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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-25 09:26:44 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-25 09:26:44 -0800 |
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diff --git a/old/69774-h/69774-h.htm b/old/69774-h/69774-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 760851f..0000000 --- a/old/69774-h/69774-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9578 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html lang="en"> -<head> - <meta charset="UTF-8"> - <title> - Nature's invitation, by Bradford Torrey—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> - <style> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; - font-size: 125%; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tiny {width: 10%; margin-left: 45%; margin-right: 45%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} -h3.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - -.tdr {text-align: right;} - -a {text-decoration: none;} - -.hangingindent {text-indent: -1em; } - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; - text-indent: 0; -} - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { - margin-left: 7.5%; - margin-right: 7.5%; -} - -.bbox {border: 2px solid; padding: 2em;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.indexindent {margin-left: 1em;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} - -.xxlarge {font-size: 200%;} -.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} -.large {font-size: 125%;} - -.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.footnote {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 75%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: - none; -} - -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} - -@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } -.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block; margin-left: 3em;} - -.antiqua { - font-family: Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Old English Text MT", "Olde English Mt", "Olde English", Gothic, serif, sans-serif;} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; - padding: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - -</style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nature's invitation, by Bradford Torrey</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Nature's invitation</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>Notes of a bird-gazer, North and South</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Bradford Torrey</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 12, 2023 [eBook #69774]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NATURE'S INVITATION ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="antiqua">Books by Mr. Torrey.</span></p> - -<hr class="tiny"> -<div class="hangingindent"> -<p>NATURE’S INVITATION. 16mo, $1.10, <i>net.</i><br> -Postage extra.</p> - -<p>THE CLERK OF THE WOODS. 16mo,<br> -$1.10, <i>net.</i> Postpaid, $1.20.</p> - -<p>FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA. 16mo, $1.10,<br> -<i>net.</i> Postpaid, $1.19.</p> - -<p>EVERYDAY BIRDS. Elementary Studies.<br> -With twelve colored Illustrations reproduced<br> -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,<br> -$1.25.</p> - -<p>A FLORIDA SKETCH-BOOK. 16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>SPRING NOTES FROM TENNESSEE.<br> -16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>A WORLD OF GREEN HILLS. 16mo, $1.25.</p> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="center">HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.<br> -<span class="smcap">Boston and New York.</span></p> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1>NATURE’S INVITATION</h1> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page.jpg" alt=""></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<p><span class="xxlarge">NATURE’S INVITATION</span></p> - -<p><span class="xlarge">NOTES OF A BIRD-GAZER<br> -NORTH AND SOUTH</span><br> - -<p>BY<br> -<span class="large">BRADFORD TORREY</span></p> - -<p>“On Nature’s invitation do I come.”—<span class="smcap">Wordsworth.</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page_logo.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"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center">COPYRIGHT 1904 BY BRADFORD TORREY<br> -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br> -<br> -<i>Published October 1904</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">PREFATORY NOTE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p><span class="smcap">Of</span> the chapters here brought together the two -longest, the first and the last, are reprinted from -the “Atlantic Monthly.” The others were originally -contributed, by way of weekly letters, to -three newspapers,—the “Evening Transcript” -of Boston, and the “Mail and Express” and the -“Evening Post” of New York.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[vii]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> -<hr class="tiny"> - -<table> - -<tr><th colspan="2">NEW HAMPSHIRE</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A May Visit to Moosilauke</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_3"> 3</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Week on Mount Washington</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_32"> 32</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Above the Birds</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_41"> 41</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mountain-Top and Valley</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50"> 50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">In the Mount Lafayette Forest</span>   </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57"> 57</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">On Bald Mountain</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Birds and Bright Leaves</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72"> 72</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2">FLORIDA</th></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">First Impressions of Miami</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_83"> 83</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Frosty Morning</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_89"> 89</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Bewilderment</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96"> 96</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Waiting for the Music</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_104"> 104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Peripatetic Botany</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_111"> 111</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Peep at the Everglades</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_120"> 120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Beginnings of Spring</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_128"> 128</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Fair Ormond</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_136"> 136</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Day in the Woods</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_142"> 142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Picture and Song</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_151"> 151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2">TEXAS AND ARIZONA</th></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">In Old San Antonio</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_161"> 161</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Bird-Gazer’s Puzzles</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171"> 171</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Luck on the Prairie</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_179"> 179</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Over the Border</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_188"> 188</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">First Days in Tucson</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_196"> 196</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mobbed in Arizona</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_205"> 205</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">An Idle Afternoon</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_215"> 215</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Shy Life in the Desert</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_224"> 224</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A New Acquaintance</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_233"> 233</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Desert Rejoices</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_242"> 242</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Nests and Other Matters</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_251"> 251</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Flycatcher and a Sparrow</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_259"> 259</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Bunch of Bright Birds</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_266"> 266</a></td></tr> -<tr><td colspan="2"> </td></tr> -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Index</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_295"> 295</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">NEW HAMPSHIRE</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -<h3 class="nobreak">A MAY VISIT TO MOOSILAUKE</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> a man sets forth on an out-of-door pleasure -jaunt, his prayer is for weather. If he is going -to the mountains, let him double his urgency. -In the mountains, if nowhere else, weather is -three fifths of life.</p> - -<p>My first trip to New Hampshire the present -season<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> was made under smooth, high clouds, -which left the distance clear, so that the mountains -stood up grandly beyond the lake as we -ran along its western border. Not a drop of -rain fell till I stepped off the car at Warren. -At that moment the world grew suddenly dark, -and before I could get into the open carriage the -clouds burst, and with a rattling of thunder bolts -a deluge of rain and hail descended upon us. -There was no contending with such an adversary, -though a good woman across the way, commiserating -our plight, came to the door with proffers of -an umbrella. I retreated to the station, while the -driver hastened down the street to put his team -under shelter. So a half hour passed. Then we -tried again, and half frozen, in spite of a winter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -overcoat and everything that goes with it (the -date was May 17), I reached my destination, five -miles away, at the foot of Moosilauke.</p> - -<p>All this would hardly deserve narration, perhaps -(the story of travelers’ discomforts being -mostly matter for skipping), only that it marked -the setting in of a cold, rainy “spell” that hung -upon us for four days. Four sunless days out of -seven was a proportion fairly to be complained -of. The more I consider it, the truer seems the -equation just now stated, that mountain weather -is three fifths of life. For those four days I did -not even <i>see</i> Moosilauke, though we were living, -so to speak, upon its shoulder, and I knew by -hearsay that the summit house was visible from -the back doorstep.</p> - -<p>My first brief walk before supper should reasonably -have been in the clearer valley country; -but if reason spoke inclination did not hear it, -and my feet—which seem to feel that they are -old enough by this time to know their master’s -business for him—took of their own motion an -opposite course. The mountain woods, as I entered -them, had the appearance of early March: -only the merest sprinkling of new life,—clintonia -leaves especially, with here and there a -round-leaved violet, both leaves and flowers,—upon -a ground still all defaced by the hand of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> -Winter. Dead leaves make an agreeable carpet, -as they rustle cheerfully-sadly under one’s feet in -autumn; but there was no rustle here; the snow -had pressed every leaf flat and left it sodden. -One thing consoled me: I had not arrived too -late. The “bud-crowned spring,” for all my -fears, was yet to “go forth.”</p> - -<p>The next morning it was not enough to say that -<i>it</i> was cloudy. That impersonal expression would -have been quite below the mark. <i>We</i> were -cloudy. In short, the cloud was literally around -us and upon us. As I stepped out of doors, a -rose-breasted grosbeak was singing in one direction, -and a white-throated sparrow in another, -both far away in the mist. It was strange they -should be so happy, I was ready to say. But I -bethought myself that their case was no different -from my own. It was comparatively clear just -about me, while the fog shut down like a curtain -a rod or two away, leaving the rest of the world -dark. So every bird stood in a ring of light, an -illuminated chantry all his own,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">And sang for joy, good Christian bird,</div> -<div class="verse">To be thus marked and favored.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Strange had he <i>not</i> been happy. To be blest -above one’s fellows is to be blest twice over.</p> - -<p>This time I took the downward road, turning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -to the left, and found myself at once in pleasant -woods, with hospitable openings and bypaths; a -birdy spot, or I was no prophet, though just now -but few voices were to be heard, and those of the -commonest. Here stood new-blown anemones, -bellworts, and white violets, an early flock, with -one painted trillium lording it over them; a small -specimen of its kind, but big enough to be king -(or shepherd) in such company. A brook, or -perhaps two, with the few birds, sang about me, -invisible. I knew not whither I was going, and -the all-embracing cloud deepened the mystery. -Soon the road took a sudden dip, and a louder -noise filled my ears. I was coming to a river? -Yes, for presently I was on the bridge, with a -raging mountain torrent, eighty feet, perhaps, -underneath, foaming against the boulders; a -bare, perpendicular cliff on one side, and perpendicular -spruces and hemlocks draping a similar -cliff on the other side. It was Baker’s River, I -was told afterward,—the same that I had looked -at here and there, the day before, from the car -window. It was good to see it so young and exuberant; -but even a young river need not be so -much in haste, I thought. It would get to the -sawmills soon enough, and by and by would -learn, too late, that it is only a little way to the -sea.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>Once over the bridge, the road climbed quickly -out of the narrow gorge, and at the first turn -brought me in sight of a small painted house, -with a small orchard of thrifty-looking small -trees behind it. Here a venerable collie came -running forth to bark at the stranger, but yielded -readily to the usual blandishments, and after -sniffing again and again at my heels, just to -make sure of knowing me the next time, went -back, contented, to lie down in his old place before -the window. He was the only person that -spoke to me—the only one I met—during -the forenoon, though I spent it all on the highway.</p> - -<p>Another patch of woods, where a distant -Canadian nuthatch is calling (strange how I -love that nasal, penetrating, far-reaching voice, -whose quality my reasoning taste condemns), -and I see before me another house, standing in -broad acres of cleared land. This one is not -painted, and, as I presently make out, is uninhabited, -its old tenant gone, dead or discouraged, -and no new one looked for; an “abandoned -farm,” such as one grows used to seeing in our -northern country. It is beautiful for situation, -one of those sightly places which the city-worn -passer-by in a mountain wagon pitches upon at -once as just the place he should like to buy and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -retire to—<i>some</i> day; in that autumn of golden -leisure of which, now and then,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“When all his active powers are still,”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>he has a pleasing vision. Oh yes, he means to -do something of that kind—some day; and even -while he talks of it he knows in his heart that -“some day” is only another name for “next day -after never.”</p> - -<p>A few happy barn swallows (wise enough, or -simple enough, to be happy <i>now</i>) go skimming -over the grass, and a pair of robins and a pair -of bluebirds seem to be at home in the orchard; -which they like none the worse, we may be sure,—the -bluebirds, especially,—because, along -with the house and the barn, it is falling into -decay. What are apple trees for, but to grow -old and become usefully hollow? Otherwise they -would be no better than so many beeches or -butternuts. It is impossible but that every creature -should look at the world through its own -eyes; and no bluebird ever ate an apple. A -purple finch warbles ecstatically, a white-throated -sparrow whistles in the distance, and now and -then, from far down the slope, I catch the upliftings -of a hermit thrush.</p> - -<p>A man grows thoughtful, not to say sentimental, -in such a place, surrounded by fields on -which so many years of human labor have been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -spent, so much ploughing and harrowing, planting -and reaping, now given up again to nature. -Here was the garden patch, its outlines still -traceable. Here was the well. Long lines of -stone wall still separate the mowing land from -the pasturage; and scattered over the fields are -heaps of boulders, thrown together thus to get -them out of the grass’s way. About the edges -of every pile, and sometimes through the midst, -have sprung up a few shrubs,—shad bushes, -cherries, willows, and the like. Here they escape -the scythe, as we are all trying to do. “Give us -room that we may dwell!”—so these children -of Zion cry. It is the great want of seeds, so -many millions of which go to waste annually in -every acre,—a place in which to take root and -(harder yet) to keep it. And the birds, too, find -the boulder heaps a convenience. I watch a savanna -sparrow as he flits from one to another, -stopping to sing a measure or two from each. -Even this humble, almost voiceless artist needs -a stage or platform. The lowliest sparrow ever -hatched has some rudiments of a histrionic faculty; -and be we birds or humans, it is hard to -do one’s best without a bit of posing.</p> - -<p>What further uses these humble stone heaps -may serve I cannot say; no doubt they shelter -many insects; but it is encouraging to consider<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -how few things a farmer can do that will not be -of benefit to others beside himself. Surely the -man who piled these boulders for the advantage -of his hay crop never expected them to serve as -a text for preaching.</p> - -<p>The cloud drops again, and is at its old trick -of exaggeration. A bird that I take for a robin -turns out to be a sparrow. Did it look larger -because it seemed to be farther away than it really -was? Or is it seen now as it actually is, my -vision not being deceived, but rather corrected -of an habitual error? The fog makes for me a -newer and stranger world, at any rate; I am -farther from home because of it; another day’s -travel might have done less for me. And for all -that, I am not sorry when it rises again, and the -hills come out. How beautiful they are! They -will hardly be more so, I think, when the June -foliage replaces the square miles of bare boughs -which now give them a blue-purple tint, interrupted -here and there by patches of new yellow-green -poplar leaves—a veritable illumination, -sun-bright even in this sunless weather—or a -few sombre evergreens.</p> - -<p>As I get away from the farm, the mountain -woods on either side seem to be filled with something -like a chorus of rose-breasted grosbeaks. -Except for a few days at Highlands, North Carolina,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -some years ago, I have never seen so many -together. A grand “migratory wave” must have -broken on the mountains within a night or two. -As far as music is concerned, the grosbeaks have -the field mostly to themselves, though a grouse -beats his drum at short intervals, and now and -then a white-throat whistles. There is no bird’s -voice to which a fog is more becoming, I say to -myself, with a pleasing sense of having said -something unintended. To my thinking, the -white-throat should always be a good distance -away (perhaps because in the mountains one -grows accustomed to hearing him thus); and -the fog puts him there, with no damage to the -fullness of his tone.</p> - -<p>Looking at the flowers along the wayside,—a -few yellow violets, a patch of spring-beauties, -and little else,—my eye falls upon what seems -to be a miniature forest of curious tiny plants -growing in the gutter. At first I see only the -upright, whitish stalks, an inch or two in height, -each bearing at the top a globular brown knob. -Afterward I discover that the stalks, which, examined -more closely, have a crystalline, glassy -appearance, spring from a leaf-like or lichen-like -growth, lying prostrate upon the wet soil. The -plant is a liverwort, or scale-moss, of some kind, -I suppose, and is growing here by the mile. How<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -few are the things we see! And of those we see, -how few there are concerning which we have any -real knowledge,—enough, even, to use words -about them! (When a man can do that concerning -any class of natural objects, no matter what -they are or what he says about them, he passes -with the crowd for a scholar, or at the very least -a “close observer.”) But to tell the shameful -truth, my mood just now is not inquisitive. I -should like to know? Yes; but I can get on -without knowing. There are worse things than -ignorance. Let this plant be what it will. I -should be little the wiser for being able to name -it.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> I have no body of facts to which to attach -this new one; and unrelated knowledge is almost -the same as none at all. At best it is quickly -forgotten. So my indolence excuses itself.</p> - -<p>The road begins to climb rather sharply. Unless -I am going to the top of the ridge and -beyond, I have gone far enough. So I turn my -back upon the mountain; and behold, the cloud -having lifted again, there, straight before me -down the road and across the valley, is the -house from which I set out, almost or quite the -only one in sight. After all, I have walked but -a little way, though I have been a good while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -about it; for I have hardly begun my return -before I find myself again approaching the -abandoned farm. Downhill miles are short. -Here a light shower comes on, and I raise my -umbrella. Then follows a grand excitement -among a flock of sheep, whose day, perhaps, -needs enlivening as badly as my own. They -gaze at the umbrella, start away upon the gallop, -stop again to look (“There are forty looking -like one,” I say to myself), and are again -struck with panic. This time they scamper -down the field out of sight. Another danger -escaped! Shepherds, it is evident, cannot be so -effeminate as to carry umbrellas.</p> - -<p>Two heifers are of a more confiding disposition, -coming close to look at the stranger as he -sits on the doorsill of the old barn. Their curiosity -concerning me is perhaps about as lively -as mine was touching the supposed liverworts. -Like me they stand and consider, but betray no -unmannerly eagerness. “Who is he, I wonder?” -they might be saying; “I never saw him -before.” But their jaws still move mechanically, -and their beautiful eyes are full of a peaceful -satisfaction. A cud must be a great alleviation -to the temper. With such a perennial sedative, -how could any one ever be fretted into nervous -prostration? As a matter of fact, I am told,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -cows rarely or never suffer from that most distressing -ailment. I have seen chewers of gum -before now who, by all signs, should have enjoyed -a similar immunity.</p> - -<p>While the heifers are still making up their -minds about their unexpected visitor, I turn to -examine a couple of white-crowned sparrows, -male and female,—I wonder if they really <i>are</i> -a couple?—feeding before the house. I hope -the species is to prove common here. Three -birds were behind the hotel before breakfast, -and one of them sang. The quaint little medley, -sparrow song and warbler song together, is still -something of an event with me, I have heard it -so seldom and like it so well; and whether the -birds sing or not, they are musical to look at.</p> - -<p>When I approach the painted house, on my -way homeward, the fat old collie comes running -out again, barking. This time, however, he -takes but one sniff. He has made a mistake, -and realizes it at once. “Oh, excuse me,” he -says quite plainly. “I didn’t recognize you. -You’re the same old codger. I ought to have -known.” And he is so confused and ashamed -that he hurries away without waiting to make -up.</p> - -<p>It is a great mortification to a gentlemanly -dog to find himself at fault in this manner. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -remember another collie, much younger than -this one, with whom I once had a minute or two -of friendly intercourse. Then, months afterward, -I went again by the house where he lived, and -he came dashing out with all fierceness, as if he -would rend me in pieces. I let him come (there -was nothing else to do, or nothing else worth -doing), but the instant his nose struck me he -saw his error. Then, in a flash, he dropped flat -on the ground, and literally licked my shoes. -There was no attitude abject enough to express -the depth of his humiliation. And then, like the -dog of this morning, he jumped up, and ran -with all speed back to his doorstep.</p> - -<p>Another descent into the gorge of Baker’s -River, and another stop on the bridge (how -gloriously the water comes down!), and I am -again in the pretty, broken woods below the -hotel. Here my attention is attracted by an -almost prostrate but still vigorous yellow birch, -like the one that stood for so many years by the -road below the Profile House, in the Franconia -Notch. Somehow the tree got an awkward slant -in its youth, and has always kept it, while the -larger branches have grown straight upward, at -right angles with the trunk, as if each were trying -to be a tree on its own account. The Franconia -Notch specimen became a landmark, and was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -really of no inconsiderable service; a convenience -to the hotel proprietors, and a means of health -to idle boarders, who needed an incentive to exercise. -“Come, let’s walk down as far as the bent -tree,” one would say to another. The average -American cannot stroll; he has never learned; -if he puts his legs in motion, he must go to -some fixed point, though it be only a milestone -or a huckleberry bush. The infirmity is most -likely congenital, a taint in the blood. The -fathers worked,—all honor to them,—having -to earn their bread under hard conditions; and -the children, though they may dress like the -descendants of princes, cannot help turning even -their amusements into a stint.</p> - -<p>And the sapient critic? Well, instead of -carrying a fishing rod or walking to a bent tree, -he had come out with an opera-glass, and had -made of his morning jaunt a bird-cataloguing -expedition. Considered in that light, the trip -had not been a brilliant success. In my whole -forenoon I had seen and heard but twenty-eight -species. If I had stayed in my low-country village, -and walked half as far, I should have -counted twice as many. But I should not have -enjoyed myself one quarter as well.</p> - -<p>The next day and the next were rainy, with -Moosilauke still invisible. Then came a morning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -of sunshine and clear atmosphere. So far it -was ideal mountain weather; but the cold wind -was so strong at our level that it was certain -to be nothing less than a hurricane at the top. -I waited, therefore, twenty-four hours longer. -Then, at quarter before seven on the morning -of May 23, I set out. I am as careful of my -dates, it seems, as if I had been starting for the -North Pole. And why not? The importance of -an expedition depends upon the spirit in which it -is undertaken. Nothing is of serious consequence -in this world except as subjective considerations -make it so. Even the North Pole is only an -imaginary point, the end of an imaginary line, -as old geographies used to inform us, pleonastically,—as -if “position without dimensions,” -a something without length, breadth, or thickness, -could be other than imaginary. I started, -then, at quarter before seven. Many years ago -I had been taken up the mountain road in a carriage; -now I would travel it on foot, spending -at least an hour upon each of its five miles, and -so see something of the mountain itself, as well -as of the prospect from the summit.</p> - -<p>The miles, some longer, some shorter, as I -thought (a not unpleasant variety, though the -fourth stage was excessively spun out, it seemed -to me, perhaps to make it end at the spring),<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -are marked off by guideboards, so that the newcomer -need not fall into the usual disheartening -mistake of supposing himself almost at the top -before he has gone halfway. As for the first -mile, which must measure near a mile and a half, -and which ends just above the “second brook” -(every mountain path has its natural waymarks), -I had been over it twice within the last few days, -so that the edge of my curiosity was dulled; but, -with one excuse and another, I managed easily -enough to give it its allotted hour. For one -thing, a hairy woodpecker detained me five or ten -minutes, putting such tremendous vigor into his -hammering that I was positively certain (with -a shade of uncertainty, nevertheless, such as all -“observers” will understand; there is nothing -so true as a paradox) that he must be a <i>pileatus</i>, -till at last he showed himself. “Well, well,” said -I, “guesswork is a poor dependence.” It was -well I had stayed by. The forest was so nearly -deserted, so little animated, that I felt under obligation -to the fellow for every stroke of his mallet. -Though a man goes to the wood for silence, -his ear craves some natural noises,—enough, at -least, to make the stillness audible.</p> - -<p>The second mile is of steeper grade than the -first, and toward the close brought me suddenly -to a place unlike anything that had gone before.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -I named it at once the Flower Garden. For an -acre, or, more likely, for two or three acres, the -ground—a steep southern exposure, held up to -face the sun—was covered with plants in bloom: -Dutchman’s-breeches (<i>Dicentra cucullaria</i>),—bunches -of heart-shaped, cream-white flowers -with yellow facings, looking for all the world -as if they had been planted there; round-leaved -violets in profusion; white violets (<i>blanda</i>); -spring-beauties; adder’s-tongue (dog’s-tooth violet); -and painted trillium. A pretty show; pretty -in itself, and a thousand times prettier for being -happened upon thus unexpectedly, after two hours -of woods that were almost as dead as winter.</p> - -<p>Only a little way above this point were the -first beds of snow; and henceforward, till I came -out upon the ridge, two miles above, the woods -were mostly filled with it, though there was little -in the road. About this time, also, I began to -notice a deer’s track. He had descended the -road within a few hours, as I judged, or since the -last rainfall, and might have been a two-legged, -or even a one-legged animal,—biped or uniped,—so -far as his footsteps showed. I should -rather have seen <i>him</i>, but the hoofprints were -a deal better than nothing; and undoubtedly -I saw them much longer than I could possibly -have seen the maker of them, and so, perhaps,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -got out of them more of companionship. They -were with me for two hours,—clean up to the -ridge, and part way across it.</p> - -<p>Somewhere between the third and fourth mileboards -I stopped short with an exclamation. -There, straight before me, over the long eastern -shoulder of Moosilauke, beyond the big Jobildunk -Ravine, loomed or floated a shining snow-white -mountain-top. Nothing could have been -more beautiful. It was the crest of Mount -Washington, I assumed, though even with the -aid of a glass I could make out no sign of buildings, -which must have been matted with new-fallen snow. -I took its identity for granted, I -say. The truth is, I became badly confused -about it afterward, such portions of the range -as came into view having an unfamiliar aspect; -but later still, on arriving at the summit, found -that my first idea had been correct.</p> - -<p>That sudden, heavenly apparition gave me -one of those minutes that are good as years. -Once, indeed, in early October, I had seen -Mount Washington when it was more resplendent: -freshly snow-covered throughout, and then, -as the sun went down, lighted up before my eyes -with a rosy glow, brighter and brighter and -brighter, till it seemed all on fire within. But -even that unforgettable spectacle had less of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -unearthly beauty, was less a work of pure enchantment, -I thought, than this detached, fleecy-looking -piece of aerial whiteness, cloud stuff or -dream stuff, yet whiter than any cloud, lying at -rest yonder, almost at my own level, against the -deep blue of the forenoon sky.</p> - -<p>All this while, the birds, which had been few -from the start,—black-throated greens and -blues, Blackburnians, oven-birds, a bay-breast, -blue yellow-backs, siskins, Swainson thrushes, -a blue-headed vireo, winter wrens, rose-breasted -grosbeaks, chickadees, grouse, and snowbirds,—had -grown fewer and fewer, till at last, among -these stunted, low-branched spruces, with the -snow under them, there was little else but an -occasional myrtle warbler (“The brave myrtle,” -I kept saying to myself), with its musical, soft -trill, so out of place,—the voice of peaceful -green valleys rather than of stormy mountain-tops,—yet -so welcome. Once a gray-cheeked -thrush called just above me. These impenetrable -upper woods are the gray-cheeks’ summer -home,—a worthy one; but I heard nothing of -their wild music, and doubted whether they had -yet arrived in full summer force.