills. -I hear the fellow’s pleasant, contented, guttural, -grunting notes, and rise to look at him, -liking especially to watch the tidbits as they -travel one after another between his long -mandibles. Even if he does not call out, I -know that it is he, and not a chickadee, by -the louder noise he makes in driving his bill -into the fat.</p> - -<p>I have fancied, all winter, that the birds—these -two nuthatches, I mean—were -mated, seeing them so often together; and -perhaps they are; but the other day I witnessed -a little performance that seemed to -put another complexion upon the case. I -was leaving the yard when I heard bird notes, -repeated again and again, which I did not -recognize. To the best of my recollection -they were quite new. I looked up into a -tree, and there were the two nuthatches, one -chasing the other from branch to branch, -with that peculiarly dainty, fluttering, mincing -action of the wings, a sort of will-you-be-mine -motion, which birds are given to using -in the excitement of courtship. There could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -be no doubt of it, though it was only the -10th of February: Corydon was already -“paying attentions” to Phyllis. Success to -him! I notice, also, that chickadees are beginning -to whistle a “Phœbe” with considerable -frequency, though there is nothing in -the weather to encourage them. Birds have -an almanac of their own. Spring is coming.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A GOOD-BY TO WINTER</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Winter</span> is not quite done, but it will be -by the time this “Clerk” is printed. That -is to say, <i>my</i> winter will be done. In this -respect, as in many others, I am a conservative. -My calendar is of the old school. -“There are four seasons in the year—spring, -summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” -So we began our school compositions; and -by “spring” we meant the spring months—March, -April, and May. The temperature -might belie the almanac; there might -be “six weeks’ sledding in March;” but -when March began, spring began.</p> - -<p>And by the way, what a capital subject -that was—“The Seasons”! A theme without -beginning and without end; a theme to -be taken seriously or humorously, in prose -or verse; a theme of universal interest. -Best of all, there was no difficulty about the -first sentence. No need to sit for half an hour<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -chewing the end of one’s pencil and waiting -for inspiration. Down it went: “There -are four seasons in the year—spring, summer, -autumn or fall, and winter.” We never -omitted to say “autumn or fall;” the synonymy -helped out the page, and gave us -the more time in which to consider what we -should say next. That is the great difficulty -in authorship. On that shoal many a good -ship has struck. A man who always has -something to say next is bound to get on—as -a “space writer,” if as nothing else.</p> - -<p>Our opening remark was not strictly original, -but we did not mind. It was true, -if it wasn’t new; and without being told, -I think we had discovered—by intuition, -I suppose—what older heads seem to have -learned by rule, that it is good rhetoric, so -to speak, to begin with a quotation. I was -pleased, the other day, to see a brilliant essayist -commending it as an excellent and becoming -practice to leapfrog into one’s subject -over the back of some famous predecessor. -Such was our custom, for better or worse, -till a certain master (I am tempted to name -him, but forbear) announced just before the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -fatal day, that compositions on “The Seasons” -would no longer be accepted. That -was cruelty to authors. He spoke with a -smile, but it was a smile of malice. I have -never forgiven him. He is living still, a -preacher of the gospel. When Saturday -night comes, and he finds himself hard put -to it for the morrow’s sermon (as I have no -doubt he often does—I hope so, at all -events), does he never remember the day -when with the word of his mouth he deprived -thirty or forty young innocents of their -easiest and best appreciated text? He is -righteously punished. Let him preach to -himself, some Sunday, from Numbers xxxii. -23, “Be sure your sin will find you out.”</p> - -<p>Why shouldn’t one write about the seasons, -I wonder. There is scarcely anything -more important, or more universally interesting, -than the weather. Ten to one it -was the first thing we all thought of this -morning. And the seasons are nothing -but weather in large packages—weather -at wholesale. Their changes are our epochs, -our date-points. But for them, all days -being alike, there would be no calendar. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> -is well known that people who live in the -tropics seldom know their own age. How -should they, with nothing to distinguish one -time of year from another? Young or old, -they have never learned that “there are four -seasons in the year.”</p> - -<p>We are better off. Life with us is not -all in the present tense. As Hamlet said, -we look before and after. (Hence it is, I -suppose, that we have “such large discourse,” -and continue, some of us, to write -compositions.) We live by expectation. -“Behold,” says the weather, “I make all -things new.” Every day is another one, -and every season also. At this very minute -a miraculous change is at hand. A great -and effectual door is about to swing on its -hinges, and I, for one, wish to be awake to -see it; not to wake up by and by and find -the door wide open.</p> - -<p>So far from wearying of the seasons as an -old story, I am more intensely interested in -them than ever. If any of my fellow citizens -are not just now thinking daily of the -passing of winter and the advent of spring, -I should like to know what they are made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -of. For myself, I am like a man in jail. -My term is about to expire, and I am notching -off the days one by one on a stick. -“Three more,” say I; “two more.” “Welcome -the coming, speed the parting guest.” -And I am ready to hang my cap on the -horns of the moon.</p> - -<p>“You are too much in haste,” some man -will say; the same that said, “How are the -dead raised up?” But I know better. It -is one happy effect of ornithological habits -that they shorten the winter. There will be -no spring flowers for a good while yet, but -there will be spring birds within a fortnight, -perhaps within a week; nay, there may be -some before night. Indeed, I have just come -in from a two-hour jaunt, and at almost -every step my ears were open for the first -vernal note. I have seen bluebirds, before -now, earlier than this; and what has happened -once may happen again. So, while -the wind blew softly from the southwest, and -all the hills were mantled with a dreamy -haze, I chose a course that would take me -past one apple orchard after another; and, -as I say, my ears (which I often think are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -better ornithologists than their owner,—if -he is their owner) kept themselves wide -awake. If that sweet voice, “Purity, -purity” (with all bird lovers I thank Mr. -Burroughs for the word)—if that heavenly -voice, the gentlest of prophets, was on the -breeze, they meant to hear it.</p> - -<p>They heard nothing, but that is not to say -that they listened to no purpose. They -heard nothing, and they heard much; for -there is an ear within the ear, and the new -year’s voice—which is the bluebird’s—was -in the deepest and truest sense already -audible. The ornithologist failed to catch -it; for him <i>Sialia sialis</i> is still to look for; -but the other man was in better luck.</p> - -<p>The “new year’s voice,” I say; for the -year begins with spring. We had the seasons -in their true order when we were school-children—“spring, -summer, autumn or -fall, and winter.” It must have been some -very old and prosy chronologist that arranged -their progression as our almanacs -now give it. The young are better instructed. -Does not the Scripture say, -“The last shall be first”?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>And within three days—I can hardly believe -it—the old year will be done. So let -it be. Its passing brings us so much nearer -the grave; worse yet, perhaps, it leaves us -with our winter’s work half accomplished; -but our eyes are forward. After all, our -work is not important. We are twice too -busy; living as our neighbors do, rather -than according to the law of our own being; -playing the fool (there is no fool like the -busy one); selling our birthright for a mess -of pottage. The great thing, especially in -springtime, is to lie wide open to the life -that enfolds us, while the “gentle deities” -show us, for our delight,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“The lore of colors and of sounds,</div> -<div class="verse">The innumerable tenements of beauty.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Yes, that is the wisdom we should pray for. -The youngest of us will not see many springs. -Let us see the most that we can of this one. -So much there will be to look at! Now, of -all times, we may say with one of old, “Lord, -that I might receive my sight.” What a -new world we should find ourselves living -in! I can hardly imagine it.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">BIRD SONGS AND BIRD TALK</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I mentioned</span> a fortnight ago a flock of half -a dozen purple finches (linnets) seen and -heard conversing softly among themselves -in some roadside savin trees on the 29th of -January. They must be passing the winter -somewhere not far away, I ventured to -guess. “Within a month,” I added, “they -will be singing, taking the winds of March -with music.”</p> - -<p>This forenoon (March 5) I had walked -up the same pleasant by-road, meaning to -follow it for a mile or two, but finding myself -insufficiently shod for so deep a slush, -I turned back after going only a little way. -It was too bad I should have been so improvident, -I said to myself; but accident is -often better than the best-laid plan, and so -it was now. As I neared the bunch of cedars—which -I have looked into day after -day as I have passed, hoping to find the linnets<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -again there—I descried some smallish -bird in one of the topmost branches of a -tall old poplar across the field. My opera-glass -brought him nearer, but still not near -enough, till presently he turned and took -an attitude. “Ah, yes,” said I; “a purple -finch.” Attitude and gait, though there -may be nothing definable about them, are -often almost as good as color and feature -for purposes of identification. I had barely -named the bird before he commenced singing, -and as he moved into a slightly better -light (the sky being clouded) I saw that he -was a red one. He seemed to be not yet -in full voice; perhaps he was not in full -spirits; but he ran through with his long, -rapid, intricate, sweetly modulated warble -with perfect fluency, and very much to my -pleasure. It was the first song of spring. -The linnet is of the true way of thinking; -spring, with him, begins with the turn of the -month.