</p> - -<p>It was past eleven o’clock when I came out at -the clearing by the woodpile, with half the world -before me. From this point it was but a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -way to the bare ridge connecting the South Peak—up -which I had been trudging all the forenoon—and -the main summit. This, with its -little hotel, that looked as if it were in danger of -sliding off the mountain northward, was straight -before me across the ravine, a long but easy mile -away.</p> - -<p>On the ridge I found myself all at once in -something like a gale of ice-cold wind. Who -could have believed it? It was well I had -brought a sweater; and squatting behind a lucky -clump of low evergreens, I wormed my way into -what is certainly the most comfortable of all garments -for such a place,—as good, at least, as -two overcoats. Now let the wind whistle, especially -as it was at my back, and was bearing -me triumphantly up the slope. So I thought, -bravely enough, till the trail took a sudden -shift, and the gale caught me on another tack. -Then I sang out of the other corner of my -mouth, as I used to hear country people say. -I no longer boasted, but saved my breath for -better use.</p> - -<p>Wind or no wind, it is an exhilaration to walk -here above the world. Once a bird chirps to me -timidly from the knee-wood close by. I answer -him, and out peeps a white-throat. “<i>You</i> here!” -he says; “so early!” At my feet is plenty of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -Greenland sandwort,—faded, winter-worn, gray-green -tufts, tightly packed among the small -boulders. Whatever lives here must lie low and -hang on. And with it is the shiny-leaved mountain -cranberry,—<i>Vaccinium Vitis-Idæa</i>. Let -me never omit that pretty name. Neither cranberry -nor sandwort shows any sign of blossom -or bud as yet; but it is good to know that they -will both be ready when the clock strikes. I can -see them now, pink and white, just as they will -look in July—nay, just as they will look a -thousand years hence.</p> - -<p>Again my course alters, and the wind lets me -lean back upon it as it lifts me forward. Who -says we are growing old? The years, as they -pass, may turn and look at us meaningly, as -if to say, “You have lived long enough;” yet -even to us the climbing of a mountain road -(though by this time it must <i>be</i> a road, or something -like it) is still only the putting of one foot -before the other.</p> - -<p>So I come at last to the top, and make haste -to get into the lee of the house, which is tightly -barred, of course, just as its owners left it seven -or eight months ago. The wind chases me round -the corners, one after another; but by searching -I discover a nook where it can hit me no more -than half the time. Here I sit and look at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -mountains,—a glorious company: Mount Washington -and its fellows, with all their higher parts -white; the sombre mass of the Twins on this -side of them; and, nearer still, the long, sharp, -purple crest of dear old Lafayette and its southern -neighbors. So many I can name. The rest -are mountains only; a wilderness of heaped-up, -forest-covered land; a prospect to dilate the -soul.</p> - -<p>My expectation has been to stay here for two -hours or more; but the wind is merciless, and -after going out over the broad, bare, boulder-sprinkled -summit till I can see down into Franconia -(which looks pretty low and pretty far off, -though I distinguish certain of the buildings -clearly enough), I begin to feel that I shall enjoy -the sight of my eyes better from some sheltered -position on the upper part of the road. Even on -the ridge, however, I take advantage of every -tuft of spruces to stand still for a bit, looking -especially at the mountain itself, so big, so bare, -and so solid: East Peak, South Peak, and <i>the</i> -Peak, as they are called, although neither of -them is in the slightest degree peaked, with the -great gulf of Jobildunk—in which Baker’s -River rises—wedged among them. If the word -Moosilauke means a “bald place,” as it is said -to do, then we have here another proof of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -North American Indian’s genius for fitting words -to things.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> - -<p>Even to-day, windy and cold as it is, a butterfly -passes over now and then (mostly red admirals), -and smaller insects flit carelessly about. -Insects are capable mountaineers, as I have often -found occasion to notice. The only time I was -ever on the sharp point of Mount Adams, where -my companion and I had barely room to stand -together, the air about our heads was black with -insects of all sorts and sizes, a veritable cloud; -and when we unscrewed the Appalachian Club’s -brass bottle to sign the roll of visitors, we found -that the signers immediately before us, after putting -down a date and their names, had added, -“Plenty of bugs.” And surely I was never pestered -worse by black flies than once, years ago, on -this very summit of Moosilauke. All the hours -of a long, breathless, tropical July day they made -life miserable for me. Better a thousand times -such a frosty, man-compelling wind as I am now -fleeing from.</p> - -<p>Once off the ridge, I can loosen my hat and -sit down in comfort. The sun is good. How incredible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -it seems that the air is so furiously in motion -only fifty rods back! Here it is like Elysium. -And almost I believe that this limited prospect -is better than the grander sweep from the summit -itself,—less distracting and more restful. So -half a loaf may be better than a whole one, if a -man cannot be contented without trying to eat the -whole one. A white-throat and a myrtle warbler -sing to me as I nibble my sandwich. They are -the loftiest spirits, it appears. I take off my hat -to them.</p> - -<p>Already I am down far enough to catch the -sound of running water; and every rod brings a -new mountain into view from behind the long -East Peak. One of the best of them all is cone-shaped -Kearsarge, topped with its house. Now -the white crest of Washington rises upon me,—snow -with the sun on it; and here, by the fourth -mileboard, are a few pale-bright spring-beauties,—five -or six blossoms only. They have found a -bit of earth from which the snow melted early, -and here they are, true to their name, with the -world on every side nothing but a desolation. If it -is time for myrtle warblers, why not for them? -Now I see not only Washington, but the mountains -with it, all strangely foreshortened, so as to -give the highest peak a most surprising preëminence. -No wonder I was in doubt what to call it.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -In days past I have walked that whole ridge, from -Clinton to Adams; and glad I am to remember -it. A man should do such things while he can, -teaching his feet to feel the ground, and letting -his heart cheer him.</p> - -<p>A turn in the road, and straight below me lies -my deserted farmhouse. Another turn, and I lose -it. In ascending a mountain we face the path; -in descending we face the world. I speak thus -because at this moment I am looking down a -charming vista,—forest-covered mountains, row -beyond row. But for the gravel under my feet I -might be a thousand miles from any human habitation. -Presently a Swainson thrush whistles. -By that token I am getting away from the summit, -though things are still wintry enough, with -no sign of bud or blossom.</p> - -<p>And look! What is that far below me, facing -up the road? A four-footed beast of some kind. -A bear? No; I raise my glass, and see a porcupine. -He has his mobile, sensitive nose to the -ground, and continues to smell, and perhaps to -feed, as I draw nearer and nearer. By and by, -being very near, and still unworthy of the creature’s -notice, I roll a stone toward him. At this -he shows a gleam of interest. He sits up, folds -his hands,—puts his fore paws together over his -breast,—looks at me, and then waddles a few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -steps toward the upper side of the road. “I must -be getting out of this,” he seems to think. But -he reconsiders his purpose, comes back, sits on -end again and folds his hands; and then, the reconnoissance -being satisfactory, falls to smelling -the ground as before. I can see the tips of his -nostrils twitching as in a kind of ecstasy. There -must be something savory under them. Meantime, -still with my glass lifted, I come closer and -closer, till I am right upon him. If porcupines -can shoot, I must be in danger of a quill. Another -step or two, and he waddles to the lower -side of the road. He is a vacillating body, however; -and once more he turns to sit up and fold -his hands. This time I hear him rattling his teeth, -but not very fiercely,—nothing to compare with -the gnashings of an angry woodchuck; and at -last, when I cluck to him, he hastens his steps a -little, as much, perhaps, as a porcupine can, and -disappears in the brush, dragging his ridiculous, -sloping, straw-thatched hinder parts—a combination -of lean-to and L—after him. He has -never cultivated speed or decision of character, -having a better defense. So far as appearances -go, he is certainly an odd one.</p> - -<p>There are no blossoms yet, nor visible promise -of any, but once in a while a bright Atalanta (red -admiral) butterfly flits before me. I wonder<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -if I could capture one by the old schoolboy -method? I am moved to try; but my best effort—not -very determined, it must be confessed—ends -in failure. Perhaps I should have had some -golden apples.</p> - -<p>At last I come to a few adder’s-tongues, the -first flowers since the five or six spring-beauties a -mile and a half back. Yes, I am approaching the -Flower Garden; for here is a most lovely bank -of yellow violets, a hundred or two together, a -real bed of them. Nobody ever saw anything -prettier. Here, also, is the showy purple trillium, -not so unhandsomely overgrown as it sometimes -is, in addition to all the flowers that I noticed on -the ascent. A garden indeed. I pull up a root -of Dutchman’s-breeches, and sit down to examine -the cluster of rice-like pink kernels at the base -of the stem. Excellent fodder they must make -for animals of some kind. “Squirrel-corn” is an -apt name, I think, though I believe it is applied, -not to this species, but to its relative, <i>Dicentra -Canadensis</i>.</p> - -<p>The whole plant is uncommonly clean-looking -and attractive, with its pale, finely dissected leaves -and its delicate, waxy bloom; but looking at -it, and then at a bank of round-leaved violets opposite, -I say once more, “Those are <i>my</i> flowers.” -Something in the shade of color is most exactly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -to my taste. The very sight of them gladdens -me like sunshine. But before I get out of the -garden, as I am in no haste to do (if it was attractive -this morning, it is doubly so now, after -those miles of snowbanks), I am near to changing -my mind; for suddenly, as my eye follows -the border of the road, it falls upon a small blue -violet, the first of that color that I have noticed -since my arrival at Moosilauke. It must be my -long-desired <i>Selkirkii</i>, I say to myself, and down -I go to look at it. Yes, it is not leafy-stemmed, -the petals are not bearded, and the leaves are unlike -any I have ever seen. I take it up, root and -all, and search carefully till I find one more. If -it <i>is</i> Selkirkii, as I feel sure it is,<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> then I am -happy. This is the one species of our eastern North -American violets that I have never picked. It -completes my set. And it is especially good to -find it here, where I was not in the least expecting -it. With the two specimens in my pocket I -trudge the remaining two miles in high spirits. -The violets are no newer to me than the liverwort -specimens on Mount Cushman were, but -they have the incomparable advantage of things -long looked for,—things for the lack of which, -so to speak, a pigeonhole in the mind has stood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -consciously vacant. Blessed are they who want -something, for when they get it they will be -glad.</p> - -<p>The weather below had been warm and still, -a touch of real summer. So said the people at -the hotel; and I knew it already; for, as I came -through the cattle pasture, I saw below me a -new, strange-looking, brightly illuminated grove -of young birches. “Were those trees there this -morning?” I thought. A single day had covered -them with sunny, yellow-green leaves, till -the change was like a miracle. Indeed, it <i>was</i> a -miracle. May the spring never come when I shall -fail to feel it so. Then I looked back at the summit. -Was it there, no farther away than that, -that so icy a wind had chased me about?—or -had I been in Greenland?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A WEEK ON MOUNT WASHINGTON</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I went</span> up Mount Washington in the afternoon -of August 22d, and came down again in the -afternoon of the 29th. Ten years before I had -spent a week there, in early July, and had not -visited the place since. In some respects, of -course, the summit is badly damaged (I have -heard it spoken of as utterly ruined) by the presence -of the hotel and other buildings, not to mention -the railway trains, with their daily freight -of bustling lunch-box tourists. Still the railway -and the hotel are indisputable conveniences; -I should hardly have stayed there so long without -them; and in this imperfect world we must -not expect to find all the good things in one -basket.</p> - -<p>As for the tourists, one need walk but a few -steps to be rid of them. As a class they are -not enterprising pedestrians. In fifteen minutes -you may find yourself where human beings are -as far away, practically, as if you were among -the highest Andes or on the famous “peak in -Darien.” There you may sit on a boulder, or recline -on a mat of prostrate willow, and imagine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -yourself the only man in the world; gazing at the -prospect, listening to the mountain silence (there -is none like it), or eating alpine blueberries, as -lonely as any hermit’s heart could wish. All this -you may do, and then return to the most obliging -of hosts, the best of good dinners, and a comfortable -bed.</p> - -<p>By the time you have been there two days, -moreover, you will have begun to enjoy the hotel, -not only for its physical comforts, but as an interesting -miniature world. The manager and the -clerk, the waiters and the bellboys, the editors -and the printers, the night watchman and the -train conductor, will all have become your friends, -almost your blood relations,—such intimate -good feeling does a joint seclusion induce,—and -at any minute of the day in may come a group -of strangers of the most engagingly picturesque -sort; having no more the appearance of sales-ladies -or women of fashion, shopkeepers or -bankers’ clerks, than of college students and -professors. They are men and women. They -have put off the fine clothes and the smug appearance -which society exacts of its members; -they look not the least in the world as if they -had just come out of a bandbox; their <i>negligée</i> -costumes bear no resemblance to the dainty, immaculate -rig of the tennis court or the golf links.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -They are “roughing it” in earnest. For at least -eight or ten hours, possibly for as many days, -they have ceased to be concerned about the cut -of their garments or the smoothness of their hair. -Of some of them the aspect is fairly disreputable. -It is a solemn fact that you may here see gentlemen -with rents in their trousers and a week’s -beard on their faces. And ten to one they will -brazen it out without apology.</p> - -<p>The dapper clerk and the prosperous merchant -and his wife, who have ridden up in the train -with their good clothes and their company faces -on, may stare if they will. It is nothing to the -campers and walkers. They are not on parade, -and do not mind being smiled at. A pretty college -girl will walk about the office, alpenstock -in hand, with her hair tied in a careless knot, -her skirts well above the tops of her scratched -and dusty boots, her face brown and her sleeves -tucked up, and seem quite as much at ease as if -she were in full evening dress with the drawing-room -lights blazing upon her alabaster shoulders, -her laces, and her diamonds. It is heroism (or -heroinism) of a kind worth seeing.</p> - -<p>You are still enjoying the spectacle when two -men enter the door, one with a botanical box -slung over his shoulder. It is as if he had given -you the Masonic grip, and you hardly wait for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -him to cross the sill before you make up to him -with a question. By which route has he come, -and what luck has he met with? Over the Crawford -path, he answers, and though the season is -pretty late, and Alpine plants are mostly out of -bloom, he has found some interesting things.</p> - -<p>Two or three of them he cannot name, and he -opens the box. His special puzzle is a tiny, upright-growing -plant, thickly set with roundish, -crinkled leaves, and bearing a few blossoms so -exceedingly small as almost to defy a common -pocket-lens. Do you know what it is? Yes, to -your own surprise, you remember, or seem to remember, -and you run upstairs to bring down a -Gray’s Manual. The plant is <i>Euphrasia</i> (eyebright), -an Alpine variety. It was pointed out -to you ten years ago, near the same Crawford -path, by the man who knew the Mount Washington -flora better than any one else. You recall -the time as if it had been yesterday. Your companion -dropped suddenly upon his knees, eyes -to the ground. “What are you looking for?” -you asked; and he answered “Euphrasia.” It -is good to see it again. You find it for yourself -the next day, it may be, in the Alpine Garden.</p> - -<p>And this other plant, stiffly matted and long -past flowering? Your new acquaintance supposes -it to be <i>Diapensia</i>; and for that you need no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -book. And this third one, with its rusty leaves, -is the Lapland azalea. You remember the day -you saw it first—in middle June—when all by -yourself you were making your first ascent of the -mountain, walking alternately over snowbanks -and beds of flowers. So far as the lovely blossoms -are concerned, you have never seen it since.</p> - -<p>Next morning your botanist bids you good-by; -he is going down by the way of Tuckerman’s -Ravine; and at noon, after some indolent, happy -hours on the carriage-road and in the Alpine -Garden, you are again in the hotel office when -half a dozen campers from the northern peaks -make their appearance. Dusty, travel-stained, -disheveled, they bring the freedom of the hills -with them and fill the place with their breeziness. -Some of the “transients” clustered about -the stove smile at a sight so unconventional, but -the manager, the clerk, and the bellboys are better -informed. They have seen the leader of the -party before, and in a minute the word is passed -round. This is Mr. ——, who came up the mountain -with his son a year ago on the day of that -dreadful storm, when two later adventurers upon -the same path perished by the way, and he himself, -old mountaineer that he was, with another -life hanging upon his own, had more than once -been all but ready to say, “It can’t be done.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -Your traveling companion has seen him here -before, though she was not present on that memorable -occasion, and presently you are being introduced -to him and his friends—a metropolitan -clergyman, a university professor, and a younger -man, with whose excellent work in your own line -you are already acquainted.</p> - -<p>Anon the company breaks up,—the pedestrians -are off for an afternoon excursion,—and -you step out upon the platform to look about -you. Against the railing are two men, one of -them with what seems to be a “collecting gun” -in his hand. “An ornithologist,” you say to -yourself, and at the word you begin edging toward -him. A remark or two about the weather -and you ask him point-blank if he is collecting -birds. No, he answers, his weapon is a rifle, and -he shows you the cartridge. He has brought it -along to shoot squirrels with. You wonder why -any one should think it worth while to carry a -gun over the nine miles of the Crawford path -for so trifling a use; but that is none of your -business, and just then the other man speaks up -to say that his companion is a botanist, while he -himself is a “bird man.” This is interesting -(the second ornithologist within an hour), and -you set about comparing notes. Did he hear -anything of the Bicknell thrushes and the Hudsonian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -chickadees on his way up? No, he missed -them both on this trip, though he has met them -elsewhere in the mountains. You drop an innocent -remark about the thrushes, and he says, -“Are you Mr. So-and-So?” There is no denying -it, and when he pronounces his own name it -proves to be familiar; and a good talk follows. -Then he starts down into the Alpine Garden,—you -charging him to be sure to eat some of the -delicious cespitose blueberries on the descent,—and -ten minutes afterward he turns up again at -your elbow. He has left his friend, and has -hurried back to tell you of a sharp-shinned hawk -that he has just seen. You may put the name -into your Mount Washington bird list, if you -will.</p> - -<p>So the days pass—no day without a new -acquaintance. If you and one of the local editors -start down the trail to the Lakes of the -Clouds after a Sunday-morning breakfast, you -find yourselves going along with three Baltimore -gentlemen, who have walked up from the Crawford -House the day before (“Well, we arrive!” -you remember to have heard the leader exclaim, -as his foot struck the hotel platform), and are -now on their return.</p> - -<p>They introduce one another to you and your -companion,—Dr. This, Dr. That, and Dr. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -Other,—and you pick your way downward over -the boulders in Indian file, talking as you go. -After a while you and the oldest of the Baltimoreans -find yourselves falling a little behind -the rest, and the conversation grows more and -more friendly. He has come to New Hampshire, -as he does every year, for the best of all tonics, -a dose of mountain climbing. He has been somewhat -overworked of late, especially with a long -task of proof-reading. A new edition of his -treatise on chemistry is passing through the -press, and the moment the last sheets were corrected -he broke away northward; and here he -is, walking over high places, where he loves to be. -“I am an old man,” he says; but his strength -is not abated. Far be the day! At the lakeside -hands are shaken and good-bys said. You will -most likely never see each other again, but one -of you, at least, keeps a bright memory.</p> - -<p>It is a strange place, the Summit House. -Twice a day, as on the seashore, the tide rises -and falls. But the evening flood is a small affair. -The crowd comes at noon. It registers its name, -eats its luncheon, writes a postal-card, buys a -souvenir, asks a question or two, more or less -pertinent (“Can you tell me where the Tip-Over -House is?” one good woman said—for -the rarified air plays queer pranks with its victims),<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -possibly looks at the prospect, probably -snaps a camera, and then takes the after-dinner -train for the base. Evening passengers make -a longer stay. They cannot do otherwise. For -them the sunset and the sunrise are the great -events. One would think that such phenomena -were never to be witnessed in the low country. -They watch the clouds, or more likely the cloud, -and go to sleep with one ear open for the sunrise -bell.</p> - -<p>So much for the larger number of Summit -House guests, the respectable majority. A few, -two in twenty, perhaps, arrive on foot; and -these are the good ones—the salt of the mountain, -so to speak. This time I was not one of -them, but I had no thought of denying the -superiority of their privilege.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">ABOVE THE BIRDS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the course of my seven days at the summit of -Mount Washington I listed six species of birds. -A few snowbirds—three or four—were to be -found almost always in the neighborhood of the -stables; a myrtle warbler was seen on the climb -up the cone from the Lakes of the Clouds; -twice I heard a goldfinch passing somewhere -overhead; a sharp-shinned hawk, as I took it to -be, showed itself one day, none too clearly, flying -through the mist; and the next afternoon, as I -sat in the rear of the old Tip-Top House waiting -for the glories of the sunset, a sparrow hawk -shot past me so near as to display not only his -rusty tail, but the black bands on the side of his -neck. Here are five species. The sixth was one -that, rightly or wrongly, I should not have expected -to find in so treeless a place. I speak of -the red-breasted (or Canadian) nuthatch. On -two mornings, as all hands were out upon the -platform at sunrise, we heard the characteristic -nasal calls of this northern forester, and saw two -birds scrambling about the roofs of the buildings; -and more than once at other times I noticed one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -or two on the wing. The species is very common -this season in Franconia,—where it was extremely -scarce a year ago,—and I was pleased -at the summit when a lady standing near me -remarked to her husband, “Why, that is the -note we have been hearing so continually at the -Rangeleys.” It was so incessant there, she told -me, as to be almost a trouble. Let us hope that -this autumnal abundance in New Hampshire -foreshadows a nuthatch winter in Massachusetts.</p> - -<p>The all but total absence of birds at the -summit was a most striking thing. It helped -greatly to intensify the loneliness and the -silence; that wonderful mountain silence—no -leaf to rustle, no brook to murmur, no bird to -sing—which, wherever I walked, I was always -stopping to listen to. I should love to praise it, -but language for such a purpose would need to -be found on the spot, the stillness itself suggesting -the words; and I came down from the -summit more than a week ago. It must have -been, I think, something like that apocalyptic -“silence in heaven.”</p> - -<p>As for the birds, I should have felt their -absence more disagreeably but for the fact that -I had a novel and absorbing occupation with -which to enliven my walks, and even to beguile -effectually what otherwise might have been the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -idle odds and ends of the day. For the nonce I -had turned entomological collector. My search -was for rare Alpine insects. Not that I knew -anything about them; it would have been all -one to me if most of what I saw had been created -out of nothing the day before; but I was in -learned company and needed no science of my -own. My part was to carry a “cyanide bottle” -and put into it any beetle, moth, fly, or other -insect—ants and spiders excepted—on which -I could lay my ignorant fingers. The possessor -of the learning—enough and to spare for the -two of us—has made many collecting visits to -the summit; her list of Mount Washington -species numbers more than sixteen hundred, if -I remember the figures correctly, and no inconsiderable -proportion of them are honored with -her name. A proud lot they would be, if they -knew it. But the end is not yet; there are -many winged mountaineers still to be pinned, -and in the prosecution of such an enterprise, so -she gave me to understand, two bottles are better -than one, no matter who carries the second one. -Her language was rather encouraging than complimentary, -it might have seemed, but I did not -mind; and for seven days I was never without a -bottle about my person except when I lay in bed.</p> - -<p>If I went down to the Lakes of the Clouds,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -for example, the poison-bottle went with me; -and the looker-on, had there been one,—as -luckily there wasn’t,—might have seen me on -my knees, with hands outstretched over the -water, struggling to snatch from the surface -a poor, unhappy “skater,” or a “lucky-bug” -(it really was lucky, for it got away while the -skater perished), as a possible prize for my -lady’s cork-lined box. On all my jaunts down -the carriage-road (and they were many, longer -or shorter, that route offering the readiest means -of escape from the frequent summit-capping -cloud) the same scientific vial was my companion. -If a grasshopper jumped (not the common -one with banded legs, of which I saw a superfluity, -but a handsome, rare-looking green fellow, -making me think of Leigh Hunt’s “green little -vaulter in the sunny grass”), I stole murderously -after him, and with a reckless clutch at -the stunted bush on which he had settled I -gathered him in and put him to sleep. (This -was well done, for he was really of a wingless -Alpine species, and only my employer’s third -specimen of his kind.) If a “daddy-long-legs,” -prayerless friend of my childhood, crawled -across the way, he, too, hapless creature, with -legs so superfluously numerous and elongated -that he could not hurry, even to save his life,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -fell a victim to my uninstructed zeal. He died -easily, for all his undevout habits, but the sacrifice -was useless. He proved to be no longer -among the entomologist’s desiderata, though he -also is Alpine, and it is not many years since -she herself discovered him here, an insect till -then unregistered by human science.</p> - -<p>All caterpillars I was bidden to bring in alive; -and so, of course, I did, rolling them up in -scraps of soft paper and committing them tenderly -to a pocket. My chief business, however, -after I had breathed the air, eaten my fill of -mountain blueberries (“Happy,” said I, “is the -mouth that feeds on such manna”), and looked -my fill at the northern peaks,—for I was not -employed by the day, but by the piece, and -could steal an hour to myself now and then with -a clear conscience,—my principal occupation, I -say, was to pry under the boulders for beetles. -“Leave no stone unturned,” the entomologist -had said, with her fine gift of laconic quotation; -but she could not have intended the commission -to be taken literally. The stones were too -many, and human existence is too brief. She -meant no more than that I should use a reasonable -diligence; and so much I surely did, till -the ends of my fingers were in danger of being -skinned alive. Down on all fours I got, lifted a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -stone quickly, fastened an eagle eye upon the -exposed hollow, and if a dark object, no matter -how small or how large, was seen to be scurrying -to its burrow, I thrust my fingers into the -dirt in frantic efforts to seize it. I knew not -which were common and which rare; my only -course was to let none escape. But many were -too swift for me, with all my efforts, and of -all that I captured in this manner I am not -sure that one was “worth mounting.” I quote -those last two words partly by way of emphasis. -They stood for the lowest round in the ladder of -my entomological ambition. What I most of all -desired was to discover a new species; next I -coveted a species new to New England; after -that a species new to Mount Washington; and -last of all a specimen worth saving, or, as my -employer said, “worth mounting”—in short, -worth a pin.</p> - -<p>My most productive field, like her own, was -about the front of the hotel itself. In warm -afternoons flies, beetles, moths and what not are -known to drop out of the invisible, from nobody -can tell where, upon the windows or the white -clapboards of the house. Here, not once, but -with something like regularity, insects have been -captured, the like of which have never been seen -elsewhere except in the West Indies or Mexico,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -in Greenland or among the Rocky Mountains. -How such wanderers come, and why, are among -the things that no man knoweth. Enough that -they are known to come. And who could tell -but one might have come for me? Here, at all -events, was my golden opportunity. Let me not -miss it. If by chance, therefore, the lady herself -stepped inside for a minute or two, I hastened to -take her place. Tourists by the dozen might be -watching me curiously, or even derisively, my -equanimity was undisturbed. Science is a shield. -Vial in hand (my <i>vade-mecum</i> I called it, Latin -being in the air), I walked along the platform, -with my eyes upon the glass and the paint, and -woe to the unlucky insect that was there taking -the sun. The yawning mouth of a bottle was -clapped over him, the world swam before his -eyes, and long before he knew it he was on his -way to be a specimen. Strange things happen to -insects, though they are not the only ones who -have found perdition in a bottle.</p> - -<p>Sometimes I climbed the stairs to the upper -floors of the observatory. No matter how high I -went, the higher the better. In the warm hours -of the day the air at the very top was almost a -cloud of tiny wings. “Excelsior” is the insects’ -watchword. Once, in the upper room, I bottled -carelessly a small black-and-white moth. Its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -appearance was ordinary enough; no doubt it -was common; but it was an insect, and hit or -miss I took it in. And in due course it went -into the entomologist’s hands with the rest of -the catch. She emptied the vial, and passed an -unexciting comment or two upon the few flies -and beetles it contained; perhaps she remarked -that one of them might be worth mounting—I -do not remember precisely; it was a way she -had of egging me on; but the next morning she -said: “You didn’t tell me anything about the -lovely moth you took yesterday.” I was obliged -to stop and think. “Oh, that little black-and-white -thing,” I said. Yes, that was the one—“new -to the summit.” If I was not proud, then -pride does not dwell in earthly minds. This, I -confide, was not my only contribution to the -fauna of our highest New England mountain; -I seem to remember a short-winged beetle also; -but the moth, being in the Lepidoptera, is my -especial glory. I wish I could recall its name, -that I might print it here for the reading of -future generations.</p> - -<p>With such pursuits did I improve the spare -hours of my Mount Washington week. I have -no thought of boasting. At least I would not -seem to do so. It was little enough that I accomplished, -or could hope to accomplish, hampered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -as I was by my ignorance. Probably I shall -never have a beetle, much less a moth, named -after me; but with that precious black-and-white -rarity in mind I feel that even in the way of -entomology I have not lived altogether in vain.</p> - -<p>Scientific studies apart, the best hours of the -week (after some spent along the carriage-road, -resting here and there upon a boulder to enjoy -the magnificent, ever-shifting prospect, and some—not -hours, alas, but minutes—spent in eating -the ambrosial, banana-savored, soul-satisfying -berries of <i>Vaccinium cæspitosum</i>)—my best -hours, I say, were perhaps those of a certain wonderful -evening. The air was warm, no breath -stirring, the sky clear, and the half world below -us, as we walked the hotel platform, lay covered -with white clouds, on which the full moon was -shining. The stillness, the mildness, the brightness, -the sense of elevation, and the bewitching, -unearthly scene, all this was like an evening in -fairyland. For the time being, it is to be feared, -even the rarest of moths would have seemed a -matter of secondary importance. Such is the -power of beauty. So truly was it born to make -other things forgotten.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">MOUNTAIN-TOP AND VALLEY</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Nothing</span> heightens appreciation like a contrast. -After a week at the summit of Mount Washington, -where we lived in the clouds and above -them, in a world above the world, we returned -to the lowlands. The afternoon was sultry, and -before the descent was half accomplished—by -the train—we wished ourselves back again on -the heights. How can men live in such an atmosphere, -we asked each other; so stifling, so -depressing, so wanting in all the elements of vitality. -Our condition seemed like that of fishes -out of water, and we began to think of angling -as a cruel sport. It grieved us to see the trees -growing taller. Even the laughing young Ammonoosuc -was looked upon with indifference. “I -wish I were back,” said one; and the other responded, -“So do I.”</p> - -<p>At Fabyan’s the crowd surged about us like a -sea. Baggage must be found and checked, our -train was waiting, and the baggage-master, true -railway “official” that he was, was not to be -hastened. His steps were all taken by rule, and -every movement of his hands was set to slow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -music. When he spoke, which was seldom, it was -in a muffled voice and with funereal moderation. -In the midst of all that bustle he was calm—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Calm as to suit a calmer grief.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>You might say what you pleased to him, be -urgently argumentative, or plaintive even to -wheedling, it was all one. Your eloquence was -wasted. It was like nudging a graven image, or -crying haste in the ear of Death. Not a feature -of his countenance altered, not a muscle quickened. -Who ever knew the hands of a clock to -accelerate their pace in response to human impatience? -Time and tide—and a baggage-master—hurry -for no man.</p> - -<p>“Two trunks for Bethlehem,” you say. No -answer. By and by, meekly insistent, and thinking -that by this time your turn must surely have -come, you repeat the words. No answer. But the -man is taking down checks from their peg, and -in due time, stepping as to the measure of a -dirge, he marches with them down the platform. -“These are mine,” you say, keeping an uneasy -pace or two in advance and pointing to the -trunks on the truck. No answer—not so much -as a look. Nor is there need of any. You are -silenced. That implacable manner carries all -before it. You could not speak again, even to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -claim your soul. But finally the man himself -speaks. You are relieved to know he can. He -is addressing you. The minute hand is at twelve -and the clock strikes. “These are yours?” he -asks. You reply in the affirmative, as best you -are able. “For Bethlehem?” he asks, and you -answer “Yes.” And then, after one more set of -machine-like motions, the mighty work is accomplished. -The checks are yours. Fortunately, the -train has not yet pulled away, though it is past -the time, and at the last moment you see the -trunks on board.</p> - -<p>Trifles like these would have been as nothing, of -course, to ordinary travelers; but to us, innocent -Carthusians, fresh from the unearthly quiet of a -mountain-top, they were little short of tragical. -And how intolerably hot and close the car was! -Things were growing worse and worse with us. -Should we live to reach Bethlehem, with nothing -but this blast out of Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace -in our nostrils? Why had we not remained -where existence was not a struggle, but a dream -of pleasure; where the air had not to be gasped -for, but came of itself to be sweetly inhaled? -Nevertheless, we survived the passage,—the conductor -helping to pass the time by stopping in -the aisle to make inquiries touching a little flock -of puzzling birds, crossbills, perhaps, lately seen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -in his apple orchard,—and at Bethlehem the -carriage awaited us. This was a welcome change, -but even so we still found it difficult to draw -breath; and when the horses started, what a -dust they set flying! Truly, between the heat -and the drought, this lower world was in an evil -case. It was a road of sighs all the six miles to -Franconia.</p> - -<p>Once there, however, and supper eaten, I -stepped out upon the piazza and looked westward. -Venus was bright just above the near -horizon (the <i>near</i> horizon!), and against the -sunset sky stood a line of low woods, with detached -pine trees towering over the rest. And in -that sight I discovered anew, all in a moment, -the charm of this valley world. I had seen nothing -like this from the mountain-top. Yes, good -as the summit prospect was, this was in some -respects better. If that was more magnificent, -more soul-expanding, this was more home-felt -and beautiful. And as I looked and looked, while -the light faded out of the sky, I was conscious -of a new contentment. Mountain-tops for visits, -I said, and may I enjoy them often; but the -valley to live in.</p> - -<p>The next morning I was no sooner abroad -than this happy impression was renewed and -deepened. It was a comfort to the feet to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -going neither uphill nor downhill, and it rested -the eyes to be looking not at remote peaks and -dimly discovered sheets of water, but into green -branches so near that the leaves could be seen, -and the blue sky through them. How sweetly -the ripple of the brook came to my ears as it -ran over its stony bed just beyond the velvety, -smooth meadow! And the cawing of a dozen or -two of crows, who were talking politics among the -pines on the hillside, affected me most agreeably. -There was something of real neighborliness about -it. I would gladly have taken a hand in the discussion, -if they would have let me. When a song -sparrow started out of the hedge at my elbow -it gave me a start of surprise. I had become so -unused to such movements! A robin’s sudden -cackle I thought almost the sweetest of music; -the careless warble of a bluebird was nothing -less than a voice from heaven; and a squirrel -sputtering defiance from the stone wall set me -laughing with pleasure. None of these sounds, -nor anything akin to them, was to be heard on -the desolate, boulder-covered top of Mount -Washington.</p> - -<p>Now the trees interlaced their branches over -my head. Nothing could be prettier; and the -effect was so novel! I stopped short to admire -it. And anon, as the road made a little ascent,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -scarcely noticeable to one fresh from the steepness -of a mountain cone, I found myself gazing -down upon one of the most engaging scenes in -the world; a sequestered valley farm, thrifty-looking, -snugly kept, nestled among low hills, -with a mountain river winding along the farther -side of it, between the meadow and the woodland, -now lost to sight, now shining in the sun. I had -known the place for years, as I had known the -worthy man who owns it; and I had looked at -it many times from this very point; but I had -never seen it till this morning. A pleasant thing -it is when an old picture or an old poem, or both -in one, is thus made new. If our eyes could but -oftener be anointed!</p> - -<p>The softness of the meadow, freshly sprung -after the summer mowing, the glistening of the -corn leaves, the narrow road,—a brown ribbon -laid upon the green carpet,—that runs to the -door and stops (for nothing goes by—nothing -but the river, the clouds, and the birds), the shade -trees clustered lovingly about the house, the whole -pastoral scene, I saw it all with the vision of one -who had been looking at a vaguely defined, far-away -world, over which the eye wandered as the -dove wandered over the face of the waters, and -now had come suddenly in sight of home.</p> - -<p>Yes, distance is a good painter, but nearness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -is a better one. So I felt for the time being, at -all events, falling in with the mood of the hour; -for it is well that moods alter, as it is well that -the earth goes round the sun and season gives -place to season. Man was not made to see one -kind of beauty, or to believe in one kind of goodness. -The whole world is hid in his heart. All -things are his. The small and the great, the near -and the far, light and darkness, good and evil, -the intimacies of home and the isolations of infinite -space, all are parts of the Creator’s work, -and equally parts of the creature’s inheritance.</p> - -<p>For to-day, then, I praise the valley. I am for -having the hills close about me, rather than afar -off and far below. I like to see the trees, and the -leaves on them, rather than leagues on leagues -of barely discernible forest; and a lonely pool of -still water at my feet, with alders reflected in it, -is more in my eyes than Lake Umbagog itself, -hardly better than a blur upon the landscape, -fifty miles away. To-morrow I may feel differently, -but for to-day let me listen to the breeze in the -pine branches and the brook pattering over stones, -rather than to the eternal silences of the bare -mountain-top and the brooding sky.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">IN THE MOUNT LAFAYETTE FOREST</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is one of the cool mornings that descend -rather suddenly upon our White Mountain -country with the coming of autumn; cool mornings -that are liable to be followed by warm days. -I was in doubt how to dress as I set out, and -for the first mile or two almost regretted that I -had not taken an extra garment. Then all at -once the sun broke through the clouds, and even -the one coat became superfluous and was thrown -over my arm. This state of things lasted till I -had crossed the golf links and entered the woods. -At that point the sun withdrew his shining, and -now, between the clouds and the shadow and -dampness of the forest, I have put on my coat -again and buttoned it up; and what counts for -more, I am driven to walk less slowly than one -would always prefer to do in such a place.</p> - -<p>A fresh breeze stirs the tree-tops, so that I am -not without music, let the birds be as silent as -they will. Nearly or quite the only voice I have -so far heard was that of an unseen Maryland -yellow-throat, some distance back, who sprang -into the air and delivered himself of a song with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -variations, all in his most rapturous June manner. -Why the fellow should have been in anything -like an ecstasy at that precise moment is -quite beyond my guessing. Possibly it would be -equally beyond his, if he were to stop to think -about it. Some sudden stirring of memory, perhaps. -Natural beings seldom know just why -they are happy. I recall the fact, unthought of -till now, that I have not heard a yellow-throat -sing before for several weeks, though I have -seen the birds often. They are among the late -stayers, and at this season have a more or less -lonesome look, being commonly found not as -members of a flock or family, after the manner -of autumnal warblers in general, but here and -there one, dodging about in a roadside thicket, -or peeping out curiously at a casual passer-by.</p> - -<p>Just as I am remarking upon the unusual -silence my ear catches in the far distance the -song of a white-throated sparrow. So very far -off it is that the sound barely reaches me. Indeed, -I do not so much hear it as become vaguely -conscious that I should hear it if the bird were -ever so little nearer. Yet I am sure he sang—as -sure as if I had seen him. Probably experienced -readers will divine what I mean, although -I seem unable to express it.</p> - -<p>The road is bordered with the dead tops of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -trees, thrown there in heaps by the road-makers. -They form an unsightly hedge, which birds of -various kinds resort to for cover. At this minute -two winter wrens, pert-looking, bob-tailed things, -scold at me out of it. My passing is a trespass, -they consider, and they tell me so with emphasis. -For the sake of stirring them up to protest even -more vigorously (such an eloquent gesticulatory -manner as they have), I stand still and squeak -to them. Few birds can be quiet under such insults; -and the winter wren is not one of them. -There is nothing phlegmatic about his disposition. -He is like some beings of a higher class: -it takes very little to set him in a flutter. So I -squeak and squeak, and the pair vociferate <i>tut, -tut</i>, till I have had enough and go on my way -laughing. Touchy people were made for teasing.</p> - -<p>I have hardly started before a hairy woodpecker’s -sharp signal is heard, and within a minute -a sapsucker on the opposite side of the way -utters a snarling note, which by a slight effort -of the imagination might be taken for the voice -of an angry cat. To my ear it is not in the -smallest degree woodpeckerish. I see the bird a -moment later as he flies across the road.</p> - -<p>In a mountain-side forest like this, near the -mountain’s foot, the traveler, if he is not climbing -the slope but crossing it transversely, is certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -to come now and then upon a brook. I am -on the edge of one now, and as the sun at this -moment shines out between two clouds I stand -still to enjoy the warmth while it lasts, and at the -same time to hear the singing of the water. Good -music, I call it, and fear no contradiction. It has -the quality of some of the best verse—liquidity. -It is broken unevenly into syllables, yet it is true -to the beat, and it flows. In short, it is smooth, -yet not too smooth—with the smoothness of -water, not of oil. It speaks to every boulder as -it passes. I wish my ear were more at home in -the language.</p> - -<p>There is seldom a minute when, if I pause to -listen, I cannot hear from one direction or another -the quaint, homely, twangy, countryfied, -yet to me always agreeable voice of Canadian -nuthatches. At frequent intervals one or two -come near enough so that I see them creeping -about over the trees, bodies bent, heads down, -always in search of a mouthful, yet keeping up, -every one, his share of the universal chorus. As -well as I can judge, all the evergreen forests of -this Northern country are now alive with these -pretty creatures; for they really are pretty. In -fact, there are few forest birds for whom I cherish -a kindlier feeling. It is too bad they do not -summer in our Massachusetts woods, though possibly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -I should care less for them if they made -themselves neighborly the whole year long, like -their relatives, the white-breasts.</p> - -<p>A goldfinch is passing far above, dropping -music as he goes. He is one of the high-fliers. -Wherever you may happen to be, at the summit -of Mount Washington or where not, you will -pretty often hear his sweet voice as he wanders -under the sky, dipping and rising, dipping and -rising, voice and wing keeping step together.</p> - -<p>Here and there one or two clouded-sulphur -butterflies (Philodice) take wing as I disturb -them. They have been most extraordinarily -abundant of late. A fortnight ago we drove for -almost a whole forenoon through clouds of them, -bunches of twenty or more constantly rising from -damp spots of earth by the wayside; and in a -meadow all bespangled with purple asters they -were so thick as almost to conceal the flowers. -Twinkling in the sunlight, they looked a thousand -times more like stars than the asters themselves. -Even the entomologists of the valley, in whose -company I was driving, had never seen the like. -Here in this shaded road such lovers of the sun -are naturally less numerous. In truth, the wonder -is that they should be here at all. And yet -the wonder is not so very great; they wander at -their own will, and the will of the wind. Only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -last week, I am told, in the midst of a driving -snowstorm, one took shelter in the Summit House -on Mount Washington. After all, a butterfly is -not exactly a fool; it knows enough to go into -the house when it snows.</p> - -<p>Now I come upon a few snowbirds, hopping -in silence about the twigs of a brush-heap, snapping -their tails nervously, as if proud to show -the white feather; and shortly beyond are two -or three white-throated sparrows. They also are -silent. Perhaps they perceive that a red squirrel -close by is talking enough for them and himself -too. He says a good many things, some of -which I feel sure would be highly interesting to -a competent listener. Among forest folk, as -among church folk, the rule is, “He that hath -ears to hear, let him hear.” As for me, I can -only lament my deficiency. A solitary vireo is -chattering sweetly (with him music is its own -reward), and all the while, whoever else speaks -or keeps silence, the nuthatch chorus goes on. -Taking New England together, we may safely -say that just at present hundreds of thousands, -yea, millions of <i>ank-anks</i> go up to heaven every -minute of every day, from sunrise to sunset.</p> - -<p>I walk but a few rods farther before I am delighted -by the sight of four winter wrens in an -overturned tree-top. In my experience it is something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -extremely out of the common course to see -so many together, and—as I did with the two -a quarter of a mile back—I work upon this -quartet’s sensibilities till they fairly dance with -curiosity and indignation. I wonder if they are -a family group.</p> - -<p>I bethink myself that I am saying nothing -about the forest itself. Its presence is felt rather -than seen, a grateful solemnity; but the temperature -will not suffer me to sit down and -enjoy it as a Christian should. And just here I -emerge into territory over which a fire has swept -within a few years. Under these dead trees I -get the sun again, and can go slowly. Nothing -in the way of physical comfort is more grateful -than warmth after coolness, unless it be coolness -after warmth. A pine siskin calls, the first for -some weeks, and another hairy woodpecker shows -himself. Not a warbler has been seen since I -entered the woods. Of the flycatchers, too,—olive-sides -and wood pewees,—which were always -conspicuous in this burning in August and -early September, there is neither sight nor sound. -Their season is done. Crossbill notes lead me to -look upward, and I see four birds flying past. -Restless, nomadic souls! Like the saints, they -have “no continuing city.”</p> - -<p>Another half-mile in the leafy forest, and I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -reach the foot of Echo Lake, where as I pass a -cluster of balsam firs I am saluted by the busy, -hurried calls of golden-crowned kinglets. A wren -is here also, irritable as ever, and hearing a -chickadee’s voice, I whistle and chirp to him. -If I can set him to scolding, all the birds in the -neighborhood will flock this way to ascertain -what the trouble is. The device works to a -charm; in half a minute the excitement is -intense. Nuthatches, white-throats, chickadees, -kinglets, and wren, all take a hand in vituperating -the intruder, and a youthful redstart comes -from the opposite side of the way to satisfy his -more gentle curiosity. One creature, strangely -enough, remains neutral: a red squirrel, who -sits on end at the top of a stump and gazes at -me in silence. He holds one hand upon his heart, -like an opera singer, and looks and looks. “You -sentimental goose!” I say; “who taught you -that trick?” and I laugh at him and pass on. -This is near the corner of the old Notch road, -and as I round it and face the cold northerly -wind I button my coat about me and start -homeward at a quicker pace.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">ON BALD MOUNTAIN</h3> -</div> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Four</span> inches of snow at the Profile House:” -such was the word brought to us at the breakfast -table, the driver of the “stage” having -communicated the intelligence as he passed the -hotel an hour or two earlier. We were not -surprised. It rained in Franconia night before -last, and yesterday, when the clouds now and -then lifted a little, the sides of the mountains -were seen to be white. This morning (October -7), although even the lower slopes were veiled, -the day promised well, and at the first minute I -set out for the Notch.</p> - -<p>It was evident almost immediately that at -some time within the last forty-eight hours there -had been a great influx of migrating birds. -Song sparrows, white-throated sparrows, snowbirds, -bluebirds, and myrtle warblers were in -extraordinary force. Soon I began to hear the -wrennish calls of ruby-crowned kinglets,—which -have been very scarce hitherto,—and -presently more than one was heard rehearsing -its pretty song. What with bluebird voices, -song sparrows’ warblings (no set tune, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -“continuous melody”), the cackle of robins, -and the croaking of rusty blackbirds, the air -was loud. To these travelers, as to me, the -weather seemed to be changing for the better, -though the sun did not yet show itself, and finding -themselves in so delectable a valley, they -were in exuberant spirits.</p> - -<p>Just above the Profile House farm the road -took me into a flock of birds that proved to be -the better part of half a mile in length. The -wayside hedges were literally in a flutter, snowbirds -being the most abundant, I think, with -white-throats and myrtle warblers not far -behind. Hermit thrushes, winter wrens, chipping -sparrows, song sparrows, and ruby-crowns -were continually in sight, and an unseen purple -finch was practicing niggardly, disconnected, -vireo-like phrases, as the manner of his kind is -in the autumnal season.</p> - -<p>Then, when the older forest was reached, -there came an interval of silence, broken at last -by the distant, or distant-seeming, voice of a -red-breasted nuthatch and the cheerful notes of -chickadees. Soon two hermits showed themselves, -facing me on a low perch, and lifting -their tails solemnly in response to my chirping; -and not far away were a winter wren or two, -and a flock of white-throats and snowbirds. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -had never seen the dear old road birdier, even -in May, though of course I had often seen the -number of species very much larger.</p> - -<p>At the height of land I came upon the first -snow, a ragged fringe left on the shady side of -the way. I made a snowball, for the sake of -doing it (or, as I said to myself, suiting the boyish -act with a boyish word, “for greens”), and -decided all at once not to go down into the -Notch, but up to the top of Bald Mountain. -From that point, if the sky cleared, as I felt -hopeful it would, there would be sights worth -remembering.</p> - -<p>The mountain is only a little one, but it is -steep enough—the upper half, at all events—to -give the eager pedestrian a puff for his -money. For myself, I had time to spare, and, -fortunately or unfortunately, had been over the -path too often to be subject to the state of -mind (I know it well) which we may characterize -as climbers’ impatience. Unless something -unforeseen should happen, the summit would -wait for me. Halfway up, also, a flock of blue -jays, five or six at least, who were holding a -long and mysterious confabulation close by the -path, afforded me a comfortable breathing spell. -For a moment I suspected the presence of an -owl, against whom the rascals were plotting mischief;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -but their voices were much of the time -too soft, too intimate-sounding, too lacking in -belligerency. Some of the birds might even have -been communing with themselves. Their whole -behavior had an air of preternatural gravity and -cunning, and their remarks, whatever the purport -of them, were in the highest degree varied. -One fellow was a masterly performer upon the -bones (jay scholars will understand what I mean, -and I should despair of explaining myself in a -few words to any one else), while another furnished -me with a genuine surprise by whistling -again and again in the manner of a red-tailed -hawk.</p> - -<p>Well, the conspirators dispersed, the solitary -climber pocketed his curiosity, and in a few -minutes longer his feet were at the top. The -rocky cone of Lafayette was still densely -capped, but under the fringed edges of the -cloud there was plenty of snow in sight. All the -upper slopes of Kinsman, Cannon, and Lafayette -were covered with it, except that the deciduous -trees (broad patches of yellow) stood -bare. Apparently the snow had stuck only upon -the evergreens, and the effect at this distance -was very striking, the white over the green producing -a beautiful gray. I could never have -imagined it. The hotel and its cottages, nestled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -between the mountains, all had white roofs, but -the landscape as a whole was anything but wintry. -Everywhere below me the great forest still -showed an abundance of bright hues,—red, yellow, -and russet,—a piece of glorious pageantry, -though many shades less brilliant than I had -seen it two days before.</p> - -<p>So I am saying to myself when suddenly I -look upward, and behold, the cap is lifted from -Lafayette, and the mountain-top is clear white, -shining in the sunlight against the blue sky; a -vision, it seems; something not of this world; -splendor immaculate, unearthly, unspeakable. -I feel like shouting, or tell myself that I do; -but for some reason I keep silence. Clouds -still hang about the mountains, their shapes -altering from glory to glory with every minute. -Now a band lies clean across Lafayette, immediately -below the cone, detaching the white mass -from everything underneath, and leaving it, as -it were, floating in the air.</p> - -<p>A sharp-shinned hawk sails past me, nuthatches -call from the valley woods, a snowbird -perches on a dwarf spruce at my elbow, a red -squirrel breaks into sudden spluttering, and then, -with hands uplifted, sits silent and motionless. -I mention these details, but they are nothing. -What I really see and feel is the world I am living<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -in: the sunshine, the stillness, the temperate -airs, the bright encircling forest, in which -my little hilltop is cradled, and the white peak -yonder in the sky. The snow lends it lightness, -airiness, buoyancy. As I said just now, it seems -almost to float in the ether.</p> - -<p>I remained with this beauty for an hour, divided -at the last between the luminous, snowy -peak above me and the soft—ineffably soft—world -of leafy tree-tops below. Then, as I had -done only day before yesterday, I bade the place -good-by. Probably I should not come this way -again till next summer, at the soonest. Good-by, -old mountain. Good-by, old woods. No doubt -you have many worthier lovers, but let me be -counted as one of the faithful.</p> - -<p>I was still on the cone, making my way downward, -when a grouse drummed and in a minute -or two repeated himself. The sound struck me -as curiously wanting in resonance, as if the log -were water-soaked (though I do not believe he -was striking one), or his breast not fully inflated. -Perhaps he was a young fellow, a new hand with -the drumsticks, and so excusable. Certainly the -difficulty lay not in the matter of distance, for -between two of the performances I turned a sharp -corner, effectively triangulating the bird, and it -was impossible that he should be more than a few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -yards away. On all sides the little nuthatches -were calling to each other in their quaint childish -treble. I love to hear them, and the goldcrests -also; but here, as on the heights above, the birds -were less than the forest. I was in a susceptible -mood, I suppose. The mere sight of the tall, -straight trunks, with the lights and shadows on -them, gave me a pleasure indescribable. Though -the friend who had been my walking companion -for a week past (and no man could wish a better -one) is sure to read this column, I cannot refrain -from saying that solitariness has its merciful alleviations. -I was no longer tempted to babble, -and the wise old trees took their turn at talking. -If I could only repeat what they said!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">BIRDS AND BRIGHT LEAVES</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> the red maple trees and the yellow birches -are mostly bare, and the greater part of the sugar -groves have passed the zenith of their brilliancy, -then the poplars come to the rescue. The hills are -all at once bright again with a second crop of -color, an aftermath of splendid sun-bright yellow. -I knew nothing about this beforehand, and am -delighted over the discovery. From my Franconia -window I am looking at as pretty an autumnal -wood as any man need wish to see, and it is a -wood the seasonable glories of which were ended, -I thought, more than a week ago. As I look at -it I feel sorry for my last week’s companion, who -went home too soon. Since his departure the -days have been outdoing one another in the softness -of their airs and the beauty of their lights. -Mother Earth has been in her most amiable -mood. Nothing is too good for her children. I -have never seen fairer weather; though some, -I dare say, might criticise it as a few degrees too -warm. It is hard, I admit, for a walker to keep -a coat on his back, far along as the season is getting, -when the sun wrestles with him for it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>An interesting thing to me has been the tardy -brightening of individual maple trees. It is one -more manifestation, I assume, of Nature’s gift -of versatility, her faculty of variation, to which, -all but universal as it is, scientific men attribute -so much potency in the evolving of so-called species. -What I notice just now is that, as some -bushes and trees mature their fruit later than -others of the same kind, living apparently under -the same conditions, so some maple trees are a -week or two behind their immediate neighbors in -ripening their foliage. I have passed within a -day or two both sugar maples and red maples -that were just donning their gay robes. Well -done, I am moved to say, as my eye lights on -them. They and the poplars, together with certain -extensive maple groves on the higher levels, -still keep the world arrayed in a really barbaric -splendor. Two weeks ago I should have prophesied -that before this time the landscape would be -stripped for winter; and so it would have been, -perhaps, if a cold storm had supervened instead -of this period of summery brightness and calm. -Great is weather. There is nothing like it. It -makes a man—and a tree, too, for aught I know—glad -to be alive.</p> - -<p>That it makes the birds happy is beyond dispute. -You can see it with half an eye. Many of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -them are gone, it is true, but many others are -left; and wherever you take your walk you may -have joy of them. You will need to be blind and -deaf, or of a hopelessly sour temper, not to catch -a little of their cheeriness. Three days ago (it -was an anniversary with me, and I was early -abroad) I went into the kitchen garden before -breakfast, as I have been doing frequently of -late, to see what birds might be there. For a -month and more, as the coarse grasses and weeds -have ripened their crop (the garden, luckily for -me, having been allowed to go untended), the -place has been a favorite resort of sparrows. -There I saw the Lincoln finches in their time,—on -September 5 and subsequently,—and there -for a fortnight past I have always been able to -begin the day with a few white-crowns.</p> - -<p>Well, on the morning in question one of the -first things I heard was a brief, uncharacteristic, -autumnal-sounding ditty which, being too short -for a song sparrow’s work, I at once credited to -a white-crown; and, to be sure, when I looked -that way, there the bird stood on a top stone of -the wall, a young fellow, not yet “crowned,” -practicing his first musical exercises. The morning -was cool,—the ground had stiffened overnight,—and -every time he opened his mouth to -sing, a tiny cloud of vapor could be seen rising<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -from it. It was visible music. Again and again -I watched him. The dear little chorister! Nobody’s -birthday was ever more prettily honored. -He “sang to my eye” indeed—in a daintily -literal sense such as the poet never thought of. I -wonder if any one, anywhere, ever saw and heard -the like.