</p> - -<p>Purple finches, by the bye, are among the -birds of which it has been said—by Minot, -and perhaps by others—that both sexes sing. -I hope the statement is true; I could never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -see any reason in the nature of things why -female birds should not have musical susceptibilities -and musical accomplishments; -but I am constrained to doubt. It is most -likely, I think, that the opinion has arisen -from the fact that adult males—a year or -more old, and fathers of families—sometimes -continue to wear the gray, sparrow-like -costume of the gentler sex.</p> - -<p>My bird of this morning dropped from -his perch while I was trying to get nearer to -him, and could not be found again. I still -suppose that the flock is spending the season -somewhere not far off. I have lived with -myself too long to imagine that birds must -be absent because I fail to discover them.</p> - -<p>Half an hour before, in almost the same -place, I had stopped to look at six birds -perched in a bare treetop. They were so -silent, so motionless, and so closely bunched, -that I put up my opera-glass expecting to -find them cedar waxwings. Instead, they -were nothing but blue jays. While my glass -was still on them, the whole flock seemed to -be taken with a dancing fit. This lasted for -a quarter of a second, more or less, and was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -so quickly over that I cannot say positively -that it was anything more than an optical -illusion. The next moment all hands took -flight with loud screams. They did not go -far, and presently crossed the road in front -of me, still screaming lustily, for no reason -that I could discover signs of. However, the -blue jay is as far as possible from being a -fool, and whenever he talks it is safe concluding -that he has something to say.</p> - -<p>It has long been an opinion of mine that -the jay language is worthy of systematic -study. Some man with a gift of patience -and a genius for linguistics should undertake -a jay dictionary; setting down not only all -jay words and phrases, but giving us, as far -as possible, their meaning and their English -equivalents. It would make a sizable volume, -and would be a real contribution to -knowledge.</p> - -<p>All bird language, I have no doubt, is full -of significance. It has been evolved exactly -as human language has been, and while -it is presumably less copious and less nicely -shaded than ours, it is probably less radically -unlike it than we may have been accustomed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -to assume. That it has something answering -to our “parts of speech” we may almost -take for granted. It could scarcely be intelligible—as -it assuredly is—if some words -did not express action, others things, and still -others quality. Verbs, substantives, adjectives, -and adverbs,—these, at least, all real -language must possess. The jay tongue has -them, I would warrant, in rudimentary -forms, but in good number and of clearly -defined significance.</p> - -<p>Jays are natural orators; for among birds, -as among men, there are “diversities of -operations.” “All species are not equally -eloquent,” said Gilbert White. And the -same capable naturalist made another shrewd -remark, which I would commend to the man, -whoever he may be, who shall undertake the -jay-English dictionary that I have been desiderating. -“The language of birds,” said -White, “is very ancient, and, like other ancient -modes of speech, very elliptical; little -is said, but much is meant and understood.”</p> - -<p>The blue jay, I am confident, though I do -not profess to be a jay scholar, makes a large -use of interjections. This will constitute one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -of the difficulties with which his lexicographer -will have to contend; for interjections, -as all students of foreign tongues -know, are among the hardest words to render -from one language to another. A literal -translation is liable to convey almost no -meaning. When a Spaniard grows red in -the face and vociferates, “<i>Jesús, María y -José!”</i> he is not thinking of the holy family, -but in all likelihood of something very, very -different; and when a devout New England -deacon hears some surprising piece of news, -and responds with “My conscience!” he is -not thinking at all of the voice of God in -the soul of man. Such phrases—and the -jay language, I feel sure, is full of them—are -not so much expressions of thought as -vents for feeling. You may call them safety-valves. -Emotion is like steam. If you stop -the nose of the tea-kettle, off goes the cover. -The hotter the blood, of course, the more -need for such exclamatory outlets; and the -jay, unless his behavior belies him, is Spaniard, -Italian, and Frenchman all in one. I -pity his lexicographer if he undertakes to -render all his subject’s emotions in prim literary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -English. But I hope he will do the -best he can, and I promise to buy his book.</p> - -<p>The linnet’s was the first spring song, I -said; but it was first by an inch only; for -even while I was setting down the paragraph -a white-breasted nuthatch broke into a whistle -close by my window. I turned at once to -look at him. There he stood, in the top of -the elm, perched crosswise upon a small twig, -just as a sparrow might have been, and every -half a minute throwing forward his head -and emitting that peculiar whistle, broken -into eight or ten syllables. Between times -he looked to right and left, as if he had -been calling for some one and was expecting -a response. No response came, and after a -little he disappeared.</p> - -<p>That was the second spring song, and a -good one, though not to be compared with -the linnet’s for musical quality. Now, say -I, who bids for the third place? Perhaps it -will be a bluebird, perhaps a robin, perhaps -a song sparrow.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHIPMUNKS, BLUEBIRDS, AND -ROBINS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> season was opened, formally, on the -10th of March. I am speaking for myself. -Friday, the 8th, brought genuine spring -weather, sunny and warm, an ideal day for -the first bluebird; but I was obliged to -waste it in the city. The 9th was rainy -and cold, and though I spent some hours -out-of-doors, I saw no vernal signs. Birds -of all sorts were never so few. The next -morning—cloudy, with a raw northeasterly -wind—I was fifteen minutes away from -home when a squirrel came out of the woods -on one side of the way and ran across the -road before me. It was a chipmunk, my -first one of the new year, wide-awake and -quick on its legs; and it was hardly in the -hazel bushes on the other side of the road -before another joined it, and the two chased -each other out of sight. Spring had come.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>Chickarees and gray squirrels have been -common enough throughout the cold weather, -but the chipmunk, or striped squirrel, -takes to its burrow in the late autumn, and -sleeps away the winter. In other words, -along with the woodchuck (the largest and -the smallest of our New England squirrels -being alike in this respect), it migrates—into -the “land of Nod.” I imagine, however, -that its sleep is not so sound but that -it wakes up now and then to feed, though -as to this point I know really nothing, my -impression arising wholly from the fact that -chipmunks store away food. They would -hardly do this, I should think, unless they -expected to find a use for it.</p> - -<p>Late in September, five months ago, I -went to visit friends in the White Mountains, -and one of the first things I heard -from them was that Betty had disappeared. -She had not been seen for about two months. -Betty was a chipmunk that had been in the -habit of coming upon the piazza, and had -grown tame under kind treatment till she -would take food from her friends’ fingers -and even climb into their laps. Once, indeed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -the lady of the house, having gone -upstairs, noticed the presence of something -heavy in her pocket (she is a naturalist, -and for that reason, I suppose, still wears -a pocket in her gown), and on putting her -hand into it, found Betty inside.</p> - -<p>But, as I say, Betty had suddenly discontinued -her visits, and there was mourning -at the cottage. Worse yet, there was wrath, -and the stable cat had barely escaped with -his life. But now, on a Sunday noon, when -the cottagers appeared at the hotel dinner-table, -they announced with beaming faces -that there was great news: Betty had returned! -I must come over and see her; -for up to this time I knew her charms only -by report.</p> - -<p>As soon as dinner was finished, therefore, -we repaired to the cottage veranda, and -pretty soon, while we were talking of one -thing and another, the lady said, “Ah, here -she is! Here’s Betty!” Filberts had been -provided, and she began at once to climb -into our laps after them. She carried them -away three at a time,—one in each cheek-pouch -and one between her teeth,—going<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -and coming in the most industrious and -businesslike manner. She would pass the -winter in a state of hibernation, without a -doubt, but her conduct obviously implied -that she expected to see a time now and -then when a bite of something to eat would -“come handy.”</p> - -<p>My 10th of March chipmunks were a welcome -sight. I wondered how long they had -been awake. For several days, probably. -And I tried to imagine what it must be like -to open one’s eyes after a five months’ nap. -Hibernation has the look of a miracle. And -yet, what is it but a longer sleep? Well, -perhaps sleep itself is a miracle—as truly -so as life or thought. Probably, the world -being all of a piece, if we understood one -thing we should understand everything. Who -knows? Anyhow, spring had come.