</p> - -<p>The white-crowns have been surprisingly musical -(the weather, no doubt, being a provocation), -but I have not once heard their spring song, or -anything which to my ear—none too well accustomed -to it—has seemed to bear any relation -thereto. Song sparrows, on the other hand, while -mostly contenting themselves with incoherent, -<i>sotto voce</i> twitterings, have now and then—almost -daily, I think—varied the programme -with more or less successful attempts at a fuller-voiced -and more formal melody. As for the vesper -sparrows, they have mainly kept silence, but -on one or two bright mornings have sung as -sweetly as ever they do in May. Indeed, I might -truthfully say more than that; for at this season, -when all bright things are taking leave, a strain -of wild music is more grateful to the ear than by -any possibility it can be when every newly green -bush is part of the universal choir gallery.</p> - -<p>To us who have been in the habit of coming to -this valley in bright-leaf time nothing is more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -characteristic, as nothing is more welcome, than -the continual familiar presence of bluebirds. -This year, because I have stayed later than usual, -it may be, they have seemed uncommonly abundant. -Their voices are sure to be among the first -to be heard as I step out of the door in the morning, -and wherever I walk—in the open country—I -find myself surrounded at frequent intervals -by a larger or smaller flock. Two days ago I -counted forty in sight at once; and a bunch of -forty bluebirds—well, there may be pleasanter -sights for a bird-lover (a flock of sixty, for example), -but it is a sight to raise low spirits, especially -for a man who remembers the time—after -a cruel winter—when the vision of a single bird -was accepted by all of us as an event to talk about.</p> - -<p>Myrtle warblers (yellow-rumps) are still more -numerous, and if a bluebird quits a perch and -takes wing it is almost an even chance that a -yellow-rump, who has been sitting near at hand, -waiting for this to happen, will be seen dashing -in pursuit. You may go down the village street -and watch the trick repeated half a dozen times -within half a mile. To my walking companion -and myself the sight has come to be part of a -Franconia autumn. If you are pretty close to the -birds you may hear a bill snapping (the warbler’s, -I think), as if in anger, but on the whole I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -inclined to believe that the thing is no more than -an innocent, though one-sided, game of tag. All -young creatures must have something to play -with, somebody to make game of. So it is with -yellow-rumps, I dare say; but why should they -so universally pitch upon the inoffensive bluebird, -I should like to know. It is to be added, however, -to make the story truthful, that if there are no -bluebirds handy, the warblers take it out by a -free chasing of each other. To watch them, one -would think that life, by their apprehension of -it, were all a holiday.</p> - -<p>And while I am talking of bluebirds I ought to -mention their habit of hanging about bird boxes -in these last days of their Northern season. Only -this forenoon, since the foregoing paragraphs -were written, I passed a box perched upon a -pole beside a house, and at least six bluebirds -were sitting upon its platform, or investigating -its different apartments. Sometimes a pair (so -they looked, one bright colored, the other dull) -sat side by side before a door, like married lovers. -Sometimes one would go inside, sometimes both, -while out of the next door another bird would be -peeping. The box was very unlikely to have -been their home; the countryside is overrun -with bluebirds, too many by half to have summered -hereabout; but evidently the sight of it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -had suggested family pleasures. Perhaps they -were living over the past, perhaps forecasting -the future. Bluebirds have their full share of -sentiment, or both voice and behavior are rank -deceivers. Concerning this aspect of the case, -however, the frivolous yellow-rumps cared not a -farthing. They sat in a small apple tree conveniently -near, and as often as a bluebird ventured -upon the wing, one or two of them started instantly -in pursuit. If he alighted upon a fence-post, -down they dropped upon the next rail and -waited for him to make another sally. Once I -heard a bluebird utter a pretty sharp note of -remonstrance, but that, we may guess, only made -the fun the greater. Birds will be birds.</p> - -<p>My morning stroll (it is October 13, my last -day in Franconia) showed me, in addition to -the birds already named, one lonesome-mannered -hermit thrush, a few robins, two or three ruby-crowned -kinglets, one of them running over with -his musical <i>twittity, twittity, twittity</i>, a single -yellow palm warbler (this and the myrtle have -been the only warblers of the month), a red cross-bill, -going somewhere, as usual, and leaving word -behind him as he went, a small flock of pine siskins, -a strangely few song sparrows, one vesper -sparrow, one white-crown, a multitude of snowbirds, -a purple finch or two, a goldfinch, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -grouse, with the inevitable crows, jays, chickadees, -and red-breasted nuthatches. Had my walk been -longer and into a more varied country, I should -have found gold-crested kinglets, winter wrens, -brown creepers, titlarks (perhaps), white-throated -sparrows, field sparrows, chippers, tree sparrows -(probably), and three or four kinds of woodpeckers.</p> - -<p>And speaking of woodpeckers, I must allow -myself to boast that within the last few days I -have had exceptional luck with the big fellow of -them all, known in books as the pileated. On -the 9th I saw one and heard the halloo of another, -and on the 11th I saw two (together) and -heard a third. One of those seen on the 11th -shouted at full length, and at the top of his voice -while flying.</p> - -<p>The pileated woodpecker is a splendid bird. -A pity he cannot find himself at home in our -Massachusetts country. To see him here in New -Hampshire one might imagine that he belonged -with the mountains and would be homesick in -other company; but if you would see him oftener -than anywhere else, you may go to a land where -there is scarcely so much as a hillock—to the -peninsula of Florida. There or here, he is a great -bird. The brightest maple leaf that ever took -color was not so bright as his crest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">FLORIDA</h2> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -<h3 class="nobreak">FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF MIAMI</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is Sunday, the 19th of January. A week ago -I was sitting before a fire, watching the snow -fall outside, in winter-bound Massachusetts. -This forenoon I am reclining in the shade of a -cocoanut palm, looking across the smooth blue -waters of Biscayne Bay to a line of woods, I -know not how many miles distant, broken in the -midst by a narrow cut or inlet (Norris Cut, a -passer-by tells me it is called), through which is -to be seen the open Atlantic. The air is motionless, -the sky cloudless, the temperature ideal. -“This is the day the Lord hath made,” I repeat -to myself. He has seldom done better.</p> - -<p>I left Boston Monday morning, spent that -night and the next day in Washington, slept in -St. Augustine Wednesday night, and on Thursday -took the long, all-day ride down the east -coast of Florida, past miles on miles of orange -groves and pineapple plantations, to the terminus -of the railroad, the new and flourishing city -of Miami.</p> - -<p>My visit, it must be owned, began rather inauspiciously. -It was nobody’s fault, of course,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -but the “magic city” did not put its best foot -forward. Friday morning the mercury stood at -forty-five, and although the day was abundantly -warm out of doors,—so warm that a walker naturally -took off his coat,—an oil stove proved a -comfort at nightfall. In short, the day was exactly -like a White Mountain day in late September, -hot in the middle and cool at both ends. -Yesterday, however, was a piece of Massachusetts -June, while this morning is so perfect that every -one, visitor or resident, passes comments upon -it. Perfection of any kind is a rare and precious -thing,—in this world, at least,—and though it -be merely a bit of weather, it should never go -unspoken of. So I say to myself as I lie in the -shade, and look and breathe.</p> - -<p>In truth, I can hardly feel it credible that I -was in the midst of snowstorms less than a week -ago. For a long two days winter has seemed -a thing utterly past and forgotten. Only now -and then it comes upon me, with the shock of -unexpected news, that this is not summer, but -January.</p> - -<p>The bay, for some reason to me unknown, is -almost without birds. The only one just now in -sight is a cormorant pretty far offshore, diving -and swimming by turns. I imagine him to be a -loon till suddenly he takes wing, with outstretched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -neck, and after a long flight comes to rest, not -in the water, but at the top of a stake. Somewhere -behind me a flicker is shouting as in -springtime, and on one side a mockingbird is -calling (“smacking” is the word that comes of -itself to my pencil), and a blue-gray gnatcatcher -utters now and then a fine, thread-like ejaculation.</p> - -<p>The stillness is really a relief, even to my ornithological -ears; for though they had been -starved for two or three months in Massachusetts, -they have been so dinned with bird voices -for the last two days that a brief period of silence -is grateful. The centre of the town, where -I have taken up my abode, literally swarms with -fish crows and boat-tailed grackles, every one -trying, as it seems, to outdo its rivals in noisiness. -I remember the day, eight or nine years -ago, when in the flatwoods of New Smyrna I -spent an hour of almost painful excitement in -taking observations upon the first boat-tail I had -ever seen. It would have been hard at that -moment for me to imagine that so clever and interesting -a bird could ever become a nuisance. -Fortunately, both crow and grackle retire to -roost early and are comparatively late risers; -otherwise the people of Miami might be driven -to violent measures, as against a plague. As -things are, the birds have no fears. They alight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -in the shade trees before the windows, or gather -about the kitchen door, crows and blackbirds -alike (and the male blackbirds, with their overgrown -tails, are almost or quite as large as the -crows), as fearless as so many English sparrows.</p> - -<p>After them the abundant birds hereabout, so -far as I have yet discovered, are buzzards, carrion -crows (black vultures), blue jays, catbirds -(which I have never seen half so plentiful), palm -warblers, myrtle warblers, and blue-gray gnatcatchers. -Less numerous, but still decidedly common, -are flickers, red-bellied woodpeckers, mockingbirds, -Florida yellow-throats, hummingbirds, -ground doves, and phœbes. Day before yesterday -a long procession of tree swallows straggled past -me as I wandered along the bay shore, and in the -same place a flock of masculine red-winged blackbirds -were holding a vociferous mid-winter convention -in a thicket of tall reeds. White-eyed -vireos are well distributed, and sing as saucily -as if the month were May instead of January. -Solitary vireos are present likewise, but I have -seen only one, and he was not yet in tune.</p> - -<p>Out in the pine lands I came upon a single -group of pine warblers and half a dozen bluebirds, -both singing freely. What a voice the -bluebird has! It does a Yankee’s heart good to -hear it. I have yet to see a robin or a chickadee.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>All in all, notwithstanding the woods are alive -with wings, there is surprisingly little music. -The season of song is not yet come. Phœbes, for -some reason, form a bright exception to the rule, -and now and then a cardinal grosbeak whistles -with a sweetness that beggars words. Twice, I -think, I have heard a distant mockingbird singing, -and yesterday, in front of the hotel, I stopped -to watch a pair that seemed to be in what I -should call a decidedly lyrical mood, though they -were silent as dead men. They stood on the -pavement a foot or so apart, and took turns in a -very original and pretty kind of dance. One and -then the other suddenly hopped straight upward -for an inch or two, both feet at once. Between -whiles they stood motionless, or sometimes one -(always the same) moved a little away from its -partner. Plainly they were much in earnest, and -without question the ceremony, simple, and almost -laughable, as it looked, had some deep and -perfectly understood significance. Ritualism is -not confined to churches. Everywhere the heart -speaks by attitude and gesticulation.</p> - -<p>A noble concert it will be when all these thousands -of song-birds recover their voices. May I -be here to enjoy it. For the present I am contented -to wait. It is sufficient just now to be in -so strange a land in so lovely a season, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -acres of morning-glories and moon-flowers all -about, roses and marigolds in the gardens, birds -in every bush (not an English sparrow among -them), airs gratefully cool from the sea, and -bright summer weather. For a winter-killed -Yankee, this is what old Omar would have -called “Paradise enow.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A FROSTY MORNING</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is nothing like weather. It is man’s comfort -and his misery; more important still, perhaps, -it is his prosperity and his ruin. Indeed, -it has almost divine prerogatives. It wounds and -it heals; it kills and it makes alive. And this, -which in good degree is true everywhere, is especially -true in a country like southern Florida, -the Mecca at once of pleasure-seeking winter -vacationers, health-seeking tourists, and livelihood-seeking -settlers. For all these, Florida is -what it is because of its climate, that is to say, -its weather. Speak with whom you will, weather -is the topic that naturally comes uppermost.</p> - -<p>Yesterday (January 22) was one of the most -delightful days imaginable; for a pedestrian, I -mean to say. I know an insect collector, a gentle -soul, little used to complaining against the order -of the world, who pronounced it “horrid.” For -the successful prosecution of her industry there -lacked a few degrees of warmth. Florida insects, -it appears, are much less hardy than their Northern -cousins, keeping indoors, and so out of the -net, in temperature such as a Yankee butterfly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -or beetle, thicker-skinned or thicker-blooded, -would scorn to be afraid of. But if yesterday -was perfect, to-day, by my reckoning, at least, -has been finer still—perfection heaped upon -perfection. Yet every one hereabout is more or -less unhappy, and with more or less reason. In -the night between these two perfect days an air -from the North descended suddenly upon us, and -the temperature took an alarming drop, some say -to 38°, some to 31°—a drop which meant discomfort -to all, and disaster to many. When I -put my head out of doors at seven o’clock this -morning, on my way to the post office, I was -startled. My first thought was to run back for -an overcoat. Instead of that I put on steam.</p> - -<p>Breakfast over, I betook myself to the pine -lands, my rule being to improve cool days in -that sunny region, leaving the shady hammock -woods for hotter weather. It was cold enough -for overcoat and mittens. In Massachusetts, with -anything like the same temperature, I should -certainly have worn them. Here, however, it was -not so plain a case. I was to be on foot till noon, -and I felt sure that long before that time the -lightest outer garment would become intolerable. -So I buttoned my one coat tightly about me, -stuffed my hands into my pockets, and hastened -my steps. For a mile, perhaps, I kept up the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -pace. By that time the sun had begun to make -itself felt. At the end of the second mile the -temperature was nothing less than summer-like, -and before the third mile was finished my coat -was on my arm; and as I came down one of the -city streets, on my return at noon, and met two -Seminole Indians walking abroad dressed, after -their airy fashion, in nothing but waistcoat and -shirt, the sight of their comfortable uncivilized -legs was calculated to make a perspiring man -envious.</p> - -<p>By nine o’clock, indeed, the weather was -superb; but presently I came to an opening in -the woods. Here was a field of tomato plants in -front of a new, unpainted house. Some recent -settler had cleared a piece of ground and established -a home in this land of perpetual summer. -And to support himself and his family he had -“gone into early tomatoes.” So much was to be -seen at a glance. And yes, there stood the man -himself in the midst of his plantation. I went -near and accosted him, expressing my hope that -the frost (for by this time it was plain there had -been one) had not damaged his crop. He had -been badly frightened in the night, he confessed, -but thought he had mostly escaped harm. “I -was glad,” he said, dwelling upon the verb with -a pleasant foreign accent, “when I saw the thermometer”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -(pronounced etymologically, with the -accent on the penult). I fear he was worse hit -than he knew. At all events there were many -acres of wilting tomato plants only a mile away -on the same road. One man, whom I saw looking -over his field, was calling the attention of -a solicitous neighbor to the fact that a certain -part of the plantation had fared better than the -rest. A few burning stumps had happened to be -left smouldering on one edge of the field overnight, -and the wind had drifted a light blanket -of smoke across that corner.</p> - -<p>But even in unprotected gardens the different -parts had not fared alike. Here the tender plants -were wilting as the sun shone on them, and yonder, -only five or ten yards away, there was no -symptom of blight. So true is it of tomato vines, -as of nobler creations, that one shall be taken and -the other left. The frost is like the wind, it striketh -where it listeth, and thou seest the effect thereof; -and the poor man suffereth with the rich.</p> - -<p>Such are the cruel uncertainties of truck farming -in this sub-tropical region, far down toward -the very tip of Florida. Like the speculator in -copper or in oil, the farmer goes to bed rich and -gets up poor. But, like the dabbler in “shares,” -the farmer is not easily discouraged. Though he -has moved from one point to another, farther<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -and farther down the peninsula, the frost pursuing -him, he will still try again. There is one -thing to be depended upon (let us be thankful -to say it)—a sanguine man’s hope.</p> - -<p>So much for tillers of the soil. For the rest -of us, mere idlers and wayfarers, concerned only -with questions of sight-seeing and momentary -comfort, a day like the present needs no bettering. -My own course, as I have said, lay through -the pine woods—sunny, spacious, not in the -least like anything that a New Englander would -call a forest. At short intervals the road, white -and hard, ran past a small clearing, generally -with a house upon it. Here would be orange -trees, mango trees (just now in bloom), splendid -hibiscus shrubs, pineapples, perhaps, with other -novelties pleasant for Northern eyes to look -upon, or, quite as likely, a field of tomatoes (the -fruit nearly grown), or a sweet-potato patch.</p> - -<p>Near one of the houses the loud cries of some -strange bird troubled my curiosity. The opera-glass -showed me nothing, and I was none the -wiser till beside a second house I heard the same -voice again. This time I put aside my scruples -and made a set attempt to solve the mystery. A -woman before the door was inquisitive about -the stranger, but the stranger was still more inquisitive -about the bird; and by and by, on a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -lower perch than I had thought, there the fellow -stood at the top of a shrub, directly before my -eyes, a Florida jay. It was nine years since I -had seen a bird of his kind, and the sight was -welcome accordingly. Perhaps he knew it. At -any rate, whether for my pleasure or his own, -he held his ground and kept up his harsh, -shrikely vociferations.</p> - -<p>The Florida jay (a crestless bird, not at all -the same as the Florida blue jay, which abounds -everywhere and is everywhere noisy, especially -in the villages) is strictly a bird of the peninsula, -being found nowhere else—a remarkable instance -of extreme localization. I ran upon still -another individual before reaching the end of -my jaunt,—on the outskirts of Lemon City,—and -all three were in dooryards. Oak scrub -(where you may look out for rattlesnakes) and -human neighborhood, these, as I read the signs, -are the Florida jay’s desiderata.</p> - -<p>In general, as compared with the hammock -woods, the pine lands are nearly birdless. An -occasional sparrow hawk (another strangely trustful -creature, very common in this country<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a>), an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -occasional mockingbird (more than once in -splendid song), a shrike now and then, a flock -of myrtle-birds, and another of palm warblers, -a good many white-breasted swallows and turkey -buzzards overhead, with a bunch of silent sparrows -skulking beneath the dwarf palmettoes,—these -are what I now remember.</p> - -<p>Birds or no birds, flowers or no flowers, I -should have enjoyed the eight miles. The bright -sunshine, the temperate, genial warmth, the -endless, widely spaced woods, the blue sky, and -on one side the blue expanse of Biscayne Bay,—summer -in winter,—I am not so long from -snowy Massachusetts but that these things are -enough to make for me a kind of perpetual fiesta. -As I said to begin with (and it is as true of -thoughts and feelings as of the tenderest of -garden crops), there is nothing like weather.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">BEWILDERMENT</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> any untraveled Northern botanist wishes to -be puzzled, hopelessly confused, clean put out -of his reckoning, let him come to Miami. His -knowledge will drop away from him till not a -rag is left. Let him arrive, as I did, after dark, -and in the morning take the road southward to -Cocoanut Grove. The distance is only five miles, -and the walking excellent. I should like to go -with him, and listen to his exclamations and -comments.</p> - -<p>The cocoanut palms before the hotel, as he -leaves the piazza, he has no need to inquire -about; such things he has at least seen in pictures. -And the parti-colored crotons, likewise, -are nothing new; he has seen the like in hot-houses, -if nowhere else. And the scores of big, -round hibiscus bushes, each with its score or two -of regal scarlet blossoms,—these, or poverty-stricken -imitations of them, he has admired before -now in the Boston Public Garden and elsewhere. -The acalypha shrubs, also, he will perhaps recognize -upon a second look, though he has never -before seen them growing as a hedge, carefully<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -squared, three or four feet high, and as many -feet thick. Yonder euphorbia bush, too (<i>Poinsettia</i>), -with its flaring, flaming rosettes of scarlet -floral leaves at the tips of the stems—this, -like the crotons, he is more or less familiar with -under glass. All these are cultivated plants, -pleasant to look upon out of doors in mid-winter, -but of themselves not especially interesting, perhaps, -to a botanist.</p> - -<p>But now, at the foot of Thirteenth or Fourteenth -Street, less than a quarter of a mile from -the hotel, we come to some vacant lots. Here -are a few dingy live-oaks (still with last year’s -leaves on), and in their shadow, sprawling over -the tangled undergrowth, a wilderness of gadding -morning-glory vines. How lovely the flowers are—pink -and blue! Unless it be the ubiquitous -fish crow, there is nothing else so common in this -Miami country as the morning-glory; and the -vines, acres on acres, hold in bloom, one kind -and another, so I am given to understand, almost -or quite the whole year round.</p> - -<p>Now we leave the sidewalk and are in the pine -woods. The trees—long-leaved pines—our -botanist knows well enough, the train having -brought him past a thousand miles of such, on -his way hither; though, even so, he might be -puzzled to tell to which of two related species<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -(<i>Palustris</i> and <i>Elliottii</i>) they belong. From the -rude bridge, as we cross the Miami River, he -admires the myriad-footed, glossy-leaved mangrove -thickets that line the banks, especially as -he looks up the stream. Just beyond are ancient -live-oaks, the huge spreading branches of which -support a profusion of air-plants (poor relations -of the pineapple), with here and there an orchid. -I should like to show him an <i>Epidendrum</i> such -as I secured ten days ago—an open spray of a -dozen blooms, handsome enough to grace the -finest of hothouse collections; but I have not -been able to find a second specimen, with all my -searching. However, a smaller, one-flowered species -is common enough, and if he is sufficiently -enterprising he will climb one of the trees for it, -or—as I did—cut a stick by means of which, -with more or less hard work, he can pry the -bulbous root from its foothold.</p> - -<p>“What is this yellow flower?” he asks, as -we go on.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” is my answer. “Some member -of the pulse family.”</p> - -<p>My companion knew as much as that already.</p> - -<p>“And this bush, with its strangely contorted -pods?”</p> - -<p>Here I am more at home, and proud to -show it. The plant is <i>Pithecolobium Unguis-Cati</i>,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -I tell him. Small wonder the pods are -twisted.</p> - -<p>With this we come to more live-oaks, on which -are more air-plants and orchids, and just beyond -is a confusion of thick-leaved trees and -shrubs.</p> - -<p>“What is this?” he asks; “and this? and -this?”</p> - -<p>I have no idea, I am obliged to answer. But -the tall tree a little farther on is <i>Ficus aurea</i>, I -hasten to remark, with a show of extreme erudition.</p> - -<p>“A fig-tree?” he answers, in a tone of surprise; -for, being a botanist, he knows, of course, -that <i>ficus</i> is fig.</p> - -<p>Yes, I assure him, it is a <i>kind</i> of fig (rubber -tree, it is otherwise called), though the leaf is -small and, as botanists say, “entire,” not in -the least resembling the modest fig-leaf of convention. -I know the tree’s name, as I know that -of the shrub before mentioned, because I was -told it yesterday. One’s knowledge (of names) -increases rapidly under favorable circumstances, -in a country like this.</p> - -<p>Yonder very noticeable shrub, bearing large -globular bunches of small bright-purplish berries -(no eye could miss them), is the French mulberry, -so called (<i>Callicarpa Americana</i>); and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -the larger and leafier bush near it, set along -the branches with more loosely disposed orange-colored -berries, is <i>Trema micrantha</i>, a plant -which Chapman’s Flora credits to but one place -in the United States,—“Shellmounds in Lastero -Bay, South Florida,”—though hereabout -it is one of the commonest of the common. -Both it and the French mulberry are prime -favorites with various kinds of birds. Mockingbirds -and catbirds are feasting on the berries at -this moment.</p> - -<p>And yes, here is a tree that I knew would excite -my companion’s curiosity. No stranger ever -drove over this road (and the first drive of every -newcomer to Miami is taken this way) without -asking his driver about it: a large tree, all its -leafy branches far above the ground, with a -strangely conspicuous mahogany-colored bark, -the outermost layers of which peel off in loose -papery flakes, after the manner of the canoe birch. -On my first jaunt into the hammock I heard more -than one driver pronounce its eloquent name—gumbo-limbo. -The two or three men of whom I -made inquiries could tell me nothing more, till -my host, who professed no botany, modestly suggested -a reference to the dictionary. There, sure -enough, I found the clue I was seeking. The tree -is <i>Bursera gummifera</i>, or Jamaica birch, one of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -two Florida representatives of the tropical torch-wood -family. It is among the chief of my South -Florida admirations, especially for its color. It -and the Seminoles should be of kindred stock. -In the lobby of the hotel, the other evening, I -heard one man rallying another (who had been -fishing and playing golf bareheaded) upon the -magnificent complexion he had put on. “Your -face reminds me of the gumbo-limbo,” the joker -said. The comparison was obvious. I had been -thinking the same thing.</p> - -<p>Our course takes us through a brief tract of -pine land largely occupied by bayberry bushes, -about which there are always many myrtle warblers -(which is the same as to say bayberry warblers); -and presently we are in a dense tropical -forest. This is the place I have desired my companion -to see; and here, after a few minutes of -silent wonderment, his curiosity begins to play. -“What is this? What is this? What is this?” -His interrogations come in crowds; and to every -one my answer is ready—“I don’t know.” I -am in the case of the poor fellow whose sarcastic -French instructor promised to teach him in one -sentence how to answer correctly every question -he might be asked. Like him I have only to respond, -“<i>Je ne sais pas.</i>” Trees, shrubs, and -vines are all far out of my range. During the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -fortnight that I have been here, to be sure, I -have begun to distinguish differences among -them, and even to recognize individuality; but -as to what they are, and what their names are, I -know absolutely nothing.</p> - -<p>It is a strange sensation, so delightfully, tantalizingly -strange that I can hardly keep away -from the place. Day after day, in spite of the -dust and (sometimes) the scorching heat, my -steps turn in this direction. “Where have you -been?” my new acquaintances say to me at the -dinner table; and I answer, almost of course, -“Down in the hammock.”</p> - -<p>Here and there, wherever there is a favorable -opening, I venture a few steps into the jungle; -but sometimes I cannot stay. A feeling of something -like superstitious terror comes over me, -the wood is so dense and dark and strange. I -am glad to get back into the dusty road. My -supposititious companion will be braver than I, -I dare say, but he will be with me in confessing -how confusingly alike all the trees look, and how -utterly unavailable all his previous knowledge -proves to be. On this point I have talked with -two botanists, and they have both assured me -that, although they had lived much in upper Florida, -they found themselves here in a world they -knew nothing about. With me, who am not a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -botanist, or only the sheerest dabbler in the science, -it is literally true that in this sub-tropical -forest I cannot guess at so much as the family -relationship of one plant in twenty.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">WAITING FOR THE MUSIC</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I am</span> impatient for the concert to begin. It is -the 7th of February. For three weeks I have -been in Miami; birds are plentiful; the country, -one may almost say, is full of them; the weather, -mostly a few shades too warm for a pedestrian’s -comfort, seems to be all that birds could wish; -but thus far there has been scarcely a sign of the -grand vernal awakening. Warm or cold, for the -birds it is still winter. Phœbes, to be sure, have -sung ever since my arrival, I cannot help wondering -why; and the same is true of white-eyed -vireos. It is impossible to walk through the hammock -woods without getting somewhat more than -one’s fill of their saucily emphatic deliverances. -For aught I can see, they are quite as loquacious -now as they will be two or three months -hence. Once in a while, hardly oftener than once -a week, I should say, I have heard a mockingbird -letting himself loose, and rather more frequently, -especially during the last few days, -cardinal grosbeaks have sweetened the air with -their whistle; but for much the greater part the -birds are dumb. On the morning of February 1,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -as I stepped out upon the piazza, a house wren -sang from a live-oak by the kitchen door. I remembered -the date. “Good!” said I to myself, -“the time of the singing of birds is come.” But -I was too much in haste. Since then I have heard -plenty of wren chattering, but not another note -of wren music.</p> - -<p>Still the opening of the annual concert cannot -be much longer delayed. When I was in Florida -nine years ago, mockingbirds were in free song -at St. Augustine, before the middle of February; -and at this point, three hundred miles and more -farther south, the season must be earlier rather -than later.</p> - -<p>Some of the more distinctively Southern of the -birds about me I am especially desirous of hearing—the -Florida yellow-throats, for example, a -local race of the Maryland yellow-throat, so -called. They are everywhere in sight (the dark -brown of the flanks distinguishing them readily), -and as their music is said to be very unlike that -of their familiar Northern relative, I am naturally -desirous of adding it to my (memorized) -collection. It will be nothing great, presumably, -but it will be something new.</p> - -<p>Still more interesting will be the song of the -painted bunting, or nonpareil, a beauty of beauties -that I had never seen (a wild one, I mean)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -until this winter. About Miami it is decidedly -common, though the green females show themselves -ten times as often as the red, blue, and -yellow-green males. What a superbly dressed -creature the masculine nonpareil is! And he -carries himself as if he knew it. “Dear me,” he -seems always to be saying; “this Joseph’s coat -of mine makes me so conspicuous! Some day -it will be my undoing.” My readers will most -likely have seen the gorgeous little creature in -cages (I found one many years ago in the Boston -Public Garden, I remember), though the -chances are that they have never seen him in -anything like his brightest and liveliest feather. -A bird, like a butterfly, was born to be looked -at out of doors with the sunlight on him. So far -I have heard no note from the nonpareil except -his rather soft chip. The birds frequent weedy -tangles in open grounds, showing special fondness -for patches of the white bur-marigold, and seem -to be well scattered over the country.</p> - -<p>Day after day I walk down through the hammock -(I have spoken of it before, and most -likely shall do so again) between Miami and -Cocoanut Grove. Indeed, so constant are my -peregrinations thither that I begin to find my -innocent self treated as a kind of mysterious -personage—one of the “features” of the place,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -so to speak, an “object of interest,” like the -gumbo-limbos, the air-plants, and the blossoming -lime trees. Three times, at least, I have overheard -a driver describing me to his fares as “the -man who comes down through this hammock -<i>every day</i>”—with strong emphasis on the last -two words. One passenger was good enough to -surmise, quite audibly, that I might be a botanist, -while another loudly proclaimed his belief that -I must be “a sort of a bird fiend.” So much -for being useful in one’s day and generation. -The tourist mind—like the tourist stomach—abhors -a vacuum. It must have something to -browse upon. And the drivers know it. It is a -bad day for the cow when she loses her cud.</p> - -<p>In sober truth the hammock is well worth a -daily visit; and almost as often as I am here it -comes over me what a glorious concert hall it will -be when all these thousands of birds find their -voices, if they ever do; for it may be, I know, -that the great majority will start on their journey -northward before that happy day arrives. -Here—to name only some of the more common -species—here are mockingbirds, catbirds, cardinals, -house wrens, Carolina wrens, ruby-crowned -kinglets, palm warblers, myrtle warblers, parula -warblers, prairie warblers, black-and-white warblers, -Florida yellow-throats, oven-birds, blue-gray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -gnatcatchers (a host), white-eyed vireos -(another host), solitary vireos, chewinks, painted -buntings, phœbes, crested flycatchers, and blue -jays. What a chorus there would be if the spring -should get into all their throats at once! Might -I be here to listen! Then, indeed, I could make -a list, with the hearing to help the eyesight. Now -I follow the road, and find only such birds as -happen to be near it at the moment when I pass. -Then it would be another story. I should need -a stenographer. The names would crowd upon -the pencil.</p> - -<p>It is really an astonishing, unnatural-seeming -thing—this multitude of birds, in this cloudless -summer weather, with mating-time so close at -hand, and no impulse to sing. Yet that expression -is a trifle too strong, or at least too sweeping. -This forenoon I heard a gnatcatcher warbling -softly, as if to himself, tuning his instrument, it -may be, or, more likely, dreaming. The cardinals, -too, are certainly growing amorous. I see -the bright males quarreling among themselves -here and there (they are constantly in the road), -and not infrequently, as I have said, they whistle -with all sweetness. At that work there is no -bird to excel them. How any female heart can -resist such appeals is more than any bachelor’s -heart can imagine. I rejoice in their numbers.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -I should love to walk through the hammock and -hear them all whistling together, a chorus a good -mile in length and no rod without a bird.</p> - -<p>Loggerhead shrikes are paired or pairing. -The other day I saw one fly up from the ground -and feed another perched on a telegraph wire. -He was doing no more than was meet, her cool-appearing, -unresponsive manner seemed to say. -Mockingbirds, also, though singing little, are beginning -to manifest symptoms of jealousy. If all -the mockers and all the cardinals should break -into voice at once, the air itself would hardly -contain the music.</p> - -<p>Two pileated woodpeckers that I see every -few days at a particular spot in the hammock -have already come to an understanding, or so I -fancy from certain bits of conduct that I have -been privileged to witness. This morning I stood -watching the female as she hammered to pieces -a decayed branch close by me, when all at once -her mate called in the distance. Instantly she -held up her head, as much as to say, “Hark! -Was that he?” and the next moment she was -gone. Then I heard low conversational notes, -followed presently by loud drumming on a resonant -stub or branch. I thought of what I have -heard preachers say, that Heaven is a state, not -a place.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>Pileated woodpeckers are birds good to look -at, and, wild as they look, it is pleasant to find -them so approachable. But in fact, this is most -productive woodpecker country. Here are flickers -in abundance, red-bellies almost as many, and -along with them the red-headed, the red-cockaded -(in the pine lands), the yellow-bellied (least common -of all), the downy, and the hairy; all, in -short, that could be expected, with the exception -of the ivory-billed; and (such is human nature) -I would give more to see him than all the rest -together.</p> - -<p>Well, I will not wish time away, as the saying -is. I begin to perceive that I have none to -spare. But I shall rejoice when some morning I -go out and find the conductor’s arm lifted, and -the chorus minding the beat.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">PERIPATETIC BOTANY</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I called upon my friend the entomologist, -a few evenings ago, she informed me that she had -passed a very exciting day. While out on her -usual insect-collecting expedition, along the bay -shore, she had come suddenly upon an unknown -plant growing among the mangrove bushes. A -glance at the blossom showed that it must belong -to the mallow family, and on getting back to the -hotel and consulting the manual, she determined -it at once as <i>Pavonia racemosa</i>,—“Miami and -Key Biscayne.” Every collector knows the pleasure -of discovering a plant or other specimen, -the known habitat of which is entitled to this -kind of exact specification.</p> - -<p>“Very good,” said I, when she had finished -the story, “I shall go down to-morrow and look -at <i>Pavonia racemosa</i> for myself.”</p> - -<p>The next afternoon, therefore, saw me at the -place; but it appeared that I had not sufficiently -attended to my friend’s instructions. At all -events, I could find nothing that looked like a -<i>Malva</i>. In a country so richly and strangely -furnished as this, however, a visitor cannot turn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -his eyes in any direction without putting them -upon something he never saw before; and so it -happened that while I hunted vainly for one -thing I found another and better; or if it was -not better in itself, it was more unexpected and -interesting. This was a shrub, or small tree, bearing -large, glossy, coriaceous leaves, clustered near -the ends of the branches, from which depended -long, smooth, pear-shaped or gourd-shaped buds. -More careful search revealed a few faded flowers -and a large pendent green fruit. And then, ten -minutes afterward, as I was starting away, my -eyes fell upon a clump of the rare <i>Pavonia</i>.</p> - -<p>With that, of course, there was no room for -difficulty. I had only to compare the specimen -with the printed description, and check the name. -But as for the strange shrub, of which I had bud, -blossom, fruit, and leaf (what more could a man -desire?), with that I was fairly beaten. Even -a methodical, schoolboyish use of the “key” was -without result. The signs brought me, or seemed -to bring me, to the Bignonia family, and there -came to nothing.</p> - -<p>Happily a professor of botany in one of our -great universities had arrived in town within the -last twenty-four hours, and after supper I invited -him to my room to help me with the puzzle. He -set about the work just as I had done, only after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -a more workmanlike fashion, and him also the -key led to the <i>Bignoniaceæ</i>, but no farther. As -the common saying is, the trail had “run up a -tree.” In short, with all the facts before us,—leaves, -buds, blossom, fruit,—we were stumped. -“It is some representative of the Bignonia family -not included in Chapman’s Flora,” was the -professor’s final verdict.</p> - -<p>The next forenoon we had agreed to spend -together in the big hammock, through which I -had been sauntering by myself for the past five -weeks. We should pass the Agricultural Experiment -Station on the way, and I determined to -carry the troublesome specimen along and submit -it to the professor in charge. So said, so done; -but as we stopped at the post office, there stood -the man himself at the door. “What is this?” I -asked, scarcely waiting to bid him good-morning. -“<i>Crescentia</i>,” he answered promptly, “a plant -of the Bignonia family.” So the other professor -had been exactly right.</p> - -<p>And now for the more dramatic part of the -story. The day before—at noon of the day on -which I found the plant in question—I received -a letter from a Boston friend, himself a university -professor of botany, to whom I had written, -begging him to quit his desk, like a reasonable -man, and join me in this botanical paradise. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -replied that he could not come, and furthermore, -that he wasn’t so very sorry. New England -winter is to him a constant refreshment and exhilaration, -it appears. Happy New Englander! -“To-day is simply perfect,” he wrote, “and you -can’t beat it in Miami.” As to that point I reserve -my opinion. “How changed the place must -be from what it was when I was there in the -’80’s,” he continued. “No railroad then within -hundreds of miles, and none of your modern improvements. -It is a great place for plants. I -shan’t forget how delighted I was to find <i>Crescentia -cucurbitina</i> in flower. I had searched the -whole range of Keys for it in vain.”</p> - -<p>This very plant, of the existence of which I -had never before heard, I had found, without -knowing it, within two hours after receiving my -friend’s letter.<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> - -<p>Winter botanizing by newcomers, in a country -so foreign as this, where much the greater -part of the shrubs and trees are West Indian, -with no better help than Chapman’s Flora, is -carried on under almost discouraging difficulties. -“If we only had the blossoms!” the professor is -continually exclaiming. And his pupil responds,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -“Yes, if we only had!” As it is, we content -ourselves with finding out a few things daily, -guessing at characters and relationships (no very -bad practice, by the way), running down all sorts -of clues, real or imaginary, like detectives on the -hunt for a murderer, and even asking questions -freely of chance passers-by, especially of the numerous -class known by the white people hereabout -as “Bahama niggers.” They, rather than their -pale-faced superiors, seem to be observant of -natural things. It is likely, too, that they or their -forbears may have brought some traditionary -knowledge of such matters from the islands where -the plants are more at home. At all events, it -is pleasant to notice how ready even the black -children are, not only to answer questions, but -to ask them as well, about any flowers that one -happens to be carrying.</p> - -<p>The other day I came suddenly upon a bush, -the like of which I had seen and wondered over -a hundred times since my arrival in Miami, remarking -especially the highly peculiar, almost -perpendicular carriage of its innumerable thick, -brightly varnished leaves, a device, as the professor -had suggested, for protecting them against -the vertical rays of the sun. I had never seen -either fruit or blossom, but here, on this particular -plant, my eye fell upon a few scattered purplish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -drupes. Now, then, here was something to -go upon. Now, possibly, with a sprinkling more -of good luck, I might find the name of the bush. -I was a mile or two from town, on the road to -Alapattah Prairie, where there are many truck -farms. A white man came along, one of the -“truckers,” driving homeward from the city.</p> - -<p>“Do you know what this is?” I inquired, -showing him the specimen.</p> - -<p>“No, sir,” he answered.</p> - -<p>Soon I met another man, and proposed to him -the same question, with the same result. A third -attempt was no more successful. Then I overtook -two colored men talking beside a quarry.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me,” I said, “but can you tell me -the name of this plant?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, it is cocoa plum,” answered one of -them; and the other said, “Yes, cocoa plum.”</p> - -<p>And so it was; for on referring to the manual -I found the bush fully described under that -name.</p> - -<p>Another experiment in this kind of putting -myself to school, it is fair to add, was less in the -Bahama colored man’s favor. A tourist whom -I happened upon resting beside the hammock -road held in his hand two or three twigs, from -each of which depended a large, stony, pear-shaped -fruit, and seeing me curious about the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -novelty, he kindly offered me one. This, also, I -forthwith carried into the city, stopping passengers -by the way—like a natural-historical Socrates—to -ask them about it. No one, white or -black, could tell me anything till in a fruit shop -I questioned a white boy. “It’s a seven-year -apple,” he said. “Some foolish local name,” I -thought. At all events it could do me no good, -since it was not to be found in Chapman’s index. -But that evening, on my showing the specimen -to the entomologist, and telling her what the boy -had said, she replied, “Certainly, that is right. -The plant is <i>Genipa</i>, or seven-year apple.” And -under the word “Genipa” I found it so spoken -of in the Standard Dictionary. There the fruit -is said to be edible, which seems to disprove the -conjecture of another lady to whom I had shown -it, that it derives its name from the fact that it -would take an eater seven years to digest it. -Apples, like men, are not fairly to be judged -in the green state.</p> - -<p>I have said that this guessing at characters -and relationships is not a bad discipline. And -no more is it the worst of fun. Of this I had -only two days ago a strikingly happy proof. -Everywhere in the hammock there grows a tall -tree, noticeable for the peculiar color of its bark -and its channeled and often fantastically contorted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -trunk. The leafy branches are always far -overhead (a necessity in so crowded a place), and -I had seen the purplish, globular drupes only as -they had dropped one by one to the ground. At -every opportunity I had made inquiries about the -tree, but had received no light, nor, after much -searching, had either the professor or myself been -able to hit upon so much as a plausible conjecture -as to its identity. Well, two days ago, as I say, -we were walking together on the outskirts of the -city, when we came to a tree of this kind growing -in the open, the fruit-bearing branches of -which hung within reach. We pulled one of them -down, and I exclaimed at once, “Why, this -should be related to the sea-grape!”—a most -curious West Indian tree (<i>Coccoloba uvifera</i>, a -member of the buckwheat family!) which grows -freely along the shore of Biscayne Bay. “See -the fruit,” said I, “for all the world like a bunch -of grapes.” With that we began a detailed examination, -and, to make a long story short, the -tree proved to be another species of <i>Coccoloba</i>—<i>C. -Floridana</i>.</p> - -<p>That was pretty good guessing, based as it -was on nothing better than an “external character,” -as the professor rather slightingly called -it. For five weeks my curiosity had been exercised -over the puzzle, and in five seconds I had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -found the needed clue. Who will say that this -was not better and more interesting, and withal -more instructive, than to have been told the tree’s -name on the first day I saw it?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A PEEP AT THE EVERGLADES</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">My</span> first stroll in Miami was taken under the -pilotage of a lady who had already spent several -winters here. In the course of it we came suddenly -upon a colored man lying face downward -in the grass, under a blazing sun, fast asleep. -It was no uncommon happening, my friend remarked; -she was always stumbling over such -dusky sleepers. But in this Southern clime the -luxury of physical inactivity is not appreciated -by black people alone. I was walking away from -the city at a rather brisk pace, one morning, -when I passed a lonesome shanty. A white man -sat upon the rude piazza, and another man and -a boy stood near.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to work to-day?” asked the -boy of the occupant of the piazza.</p> - -<p>“No,” was the answer, quick and pithy.</p> - -<p>“Why not?”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t got time.”</p> - -<p>I laid the words up as a treasure; I do not -expect to hear the philosophy of indolence more -succinctly and pointedly stated if I live a thousand -years.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>But though we Northern visitors may sometimes -envy our Southern brethren their gift of -happy <i>insouciance</i>, it is not for our possessing. -We were born under another star. Our lack is -the precise opposite of theirs; even in our vacation -hours we have seldom time to sit still.</p> - -<p>So it happened that on a sultry, dog-day morning, -with a south wind blowing, the sky partly -clouded,—a comfort to the eyes,—the professor -and the bird-gazer, after an early breakfast, -set forth upon a reconnoissance of the -Everglades. We took each a boat and an oarsman, -planning to go up the Miami River, or -rather its south branch, till we were among the -“islands”—small pieces of hammock woods -scattered amid the wilderness of saw-grass.</p> - -<p>As each of us had his own boat, so each had -his own errand, one botanical, the other lazily -ornithological. The professor expected to see -and learn much—especially about the adaptation -of plants to their surroundings; his associate -expected to see and learn little—little or -nothing; and according to each man’s faith, so -it was unto him.</p> - -<p>For the first mile or so—as far as the tide -runs, perhaps—the river is densely beset on -either side by a shining green hedge of mangrove -bushes, every branch sending down “aerial<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -roots” of its own, till landing among them is an -adventure hardly to be thought of. After the -mangroves come taller hedges of the cocoa plum, -leafier still, and equally shining.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you glad you know what this bush -is?” I shouted downstream to the professor.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I am,” he shouted back.</p> - -<p>Without this knowledge, which we had acquired -within a few days, by a kind of accident, -as before related, our present state of mind -would have been pitiable. We were surprised -to find the plant so fond of water, having noticed -it heretofore in comparatively dry situations. -Another example of the extreme adaptability of -tropical plants, the professor remarked.</p> - -<p>By and by we came to the first cypress trees, -the only ones I have seen in this all but swampless -Miami neighborhood; beautiful in their new -dress of living green. I rejoiced at the sight. -Under one of them we landed, admiring the -“knees” that its roots had sent up till the -ground was studded with them. These, the professor -tells me (it is nothing new, by his account -of the matter, but it is new to me), are believed -to serve as breathing or aerating organs, supplying -to the tree the oxygen for lack of which, -standing in water, as it mostly does, it would -otherwise drown. All visitors to Florida are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -impressed by the beauty and majesty of the -cypress, and many have no doubt puzzled themselves -over the meaning of these strange, apparently -useless protuberances—as if nature had -attempted something and failed—that are so -constantly found underneath. “They never do -grow to be trees,” my boatman said.</p> - -<p>It was at this point, as nearly as I remember, -that the stream grew narrow and shallow at -once, till behold, we were laboring up what -might fairly be called rapids. Here, between the -awkward crowding of the banks and the swiftness -of the current (it was good, I said to myself, -to see water actually <i>running</i> in Florida), -the men were certainly earning their money. -Fortunately, both proved equal to the task. -Then a bend in the stream took us away from -the neighborhood of the trees (not until, in one -of the cypresses, I had remarked my first Miami -nuthatch—a white-breast), and into the very -midst of the saw-grass. This densely growing, -sharp-edged, appropriately named grass, higher -than a man’s head, standing to-day in two or -three feet of water, is said to cover the Everglades. -It must render them a frightful place -in which to lose one’s way. “I should rather -be lost at sea in a rowboat,” my oarsman declared.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>All this while, of course, I had kept a lookout -for birds, but, as I had expected, to comparatively -little purpose. No doubt there were many -about us, but not for our finding. The shallower -and quieter edges of the river were covered here -and there with broad leaves of the yellow lily, -among which should have been at least a chance -gallinule, it seemed to me; but neither gallinule -nor rail showed itself. Here, as everywhere, -buzzards and vultures were sailing overhead. -Many white-breasted swallows, too, went hawking -over the grass, and once a purple martin -passed near me. Better still, he allowed me, in -one brief note, to hear his welcome voice. Like -the new leaves of the cypress, it prophesied of -spring.</p> - -<p>At intervals a heron of one kind or another -started up far in advance. One was snow-white, -but whether I was to call it an immature little -blue heron or a white egret was more than could -be made sure of at my distance. I recall, too, a -flock of ducks, a cormorant or two, speeding -through the air after their usual headlong manner, -a solitary red-winged blackbird, astray from -the flock, and the cries of killdeer plovers. -Kingfishers were not infrequent, two or three -ospreys came into sight, and once, at least, I -made sure of a Louisiana heron. A lean showing,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> -certainly, for what might have been thought -so promising a place.</p> - -<p>And now, as the grass grew shorter, so that -we could survey the world about us, the water of -a sudden turned shallow. The professor’s flat-bottomed -boat still floated prosperously, but my -own heavier, keeled craft speedily touched bottom. -The rower put down the oars, took off his -shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and -proceeded to lighten the boat of his weight, and -drag it forward. This expedient answered for a -rod or two. Then we stuck fast again, and the -passenger followed his boatman’s example and -took to the water. So we followed along, the -water now deeper, now shallower, the bottom -hard and slimy, till after a little we were at the -end of our rope. If we were to go farther we -must leave the boat behind us.</p> - -<p>This was hardly worth while, especially as even -in that way we could not hope to proceed far -enough to see anything different from what we -had seen already. “We will go back,” I said, -“drifting with the current and stopping by the -way.” And so we did, my boatman and I, leaving -the professor—who, as it turned out, went -but a few rods beyond us—to pursue his investigations -unhindered.</p> - -<p>After all, in spite of our indolent intentions,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -the return was faster than the upward journey, -as almost of necessity happens, whether one is -descending a river or a mountain. The time for -loitering is in going up. One good thing we saw, -nevertheless, though it was only for an instant.</p> - -<p>“What’s that?” my man suddenly exclaimed, -in the eagerest of tones. “Look! Right there!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” I said; “a least bittern.”</p> - -<p>It stood crosswise, so to speak, halfway up a -tall reed, for all the world like a marsh wren. -Then away it went on the wing, and was lost in -the grass. It was a good bird to see, besides -counting as “No. 91” in my Miami list.</p> - -<p>“I never did see a bird like that,”<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> the boatman -said. “Such a little fellow!” he called it. -It was a pleasure to find him so enthusiastic.</p> - -<p>The best thing of the whole trip, notwithstanding, -was not the sight of any bird, but our lazy, -careless, albeit too rapid gliding down the stream, -with the world so bright and calm about us and -above. Here and there, for our delight, was a -tuft of fragrant white “lilies” (<i>Crinum</i>) standing -amid a tuft of handsome upright green leaves. -More than once, also, we passed boatloads of -fishermen (and fisherwomen), white and black.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -One elderly and carefully dressed, city-coated -gentleman I especially remember. He sat in the -stern of the boat (his African boatman with a -line out, also), watching the fluctuations of his -bob as earnestly, I thought, as ever he could -have watched the fluctuations of the stock market. -His whole soul was centred upon that bit -of cork and the possible fish below. He actually -had a nibble as we passed! What cared he then -for “coppers” or “industrials”? He must at -some time or other have been a boy. The lucky -man! By the look on his face he was happy. -And happiness, if I am to judge by what I see, -is one of the main things, in Florida. At all -events, it was the main thing that I found in the -Everglades.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">THE BEGINNINGS OF SPRING</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Manifold</span> are the perils of journalism. A few -weeks ago I filled a letter with the praise, most -sincerely felt, of a certain tropical hammock on -the road from Miami to Cocoanut Grove, a place -full of birds, and destined, so I hoped, to be -equally full of music. This eulogy, it transpires, -was read by a bird-loving enthusiast from New -England, sojourning for the winter at the Hotel -Ormond; and what should he do but send me -word, a stranger, that he had packed his trunk -and was coming down straightway (two hundred -and fifty miles or more) to inspect the wonder.</p> - -<p>In due course he arrived, and as soon as possible -I led him out of the city, across the river, -through a stretch of blazing sunshine, and at last -into the heart of the hammock. It was a long -jaunt, much longer than he was prepared for, the -afternoon was hot, and to make matters worse the -hammock showed almost no sign of that profusion -of avian existence, with the anticipation of -which my glowing periods had filled him.</p> - -<p>Fortunately for my reputation, I had forewarned -him that such would be the case. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -birds, I explained, either because the season had -advanced, or for some other reason, had pretty -nearly deserted the jungle of West Indian trees, -shrubs, and vines,—for such this particular hammock -is,—and had betaken themselves to the -more open country, especially to certain groves -of newly clad live-oaks, whose sturdy, wide-spreading, -rival-killing, trust-creating, monopolistic -arms, by the time the trees are of middle age, -have made for themselves a relatively sunny -clearing.</p> - -<p>I had been growing aware of this change in -the face of things for a week or two, and now, -when the newcomer has been three or four days -in Miami, the reality of it is conclusively established. -On two mornings of the present week, -for example, I found in a few minutes’ stroll before -breakfast a highly interesting flock of perhaps -twenty kinds of birds in the live-oaks and -other scattered trees on the very edge of the -city, within a hundred rods of my own doorstep: -fish crows, boat-tailed grackles, crow blackbirds, -red-headed woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers, -red-bellied woodpeckers, flickers, catbirds, mockingbirds, -house wrens, cardinals, palm warblers, -myrtle warblers, parula warblers, prairie warblers, -black-and-white warblers, yellow-throated -warblers, solitary vireos, yellow-throated vireos,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -blue jays, phœbes, ground doves, blue-gray gnatcatchers, -ruby-crowned kinglets, a male nonpareil, -a Baltimore oriole, a crested flycatcher, a hummingbird, -and a hermit thrush. A varied bunch -of feathers, and no mistake.</p> - -<p>In the tropical hammock, on the other hand, -during the same forenoons, I saw, as well as I remember, -nothing but white-eyed vireos, phœbes, -catbirds, cardinals, palm and myrtle warblers, -crested flycatchers, nonpareils, and gnatcatchers. -So completely has the condition of things been -reversed with the change of season.</p> - -<p>Other signs are not lacking that March has -brought the spring. Mockingbirds are daily becoming -more rhapsodical. The other afternoon, -out among the cabins of the black suburb, I -stood still while three sang at once on different -sides. They are friends of the poor, as well as -of the rich. This morning two yellow-throated -vireos sang, chattered, and whistled; and a most -delicious trilled whistle theirs is, soft, musical, -full of sweet and happy feeling. Better still, -almost (because more of a novelty), a yellow-throated -warbler sang his dreamy tune over and -over. This is one of the most exquisite birds ever -made; of quiet, modest colors, bluish-black and -white, with a single bright jewel to set them off—a -gorget of brilliant yellow. To-day I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -seen as many as ten such beauties, I think. Their -feeding habits and their movements, as well as -their black-and-white stripes, are surprisingly -like those of the black-and-white creeper,—to -which they ought to be more nearly related than -the systematists allow,—while their song is in -the manner of the indigo-bird.</p> - -<p>Now, if the nonpareil buntings would only fall -into line! Thus far they have not favored me -with a note, and indifferent musicians as I know -them to be, I believe there is no other bird in -Miami that I am so desirous of hearing. Such -feathers as they wear! Once in a while, of late, -a male has been good enough to take a somewhat -lofty perch and display himself. If there -is a more gorgeous bird in the United States I -should like to see him. Just now there are at -least three enthusiasts in Miami—a Kentucky -lady, a Rhode Island man, and a Massachusetts -man—who are doing their best daily to get their -fill of his loveliness.</p> - -<p>Phœbes have sung much less of late than they -did in January. Then they seemed to find existence -a perpetual jubilee. Red-bellied woodpeckers, -too, are far less talkative than they were a -month ago. Most likely they are busier. And -by the by, the Kentucky enthusiast above mentioned -pleased me by calling this woodpecker the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -“checkerback,” a felicitous name, in common -use in Kentucky, it appears, and perhaps elsewhere. -I am happy to adopt it and pass it on.</p> - -<p>If there were words wherewith to describe the -indescribable, I should like to tell of a bluebird -that I saw a week ago about one of the vegetable -gardens out on the prairie. The blue of that -creature’s back and wings is not to be imagined. -The bluest sky never matched it. I would wager -that he was Florida born. No Northern bird ever -owned such a coat. In my recollection he will -stand as one of the sights of the country, along -with the “banyan trees,” the snaky green vanilla -vines, and the tropical jungle.</p> - -<p>These letters are of necessity written piecemeal. -In this hospitable Southern country, where -the weather and so many things beside are continually -calling, “Come forth and enjoy us,” one -cannot stay indoors very long at once. So it -happened that at the conclusion of the last paragraph -I put down my pencil and started out for -another few minutes among the live-oaks. As -I approached them I descried a man sitting upon -a heap of coal-ashes dumped along the railway. -He might have been Job himself, to look at him, -but at a second glance I perceived that he was -not actually sitting in the ashes, but on a board, -and instead of bewailing his afflictions or his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -sins, was peacefully minding the New Testament -injunction, “Behold the fowls of the air.” In -short, he was the gentleman from Ormond, with -his glass, as it happened, focused upon a handsome -prairie warbler.</p> - -<p>We passed the time of day, after the bird had -flown,—for the field has its courtesies, and we -respect them,—and he told me that in spite of -the unfavorable north wind (one of our periodical -cold spells is upon us, with the mercury in the -forties) he had ventured out, and had been liberally -rewarded. He had seen yellow-throated -warblers, a parula, a prairie, and I forget what -else, and, to take his word for it, was living in -clover.