</p> - -<p>But there were no bluebirds. I kept on -for two hours, past the likeliest of places, -but saw and heard nothing. It was too bad, -but there was no help for it. Bluebirds, -blackbirds, song sparrows, fox sparrows, all -were still to be looked for.</p> - -<p>Then I sat indoors for an hour or two;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -I would stay in till afternoon, I thought; -books, also, are a world, as Wordsworth said; -but pretty soon the sun shone out; things -looked too inviting. “I will go over as far -as Longfellow’s Pond,” said I. “Perhaps -there will be something in that quarter.” -That was a happy thought. I was hardly in -the old cattle pasture, feeling it good to have -the grass under my feet once more, all -bleached and sodden though it was, when I -stopped. Wasn’t that a bluebird’s note? -No, it was probably nothing but my imagination. -But the sound reached me again; -faint, fugacious, just grazing the ear. I put -up my hands to my ears’ help, and stood still. -Yes, I certainly heard it; and this time I got -its direction. A glance that way and I saw -the bird, pretty far off, at the tip of an elm -sapling standing by itself down in a sheltered -hollow. I leveled my field-glass upon him -(it was well I had brought it), made sure of -his color, a piece of pure loveliness, and -hastened to get nearer. Before I could turn -the corner of the intervening wire fence, -however, he took flight, and another with -him. I followed hastily, and was approaching<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -some roadside maples when the voice -was heard anew, and the two birds, both -calling, mounted into the air and vanished -beyond the wood northward.</p> - -<p>What a sweet voice the bluebird’s is! -Calling or singing, it is the very soul of -music. And the spring was really open. I -went home in high spirits.</p> - -<p>This happened on the 10th. Now it is -the 13th. I have seen no more bluebirds, -and song sparrows are still missing; but this -morning an ecstatic purple finch warbled, -and better still (for somehow, I do not -know how or why, it gave me more pleasure), -a flicker called again and again in -his loud, peremptory, long-winded manner. -He, or another like him, has been in the -neighborhood all winter, but this was his -first spring utterance. It was no uncertain -sound.</p> - -<p>The bluebird peeps in upon us, as it were. -His air is timid. “Is winter really gone?” -he seems to say; but the flicker is a breezier -customer. His mood is positive. He pushes -the door wide open, and slams it back against -the wall. “Spring, spring!” he shouts, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> -all the world may hear him. Soon he and -the downy will begin their amorous drumming -on dry stubs and flakes of resonant -bark.</p> - -<p>This was early in the morning. Since -then I have been over to the cattle pasture, -and in it found a flock of ten or twelve -robins. They were feeding in the grass, but -at my approach flew into some savin trees -and fell to eating berries. As seems to be -always true at this time of the year, they -were in splendid color, and apparently in the -very pink of physical condition; their bills -were never so golden, it seemed to me, nor -their heads so velvety black, nor their eyelids -so white. They would not sing, but it was -like the best of music to hear them cackle -softly as they flew from the grass into the -cedars. Say what you will, the robin is a -pretty fine bird, especially in March.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">MARCH SWALLOWS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> birds are having their innings. They -have been away and have come back, and -even the most stolid citizen is for the moment -aware of their presence. I rejoice to see -them so popular.</p> - -<p>Two or three mornings ago I met a friend -in the road, a farmer, one of the happy men, -good to talk with, who glory in their work. -A phœbe was calling from the top of an -elm, and as we were near the farmer’s house -I asked, “How long has the phœbe been -here?” He looked up, saw the bird, and -answered with a smile, “He must have just -come. I haven’t heard him before.” I -made some remark about its being pleasant -to have such creatures with us again, and he -responded, as I knew he would, in the heartiest -manner. “Oh, I do love to see them!” -he said.</p> - -<p>I was reminded of a lady of whom I had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -been told the day before. She had felt -obliged, as I heard the story, to attend a meeting -of the woman’s club, but remarked to -one of her assembled sisters that she had had -half a mind to stay at home. The truth -was, she explained, that two or three meadow -larks were singing gloriously in the rear of -her house, and she could hardly bear to come -away and leave them. I hope her self-denial -was rewarded.</p> - -<p>On the same day I heard of a servant who -hastened into the sitting-room to say to her -mistress, “Oh, Mrs. ——! there’s a little -bird out in the hedge singing to beat the -band.” The newcomer proved to be a song -sparrow, and the lady of the house was fully -as enthusiastic as the servant in her welcome -of it, though I dare say she expressed herself -in less picturesque language.</p> - -<p>And I know another house, still nearer -home, where a few days ago the dinner-table -was actually deserted for a time, in the very -midst of the meal. Three bluebirds, with -snowbirds, goldfinches, and chickadees, had -suddenly appeared under the windows. -“There! there! In the maple! Will you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -look at him! Oh-h-h!” The dinner might -“get cold,” as the prudent housewife suggested, -but it did not matter. Such a color -as those bluebirds displayed was better than -anything that an eater could put into his -mouth.</p> - -<p>Yes, as I say, the birds are having their -innings. In whichever direction I walk, in -town or country, I am asked about them. -A schoolgirl stopped me in the street the -other day. “Can you tell me what that bird -is?” she inquired. A white-breasted nuthatch -was whistling over our heads in a shade -tree. Possibly the study of live birds will be -as fashionable a few years hence as the wearing -of dead ones was a few years ago.</p> - -<p>On the 22d of March, as I stood listening -to a most uncommonly brilliant song sparrow -(now is the time for such things, before the -greater artists monopolize our attention) and -the outgivings of a too chary fox sparrow, the -first cowbird of the year announced himself. -Polygamist, shirk, and, by all our human -standards, general reprobate, I was still glad -to hear him. He is what he was made. -Few birds are more interesting, psychologically, -if one wishes an object of study.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>Saturday, the 23d, was cloudless, a rare -event at this time of the year, and with -an outdoor neighbor I made an excursion -to Wayland, to see what might be visible -and audible in those broad Sudbury River -meadows.</p> - -<p>We took a “round” familiar to us (to -one of us, at least), down the road to the -north bridge and causeway, thence through -the woods on the opposite side of the river to -a main thoroughfare, or turnpike, and back -to the village again over the south causeway. -Meadow larks were in full tune, now from a -treetop, now from a fence-post. They were -my first ones since the autumn, and their -music was relished accordingly.</p> - -<p>As we stopped on the bridge to look down -the blue river and across the overflowed -meadow lands to a gray, flat-topped hill far -beyond toward Concord, we suddenly discovered -a shining white object on the surface of -the water. It proved to be a duck, one of -two, jet black and snow white, and presumably -a merganser, though it was too far away -to be made out with positiveness. Thoreau, -I remember, makes frequent mention of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -mergansers and golden-eyes in his March -journals.</p> - -<p>We were admiring this couple (a couple -only in the looser sense of the word, for both -birds were drakes), when all at once some -small far-away object “swam into my ken.” -“A swallow!” said I, and even as I spoke -a second one came into the field of the glass. -Yes, there they were, two white-breasted -swallows, sailing about over the meadows on -the 23d of March. How unspeakably beautiful -they looked, their lustrous blue-green -backs with the bright sun shining on them! -The date must constitute a “record,” I assured -my companion. Once before, at least, -I had seen swallows in March, but that, I -felt certain, was on one of the last days -of the month. Strange that such creatures -should have ventured so far northward thus -early. If Gilbert White could see them, he -would be more firmly convinced than ever -that swallows “lay themselves up in holes -and caverns, and do, insect-like and bat-like, -come forth at mild times, and then retire -again to their latebræ.” For my own part, -not being able to accept this doctrine, I contented<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -myself with Americanizing Shakespeare. -“Swallows,” said I,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“Swallows that come before the daffodil dares,</div> -<div class="verse">And take the winds of March with beauty.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>I could hardly recover from my excitement, -which was renewed an hour afterward -when, on the southern causeway, a third -bird (or one of the same two) passed near -us. But now see how untrustworthy a clerk -a man’s memory is! On reaching home I -turned at once to my book of dates, and behold, -it was exactly four years ago to an -hour, March 23, 1897, that I saw two white-breasted -swallows about a pond here in -Wellesley. We had broken no “record,” -after all. But I imagine the Rev. Gilbert -White saying, “Yes, yes; you will notice that -in both cases the birds were seen in the immediate -neighborhood of water.” And there -is no doubt that such places are the ones in -which to look most hopefully for the first -swallows of the year.</p> - -<p>All this time a herring gull, a great -beauty in high plumage, was sailing up and -down the meadows like a larger swallow. -He, too, was one of Thoreau’s river friends<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -at this season; and since we are talking of -dates, I note it as a coincidence that precisely -forty-two years ago (March 23, 1859), he -entered in his journal that he saw “come -slowly flying from the southwest a great gull, -of voracious form, which at length, by a -sudden and steep descent, alighted in Fair -Haven Pond [a wide place in the river], -scaring up a crow which was seeking its -food on the edge of the ice.” Our bird, -also, made one “sudden and steep descent,” -and picked from the ice some small, dark-colored -object, which at our distance might -have been a dead leaf. But if Thoreau saw -ducks and gulls, he saw no March swallows. -His earliest date for them, so far as the -printed journals show, seems to have been -April 5.</p> - -<p>The woods brought us nothing,—beyond -a chickadee or two,—but we were hardly -out of them before we heard the blue jay -scream of a red-shouldered hawk, and presently -saw first one bird and then another -(rusty shoulder and all) sailing above us. -A grand sight it is, a soaring and diving -hawk. May it never become less frequent.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -I must quote Thoreau once more, this time -from memory, and for substance only. I am -with him, heart and soul, when he prays for -more hawks, though at the cost of fewer -chickens. And I like the spirit of a friend -of mine who girdled a tall pine tree in his -woods, that it might serve as a perching station -for such visitors.</p> - -<p>As we approached the village again, we -came upon two phœbes. Like the white-breasted -swallow, the phœbe winters in -Florida, and is by a long time the earliest -member of its family to arrive in New England. -Red-winged blackbirds were numerous, -of course, every one a male, and in one -place we passed a flock of crow blackbirds -feeding on the ground.</p> - -<p>Not the least interesting bird of the forenoon -was a shrike, sitting motionless and -dumb in an apple tree. The shrike has all -the attractiveness of singularity. He is no -lover of his kind, save as the lion loves the -lamb and the hawk the chicken. Lonesome? -No, I thank you. Except in breeding-time, -he is sufficient unto himself. Even when he -happens to feel like conversation, he goes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -not in search of company. He is like the -amiable philosopher who was asked by some -busybody why he so often talked to himself. -“Well,” said he, “for two reasons: first, I -like to talk to a sensible man, and secondly, -I like to hear a sensible man talk.” In the -present instance the shrike may very well -have considered that there was little occasion -for his talking, either to himself or to -anybody else, since a bunch of twenty masculine -redwings in some willow trees near -by were chattering in chorus until, to use -a good Old Colony phrase, a man could -hardly hear himself think. Blackbird loquacity, -each particular bird sputtering “to -beat the band,” is one of the wonders of -the world.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WOODCOCK VESPERS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I came to this town to live, in April, -ten years ago, one of my first concerns was -to find a woodcock resort. The friend with -whom I commonly took a stroll at sundown -had never heard the “evening hymn” of -that bird, and, knowing him for a lover of -“the poetry of earth,” I was eager to help -him to a new pleasure. If the thing was to -be done at all, it must be done soon, as the -bird’s musical season is brief. So we walked -and made inquiries.</p> - -<p>A farmer, who knew the region well, told -us that woodcock used to be common about -a certain swamp, but had not been so, he -thought, of recent years. We visited it, of -course, but heard nothing. Then the same -man bethought himself of a likelier place, -farther away. Thither, also, we went, having -to hasten our steps, for the bird must -be caught at precisely such a minute, between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -daylight and dark. Still we had our labor -for our pains. And so the season passed, -with nothing done.</p> - -<p>Then, a year or two afterward, walking -one afternoon in a quiet back road, I startled -a woodcock from directly beside the track. -“Well, well,” said I, “here is the very place;” -for I noticed not far off a bit of alder swamp, -with a wood behind it and an open field near -by. All the conditions were right, and on -the first available evening, with something -like assurance, I made my way thither. Yes, -the bird was there, in the full ecstasy of his -wonderful performance—for wonderful it -surely is.</p> - -<p>My friend was not with me, however, and -for one reason or another, now past recall, -another year went by without our being able -to visit the spot together at the necessary -minute. Then a day came. He heard the -bird (well I remember the hour), was delighted -beyond measure, and that very evening, -still under the spell of the “miracle,” -put his impressions of it on paper. The -next day they were printed, and I remember -still my pleasure when the most competent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -of all men to speak of such a matter sent me -word that it was the best description of the -performance that he had ever seen. If any -of my readers desire to see it, it is to be -found in a little volume of most delightful -outdoor essays entitled “The Listener in the -Country.”</p> - -<p>All this I lived over again last evening as -I went, alone, to the same spot—not having -visited it on this errand for several years—to -see whether the bird would still be true -to his old tryst. I believed that he would -be, in spite of the skepticism of a wide-awake -man who lives almost within stone’s throw -of the place; for though woodcock are said -to be growing less and less common, I have -strong faith in the conservative disposition of -all such creatures. Once they have a place -to their mind, they are likely to hold it.</p> - -<p>Fox sparrows were singing in their best -manner as I passed on my way, and I would -gladly have stayed to listen; their season, -also, is a short one; but I kept to my point.</p> - -<p>And after all, I arrived a few minutes -ahead of time. Up and down the road I -paced (no one in sight, nor any danger of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -any one), with an ear always awake for a -certain note, the “bleat,” so called, of the -woodcock. Should I hear it? It was fast -getting dark, the western sky covered with -black clouds (a great disadvantage), with -only scattered gleams of bright color, very -narrow, just on the horizon. Hark! Yes; -that was it—<i>Spneak</i>. There is no putting -the sound into letters, but those who know -the call of the nighthawk may understand -sufficiently well what I am trying to express, -for the two notes are almost identical.</p> - -<p>With this note, single, repeated for a considerable -time at intervals of perhaps half a -minute,—the bird still on the ground, and -turning about, so that some of his utterances -sound three or four times as far away as others,—with -this strange, unmusical, almost -ridiculous overture the woodcock invariably -introduces his evening recital. I wait, therefore, -leaning against the heavy stone wall, -costly and unromantic, with which the rich -new owner of the land has lately fenced his -possession, till all at once the silence is broken -by the familiar whistling noises made by -the heavy bird as he leaves the ground. This<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -time they are unusually faint, and are lost -almost immediately. Only for my acquaintance -with the matter I should assume that -the bird had flown away, and that my evening -was lost. As it is, I continue to listen. -Once and again I catch the sounds. The -fellow is still rising. I can see him, but only -in my mind’s eye. Those black clouds hide -him quite as effectually as if he were behind -them. Still I can see him. I know he has -gone up in a broad spiral—up, up, up, as -on a winding staircase.</p> - -<p>Now, after silence, begins a different sound, -more musical, more clearly vocal; breathless, -broken, eager, passionate, ecstatic. And now, -far aloft in the sky, where the clouds are of -a lighter color, I suddenly catch sight of the -bird, a dark speck, shooting this way and -that, descending in sharp zigzags, whistling -with his last gasps. And now, as if exhausted,—and -well he may be,—he drops -to earth (I see him come down) very near -me, much nearer than I had thought.</p> - -<p><i>Spneak</i>, he calls. I know exactly what is -coming. At intervals, just as before, he repeats -the sound, till suddenly he is on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -wing again, whistling as he goes. He flies -straight from me,—for this time, by good -luck, I see him as he starts,—and mounts -and mounts. Then, far, far up, he whistles, -<i>zip, zip</i>, and then, when he can stay no -longer, comes down in crazy zigzags.</p> - -<p>A wonderful display. If a man could be -as truly enraptured as the woodcock seems -to be, he would know the joys of the blest. -I wonder how many thousand Aprils this -cumbrous-looking, gross-looking, unpoetical-looking -bird has been disporting himself thus -at heaven’s gate. There must be a real soul -in a creature, no matter what his appearance, -who is capable of such transports and ravishments, -such marvelous upliftings, such mad -reaches after the infinite.</p> - -<p>I listen and wonder, and then come away, -meditating on what I have seen and heard. -The last of the small birds have fallen silent. -Only a few hylas are peeping as I -pass a cranberry meadow. Then, halfway -home, as the road traverses a piece of woods, -with a brook singing on one side, and the -moon peeping through fleecy clouds, suddenly -I halt. That was a screech owl’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> -voice, was it not? Yes; faint, tremulous, -sweet, a mere breath, the falling, quavering -strain again reaches my ear. The bird is -somewhere beyond the brook. I wonder -how far. Well up on the wooded hillside, -I think it likely. I put my hands behind -my ears and hearken. Again and again I -hear it; true music! music and poetry in -one; the voice of the night. But look! -What is that dark object just before me on -a low branch not two rods away? There is -no light with which to be sure of its outlines; -a tuft of dead leaves, perhaps; but it -is of a screech owl’s size. Another phrase. -Yes, it comes from that spot, or I am tricked. -And now the bird moves, and the next instant -takes wing. But he goes only a few -feet, and alights even nearer to me than -before. How soft his voice is! Almost -as soft as his flight. How different from -the woodcock’s panting, breathless whistle! -Though I can see him, and could almost -touch him, the tremulous measure might -still be coming from the depths of the wood. -I listen with all my ears, till an approaching -carriage turns a corner in the road below.