</p> - -<p>Presently a hawk swooped among the trees, -and every small bird became invisible as if by -magic. Then my companion proposed taking a -turn beyond the fence. This we did, and just as -we came suddenly upon a huge watch-dog (a -great Dane, I suppose he would be called), formidable-looking -and chained, but fawning upon -us so eagerly that there was nothing for it but to -pat him on the head and call him a good fellow—just -as we approached him, I say, I nudged -the second man to stop. There, straight before -us, side by side on the rim of an iron kettle of -water set under the trees for the dog’s benefit,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -stood a male cardinal and a male nonpareil. -Perhaps they were not a glorious pair! Them -also I shall remember, along with the miraculous -bluebird.</p> - -<p>Less brilliant, but even more memorable, was -my one Bachman’s warbler. I had stopped under -a live-oak,—on a return from the big hammock,—and -was putting my glass upon one bird after -another feeding among its blossoms (parulas, -yellow-throats, ruby-crowns, gnatcatchers, and -myrtle-birds), when in the very topmost spray I -sighted a spot of coal-black set in bright yellow. -Here was something new. From twig to twig -the stranger went,—rather deliberately, for a -warbler,—the glass following, till after submitting -for perhaps ten minutes to my eager inspection -he slipped away, as birds have a knack of -doing, without my seeing him go. However, he -had shown himself perfectly—the jet breastplate, -the yellow forehead, the black crown, the lustrous -olive of the upper parts, and the yellow patch -upon the wing. He was a bird that I had never -expected to see. Comparatively few ornithologists -have been so happy.</p> - -<p>This was on March 7. For two days we had -noticed indications of a migratory movement, -especially among parulas and yellow-throated -warblers. Probably the Bachman had come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -from farther south. My thanks to him for treating -me so handsomely, though he might have -doubled the obligation, at no cost to himself, by -singing me a tune.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">FAIR ORMOND</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> nearly two months in the extreme south -of Florida I have turned my face northward, and -here I am at Ormond, fair Ormond-on-the-Halifax. -No more bewildering jungles of nameless -West Indian trees and climbers, no more cocoanut -palms, no more acres of wild morning-glory -vines. It gave me a start of pleasurable surprise -when, somewhere on this side of Palm Beach, I -do not remember where, I saw from the car window -a stately sweet-gum tree all freshly green. It -had not occurred to me till then that I had found -nothing at Miami of this handsome and characteristic -Southerner, always one of my favorites.</p> - -<p>Indeed, I have come to a different world. I -am no longer in a foreign country. Here are -lordly magnolias, not yet in blossom, to be sure, -but proudly beautiful in the leaf. Here, too, are -Cherokee roses, loveliest of all flowers, just coming -into their kingdom. At sight of the first glossy-leaved -bush, which happened to stand near a -house, I made up to the door, not stopping twice -to consider, and asked the privilege of picking a -flower and a bud. The householder was generous,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -and the bush even more so. “Take another, and -another,” it seemed to say, catching me again -and again by the sleeve; “I have enough and -to spare.” It was hard work for me to get away. -Here, also, is the yellow jessamine, only less -beautiful than the rose, hanging the tall forest -trees full of golden, fragrant bells. And here, -sprinkled along the wayside, are stores of blue -violets. None of these things are to be seen on -the shores of Biscayne Bay. Yes, I am glad to -be here.</p> - -<p>And the phlox, likewise, the pretty Drummond’s -phlox of our Northern gardens, dear to -me of old, let me not forget that. It is not indigenous -to the country, I suppose, but, like the -garden verbena, being here it makes itself most -comfortably at home, delighting to overrun forsaken -orange groves and similar unoccupied waste -places. How sweetly it looks up at us with its -innocent child’s face! Just now one of the guests -of the hotel came in with a broad market-basket -loaded with it, a good half-bushel, at the very -least. “I have counted twenty-six varieties,” he -said (he was thinking of diversities of color), -and there must be somewhere near that number -in the crowded vase that he has sent down to -brighten my writing-table.</p> - -<p>Here, too, is the Atlantic beach. In ten minutes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -I cross the peninsula and am on the sands; -or, if I stroll up or down the river shore,—on -the western side of the peninsula,—I can hear -all the while the pounding of the surf.</p> - -<p>I have been in Ormond two days,—two perfect -days of temperate summer weather,—and -have walked hither and thither, up the river, -down the river, across the river, and on the beach, -seeing comparatively little of the country as yet, -but enough to be able to say that I have never -found any place in Florida where a walking man -should be better contented. There are paths and -roads everywhere,—a convenience not to be -taken for granted in this Southern country,—and -be his states of mind never so variable, he -may here suit the jaunt to the mood.</p> - -<p>A visit to Ormond was not in my plans for -the winter, and I left Miami with regret. Migratory -birds were arriving, and I seemed to be -running away just when there was most to detain -me; those tropical plants, too, were certain -to become more and more interesting as the season -grew older; but, like the verbena and the -phlox, being here I am thankful. If I have taken -leave of some splendid birds (those painted -buntings are in my eye as I write), I have found -some old friends in their place. It is good to -see brown thrashers again, with song sparrows,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -white-throats, and chickadees. One of a bird-loving -man’s strangest sensations at Miami is -the absence of chickadees and tufted titmice. -I had never been in such a place before. (For -eight weeks, let me say in passing, I have seen -no English sparrows. Unfortunately I have not -yet forgotten how they look.)</p> - -<p>In my two days here I have counted but fifty -kinds of birds. A goodly number that I know -to be present, and even common, I have so far -happened to miss. But in the middle of March -even fifty birds make something like a festival. -Mockers, cardinals, and Carolina wrens—the -great Southern trio—are tuneful, of course. -Even as I write, a wren is whistling an accompaniment -to my pencil. If I could only put the -music on the paper! If it would only “modulate -my periods!” as Charles Lamb said. When I -sit in the shade of a moss-hung live-oak, letting -the sea breeze fan me, and listen to an assembly -of red-winged blackbirds rehearsing their breezy -<i>conkaree</i> among the reeds along the Halifax -(though it is not a simple <i>conkaree</i>, either, but -<i>conkaree-dah</i>, the old tune with a new coda), -I think of swamps in far Massachusetts where -on this very 12th of March other redwings are -opening the musical season in a very different -atmosphere.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>Chewinks of both kinds (red-eyes and white-eyes, -Northerners and Southerners) are calling -and singing. Blue yellow-backed warblers are -musical after their manner (they hardly need to -be singers, being so exquisite in color, form, and -motion), and white-eyed vireos are numerous -enough, though nothing like so plentiful as at -Miami. Here, as there, they have no thought of -hiding their light under a bushel.</p> - -<p>It is like old times to see Florida jays sitting -on the chimney-tops of the summer cottages along -the dunes behind the beach. Thus it was that I -saw them first, at Daytona, nine years ago. As a -friend and I stopped this morning to rest in the -shade of a piazza, one came and stood upon the -railing and eyed us long and curiously. “Have -you nothing edible about you?” he seemed to -say. If we had had anything to offer the beggar, -I am confident he would have hopped upon our -knees.<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> As it was, he approached within five or -six feet while we chirped and talked to him. -Florida jays are strange creatures for tameness, -and if it were thought worth while could readily -be domesticated.</p> - -<p>It seemed natural, also, to see pelicans flying in -small flocks up the beach, just over the breakers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -so that half the time they were invisible, lost -in the trough of the sea; moving always in -Indian file, flapping their wings and scaling by -turns. And still another remembrancer of my -previous visit to this part of Florida was the -sight of a bald eagle robbing a fishhawk. The -hawk made a stubborn defense, dodging this way -and that, rising and falling, but in the end the -eagle, an old white-headed fellow, was more than -a match for his victim; for though they were -far away, the motions of the contestants showed -plainly enough how the struggle terminated.</p> - -<p>On the beach, halfway to his knees in water, -stood a great blue heron, leaning seaward, waiting -for a fish. He might have been standing -there for nine years. At all events I left him -in the same position that length of time ago. -“Ay, and you,” he might rejoin, “you haven’t -changed, either. You have still nothing better -to do than to go wandering up and down the -earth, shooting birds with an opera-glass?” -True enough. Heron and man, after nine years -each is the same old sixpence. “The thing that -hath been it is that which shall be, and there is -nothing new under the sun.” Well, so be it. -Only let me find new pleasure in the old places -and the old pursuits.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A DAY IN THE WOODS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I was</span> well within the truth when I said, a week -ago, that there could not be many places in Florida -where a walking man would find his wants -so generously provided for as at Ormond. Here -he may spend a half-day in idling over a round -of a mile or two,—sea beach, river bank, and -woodland,—or he may foot it as industriously -as he pleases from morning till night; and the -next day and the day after he will have plenty -of invitations to “fresh woods,” though hardly -to “pastures new.” Pastures, whether new or -old, he may look for elsewhere.</p> - -<p>But at Ormond a man may not only walk, -he may drive; and this forenoon (March 19) a -pair of horses have taken me over such a road -as I do not expect soon to find the like of, either -in Florida or anywhere else; a course of twelve -or fifteen miles, the whole of it (as soon as the -bridge over the Halifax was crossed) through -most beautiful forest. The road was wide enough -for the carriage and no more; soft as a carpet, -so that the wheels made no noise, with big trunks -of pines, palmettoes, oaks, sweet-gums, magnolias,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -and what not crowding upon the track so closely -that we could almost put out our hands and touch -them as we passed. In the whole distance, to -the best of my recollection, we met neither carriage -nor foot-passenger.</p> - -<p>We drove as we pleased, stopped as we pleased, -talked or kept silence, listened to the birds, admired -the flowers and the new leafage (there are -no words wherewith to intimate its freshness and -beauty), and withal dreamed of the time when all -the land about us was the scene of busy labors, -when sugar and rice and cotton were cultivated -here by hundreds of slaves, and those who owned -the land, as they imagined, had no thought of a -day when the forest should again claim all their -fair possessions. We drove to Mount Oswald, so -called, near the mouth of the Tomoka River, -thence over the famous old causeway, set with -palmettoes, to Buckhead Bluff, at which point the -King’s road to St. Augustine is supposed (or -known) to have crossed the river a hundred years -ago. I was glad to see the river (I shall see more -of it, if I live a day or two longer), but the great -thing was the forest, with its present beauty and -its whisperings of past romance.</p> - -<p>Now it is afternoon, and I am in the same -woods. No lover of wild life ever drove over a -beautiful country road for the first time without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -saying to himself again and again, “I must -come this way on foot.” A carriage is well -enough in its place, but really to see things a -man must be on his own legs. Immediately after -luncheon, therefore, with a merry company of -golfers (a flourishing sect in Florida), I took the -little one-horse street-car to the railway station, -and now, having crossed a narrow field and left -the golfers at their afternoon devotions, I am -in the Volusia road, in the noblest of hammock -woods.</p> - -<p>The first half-mile of the way I have walked -over more than once already, and having in mind -the shortness of the afternoon I quicken my steps. -The doing so is no hardship. For the last forty-eight -hours the wind has blown from the north; -during the night the mercury settled to 38°; -and though it is considerably warmer than that -now, a pretty brisk movement is still not uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>Here I pass a mournful sight—an old orange -grove, of which nothing remains but the sandy -soil and a few blackened stumps. The “great -freeze” of six or seven years ago killed the trees -to the roots. Nearly opposite, to add to the forlornness -of the impression, stands a deserted -house; and not far along is another, that looks -only less unthrifty and disconsolate, with an old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -woman smoking a pipe on the piazza. It would -be a strict moralist who should grudge her that -one comfort.</p> - -<p>Now I have left the last human habitation behind -me, and in front stretches the narrow road -arched with greenness, running away and away -till it runs out of sight. What lofty oaks and -sweet-gums! And what beautiful lichens cover -them with wise-looking hieroglyphics! If we -could only decipher their meaning! I note especially -the ribbed, muscular-seeming trunks of the -hornbeams, one of which, the largest, is riddled -with uncountable perforations, the work of some -sap-loving woodpecker; and I turn about more -than once to admire the proportions of a magnificent -magnolia, one of the largest I have ever -seen. My thanks to the highway surveyor who -went a few feet out of his way to leave it standing. -A rod or two more, and I stop to look up -at some exceptionally tall pines and live-oaks, a -noticeable group, in the altitude of which I have -before found a pleasure.</p> - -<p>How they soar, as if to see which shall go -highest! And as high as the oak branches go, so -high the gray moss follows.</p> - -<p>Now I am at the fork of the road. My course -is to the right. “Old Stage Road to Buckhead -Bluff on the Tomoka River at the crossing of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -the ‘old King’s road’ to St. Augustine.” So the -guideboard reads, with commendable particularity. -“Old” is the word. Even the wind in the -tree-tops seems to be whispering stories of things -that happened long, long ago. And the trees -answer, “Yes, so the fathers have told us.” To -think of all those busy people! And every one -of them dead!</p> - -<p>Here is a bit of clearing where the sun strikes -in. It feels good. This is the right kind of outdoor -weather—shade not uncomfortable and -the sun’s heat welcome. A white-eyed chewink, -happy Floridian, is whistling from the brush. -Holly trees are common, and the sweet-bay is -everywhere. Its shining leaves are of a most -salubrious odor, as if they might be for the healing -of the nations. I am continually plucking -them and rolling them in my fingers.</p> - -<p>And yonder is the maker of the clearing—a -colored man, standing beside a woodpile. I hail -him to remark that it is a fine day, and he answers, -“Yes, very nice.” Strange that when two -men meet for the only time in their lives they -should find nothing more important to communicate -than that it rains, or that the sun is shining. -But weather is the thing, after all, especially in -Florida. Perhaps it deserves all that is said about -it. Anyhow, the woodcutter and the stroller have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -expressed a feeling of neighborliness and have -told each other no lies.</p> - -<p>With every rod the wood changes from glory -to glory. I remark with special joy a grove of -tall, slender, smooth-barked water-oaks, every -one in new leaf. Height rather than girth is their -aim. “We must have the sun,” they say, “and -we climb to get it.” How good the sun is, let -their leaves testify; those millions on millions of -shining leaves, every one new. Yes, every one -new. I cannot write the word too often. And -many times as I write it, the Northern reader -will have but an insufficient sense of its meaning. -Such freshness and greenness! Neither memory -nor imagination can body it forth. Happy are -the eyes that behold the miracle twice in a single -spring. It is like doubling one’s year.</p> - -<p>A Carolina wren whistles, near at hand, but -invisible (invisibility is the wren’s trick), and a -red-eyed vireo, farther away, has begun his reiterative, -summer-long exhortation. I was taken by -surprise, two or three days ago, when I heard the -first of his kind in this same hammock; I was not -looking for him so early. His irrepressible cousin, -the white-eye, has been abundantly vocal for at -least two months. At this very minute one is rehearsing -a strain with a pretty and decidedly original -quirk at the end. And, by the by, I notice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -that many white-eyes hereabout practice a deceptive -imitation of the crested flycatcher’s loud -whistle, while others, or perhaps the same ones, -sometimes begin with a broken measure, such as -I think I never heard from a Massachusetts white-eye, -strongly suggestive of the summer tanager. -Call him pert, saucy, a chatter-box, Old Volubility, -what you will, the white-eye is indisputably -a genius.</p> - -<p>But for to-day, and for me, none of the birds -sing quite so feelingly or so well as the wind in -the tree-tops. I stop again and again to listen to -it, and would stop oftener still but for the brevity -of the afternoon and the uncertainty I am in as -to the length of the walk before me.</p> - -<p>Hickory nuts, split in halves and lying blackened -in the sand, lead me to look upward. Yes, -there are the trees, still with bare boughs. Their -tender leafage does well to be late in sprouting, -even in this Southern country. There is no tree -but knows a thing or two. Every kind has a wisdom -of its own. <i>Experientia docet</i> is true of -them as of us.</p> - -<p>And now I suddenly find myself nearing the -railroad, and having consulted my watch conclude -to go back over the sleepers. It will be my -shortest course, and will have the further advantage -of taking me past a swamp, on the edge of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -which I caught glimpses of sora rails a few days -ago. This time I will be more cautious in my -approaches.</p> - -<p>A cardinal is whistling, a checkerback is -chattering, many warblers are in the sunny tree-tops, -and from somewhere in the depths of the -forest comes the deep, oracular voice of an owl, -though the sun is at least half an hour high. -<i>Whoo, whoo, who-who</i>, he calls. I love to hear -him. On the wire fence is a yellow jessamine -vine, still sporting a few last blossoms, and for -rods together the sandy railway embankment is -draped with exquisite white “bramble roses,” -the flowers of the creeping blackberry. Later -comers will find berries on the vines, but perhaps -I have the better part of the crop.</p> - -<p>I am well satisfied, at all events, and am still -feasting upon the sight when out of the tall grass -on my left hand comes a rail’s voice—the voice -of one crying in the wilderness. I am drawing -near the swamp, and make haste to cover with -my field-glass the spaces of open water among -the dead flags. Yes, there are birds—one, two, -three, four. But they are not rails. I see as -much as that before I have finished my count. -Three of them are swimming. They are gallinules; -and when one of them turns, and the sunlight -strikes him, I see the red plate on his forehead.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -They are Florida gallinules, my first ones -for nine years. My glass follows their movements -jealously till the thunder of an approaching train -startles them and they fly to the shelter of the -tall grass. I shall come this way again, and not -only see but hear them. Their language is various -and interesting, though most of it has the -accent of the barnyard.</p> - -<p>A pileated woodpecker crosses the track just -before me, with all his colors flying, a pair of -bluebirds sit in their accustomed place upon the -telegraph wire, and from the neighboring pines -I catch the finch-like twitters of a brown-headed -nuthatch. This is close upon the railway station -and the golf links. My afternoon is done, but -the golf players are still making the most of daylight. -I blush to confess it, but there are some -enthusiasms with which even that of a strolling -naturalist will hardly endure comparison.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">PICTURE AND SONG</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">What</span> seek we in Florida? The same that we -seek everywhere—sensations. Life is made of -them. In proportion as they are lively and -pleasurable we find it good. The higher their -quality, the nobler the part that feels them, the -less physical they are, the less they have to do -with eating and drinking and being clothed, the -more truly we are alive and not dead.</p> - -<p>Most of the people that we meet in Florida -are vacationers like ourselves. At home they -may be in the wool business, in shoes, or in -dyestuffs; here they have no occupation but to -amuse themselves. In the daytime they fish, -play golf, drive, or lounge upon the hotel piazza. -In the evening they sit in the lobby, listen -(possibly) to the music, admire (or not) the -gowns and jewels of the ladies (the self-sacrificing -creatures are all on parade, like so many -Queens of Sheba), take a hand at cards, or -gossip about something or nothing with a traveling -companion or a chance acquaintance. At -the worst they dawdle over a newspaper or a -novel, and consume the hour in smoke. To<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> -judge by appearances their sensations are not -poignant, though the anglers and the golfers, -and even the shuffle-board players, no doubt -have their exciting moments; but on the whole -the winter passes rather quickly. When there -is nothing else to do, and the time drags, one -can always cheer one’s self by thinking how -intemperate the season is at home. The most -refreshing parts of the Northern newspapers are -their reports of snowstorms and blizzards.</p> - -<p>For my own part, I admire the ladies’ gowns -(in one sense or other of the word, who could -help it?), but what my untutored mind is most -taken with is the beauty of the natural world, -the world as God made it, rather than as man, -even the man-milliner, has improved it. I love -to look up or down the moss-hung vista of the -river road (I am still at Ormond), or, turning -my head, to gaze across the smooth water at the -freshly green, happy-looking oak woods and the -overtopping pines. These are pictures that I -hope never to forget.</p> - -<p>The other day an old friend, a settler in these -parts, rowed me down the river a few miles. -There we took an untraveled road through the -forest, and by and by came suddenly to a clearing, -in the middle of which stood an abandoned -house. The place had once been an orange<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> -orchard, I suppose; and even now, although -there was hardly so much as a stump left to tell -the tale, it remained in its own way a paradise -of beauty. From end to end the five or six -sandy acres were thickly overgrown with Drummond’s -phlox, all in fullest bloom, a rosy wilderness.</p> - -<p>It was a pretty show. We exclaimed over it, -and gathered handfuls of the lovely flowers, but -as we rowed homeward we were favored with a -spectacle to which it would be a profanation to -apply such epithets. The afternoon, which began -doubtfully, had turned out a marvel of perfection. -The wind had gone down, the river was -like glass, and the level rays of the sun touched -all the shore woods to an almost unearthly -beauty. And withal, the sky was full of the -softest, most exquisitely shaded, finely broken -clouds. It was an hour such as comes once and -is never repeated. In my mind the memory of -it has already taken its place beside the memory -of a sunset seen many years ago from a Massachusetts -mountain-top. These are some of the -“sensations” of which I spoke. They are the -sufficient rewards of travel, though now and -then, the Fates favoring, we may have them at -home also, without money and without price.</p> - -<p>The next day, or the next but one, I strolled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -about two miles up the river northward, to the -house where, on my first day at Ormond, I had -seen a Cherokee rosebush just breaking into -flower. This time it was at the top of its glory, -such a glory as I have no hope of describing. -At a moderate calculation the mound of leafy -stems must have borne four or five thousand -roses, every one the very image of purity and -sweetness. Those who are familiar with the -Cherokee rose will perhaps be able to imagine -the picture of loveliness here presented; and -such readers will be glad to know that a lover of -beauty (not an idle, time-killing tourist, but a -man at home and at work), having heard my -report of the bush, walked four or five miles on -purpose to see it, and declared himself amply -repaid for his labor. “The poetry of earth is -never dead;” and there is never wanting some -poet’s soul to enjoy it, and so to make it twice -alive.</p> - -<p>Though it is near the end of March there is -comparatively little sign of bird migration. -Chuck-will’s-widows—Southern whippoorwills, -if one chooses to call them so—have arrived -and are abundantly in voice. The nights are -scarcely long enough for all they have to say. I -hear of a cottager who is awakened by one so -persistently and so early in the morning that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -is devising means to kill it. I hope he will not -succeed, although if the bird is close to his open -window and begins to unburden himself at half-past -two, as one does within hearing from my -bed, I cannot very seriously blame him for the -attempt. He goes out in his night-clothes, I am -told, and tries to “shoo” it away; but the bird -has a message, as truly as Poe’s raven, and is -bound to deliver it, whether men will hear or -forbear.</p> - -<p>On the morning of March 26, in an ante-breakfast -stroll, I found among the pines immediately -in the rear of the hotel the first summer -tanager of the season. The splendid creature, -bright red throughout, was flitting from tree to -tree, singing a measure or two from each. He -acted as if he were happy to be back in Ormond, -and I did not wonder. A red-eyed vireo was -singing on the 15th, and since then birds of the -same kind have become moderately common. -Considering that the red-eye is not supposed to -winter anywhere in the United States (I saw -nothing of it at Miami), and arrives so late in -New England, it seems to have reached Ormond -surprisingly early.</p> - -<p>For some time the woods have been alive in -spots with busy crowds of warblers. Parulas especially -have been present in enormous force,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> -and have sung literally in chorus. I have seen -many yellow-throated warblers also, and many -myrtles, with a fair sprinkling of prairies and -black-and-white creepers. But the birds that -have sung best—after the mocker and the -thrasher, perhaps—are not spring comers, but -our faithful winter friends, the cardinal grosbeak -and the Carolina wren. Indeed, of all Southern -songsters I believe that the cardinal stands first -in my affections. Sweetness, tenderness, affectionateness, -and variety, these are his gifts, and -they are good ones, even if they are not the -highest.</p> - -<p>Out in the flatwoods, a few days ago, we suddenly -heard, coming from a thicket of dwarf palmetto -on the edge of water, a quite unexpected -strain, a loud, short trill. “What was that?” -asked my companions, as we looked at one another; -for there were three pairs of field-glasses -in the carriage. “It sounded like a swamp sparrow,” -said I, with doubt in my voice. At that -moment the measure was given out again, prefaced -this time by a peculiar indrawn whistle. -Then the truth flashed upon me. It was the song -of a pine-wood sparrow. I had not heard it for -many years. In the same place meadow larks -were in tune, bluebirds warbled, and pine warblers -and brown-headed nuthatches were in voice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span> -among the pine trees. Here, too, I was glad to -hear, for the first time in Florida, the caw of a -real crow, a bird with a roof to his mouth and a -voice that sounded like home.</p> - -<p>Such are some of a bird-loving man’s early -spring pleasures in this Southern country. I do -not mean to praise the season unduly. New England -can beat it when the time comes; at least, -I know one New Englander who thinks so; but -not in March.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">TEXAS AND ARIZONA</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -<h3 class="nobreak">IN OLD SAN ANTONIO</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> three days and four nights in a sleeping-car -it is good to breathe air again. Not that I -mean to speak ill of the modern necessity known -in railway offices as a “sleeper”; it has done -me too many a service; but, for all that,—though -it is a bridge that has carried me over,—well, -as I said, it is a luxury to breathe air -again.</p> - -<p>So I thought this January afternoon as I sat -upon the top rail (a pretty thin board) of a tall -fence at the summit of what I take to be one of -the highest elevations (it would be exceeding the -truth, perhaps, to call it a hill) in the immediate -neighborhood of this venerable but young and -vigorous Texas city, known in geographies and -gazetteers as San Antonio, but among railroad -men, with whom time and breath are precious, -as “San Antone.”</p> - -<p>The city itself lay all before me, and an excellent -showing it made, with its many stately and -handsome buildings and its general air of prosperity; -but for the most part my eyes traveled -beyond it, or in other directions. The landscape<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -was wide, whichever way I turned, and the transparency -of the atmosphere, of a kind never enjoyed -in New England except on some half-dozen -days in a year, made it the wider and more alluring. -It surprised me to see imposing public -buildings scattered about over the country. The -nearest must have been several miles from the -town, and each, so far as I could see, stood entirely -by itself. Here and there, also, miles -apart, were fine dwelling-houses, with outbuildings -and windmills; each, like the public institutions -just mentioned, standing alone, as if its -proprietor were also the proprietor of the entire -tract of country roundabout. Rich men’s ranches, -they should perhaps be called. All these, or -most of them, would have been invisible from -my fence-rail perch, but for the fact, which really -made the strangeness of the whole spectacle to a -New England man’s eyes, that the rolling land -is all unwooded—a broad landscape, stretching -away and away, north, south, east, and west, and -no forest! The slopes look, at a little distance,—just -as the one on which I was now sitting -had looked to me half a mile back,—as if they -might be planted with young peach orchards. -They are really covered loosely with wild shrubs -ten or fifteen feet high, now budded and in pale -green leaf (Huisache, I understand their Mexican<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -name to be,<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> though I may err in the spelling), -with lower shrubs of different sorts, mostly -thorny, scattered loosely among them, the whole -constituting (or so I suppose) what is known in -this part of the world as chaparral; which is -very like what in our Northern country we speak -of, less respectfully, as “scrub.”</p> - -<p>It is a godsend to a man on my errand, that -chaparral, as it grows about San Antonio, at all -events, is not a dense thicket. It can be walked -through or ridden through in all directions with -perfect ease, though one cannot keep a straight -course for more than a rod or two together.</p> - -<p>I had been strolling over exactly such a hill -half an hour before, circling one cluster of shrubs -after another, opera-glass in hand, on the alert -for any bird that might show itself (it was likely -as not to be a stranger), when all at once—how -it came about I shall never be able to tell—there, -just before me on the ground, twenty or thirty -feet away, stood one of the birds that I had -most desired to see in this novel Southwestern -world—a road-runner. I have found some puzzles -since my arrival at San Antonio, three days -ago, but this was not one of them. As our good -common saying is, the fellow looked “as natural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -as life.” Mr. Fuertes’s drawing had stepped out -of the book. I could have shouted with pleasure.</p> - -<p>The bird was true to his name. There was no -road, to be sure, but he knew what was expected -of him, and started off at once at a lively trot; -then, within ten or fifteen feet, he stopped short, -lifted his ridiculously long tail till it stood at -right angles with his body,—the white “thumb-marks” -at the ends of the feathers making a -brave show, in spite of the almost indecent absurdity -of his attitude,—and after a moment started -on again. Two or three times he repeated these -manœuvres; and then, without my knowing how -he did it, he escaped me altogether, although the -bit of shrubbery into which he had vanished was -only a few feet in diameter. “Never mind,” I -thought, “I have seen him.” And he was every -whit as oddly behaved a piece as my fancy had -painted him.