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -I hope the owl will not mind; but as the -wheels come near he leaves his perch, flies -directly before my face (with no more noise -than if a feather were falling through the -air), and disappears in the forest opposite.</p> - -<p>Two good birds I have listened to. The -evening has been kind to me. Two birds? -nay, two poets: a poet in a frenzy, and a -poet dreaming.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">UNDER APRIL CLOUDS</h2> -</div> - - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Good-morning.</span>”</p> - -<p>“Ah, good-morning. How are you?”</p> - -<p>I was on what I suppose is habitually the -most crowded sidewalk in Boston, where -men in haste are always to be seen betaking -themselves to the street as the only means -of making headway. A hand was laid on -my shoulder. A business man, one of the -busiest, I should think he must be, had -come up behind me. He was looking happy. -Yes, he said, he was very well. “And yesterday,” -he continued, “I had a great pleasure. -I saw my first fox-colored sparrow, -and heard him sing.”</p> - -<p>No wonder his face shone. His condition -was enviable. The fox sparrow is a noble -bird, with a most musical voice, the prince -of all sparrows. To hear him for the first -time—if one does hear him—is a real -event. A man might well walk a crowded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -city sidewalk the next day and smile to himself -at the memory of such high fortune.</p> - -<p>After all, happiness is a good thing. Not -so desirable, perhaps, as a great office, or a -mint of money, but a pretty good thing, nevertheless. -It is encouraging, in these days -of far-sought pleasures and prodigal expense, -to see men get it at a low rate and on innocent -terms.</p> - -<p>For myself, I think I have never known -fox sparrows more plentiful than for the -past week. From our human point of view -their present migration has been eminently -favorable; from the birds’ point of view it -has probably been in the highest degree unfavorable, -the prolonged spell of cloudy and -rainy weather having made night flights difficult, -not to say impossible. The travelers -have been obliged to stay where the storm had -caught them, and we, at this intermediate -station, have profited by their misfortune.</p> - -<p>On the 7th I stood in the midst of as fine -a flock as a man could wish to see. A thick -cloud enveloped us; we might have been on -a mountain-top; but for the minute it had -ceased raining, and the birds were in a lively<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -mood. Sometimes as many as five or six -were singing together, while a chorus of -snowbirds trilled the prettiest of accompaniments; -a concert worthy of Easter or any -other festival.</p> - -<p>The weather has been of a kind to keep -night-traveling migrants here, I say; which is -as much as to say that it has been of a sort -to prevent other such birds from arriving. -There have been no bright nights, I think, -since April came in. So it happens, according -to my theory (which may be as sound or -as unsound as the reader pleases), that although -it is now the 10th of the month, -there has been, for my eye, no sign of chipper, -field sparrow, or vesper sparrow. How -should there be? How should such creatures -find their way, with the fog and the -rain blinding them night after night? No -doubt they are impatient to be at home again -in the old dooryards, the old savin-dotted -pastures, and the old hay-fields. By and by -the clouds will vanish, and they will hasten -northward in crowds. The night air will be -full of them, and the next day all outdoor, -bird-loving people will be in clover.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>Unfavorable as the weather is, however, -and against all probabilities, one cannot quite -forego seasonable expectations. I pass the -border of a grass field. A sparrow sings in -the distance, and I stop to listen. Could -that have been a vesper sparrow? The -song comes again. No; it begins a little in -the vesper’s manner; the opening measure -is unusually smooth and unemphatic; but -the bird is only a song sparrow. It is no -shrewder than Peter. Its speech bewrayeth -it.</p> - -<p>One kingfisher I have seen, shooting -through the misty air far aloft, his long -wings making him look at that height like -some seabird or wader. I remember when -the sight—not uncommon in spring—was -to me an insoluble mystery. As for calling -the bird a kingfisher, such a thought never -occurred to me. I knew the kingfisher well -enough, or imagined that I did, but not at -that altitude and flying in that strong, purposeful -manner. Yet even at such times he -commonly sounds his rattle before him, as -if he wished his identity and his whereabouts -to be known.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>I have seen also a single marsh hawk. -That was on the 9th, and the circumstances -of the case were ludicrous. I had stopped -to look down from a wooded hilltop into a -swampy pool, where ducks sometimes alight, -when I saw a white object moving rapidly -along the farther side of the swamp, now -visible, now hidden behind a veil of trees -and shrubbery. A road runs along that -border of the swamp, and I took this moving -white object for a bundle which a boy -was carrying upon a bicycle (making pretty -quick time), till suddenly I perceived that -it was only a marsh hawk’s rump! A redwing -had given chase to the hawk—mostly -for sport, I imagine, or just to keep his hand -in; for I do not suppose he could have had -any real grudge to settle. Probably this is -the first case on record in which a hawk was -ever mistaken for a wheelman.</p> - -<p>Two evenings ago I made a solitary excursion -to an extensive swamp and meadow, -hoping to witness, or at least to hear, the -aerial performance of the snipe. The air -was full of a Scotch mist, and the sky cloudy. -If the birds were there, and in a performing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -mood, they would be likely to get under way -in good season. I waded across the meadow -out of the sight of houses, and, having found -what seemed to be a promising position, I -took it and held it for perhaps an hour. But -I heard none of those strange, ghostly, swishing -noises that I was listening for. Perhaps -the birds had not yet arrived. Perhaps this -was not a snipe meadow.</p> - -<p>For a time robins and song sparrows made -music more or less remote, and an unseen -fox sparrow, nearer at hand, amused me -with excellent imitations of the brown -thrasher’s smacking kiss. Then, as it grew -really dark, I relinquished the hunt and -started homeward. And then the real music -began; for as I approached the highway I -heard the whistle of a woodcock, and presently -discovered that, for the first time in my -life, I was walking through what might be -called a veritable woodcock concert. Once -three birds were vocal together; one was -“bleating” on the right, another on the -left, while a third was at the very height of -his ecstasy overhead. For a mile or more I -walked under a shower of this incomparable,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> -indescribable music. It dropped into my ears -like rain from heaven.</p> - -<p>One bird was calling just over the roadside -wall. I stole nearer and nearer, taking -a few cautious steps after each bleat, till -finally I could hear the water dropping into -the hogshead. I wonder how many readers -will know what I mean by that. After each -call, as a kind of pendant to it, there comes, -if you are very, very close, a curious small -sound, exactly as if a drop of water (the -comparison is not mine) had fallen into a -hogshead already half full. I had not heard -it for years. In fact, I had forgotten it, -and heard it now for the first few times -without recollecting what it was.</p> - -<p>Then the bird rose—always invisible, of -course, for by this time there was no thought -of seeing anything—and went skyward in -broad circles, till he was at the top of his -flight, and when he descended he came to -earth on the other side of the road, a good -distance away. He had seen me, I suppose, -with those big bull’s-eyes of his, which do so -much to heighten the oddity of his personal -appearance.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>He was the last of his kind. For the rest -of my walk I heard no music except the -sweet whistling of hylas here and there, and -once, in a woodland pool, the grating chorus -of a set of wood frogs.</p> - -<p>Butterflies are waiting for sunshine—like -the rest of us; I have not seen so much -as an Antiopa; and the only wild flowers I -have yet picked are the pretty red blossoms -(pistillate blossoms) of the hazel; tiny -things, floral egrets, if you please to call -them so, of a lively and beautiful color. -Sunshine or no sunshine, they were in bloom -for Easter.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">FLYING SQUIRRELS AND SPADE-FOOT -FROGS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is pleasant to realize familiar truths anew; -to have it brought freshly to mind, for example, -how many forms of animal life there -are about us of which we seldom get so much -as a glimpse.</p> - -<p>In all my tramping over eastern Massachusetts -I have met with two foxes. One I -saw for perhaps the tenth part of a second, -the other for perhaps two or three seconds. -And probably my experience has not been -exceptional. In this one particular it would -be safe to wager that not one in ten of those -who read this article will be able to boast of -any great advantage over the man who wrote -it. Yet every raiser of poultry hereabout -will certify that foxes are by no means uncommon, -and I know a man living within -fifteen miles of the State House who, last -winter, by a kind of “still hunt”—without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -a dog—killed three foxes in as many successive -days. Reynard has fine gifts of invisibility, -but a man with foxes on his mind -will be likely to find them.</p> - -<p>This same near neighbor of mine takes -now and then an otter; only three or four -weeks ago he showed me the skin of one on -its stretching-board; and the otter is an animal -that I not only have never seen in this -part of the world, but never expect to see. -I haven’t that kind of an eye. As for muskrats, -the trapper takes them almost without -number; “rats,” he calls them; while to me -it is something like an event if once or twice -a year I happen to come upon one swimming -in a brook.</p> - -<p>Another of these seclusive races, that manage -to live close about us unespied by all -except the most inquisitive of their human -neighbors, is the race of flying squirrels. -Whether they are more or less common than -red squirrels, gray squirrels, and chipmunks, -it would be difficult to say; but while red -squirrels, gray squirrels, and chipmunks flit -before you wherever you go, you may haunt -the woods from year’s end to year’s end without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -seeing hide or hair of their interesting -cousin. Flying squirrels stir abroad after -dark; not because their deeds are evil (though -they are said to like small birds and birds’ -eggs), but because—well, as the wise old -nursery saw very conclusively puts it, because -“it is their nature to.”</p> - -<p>Several times during the past winter I -made attempts to see them (the story of one -of these attempts has been told in a previous -chapter), but always without success, though -twice I was taken to a nest that was known -to be in use. The other day I went to the -same place again, the friend who conducted -me having found a squirrel there that very -forenoon. He shook the tree, a small gray-birch, -with a nest of leaves and twigs perched -in its top, and out peeped the squirrel. -“See him?” said my friend. “Yes.” Then -he gave the tree a harder shake, and in a -moment the creature spread his “wings” -and sailed gracefully away, landing on the -trunk of an oak not far off, at about the -height of my head. There he clung, his large -handsome eye, full of a startled emotion, -fastened upon me. I wondered if he would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -let me put my hand on him; but as I approached -within three or four yards he -scrambled up the tree into the small branches -at the top. He was going to take another -flight, if the emergency seemed to call for it, -and the higher he could get, the better. The -oak was too big to be shaken, but a smaller -tree stood near it. This my companion -shook in the squirrel’s face, and again he -took flight. This time he passed squarely -over my head, showing a flat outspread surface -sailing through the air, looking not the -least in the world like a squirrel or any -other quadruped. Again he struck against -a trunk, and again he ran up into the treetop. -And again he was shaken off.</p> - -<p>Four times he flew, and then I protested -that I had seen enough and would not have -him molested further. We left him in a -maple-top, surrounded by handsome red -flower-clusters.</p> - -<p>The flight, even under such unnatural conditions, -is a really pretty performance, the -surprising thing about it being the ease and -grace with which the acrobat manages to -take an upward turn toward the end of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> -course, so as always to alight head uppermost -against the bole.</p> - -<p>It would be fun to see such a carnival as -Audubon describes, when two hundred or -more of the squirrels were at play in the -evening, near Philadelphia, running up the -trees and sailing away, like boys at the old -game of “swinging off birches.” “Scores of -them,” he says, “would leave each tree at -the same moment, and cross each other, gliding -like spirits through the air, seeming to -have no other object in view than to indulge -a playful propensity.”</p> - -<p>Compared with that, mine was a small -show; but it was so much better than nothing.</p> - -<p>Two mornings later (April 30) I was -walking up the main street of our village, -lounging along, waiting for an electric car to -overtake me, when I heard loud batrachian -voices from a field on my left hand. “Aha!” -said I, “the spade-foots are out again.” It -had occurred to me within a day or two that -this should be their season, if, as is believed, -their appearance above ground is conditioned -upon an unusual rainfall.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>Some years ago, when I was amusing myself -for a little with the study of toads and -frogs, checking Dr. J. A. Allen’s annotated -list of the Massachusetts batrachia, I became -very curious about this peculiar and little -understood species, known scientifically as -<i>Scaphiopus holbrookii</i>, or the solitary spade-foot. -It was originally described from South -Carolina, I read, and was first found in -Massachusetts, near Salem, about 1810. Its -cries were said to have been heard at a distance -of half a mile, and were mistaken for -those of young crows. For more than thirty -years afterward the frogs were noticed at this -place only three times. They were described -as burrowing in the ground, coming forth -only to spawn, and that, as far as could be -ascertained, at very irregular intervals, sometimes -many years in length.</p> - -<p>This, as I say, I read in Dr. Allen’s catalogue, -to the great sharpening of my curiosity. -If I ever heard such noises, I should -be prepared to guess at the author of them. -Well, some years afterward (it was almost -exactly eight years ago), fresh from a first -visit to Florida, where my ears had grown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span> -expectant of strange sounds (a great use of -travel), I stepped out of my door one evening -in late April, and was hardly in the -street before I heard somewhere ahead of -me a chorus of stentorian frog-notes. “That -should be the spade-foot’s voice,” I said to -myself, with full conviction. I hastened -forward, traced the tumult to a transient -pool in a field, and as I neared the place -picked up a board that lay in the grass, and -with it, by good fortune, turned the first -frog I came in sight of into a specimen. -This I sent to the batrachian specialist at -Cambridge, who answered me, as I knew he -would, that it was Scaphiopus.</p> - -<p>My spade-foots of yesterday morning -were in the same spot. I could not stay -then to look at them, for at that moment -the car came along. I left it at a favorite -place in the next township, and had gone a -mile or so on foot when from another transient -roadside pool I heard the spade-foot’s -voice again. This was most interesting. I -skirted the water, trying to get within reach -of one of the performers. The attempt was -unsuccessful; but in the course of it I saw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> -for the first time the creature in the act of -calling. And every time I saw him I -laughed. He lay stretched out at full length -upon the surface of the pool, floating high, -as if he were somehow peculiarly buoyant. -Then suddenly his hind parts dropped, his -head flew up, his enormous white, or pinkish-white, -vocal sac was instantaneously inflated -(like a white ball on the water), and the -grating call was given out; after which the -creature’s head dropped, his hinder parts -bobbed up into place (sometimes he was -nearly overset by the violence of the action), -and again he lay silent.</p> - -<p>This same ludicrous performance—which -by the watch was repeated every three or four -seconds—I observed more at length in the -other pool after my return. It seems to be -indulged in only so long as the frogs are -unmated. I took it for the call of the male, -the “lusty bachelor.” At the same moment -couples lay here and there upon the water, -all silent as dead men.</p> - -<p>That was yesterday afternoon. At night, -as had been true the evening previous (the -neighbors in at least four of the nearer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> -houses having noticed the uproar), the chorus -was loud. I could hear it from my window, -perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. This -morning there is no sign of batrachian life -about the place. Within a very short time—long -before the tadpoles, which will be -hatched in two or three days, can possibly -have matured—the pool will in the ordinary -course of nature have dried up, and all -those eggs will have gone to waste.</p> - -<p>A strange life it seems. What do the -frogs live on underground? Why do they -omit, year after year, to come forth and lay -their eggs? Do they wait to be drowned -out, and then (like thrifty farmers, who improve -a wet season in which to marry) proceed -to perpetuate the species?</p> - -<p>These and many other questions it would -be easy to ask. Especially one would like -to read from the inside the story of the life -and adventures of the young, which grow -from the egg to maturity—through tadpole -to frog—without seeing father or mother. -What a little we know! And how few are -the things we see!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE WARBLERS ARE COMING</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">They</span> are a grand army. The Campbells -are nowhere in the comparison, whether for -numbers or looks. And this is their month. -Let us all go out to see them and cry them -welcome.</p> - -<p>They are late, most exceptionally so. I -have never known anything to match it. -Brave travelers as they are (some of them, -yes, many of them, are on a three or four -thousand mile journey; and a long flight it -is for a five-inch bird, from South America -to the arctic circle)—brave travelers as -they are, they cannot contend against the -inevitable, and our April weather, this year, -was too much even for a bird’s punctuality.</p> - -<p>The yellow warbler, for example, one of -the prettiest of the tribe, is by habit one of -the truest to his schedule. In any ordinary -season he may be confidently expected to -arrive in our Boston country on the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> -day of May. If conditions favor his passage, -he may even anticipate the date, perhaps -by forty-eight hours. This year not a -yellow warbler was to be seen up to May 6. -Then, between the evening of the 6th and -the morning of the 7th, the birds dropped -into their accustomed places, and in the -early forenoon, when I went out to look for -them, they were singing as cheerily as if they -had never been away. With nothing but -their wits and their wings to depend upon, -I thought they had done exceedingly well. -To me, on such terms, South America would -seem a very long way off.</p> - -<p>The same night brought the Nashville -warblers. On the 6th not one was visible, -for I made it my business to look. On the -morning of the 7th I had no need to search -for them. In all the old haunts, among the -pitch-pines and the gray-birches, they were -flitting about and singing, as fresh as larks -and as lively as crickets. They, too, have -come from the tropics, and will go as far -north, some of them, as “Labrador and the -fur countries.” A bold spirit may live under -a few feathers.