</p> - -<p>The road-runner, it should be said, is an overgrown -member of the cuckoo family. Its length -from the tip of its bill to the end of its tail is -about two feet. It wears what may be described -as a frightened-looking crest, its plumage is conspicuously -mottled, and, what gives it its special -character, its tail is a foot long. As Mrs. Bailey -well says, it is “one of the most original and -entertaining of Western birds. The newcomer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -is amazed when the long-tailed creature darts -out of the brush and races the horses down the -road, easily keeping ahead as they trot, and -when tired turns out into the brush and throws -his tail over his back to stop himself.”</p> - -<p>My bird’s performance was less theatrical than -that, perhaps because I was on foot, perhaps because -the day was Sunday, perhaps because of the -absence of a thoroughfare; but I was well pleased.</p> - -<p>It is noticeable how birds, not less than men, -tend to become specialists. To accomplish one -thing supremely well,—that is certainly the way -to make one’s self famous. And that is what the -road-runner does. He has chosen a hobby, and -he rides it. His legs are proportionally no longer -than other birds’, but that does not matter. Such -as they are, he will make the most of them.</p> - -<p>He is like a certain Maine farmer of whom I -have heard, a plain tiller of the soil, who feels, -nevertheless, that he was born for better things; -not for a cart-horse, if you please, but for a race-horse. -He may be working on his farm, at the -plough, we will say; suddenly the impulse comes -upon him, as inspiration is said to come upon a -poet; there is nothing for it but he must start -and run; and so he does. Once every summer -he travels from Maine to Mount Washington, -for the great event of the year. When he appears<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> -at the Summit House, every one knows -what is to happen. So-and-so is going to run -down the mountain. The daily newspaper chronicles -his arrival and announces the hour of the -annual event. Then, at the minute agreed upon, -all hands gather before the door, a man appointed -for the purpose holds the watch and -gives the signal, and down the steep road starts -the farmer, his invariable “tall hat” on his -head, and his coat-tails flying. At the Half-Way -House, and again at the base, his time is taken. -If it is shorter than last year’s, so much the -more glory. If it is longer,—well, he has run; -and presumably, like Cincinnatus before him, he -goes back to his plough contented.</p> - -<p>The road-runner, I suspect (the running -cuckoo!), is subject to the same irresistible -ambulatory impulses, and by a curious coincidence -he, too, wears what we may term a “tall -hat.” I should like to see him racing down the -Mount Washington road, putting on the brakes -now and then, at the sharper turns, by a sudden -cocking of his tail!</p> - -<p>The temperature here—for temperature must -always be mentioned in writing of one’s travels—has -thus far been pretty comfortable for a -walker, though not without something of the contradictoriness -which seems to belong to weather<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -conditions everywhere and always: roses in all -the gardens, and steam in the radiators; children, -black and white, paddling about in the -mud barefooted and barelegged, and gentlemen -with heavy overcoats on, and, not unlikely, collars -turned up. Concerning such things, here in -“San Antone,” you take your choice. For myself -I have compromised the matter, keeping my -boots on and wearing, except when the sun has -been more than commonly persuasive, the lightest -of spring overcoats.</p> - -<p>The great drawback to a walking man’s comfort, -and just now the most impressive “feature” -of the city,—more impressive by far than the old -Spanish missions, the most famous of which, the -Alamo, is directly at my door,—has been the -mud; deep and black, and more adhesive than glue. -If you go outside the city your shoes gather it -as a rolling snowball gathers snow (“to him that -hath shall be given,” you repeat to yourself), -and it is like one of the labors of Hercules to -get it off. I walk about, scuffing and kicking, -with pounds of it on either overshoe, like a dark -fringe, and fancy I know how it feels to drag a -ball and chain. However, conditions are bettering -in this respect, and in any case, things might -easily be worse. Yesterday morning, seeing the -sky clouded, I remarked to the elevator boy on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -my way down to breakfast, that I believed it -was going to rain; and I added, sententiously, -“More rain, more mud.” “Yes,” said the boy, -quick to resent an imputation upon the climate -of Texas, “and the more rain, the better crops.” -The State, it appears, has suffered greatly from -drought for the past few seasons, and no doubt -its people can well afford to play the mud-lark -for a week now and then in winter. It makes a -difference whether you are a selfish, pleasure-seeking -tourist, thinking only of to-day’s comfort, -or a man with his living to make out of a -cotton plantation or a market garden.</p> - -<p>For the present, if the tourist wishes, as I do, -to walk in the country, he may do worse than -betake himself to one of the numerous railroad -tracks.<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> These have carried me into good places -and shown me many interesting birds; but they -would be more convenient if they were not walled -in, mile after mile, except as a highway or a plantation -road crosses them, by an excessively high -and close barbed-wire fence. Yet even this hateful -obstruction has served me one slight good turn.</p> - -<p>A man of something like my own age and build<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -was trudging along the track in front of me, a -day or two ago (by his gait and general appearance -he was used to trudging), when I saw him approach -the fence as if he meant in some way to -force a passage. “You’ll never do it,” I thought. -Really, there seemed not to be space enough -between the wires, even if they had not been -barbed, for a human body to squeeze through; -but to my astonishment the fellow slipped between -them without the slightest fumbling or -hesitation, and without so much as a barb’s -touching him. He must have been a specialist, I -am sure. I could not have followed suit without -tearing my clothing to tatters, if all the wealth of -the East, “barbaric pearl and gold,” had been -spread out before my itching fingers on the farther -side. I have not yet ceased wondering at the -rogue’s address. Such practice as he must have -had! I hope he was never in jail. It was like -the neatest of Japanese jugglery, or the famous -passage through the eye of a needle. Behold, -said I, the compensations of poverty. No rich -man could have done it.</p> - -<p>The greater part of the passengers that one -meets in such out-of-the-way places are short, -swarthy Mexicans. Usually they are able to bid -you “good-morning,” or to ask how you “do,” -but now and then you will hear a “<i>buenos dias</i>.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -In the city one finds them at every corner selling -peculiar-looking confections. Whether one likes -their wares or not,—and for myself, I must confess -that “my own particular lip” has not yet -made up its mind to try the experiment,—their -presence gives one an agreeable sense of being -far from home. Two days ago I was wandering -about San Pedro Park at noon, and noticed -for the first time a few butterflies on the wing. -Most of them were much like our common yellow -one,—evidently some species of Colias,—but -by and by I noticed a dark one, showing a touch -of red as it flew. I took chase, and came up with -it just as it dropped to rest directly in front of -two Mexicans seated upon the grass. I stepped -near to see it (a common red admiral, for aught -I could discover), and perceiving that the men -were inquisitive, I pointed to it with my finger. -One of them imitated the gesture, as much as to -say “That, do you mean?” I nodded, and he -said, with a smile, “<i>Mariposa</i>.” “Yes,” said I, -“a butterfly.” That was beyond him, and he repeated -his incomparably prettier word, “<i>mariposa</i>.” -“Very good,” said I to myself, “I am glad -to find that I understand Spanish when I hear it -spoken!” A solitary traveler, of all men, should -know how to amuse himself with trifles.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A BIRD-GAZER’S PUZZLES</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> days of my youth have come back to me. I -am again at the foot of the ladder, a boy in the -primary school, a speller of a-b-abs. The experience -is pleasant, but not unmixedly so; it is -sweet, with a suggestion of bitter. I am finding -out daily that one is never too old to be mistaken. -I knew it before, of course; but I am -still finding it out; for the two things are not -incompatible. One may know a thing, and still -have need to learn it. It is possible that the -most erudite scholar has never more than begun -to apprehend his own ignorance; nay, that he -would never make more than a beginning in that -salutary study were he to burn the midnight oil -for a thousand years. In that time he might -square the circle and discover the philosopher’s -stone, but he would not discover how little he -knew. In that respect, in respect to what we do -not know, human capacity is unlimited. Finite -creatures that we are, we are endowed with a -kind of negative infinity. And, for one, I wish to -make the most of my greatest gift. It shall not -be “lodged with me useless,” if I can help it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>I saw a strange warbler the other day. That -is to say, I thought I saw one. I had been wandering -for a whole forenoon amid the chaparral -just outside the city of San Antonio, and had -enjoyed a good number of novel sensations, when -suddenly (such things always come suddenly, but -it seems necessary to repeat the word) a tiny -bird moved in a low bush directly before me. -“A gray warbler with no wing-marks,” I said; -and the next instant I saw that its crown was -light yellow. It moved again, and the forward -parts came into view. Its throat also was yellow. -At that moment it was eating a yellow berry. -Its ground color was near the shade worn by a -juvenile chestnut-sided warbler, and the yellow -of the crown and throat was very lightly laid on -over the gray, so to express it, just as it is in the -chestnut-side’s case.</p> - -<p>Now what kind of warbler can this be? I -asked myself: a gray warbler with a yellow crown -and a yellow throat, and no other adornments. -And with the question there came into my mind, -as by the effect of immediate inspiration, the -word Calaveras. Whether it was Calaveras or -something else, there could be no doubt of my -being able to clear up the question, once I should -have a book in my hand.</p> - -<p>I resumed my peregrinations, therefore, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -bird having moved on, as birds do, being provided -with wings for that very purpose, and by -and by, walking at a venture round one clump -of bushes after another, I came again upon the -stranger, who, it should be said, was of a peculiarly -unsuspicious disposition, and this time was -swallowing piecemeal what seemed to my New -England mind a very unseasonable caterpillar. -And now I made a further discovery: the shoulder -of the bird’s wing was edged with a line of -pretty bright red, of a shade between chestnut -and carmine! Surely, it was only a matter of -surviving to reach the hotel and the mystery -would be solved. Calaveras or what not, it was -impossible that there should be two warblers -marked in this singular manner.</p> - -<p>Well, I got back to my room, and sure enough, -not only were there not two warblers thus marked, -there was not even one. Calaveras was nothing -to the purpose. My inspiration must have come -from the wrong place. At any rate, it was unprofitable -for instruction. It wasn’t far to go, -you may say, but I was at my wits’ end.</p> - -<p>That evening I had occasion to answer a letter -from an eminent ornithologist, who has herself -worked much in the Southwest, and besides has -at her elbow the best of American bird collections. -She would be able to help me out of my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -difficulty. In all innocence, therefore, I stated -my case. It was possible, I admitted (thrice -lucky admission—it is always politic to seem -modest, however one may feel), that the bird -was not a warbler, after all, though, if it were -not, I had no idea what it could be.</p> - -<p>Well, the next day I was out in the country -again, this time in a pecan grove, with tall seed-bearing -weeds standing by the acre under the tall, -leafless trees (a paradise for sparrows), when -I heard a chickadee whistling his four notes in -the distance. “How closely his music resembles -that of his relative as we hear it in Florida,” -I said to myself. And this reflection set me -asking, “Where is that odd little titmouse, the -verdin, that was said to be common about San -Antonio at all seasons?” And then, like a flash, -came the answer: “Why, man, that was a verdin -you saw yesterday, out in the chaparral, and -mistook for a warbler.” And so it turned out. -Red shoulder-strap and all, everything suited. -The verdin, by the by, is a distinctively Southwestern -species, not <i>Parus</i>, but <i>Auriparus</i>. My -bird had been a female, I suppose, showing less -yellow than her mate would have done. Perhaps -if I had seen him instead of her, I should not -have been so befooled.</p> - -<p>No sooner was the puzzle thus satisfactorily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> -solved, than I began to meditate, with something -less of satisfaction, upon the letter I had written -the evening before. I thought, too, of the many -more or less foolish letters that I had myself received -(and sometimes smiled at, I fear) in the -past twenty years, letters in which eager searchers -after ornithological knowledge had confided -to me marvelous accounts of the wonders they -had seen afield, and by an unhappy fate could -find no description of when they returned to the -study. Not many of these correspondents, as well -as I could now remember, had ever mistaken a -titmouse for a warbler! I must dispatch a postscript -to my letter by the earliest mail. And so -I did, ostensibly, of course, to save my friend -the trouble of a reply, but really to prove to her -that, though I was capable of blundering, I was -also capable of a second thought.</p> - -<p>And now, having made my confession, I am -bound to add that some who may laugh at me -would possibly have been little wiser than I, had -they stood in my shoes; for the verdin does not -look the least in the world like anything that -goes by the name of titmouse or chickadee up in -our Northern country. I hope to see more of it, -and especially to hear its song, which is said to -be of surprising volume.</p> - -<p>Really (and this is why I have told this not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -very exciting tale at such length), it is the chief -delight of bird-gazing in a strange country that -one has to begin, as it were, all one’s studies over -again; as I have seen a professor of botany in -similar circumstances fingering the leaves of the -manual like the veriest schoolboy, as for the time -being he was. It is not the proudest way of renewing -one’s youth, but it will answer. And conditions -being as they are, nothing else will answer.</p> - -<p>Such is my present case here in Texas. Even -now, in the dead of winter, with the number of -species greatly reduced, the novelties seen in one -walk are so many that the man who uses no gun, -and so can take no specimens home with him for -inspection, is often put to his trumps when he -comes to run over his day’s notes. Though he -may have done his best, he is certain to have -overlooked or forgotten some detail which, with -the book before him, turns out to be all important. -What a pity he did not note with more -exactness the proportion of white on the tail -feathers, or the position of a certain black spot -on the side of the head! He must go out again, -and—if he is fortunate enough to find the bird—secure -a stricter and more intelligent observation. -It is plaguing fun, but it is fun, nevertheless, -and good practice, besides; and withal, -it leaves work for to-morrow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>It must be admitted, moreover, if the truth is -to be told,—and it is sometimes better to tell -it,—that no amount of observation in the field -will be likely, in a month or two, at any rate, to -settle all the nice questions that confront the student -in a new region in these latter days; especially -if the region happens to be, like this about -San Antonio, one in which Eastern and Western -forms of the same species are to be found overlapping -each other. It was very well for Emerson -to speak, poetically, of naming all the birds without -a gun. He lived before the day of trinomials; -or if that be not quite true, before our younger -brood of ambitious closet ornithologists had set -themselves so zealously at the work of dividing -and subdividing. Time was when a song sparrow -was a song sparrow, and there was an end of it. -Now to call a bird by that name is only the beginning -of sorrows. What kind of song sparrow -is it? My Western handbook enumerates about -fifteen sub-species, and the differences, I suspect, -are many of them almost too fine for opera-glass -determination. For what I know, a microscope -might be more to the purpose.</p> - -<p>The man who refuses a gun must accept the -limitations that go with that refusal. Time and -repeated observation will do much; a good ear -will help—in some cases it will do the larger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -half of the work; but he must not expect to accomplish -with a glass and patience exactly what -another man accomplishes with powder and shot -and a pair of dividers. In the study of ornithology, -as elsewhere, there are diversities of -operations, and possibly not the same spirit.</p> - -<p>If I cannot be certain whether the vesper -sparrows I saw to-day were light-colored enough -to pass for <i>Poœcetes gramineus confinis</i>, or were -probably nothing but plain <i>Poœcetes gramineus</i>, -I must put up with my ignorance, distressing as -it is. Possibly, if I were to see species and sub-species -side by side, even in the field, I could tell -them apart; possibly I could not. Whether their -songs differ, is a point concerning which my book, -after the manner of books, has nothing to offer; -and as the birds are now dumb, there is nothing -for me to do but to call them vesper sparrows, -and await developments.</p> - -<p>And some things can be settled, even in Texas, -with no weapon but a field-glass. I know, for -example, that I have to-day seen Mexican goldfinches, -and Arctic towhees, and red-shafted -flickers. That is more than half a loaf, by a good -deal, and several times better than no bread.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">LUCK ON THE PRAIRIE</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">A well-groomed</span> hobby will carry its rider comfortably -over many a slough.</p> - -<p>I was on my way westward to El Paso, and -knowing that the train was due there before daylight, -I left my berth early, and had gone out upon -the porch of the observation car to catch a bite -of fresh air and enjoy the first faint flushes of -the dawn, when a train-hand, passing in the semi-darkness, -informed me that the wreck of a freight -train was on the track in front of us, and that -we should probably not be able to move for eight -or nine hours. I had noticed that we were standing -still upon a “siding,” but such halts are not -infrequent on a single-track road, and having my -mind upon pleasanter themes, I had passed the -circumstance by without further thought.</p> - -<p>The news of our trouble spread, as one passenger -after another made his unhandsome, half-civilized -appearance from behind the curtains, -and though we proved to be a pretty philosophical -company, as transcontinental travelers have -need to be, the general run of comment was not -hilarious.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>A turn outside, as it grew lighter, showed that -we were at a station called San Elizario (a pleasing -name, surely), some three thousand two hundred -feet above sea-level. The westerly breeze -was a refreshment, and three or four ranges of -jagged mountains glorified the horizon. If we -must be delayed, the Fates had chosen a favorable -place for us.</p> - -<p>I, for one, soon began to feel reconciled to -the turn affairs had taken, and went back to the -car for an opera-glass. It must be a dull day in -Texas when a tender-footed bird-gazer cannot -find at least one novelty, and till the “first call -for breakfast” I would be out trying my luck.</p> - -<p>An adobe building, windowless and unoccupied, -stood not far off, and near it was a cottonwood -tree, still holding, in spite of all those Texas -winds, part of its last season’s crop of dry leaves. -I walked in that direction, and at the moment -three birds, with musical, goldfinch-like twitters, -flew into the tree. A glance showed them to be -not goldfinches, but small birds of the purple finch -group, very bright and rosy (the two males), -and thickly streaked underneath. “The house -finch!” I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>This is a Western beauty, greatly beloved for -its color, its music, and its engaging familiarity, -by all to whom it is a neighbor. I had read of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -its charms, and had freshly in mind an enthusiastic -eulogy of it by an old friend, now a resident -of Colorado, whom I had chanced to fall in with -a fortnight before in a railway car. With those -three lovely creatures talking to me, I felt that -the day was saved.</p> - -<p>A Say’s phœbe was near by, in a pear orchard -(for the piece of prairie land on which we so unexpectedly -found ourselves was under irrigation), -and as I had met it first only forty-eight hours -before—at Del Rio—I was glad to see more -of its very demure and pretty habits, especially -of its clever trick of hovering at considerable -length just over the grass. The rather bright -buff of its under-parts is one of its striking characteristics, -and now, when I caught sight of it in -the distance, I had for a moment thoughts of -some unfamiliar kind of oriole.</p> - -<p>There was barely time to pay my respects to -the phœbe before a flash of blue wings made me -aware of something more interesting still, a bevy -of bluebirds. It would be good fortune, surely, -if they should turn out to be of one of the several -Western forms that I had never seen. I -drew near, therefore, with all carefulness, and -needed but one look to assure myself that such -was indeed the case. Their backs were not blue, -but of a chestnut shade. The blue of the wings,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -moreover, was not quite the same as that of our -common Eastern <i>Sialia</i>.</p> - -<p>Whatever they were, the color of the backs -would probably be enough to name them, and I -returned to the car for breakfast and, first of -all, to make sure of my new birds’ identity. A -consultation of the handbook showed it to be -reasonably certain that they were of the sub-species -<i>Sialia mexicana bairdi</i>, the chestnut-backed -bluebird; but I had failed to observe one -important mark: the throat should have been -“purplish blue.” I wished very much to see -them again, but they had disappeared. Doubtless -they were migrants or stragglers, and by -this time were far away. A pity I had not been -more painstaking while I had the opportunity. -The one safe rule is to note everything, though -it is a rule more easily laid down than lived up -to, to be sure, especially in a new place, with -many distractions. Anyhow, the birds must be -of the chestnut-backed sub-species, I reassured -myself, for the sufficient reason that it was impossible, -here in western Texas, that they should -be anything else.</p> - -<p>Allaying my scruples thus, I started across a -field toward a farmhouse, and on the way noticed -a crow flying over. It was the first one I had -seen since reaching San Antonio,—the chaparral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -country not favoring birds of the crow-jay -tribe,<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a>—and I remarked it with pleasure. And -then, remembering something I had lately read -of Arizona, I thought, “But is it a crow, after -all? Isn’t it one of the white-necked ravens -that are set down as so common and familiar in -this part of the world?” And, in fact, it was; -for the next moment it began calling in a voice -that put the possibility of its being a common -American crow, the only one that could possibly -be met with in all this region, quite out of the -account. Another new bird! The third within -half an hour! Surely this was better than getting -into El Paso on schedule time. Let El -Paso wait. It would probably last the day out.</p> - -<p>But the story was not yet done, for after a little -the meadow larks, of which there were many -in the fields (with large flocks of horned larks, -also), began singing. I was disappointed in the -song, of the beauty of which I had formed the -most exalted expectations, but consoled myself -with believing that the birds were not Western -meadow larks proper, but the Texan sub-species; -otherwise I must conclude that their voices were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -still somewhat winter-bound, or at least, not yet -keyed up to concert pitch.</p> - -<p>A sparrow hawk beside the farmhouse before -mentioned allowed me to stand almost under his -low tree before he took wing, and when at last -he did so I had a feeling that he was rather surprisingly -long. I thought nothing more of the -matter at the moment, but later, discovering by -a reference to the handbook that a variety of -<i>Falco sparverius</i>, somewhat larger and with a -longer tail, had been described from this region, -I concluded it probable, not to say certain, that -my impression had been correct, and that the -bird was not my old acquaintance of the East, -but <i>Falco sparverius deserticola</i>. That would -make the new birds of the morning four instead -of three.</p> - -<p>All this while, it must be understood, there -was always the possibility that the train might -start at any moment, no positive information -upon that point being obtainable, so that I could -move about only within a narrowly limited area. -For a man thus tethered I was doing pretty -well, whatever my unornithological fellow-travelers -might think of my peculiar movements and -attitudes. And to increase my enthusiasm, as I -turned to go back to the train for dinner, in -crossing an irrigation ditch (now dry), bordered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -with a dense thicket of low shrubs, I caught the -tinkle of junco voices and presently a glimpse of -white tail feathers. Now, then, since luck was -the order of the day, it was as likely as not that -these were not simple <i>Junco hyemalis</i> such as I -had found at San Antonio, but one of several -Western kinds that might, for aught I was -aware, be looked for hereabout.</p> - -<p>And so it proved. The birds were amazingly -shy and secretive, but with patience I had three -or four of them under my glass one after another; -and they were noticeably different from -our Eastern junco, and belonged, as the book’s -description made clear, to the variety <i>Junco hyemalis -connectens</i>, the intermediate junco, so -(not very poetically) called.</p> - -<p>I went to dinner with an excellent appetite, -and afterward, the delay of the train still continuing, -though with rumors that its end was -near, I took one more turn in the field, and this -time happened upon still another stranger, the -handsomest of the day, so wonderfully handsome, -though “handsome” is too cheap a word, that a -man would have to go far to beat it—an Arizona -<i>Pyrrhuloxia</i>; a bird—related to the cardinal -grosbeak group—having no representative -in the East. It would be a shame to attempt a -description of it here at the end of a hurried<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -sketch, but it made a glorious sixth in my list of -the day’s findings. I shall see more of it, I trust, -when I reach the territory to which it more distinctively -belongs.</p> - -<p>One other piece of good fortune I must not -fail to chronicle, though I have omitted to do so -in its proper place. Late in the forenoon, after -I had given the bluebirds up for lost, I discovered -them sitting, the six together, a lovely company, -among the leaves of a cottonwood tree, as -if they had taken shelter from the wind; and the -book’s description was borne out: their throats -were “purplish blue.”</p> - -<p>The nine hours—for so long the embargo lasted—passed -all too soon. If I could have had two -or three hours of free wandering, who knows -what other bright names I might have brought -back? I went so far, indeed, as to inquire of the -postmaster and variety storekeeper—a genial, -smiling German—whether there was any place -in the neighborhood where a stranger could be -put up for the night; but he thought not, and -advised me, not at all inhospitably, to stick to the -train. And possibly, after all, I had found more -rather than less for being compelled to beat a -small space over again and again, instead of -ranging farther afield. At all events, I had discovered -a new use for ornithological enthusiasm,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -and I might almost add for railway accidents. I -do not expect to find many birdier places, no -matter where my wanderings take me, than that -piece of dry, winter-bleached prairie about San -Elizario.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">OVER THE BORDER</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">On</span> my first morning at El Paso, where, by good -luck, as already explained, I arrived nine or ten -hours behind time, I made an early start for -Juarez, the Mexican city on the opposite bank of -the Rio Grande. As I waited for the car at the -corner of the street, a rosy house finch stood on -the top of a telegraph pole overhead, singing -ecstatically. The pretty creature, it is evident, is -very much at home in this bustling city, at least -in winter, for I was hardly in my room on the -afternoon of my arrival before I heard its warble, -and looking out of the window beheld the bird -perched upon the eaves of a building across the -way, where more than once since then I have -heard and seen it. I am sorry to add that the -English sparrow, its most unworthy rival, is here -also, though for the moment in small numbers.</p> - -<p>When the car came along, it proved to be an -open one.</p> - -<p>“A rather cold morning for open cars,” I -said to the youthful conductor.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we run open cars all winter,” he answered. -“But I suppose we don’t mind the cold<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -so much,” he continued, emphasizing the pronoun, -“because we are out of doors all the time.”</p> - -<p>A Northern tenderfoot might naturally be less -inured to frigidity, he seemed to imply; but I -remarked that he wore the heaviest of overcoats -with the collar up. Warm days (much like New -England June), cool nights, clear skies, constant -winds, dryness and dust—such is the January -climate of El Paso, if my four days have given -me a fair impression of its quality.</p> - -<p>Presently we crossed a short bridge.</p> - -<p>“Was that the river?” I asked my seatmate, -a minute afterward, a sudden suspicion coming -over me, though it seemed so absurd that I was -half ashamed to betray it.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir; that was the Rio Grande. You’re -in Mexico now,” he answered.</p> - -<p>Yes, and that must have been the Mexican -Custom House officer whom I had seen step out -of the door of a small building on the southern -bank of the river and salute our conductor so -politely. None of us looked like smugglers, I -suppose. At all events, the car was not “held -up,” as happened at the other end of the bridge, -a day or two later, while two rather boisterous -young fellows on the rear seat made themselves -merry over the attempt of Uncle Sam’s official -representative to collect a duty. International<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -travel, even in an electric street-car, is liable to -complications.</p> - -<p>As for the river, it was practically dry. Pedestrians -were crossing it—to save toll—on a -few small stepping-stones at a point where the -current could not have been ten feet wide nor -more than half of ten inches deep. My seatmate -explained that so much water was drawn off -above this point for irrigation purposes that the -river had little left for its own use; and in fact, -more than once afterward I saw its bed absolutely -dry, so that even the stepping-stones had -for the day gone out of business. Yet it is a real -<i>rio grande</i>, for all that, and the life of a long, -long strip of Texas.</p> - -<p>Drought is the mark of this country. A -friendly citizen (of whom, in my ignorance, I -had inquired about “suburban trains”!) warned -me earnestly against wandering far out of the -town. If some Mexican did not kill me “for -the sake of the clothes I had on” (an ignoble -death, surely), I might get lost (an easy matter, -by my adviser’s tell), in which event, if nothing -more serious happened to me, I should infallibly -perish of thirst.</p> - -<p>The car took me through the compact little -<i>ciudad</i> (a five-minute passage, perhaps), and I -struck out for the country, along the line of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -Mexican Central Railroad, in the direction of the -mountains, heading my course for a cemetery out -on the slope, in the midst of the chaparral. White-necked -ravens were foraging beside the track, as -little disturbed by human approach as so many -English sparrows might have been. “How soon -the strange becomes familiar!” I thought. I -had never seen a white-necked raven (there is -no whiteness visible,<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> the bird being a very imp -of darkness to look at it) till less than twenty-four -hours ago, and already I was passing it with -something like indifference. I was far from indifferent, -however, two afternoons later, when -for the first time I watched a flock of several -hundred soaring in mazy circles high overhead, -after the manner of buzzards or sea-gulls.