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>With them, I am pretty sure, came a -goodly detachment of myrtle warblers (yellow-rumps), -though the advance guards of -that host (two birds were all that fell under -my eye) were seen on the 18th of April. -The great host is still to come; for the -myrtles <i>are</i> a host,—a multitude that no -man can number. As I listen to their soft, -dreamy trill on these fair spring mornings, -when the tall valley willows are all in their -earliest green,—a sight worth living for,—I -seem sometimes to be for the moment on -the heights of the White Mountains. Well -I remember how much I enjoyed their quiet -breath of song on the snowy upper slopes of -Mt. Moosilauke in May a year ago. For the -myrtle, notwithstanding his name, is a great -lover of knee-high spruces.</p> - -<p>He is a lovely bird, wherever he lives, and -it is good to see him flourish, though by so -doing he forfeits the peculiar charm of novelty. -Everything considered, I am bound -to say, that is not so regrettable a loss. If -he were as scarce as some of his relatives, -every collector’s hand would be against him. -Czars and rare birds must pay the price.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>The first member of the family to make -his appearance with me this spring was the -pine warbler. He was trilling in a pine -grove (his name is one of the few that fit) on -April 17. “The warblers are coming,” he -said. Not so pronounced a beauty as many -of his tribe, he is one of the most welcome. -He braves the season, and with his lack of -distinguishing marks and his preference for -pine-tops, he offers an instructive deal of puzzlement -to beginners in ornithology. His -song is simplicity itself, and, rightly or -wrongly, always impresses me as the coolest -of the cool.</p> - -<p>I stood the other day between a pine warbler -and a thrasher. The thrasher sang -like one possessed. He might have been -crazy, beside himself with passion. Operatic -composers, aiming at something new -and brilliant in the way of a “mad scene,” -should borrow a leaf out of the planting -bird’s repertory. The house would “come -down,” I could warrant. The pine warbler -sang as one hums a tune at his work. -Among birds, as among humans, it takes all -kinds to make a world.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>After the advent of the myrtle warblers, -on April 18, eleven days elapsed with no -new arrivals, so far as I discovered, except -a few chipping sparrows, first seen on the -23d! The weather was doing its worst. -Then, on the 29th, I saw three yellow palm -warblers. They were singing, as they -usually are at this season—singing and -wagging their tails, and incidentally putting -me in mind of Florida, where in winter -they are seen of every one. It is noticeable -that these three earliest of the warblers all -have, by way of song, a brief trill. Very -much alike the three efforts are, yet clearly -enough distinguished, if one hears them -often enough. The best and least of them -is the myrtle’s, I being judge.</p> - -<p>The yellow palm warbler ought to be a -Southerner of the Southerners, one would -say, from his tropical appellation; but the -truth is that he makes his home from Nova -Scotia northward, and visits the land of -palms only in the cold season. He is a -low-keeping bird (for a warbler), much on -the ground, very bright in color, and well -marked by a red crown, from which he is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -often called the yellow redpoll. If he could -only keep his tail still!</p> - -<p>Next in order was the black-throated -green (May 4), which, take him for all in -all, is perhaps my favorite of the whole -family. He is the bird of the white pine, -as the pine warbler is the bird of the pitch-pine. -And now we have a real song; no -longer a simple trill, but a highly characteristic, -sweetly modulated tune—or two -tunes, rather, perfectly distinguished one -from the other, and equally charming. If -the voice is rough, it is sweetly and musically -rough. I would not for anything have -it different.</p> - -<p>What a vexatiously pleasant time I had, -years ago, in tracing the voice home to its -author! How vividly I remember the day -when I lay flat on my face in a woodland -path, opera-glass in hand, a manual open -before me, and the bird singing at intervals -from a pine tree opposite; and a neighbor, -who had known me from boyhood, coming -suddenly down the path. I may err in my -recollection (it was long ago), but I think -I heard the music for weeks before I satisfied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -myself as to the identity of the singer. -“Trees, trees, murmuring trees:” so I once -translated the first of the two songs; and -to this day I do not see how to improve -upon the version. He is talking of the -Weymouth pine, I like to believe.</p> - -<p>Black-and-white creeping warblers have -been common since the 4th (under normal -weather conditions they should have been -here a fortnight sooner), and on the 6th the -oven-bird took possession of the drier woods. -He looks very little like a warbler, but those -who ought to know whereof they speak class -him with that family. I have not yet heard -his flight song, but he has no idea of keeping -silence. As is true of every real artist, -he is in love with his part. With what a -daintily self-conscious grace he walks the -boards! It is a kind of music to watch -him. He makes me think continually of the -little ghost in Mrs. Slosson’s story. Like -that insubstantial reality he is always saying: -“Don’t you want to hear me speak my -piece?” And whether the answer is yes or -no, it is no matter—over he goes with it.</p> - -<p>Yesterday my first blue yellow-back was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -singing, and to-day (May 8) the first chestnut-sides -are with me. And there are numbers -to follow. From now till the end of -the month they will be coming and going—a -procession of beauty. In my mind I can -already see them: the gorgeous redstart, -the lovely blue golden-wing, the splendid -magnolia, and the more splendid Blackburnian, -the Cape May (a “seldom pleasure”), -and the multitudinous blackpoll—these -and many others that are no less -worthy. At this time of the year a man -should have nothing to do but to live in the -sun and look at the passing show.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">INDEX</h2> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -<p class="ph3">INDEX</p> -</div> - -<p> -Alder, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">black, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Anemone, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Apple, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Arbutus, trailing, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Asters, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Azalea, swamp, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Barberry, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Bayberry, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Beech, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Bees, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Birch, sweet, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Bittern, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">least, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Bitternut, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Blackbird, crow, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">red-winged, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">rusty, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Blackberry, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Bladderwort, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Blueberry, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Bluebird, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Bobolink, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Butter-and-eggs, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Butterflies, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Canna, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Catbird, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Catnip, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Cat-tail, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Cedar, red, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Checkerberry, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a><br /> -<br /> -Cherry, rum, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Chestnut, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Chewink, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Chickadee, black-capped, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Chicory, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Chipmunk, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Chokecherry, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Clethra, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Clover, rabbit-foot, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Coffee-tree, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Columbine, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Corn, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Cornel, dwarf, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Cowbird, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Cowslip, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Creeper, brown, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Crickets, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Crossbill, red, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">white-winged, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Crow, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Dahlia, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Dangleberry, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Desmodium nudiflorum, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Duck, dusky, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Finch, Lincoln, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span><br /> -<span class="indent">pine, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">purple, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Flicker, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Flycatcher, least, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Forsythia, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Fox, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Frog, spade-foot, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">wood, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Frost grape, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Galium, yellow, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Gallinule, Florida, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Gerardia, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Goldenrod, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Goldfinch, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Goose, Canada, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Grass, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Grosbeak, rose-breasted, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Grouse, ruffed, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Gull, black-backed, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">herring, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Hardhack, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Hawk, red-shouldered, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">marsh, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Heron, great blue, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">green, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">night, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Holly, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Huckleberry, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Hummingbird, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Indigo-bird, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Jay, blue, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Jewel-weed, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Joe Pye weed, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Kingbird, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Kingfisher, <a href="#Page_253">253</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Kinglet, golden-crowned, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Lady’s-slipper, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Lark, shore, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">meadow, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Leucothoë, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Loosestrife, swamp, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Lucky-bug, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Maple, red, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">striped, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Maryland yellow-throat, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Mayweed, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Meadow-beauty, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Meadow-sweet, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Morning-glory, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Mullein, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Muskrat, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Nuthatch, red-breasted, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">white-breasted, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Old-maid’s pinks, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Old Squaw, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Oriole, Baltimore, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Otter, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Oven-bird, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Owl, screech, <a href="#Page_248">248</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Partridge-berry, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Pennyroyal, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Phœbe, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Pickerel-weed, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Pine, pitch, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Plover, black-bellied, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Quail, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span><br /> -<br /> -Quince, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Rail, Carolina, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">Virginia, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Raspberry, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Redpoll, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Redstart, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Robin, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Rose, swamp, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Sandpiper, pectoral, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">red-backed, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">white-rumped, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Sassafras, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Saxifrage, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Shadbush, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Shrike, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Snipe, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Snowbird, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Sparrow, chipping, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_271">271</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">English, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">field, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">fox, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">grasshopper, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">Ipswich, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">savanna, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">song, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_253">253</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">swamp, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">tree, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">vesper, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_253">253</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">white-throated, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Spatter-dock, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Spice-bush, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Squirrel, gray, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">flying, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">red, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Swallow, barn, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">tree, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Swift, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Tanager, scarlet, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Thimbleberry, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Thorn, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Thoroughwort, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Thrasher, brown, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_270">270</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Thrush, northern water, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">Swainson, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">wood, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Titlark, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Veery, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Vireo, Philadelphia, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">red-eyed, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">solitary, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">warbling, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">yellow-throated, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Warbler, black-and-white, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">Blackburnian, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">blackpoll, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">black-throated blue, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">black-throated green, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_272">272</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">blue golden-winged, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">Canadian, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">Cape May, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">chestnut-sided, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">golden, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">magnolia, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">myrtle, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_269">269</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">Nashville, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">parula (blue yellow-backed), <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">pine, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_270">270</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">prairie, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">yellow palm, <a href="#Page_271">271</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Waxwing, cedar, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Waxwork, Roxbury, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Woodchuck, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span><br /> -<br /> -Woodcock, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Woodpecker, downy, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>.<br /> -<span class="indent">hairy, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</span><br /> -<span class="indent">red-headed, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</span><br /> -<br /> -Wood pewee, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>.<br /> -<br /> -Wren, long-billed marsh, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Yellow-legs, greater, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>.<br /> -</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - - - - - -<p class="center"> -<span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press</span><br /> -<i>Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.<br /> -Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.</i></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">FOOTNOTES:</h2> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> 1900.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> The formal record will be found in the <i>Auk</i>, vol. -xviii. p. 394.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> How fallible a thing is a man’s memory! The wrapper -was not yellow, but green. Yellow was for lemon. -So more than one friendly correspondent has made haste -to inform me, and the venerable shopkeeper himself has -sent me a roll of the “lossengers” to prove it. 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