</p> - -<p>No other birds showed themselves till I drew -near the cemetery gate, when suddenly the bushes -just in front, straight between me and the sun, -were alive with sparrows. My eyes, dazzled as -they were by the sunshine, caught sight of one -lark bunting as the flock took wing. I must see -more of it,—it was my first one,—and started -eagerly in pursuit. But the creatures were timid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -beyond all calculation, and though I pursued -them with cautious haste for some distance, I -could never come up with them. Wherever I -looked, there was nothing but white-crowned -sparrows; handsome birds, the sight of which is -almost an event in Massachusetts, but so abundant -in Texas at this time of the year—as Lincoln -finches are, also—that I have begun to -turn away from them as almost a nuisance. It -becomes vexatious to a man in search of novelties -when even an old favorite keeps itself too -persistently under his glass. As the proverb has -it, there is reason in all things.</p> - -<p>While I was beating the chaparral over, still -in search of those missing white wing-patches, I -noticed a funeral procession coming from the -city. Heading the cortege was what in a Massachusetts -town would be called a “depot carriage.” -It served the purpose of a hearse, I suppose, and -in it sat two men bareheaded. It seemed a neighborly -and Christian act to accompany a brother -mortal to the grave in this fraternal manner. -The second carriage was an open buggy, drawn -by a white horse.</p> - -<p>These things I took note of while the procession -was still a long way off (a military band, -still farther away, at the barracks, no doubt, -was playing a march), and meantime I went up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> -to the cemetery fence and looked over. The -monuments were mostly, if not wholly, wooden -crosses, with the ordinary run of affectionate -epitaphs. A man, who appeared to be the keeper -of the place, came out of the one house near at -hand, and asked me something in Spanish, to -which I replied in English. We were unable to -communicate with each other till finally I said, -“<i>No sabe.</i>” It was not precisely what I intended -to tell him; but it was all one. He saw for himself -that I spoke no Spanish, and with that left -me to myself.</p> - -<p>I returned to El Paso on foot, and as I reached -the northern end of the bridge, walking, as it -happened, on the far side of the road, with my -overcoat on my arm, as careless as could be, I -was hailed by an officer in uniform. I halted, -and he approached. Then he waited. It was my -place to speak first, as it seemed, and I began:</p> - -<p>“Do you wish to inspect me?”</p> - -<p>“Well, what did you buy in Mexico?” he -asked.</p> - -<p>“A postal-card, and mailed it.”</p> - -<p>“Was that all you bought?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“All right.”</p> - -<p>The souvenir postal-card industry, though -comparatively infantile, is not “protected,” it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> -appears, although, if I had brought the five-cents’ -worth away with me, I might, for aught I -positively know, have been called upon for duty. -The rights of American laboring men must by -all means be looked after. To think what ruin -might befall this great republic if its people, with -all the rest of their freedom, should in some fit -of madness insist upon the freedom to buy and -sell!</p> - -<p>That was three days ago. Since then I have -been to Juarez twice, pushing a little farther -each time into the country southward. On both -visits I found lark buntings in plenty. They -move about—and sit about—in peculiarly -dense flocks. One such, that I saw this morning, -might have numbered a thousand birds. If -disturbed, they rise in a cloud, and on coming to -rest again every one seems to desire a perch at -the very tip of a bush. As they must all alight -in the same one or two bunches of scrub, however, -though there are hundreds of others exactly -like them all about, there are by no means top -seats enough to go round, and there is a deal of -preliminary hovering, accompanied by a grand -confusion of formless twittering, during which—the -white patches of the quivering wings and outspread -tails showing through—the spectacle is -most animated and pleasing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>As for the city itself, it is squalid, but well -worth a visit; having so strange and other-worldish -a look that one seems to have crossed at least -an ocean rather than a trickling streamlet. The -white church; the little shops, with their curious -wares; the game cocks in the street, tethered -each by a yard of cord to a peg driven into the -ground on the edge of the sidewalk, crowing defiance -to each other, and regarded proudly by -their owners, who now and then take them up -in their arms, caressing them fondly, or shaking -one in the face of another, to see the feathers of -their necks bristle; the bust of Bonito Juarez -in the fenced plaza, the bust itself of a size to -adorn a parlor mantel, while the marble pedestal -is ten or fifteen feet high and at least ten feet -square at the base; the Spanish signboards and -placards; best of all, the people themselves, men, -women, and children—the children, some of -them, half naked, even on a cold, windy forenoon, -while the men saunter about, or lean against -an adobe wall in the sun, wrapped in thick, -bright-colored blankets (I shall think of a Mexican, -as long as I live, as leaning against the side -of a house)—all these go to make a memorable -picture for a Yankee on his travels.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">FIRST DAYS IN TUCSON</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">What</span> is more fickle than New England weather? -Nothing, perhaps, or nothing inanimate, unless -it be the weather of some Southern winter resort, -say in Florida or Arizona.</p> - -<p>I reached Tucson in the evening of January -31, a stop at El Paso having saved me from -participation in a railroad accident, as a result -of which many passengers (nobody knows how -many) were burned to death. The first of February -was bright and warm; so that in a long -forenoon jaunt over the desert a very light overcoat -quickly became burdensome. The next -morning, therefore, it was left at home.</p> - -<p>My course this time was into the valley of the -Santa Cruz, where farmers live by irrigation and -barley fields are already green. I had crossed -the river, pausing on the bridge to enjoy the -sight of my first black phœbe,—a handsome, -highly presentable fellow with a jet-black waistcoat,—when -all at once the dusty road before -me was seen to be fast becoming inundated. Beside -the fence, wading in mud and water, the -owner of the fields, having taken up arms—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -long-handled spade—against this sea of troubles, -appeared to have been working hard to repair -the mischief. At that moment, however, he had -given over the attempt in despair and was lifting -his boots, first one, then the other, out of the -mire and scraping them, rather ineffectually, -with the spade.</p> - -<p>I ought to have known better, but it is easy -to see the comical side of other people’s misfortunes, -and I remarked in a cheerful tone:</p> - -<p>“Well, well, you seem to have water to burn.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon other floodgates were opened, and -out poured a stream of language, the greater part -of it too “colloquial” for print. The substance -of it all was that a Mexican (the opprobrious -word being dwelt upon and forcibly qualified) -had come in the night and let on the water, -without giving him, the farmer, any notice of the -unseasonable action. Now the water was all over -the road, and all over the yard, and close up to -the back door of the house. He had sent for a -man to help him.</p> - -<p>Seeing nothing better to do, I picked my steps -among the dust-bounded streams as best I was -able, and passed by on the other side. I had always -understood irrigation to be a kind of predictable -and controllable rain, but it appeared -that, if this were the rule, the rule had exceptions.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -The sight set me thinking that possibly if the general -management of the weather were put into -human hands, as the least presumptuous of us -are more or less in the habit of wishing were possible, -it might still be found difficult to escape -an occasional fault of administration. As for my -farmer’s emphatic language, I held it excusable. -He certainly had provocation, and as the Scripture -says, with commendable toleration, there is -a time for everything under the sun.</p> - -<p>The river valley is narrow, like the river itself, -and on the farther side is bounded sharply by -steep foothills, behind which are high mountains. -I was barely beginning to climb the nearest hill, -over its loose covering of small stones, when some -bird broke into voice a little above me; one of -those peculiar voices, I said to myself, that at a -first hearing afford almost no indication as to the -size of their owners.</p> - -<p>My uncertainty lasted for some minutes, while -I made my way cautiously upwards, a step or two -at a time. The bird proved to be a small wren,—the -rock wren, so called,—said to be “more -or less abundant” in this region; “more” rather -than “less,” I hope, for I fell in love with the -creature immediately.</p> - -<p>One of the birds,—for there were two, talking -“back and forth,” as we say,—his fit of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -nervousness over, dropped into a lyrical mood, -and regaled me with a very pleasing bit of simple -music, all in brief phrases, but with a surprisingly -wide range of pitch. Some of the measures had -a peculiar vibrant quality suggestive of the finest -work of our common Eastern snowbird. But -withal, I received the impression that the musician -was rather trying his instrument than aiming -at a serious performance.</p> - -<p>While I stood listening, a bunch of a dozen -Mexican house finches, more than half the number -in rosy plumage, happened along with the -usual chorus of twitters, and alighted in a very -peculiar and graceful shrub (<i>ocotillo</i>, I am told -is its Mexican name), which grows in clusters -of a dozen or so of slender, angular stems, leaning -away from one another in all directions and -covered sparsely with reddish leaves, which look -for all the world like the autumnal foliage of -the common barberry. The rosy finches, perched -upon this group of slanting, wandlike, fountain-like -stems,<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> were exceedingly pretty to look at.</p> - -<p>All about me stood tall, fluted columns of the -giant cactus, fifteen or twenty feet in height, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -large enough for telegraph poles. On the day -before, my first day in the city, I had turned a -field-glass in this direction, and to my surprise -had seen the hills covered with verdure. “Why,” -said I, noticing what I took for the trunks of -trees amid the green, “those hills are forested.” -Now I discovered that the greenness was mostly -that of the desert-loving creosote bush (a low -shrub, noticeable for being thornless, which -covers thousands on thousands of acres hereabouts, -and just now is putting forth small yellow -blossoms), while the boles of trees were nothing -but giant cacti.</p> - -<p>Among the stones at my feet grew flowers of -various unknown sorts, especially a large yellow -one, apparently an evening primrose, rising no -more than two inches from the ground, with a -tuft of leaves at the base of the stem, or rather -at the bottom of the calyx. The only flower of -them all that I could certainly name was a pretty -blue lupine, smaller than our New England -species, both in blossom and leaf, but so exactly -like it in other respects that for old acquaintance’ -sake, though the lupine was never one of -my particular favorites, I plucked it for my buttonhole. -I believe it is the only natural-looking, -familiar-looking wild plant that I have so far -seen in this desert country.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>The wrens having become silent, and the -finches flown away, I descended the hill and took -the road running along its base northward. It -must lead, I thought, to another road across the -valley, and would make a round of my forenoon’s -walk. And so it did; but first it brought me to -a large building which proved to be St. Mary’s -Sanatorium, more commonly known as the Sisters’ -Hospital. I had just passed this and turned -the corner, facing the town, when all in a moment, -so far at least as my perception of events was -concerned, the sky was covered with black clouds, -and an icy north wind changed the day from summer -to winter as in the twinkling of an eye.</p> - -<p>No more loitering by the way. I did at once -what every other creature was already doing—I -hurried. “Now if I only had that overcoat!” -I thought; but speed also is an extra garment, -and I put it on.</p> - -<p>No more loitering, I said; but I did stop once. -Halfway across the valley a flock of blackbirds -were feeding beside a barn, and I turned into -the yard to look at them.</p> - -<p>“I want to see what kind of blackbirds these -are,” I explained to the man of the house, who -came out of the door at that moment.</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’re the same kind that is all over -the universe,” he answered, smiling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>But his generalization was hasty, as generalizations -are apt to be. They were Brewer’s blackbirds—the -handsomest of grackles; birds that I -had seen for the first time, at Del Rio, only the -week before. I did not stay to admire their iridescence, -but declining an invitation to ride (it -was too cold for that, though the man was just -going to harness up, he said), I buttoned another -button and hastened on. The two or three persons -I met each had something to say about the -weather, but nobody stopped for prolonged comment. -Short speeches and quick steps, or another -crack at the mule, were the order of the day. -Even at the South a man will generally hurry a -little rather than freeze to death.</p> - -<p>Well, the experience was more amusing than -uncomfortable, after all, and I reached the hotel -door just as rain began falling. Before night -snow was mingled with the rain, and the next -morning I saw a small boy, his eyes dancing with -brightness, making a tiny snow image to stand -upon the front-yard fence, while the mountains—that -fairly surround the city, as they do the -Holy City in the Hebrew psalm—were dazzling -white. The mud was beyond belief, the walking -laborious; but as I paused now and then for -breath or to recover my footing, and saw all that -glory about me, I thanked my stars that I was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> -here. I was glad to see that even in this arid -zone (<i>arida zona</i>, as the Mexicans are supposed -to have begun by calling it) it still knew how -both to rain and to snow.</p> - -<p>“Well, now, this was a surprise, wasn’t it?” -I remarked to a German whom I met in the -valley road.</p> - -<p>“You bet,” he answered; and then, with a -smile, he added: “but it won’t last only a couple -of days; that’s all.”</p> - -<p>His mastery of American idiom recalls what -another German farmer said on the same forenoon. -He had been living here and in California -since ’82, he told me.</p> - -<p>“Which place do you like best?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Arizona,” he answered, without hesitation. -“Things are freer here,” he went on. -“In Los Angeles, now, you have to dress up -once in a while; but here, if you dress up, or if -you don’t dress up, it don’t cut no ice.”</p> - -<p>My first man’s confident “couple of days” -was a trifle too confident. Twice two days have -passed. In that time we have had summer -weather (at noon), a pretty hard freeze (at -night), and another rain and another snowfall, -both heavier than the first.</p> - -<p>The winter visitors, of whom there are many, -the greater part, alas, ordered here for “lung<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> -trouble,” have naturally been put out,—the -more recent arrivals among them greatly astonished; -they thought they were coming to a dry -climate; but the residents proper, if not jubilant, -have seemed at least reasonably well contented -with the turn of affairs. There has been a general -agreement, to be sure (one heard it on all -hands), that it was “pretty muddy;” the wayfaring -man, though a fool, could not dispute the -statement; but so far as the prosperity of Arizona -is concerned, there is no probability of an -excessive rainfall. The more the better. So -much is evident, even to an itinerant ornithologist, -who may stand, if you will, for the wayfaring -man before mentioned. What is not so -clear to his darkened understanding is why the -weather, no matter where one goes, should be -every season so strangely exceptional, so utterly -different from everything that the oldest inhabitant -can remember.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">MOBBED IN ARIZONA</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> never known a city more orderly seeming, -more evidently peaceful and law-abiding -than Tucson. Nowhere have I felt safer in wandering -about by myself in all sorts of places, -whether within the city proper or in the surrounding -country. Here is a town, I have said -to myself, where the citizen has small need of -the policeman. And yet I know a man, most -discreet and inoffensive (not to be shame-faced -about it, let me admit that I speak of the bird-gazer -himself), who a few days ago, for no assignable -reason, was violently set upon, or, to -speak plainly, mobbed, just outside the city -limits.</p> - -<p>Tucson, it should be premised, is a thriving, -rapidly growing, modern city—though it has -an antiquity to boast of, as well—in the midst -of a desert. Its own site was originally part of -the desert. The nearest large city is Los Angeles, -California, five hundred miles distant; the -nearest village, from what I hear, must be fifty -or sixty miles away. Many roads run out of the -town, but only to ranches scattered here and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -there along the two watercourses, or to mining -camps farther off in the mountains. How a city -ever came to grow up in a place so isolated, so -seemingly destitute of anything like local advantages, -is a riddle beyond my reading; but here -it is, a city in the desert. North, south, east, or -west, you may start where you will and go in -what direction you please, and in fifteen minutes -you will be out among the creosote bushes and -the cacti, with nothing but a world of creosote -and cactus—with perhaps a windmill and a -roof rising above them somewhere in the distance—between -you and the mountain range that -bounds the horizon.</p> - -<p>Well, this was exactly what I myself did one -fine morning a week ago. I walked up the main -street of the city, turned to the right, passed the -territorial university buildings, and, taking a -course northward toward the Santa Catalinas, -sauntered carelessly forward, field-glass in hand, -to see what might be stirring in the chaparral.</p> - -<p>There would not be much, I knew. By daylight, -at least, and in the winter season, the -desert is not a stirring place. In the tracts -where the creosote occupies the ground alone -there proved, as usual, to be nothing; but presently -I came to a place where two or three kinds -of cactus were sprinkled among the creosote<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -bushes, and newly sprung bluish-green grass (I -call it grass, provisionally, although, like almost -everything else hereabout, it has an unaccustomed -look) carpeted or half-carpeted the -ground. Here were the almost inevitable two -cactus wrens (how overjoyed I was at the unexpected -sight of my first one, at San Antonio, -only three weeks ago, and how soon they have -become an old story!) perched, one here, one -there, at the top of branching cactus trees five -or six feet high, calling antiphonally, as their -habit is, in a coarse, unmusical, wearisome voice—the -same churlish phase over and over and -over. Nothing but the lonesomeness of the desert, -surely, could ever make that grating, repetitive -monotony a pleasure-giving sound. What -the birds will do in the way of song when their -musical season arrives, if it ever does,<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> is more -than I know; but, belonging to be so musical a -family, they ought to be capable of something -better than this, for music, of all gifts, is a thing -that runs in the blood. It would be a strange -wren that could not express his happiness in -some really lyrical manner.</p> - -<p>In the same neighborhood, as has happened on -several occasions, were a group of five or six sage -thrashers. It was in this very place, indeed, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> -I first formed their acquaintance; and a sorely -puzzled novelty-seeker I was on that eventful -afternoon. The whole desert had seemed to be -devoid of animal existence, I remember, when of -a sudden there stood those strange birds on the -ground before me. At the first instant they gave -me an impression of overgrown titlarks. Then, -when I watched them running at full speed over -the grass, all at once pulling themselves up and -standing erect with a snap of the tail, I said: -“Why, they must be thrushes of some sort.” In -attitude and action they were almost exactly like -so many robins. The only striking characteristic -of their plumage was the peculiarly dense streaking -of the under-parts.</p> - -<p>The mystery was heightened for me by the -fact that they maintained an absolute silence. -Indeed, although I have seen them many times -since then, I have yet to hear them utter the first -syllable. For aught I can positively affirm, they -may every one be mutes. I chased them about -for half an hour, scrutinizing the least detail of -their dress, all the while wondering what on earth -to call them, till finally it came over me, I could -never tell how, that they must be sage thrashers.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said, “<i>Oroscoptes!</i> I remember -that that bird is described as having a short -bill.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>It was a true guess; and in a strange country -a man makes so many poor guesses that he may -reasonably boast a little over every good one. -To this day, I am bound to add, the birds, with -their short bills, their extraordinary quickness -upon their feet, and their upright carriage, have -to my eye very little the appearance of thrashers. -Perhaps when I hear them sing, my feeling may -alter.</p> - -<p>There is at least one real thrasher in the desert, -however, and usually in the same places that -Oroscoptes affects, places such as I have mentioned, -where cacti are mingled with the omnipresent -creosote. This is Palmer’s thrasher, -so called, a grayish-brown bird, with the characteristic -thrasher make-up—long bill, long body, -and long tail. He is one of the common birds -about Tucson, both in the river valley and on the -desert, and one of the few that are already in -song. Even he, I suspect, is not really letting -himself go as yet, but he is in tune daily; not -so versatile a performer, seemingly, as our Eastern -reddish-brown bird; with much less range -of voice, and more given to repeating the same -phrase half a dozen times in succession, so that -his music has less the air of a strict improvisation; -but a genuine thrasher, nevertheless, with -a thrasher’s song. As the season progresses he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -will probably grow more ecstatic, though to hear -him now, one would not expect him ever to become -so mad a rhapsodist as the crazy bird that -we admire, and sometimes smile at, in the Eastern -country.</p> - -<p>Whether the thrasher was seen on the day I -am supposed to be describing, I do not now remember, -but in all probability he was, for I never -walk far in the desert without seeing or hearing -him. If he does not sing, he salutes me with -volleys of sharp, whip-snapping whistles in the -style of the wood thrush and the robin. Like -the wren, he prefers a perch at the top of a cactus. -He prefers it, I say; but in truth it is almost -Hobson’s choice with him, since the topmost -spray of a creosote bush, the only other thing -he <i>could</i> perch on, would hardly support his -weight. There he stands, at all events, perfectly -at his ease among the closely set spines, sharp -as the sharpest needles, though how he manages -the ticklish feat so adroitly is more than I can -imagine.</p> - -<p>I may have seen two or three desert sparrows, -also; the black-throated sparrow, that is, with -some slight variations, imperceptible in the bush, -that make him, in the language of science, <i>Amphispiza -bilineata deserticola</i>; and possibly, -though this is somewhat less to be taken for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -granted, his long-tailed relative, the sage sparrow -(<i>Amphispiza belli nevadensis</i>), may have teased -me by his shyness. Both these birds are said to -be famous enliveners of the desert,—though -neither of them in their present silent state quite -lives up to his reputation,—and will doubtless -become prime favorites with me if I remain here -long enough really to know them. Where should -simple, hearty melodies find appreciation, if not -in the desert?</p> - -<p>I am slow in coming to the point of my story; -and with reason. It is not pleasant to be mobbed; -there is nothing to boast of in such an adventure; -nothing to flatter one’s sense of personal -importance; one is not apt to speak of it <i>con -amore</i>, as we say. Some things are best slipped -over in silence. So I have noticed that men who -have served their country in prison will always -contrive by one path or another to go round -the name of that unpopular institution. But I -have begun, and there is nothing for it but to -finish.</p> - -<p>Well, then, I had walked perhaps a mile and -a half beyond the university buildings, which is -the same as to say beyond the limits of the town, -and found myself approaching a lonely ranch, -when a flock of ravens, white-necked ravens, -which abound hereabout—“the multitudinous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -raven,” I have caught myself saying<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a>—rose -from the scrub not far in advance, with the invariable -hoarse chorus of <i>quark</i>, <i>quark</i>. I thought -nothing of it, the sight being so much an every-day -matter, till after a little I began to be aware -that the whole flock seemed to be concentrating -its attention upon my unsuspecting, inoffensive -self. There must have been fifty of the big black -birds. Round and round they went in circles, -just above my head, moving forward as I moved, -vociferating every one as he came near, “quark, -quark.”</p> - -<p>At first I was amused; it was something new -and interesting. I recalled the time when I -walked miles on miles over the North Carolina -mountains in hope of seeing one raven, and here -were half a hundred almost within hand’s reach; -I chaffed them as they passed, calling them names -and quarking back to them in derision. But before -very long the novelty of the thing wore off; -the persecution grew tiresome. Enough is as -good as a feast; and I had had enough. “Quark, -quark,” they yelled, all the while settling nearer,—or -so I fancied,—till it seemed as if they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -actually meant violence. They were doing precisely -what a flock of crows does to an owl or -a hawk: they were mobbing me. “Quark, -quark! Hit him, there! Hit him! Pick his eyes -out!”</p> - -<p>The commotion lasted for at least half a mile. -Then the birds wearied of it, and went off about -their business. All but one of them, I mean to -say. He had no such notion. For ten minutes -longer he stayed by. His persistency was devilish. -It became almost unbearable. The single -voice was more exasperating even than the chorus. -If the famous albatross carried on after any such -outrageous fashion, I have no stones to throw at -the Ancient Mariner. He acted well within his -rights. If I had had a crossbow, and had been -as good a marksman as he was,—with “his -glittering eye,”—there would have been one less -raven in Arizona, and no questions asked. If a -dead calm had succeeded, so much the better. -“Quark, quark!” the black villain cried, wagging -his impish head, and swooping low to spit -the insult into my ear.</p> - -<p>But all things have an end, as leaves have -their time to fall, and even a raven’s perseverance -will wear out at last. Perhaps the bird -grew hungry. At all events he gave over the -assault, stillness fell upon the desert, and an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -innocent foot-passenger went on his way in -peace.</p> - -<p>And this is how I was mobbed in Arizona. I -could never have believed it.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">AN IDLE AFTERNOON</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> heard of a man who invariably begins -his letters, whether of friendship or business, -with a bulletin of the day’s weather: it rains, or -it shines; it is cold or warm; and to my way of -thinking it is far from certain that the custom is -not commendable. It is fair to sender and receiver -alike that the mental conditions under -which an epistle is written should be understood; -and there is no man—or no ordinary man, such -as most of us have the happiness to deal with—whose -thoughts and language are not more or -less colored by those skyey influences the sum -of which we designate by the interrogative name -of weather. I say “interrogative,” because I -assume, although, having no dictionary by me, -I cannot verify the assumption, that the word -“weather” is only a corruption or variant of the -older word “whether;” the thing itself being -an entity so variable and doubtful that remarks -about it fall naturally, and almost of necessity, -into a discussion of probabilities, in other words, -of “whether.”</p> - -<p>As to the weather here in Tucson, I could fill<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -all my letters with it, and still leave a world of -things unsaid. Its fluctuations are so constant -that they tend to become monotonous; as Thoreau -said of one of his Concord days, that it was so -wet you might almost call it dry.</p> - -<p>Three or four mornings ago, for example, I -started early for a seven-mile tramp across the -desert. I wore overcoat and woolen gloves, and -needed them. It was so cool, indeed, that I left -word for an extra garment to be put into the -carriage that was to come out and fetch me back -at noon.</p> - -<p>That same afternoon I walked down into the -valley of the Santa Cruz. The sun was blazing, -and the heat intense. The few cottonwood trees -scattered along the road were still leafless (I had -left my umbrella at home—for the last time) and -the only shelter to be found was on the northeasterly -side of the telegraph poles. I believe -I never before complained of such obstructions -that they were not big enough; but everything -comes round in its turn. My thoughts ran -back to the time when a boy of my acquaintance -used to trudge homeward from berry-picking excursions -on burning July noons. Also I thought -of that comfortable Hebrew text about the -“shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” The -man who wrote that might have lived in Arizona.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -Finally, out of sheer desperation, I stepped into -the yard of a little adobe house, and being obliged -to walk almost to the door, said to the motherly-looking -woman who came forward to see what -was wanted, “Excuse me, please, but I only wish -to stand a few minutes in the shade of your -house.” She looked surprised, as well she might. -No doubt she took me for an invalid, as Arizona -people say, a “lunger.” Probably, sitting indoors, -and used to summer temperature in these -parts, she had been thinking of the day as rather -cool, not to say wintry. Wouldn’t I come in and -sit awhile? She was sure I should be welcome. -But I answered no; I only desired to stand a few -minutes in the shade. And two or three hours -afterward, within five minutes after the sun went -down,—though it had been shining in at my -west window,—I needed a fire.</p> - -<p>Forty-eight hours later we had a snowfall,—the -third within ten days,—the whole world -white, with “storm rubbers” barely equal to the -emergency; and the next morning, the snow having -gone, ice was thick in a big tub of water -outside my door.</p> - -<p>“Cold?” said an Illinois gentleman, with -whom I fell into conversation yesterday, “I’ve -been here three weeks, and in that time I’ve suffered -more from cold than in all my forty years.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>I suspect that he exaggerated. For my own -part, I haven’t suffered from cold. It is the occasional -heat that makes me fearful of homesickness. -Three days like that one afternoon would -set me packing. All of which may seem not very -important to a chance reader; but unless he is of -a hopelessly unimaginative turn he can perhaps -conceive how interesting and important it must -be to the parties directly concerned, especially if -he remembers that this is a winter resort, where -weather is the one thing needful.</p> - -<p>But what a perfect afternoon we had yesterday!—cool, -yet not too cool; and warm, yet -not too warm; with a softness and yet a gently -bracing, uplifting, pulse-quickening, life-reviving -quality in the air; and the sky, too, clear, but -not too clear, so that wisps of cloud floated here -and there over the bare, steep sides of the Santa -Catalinas, giving them beauty. I was out upon -the desert in a mood of absolute indolence, contented -to walk a mile an hour, and breathe and -breathe, and look. At such times it seems hardly -too much to say, strange as the words may sound, -that I am falling in love with the desert, a desert -bounded only by mountains. Already I can believe -that men are fascinated by it (the right -men), and having once been here cannot long -stay away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>Looking and dreaming, the bird-gazer within -me pretty well laid asleep, suddenly I heard a -strange voice in the air, thin, insect-like, unknown. -By the time it had sounded twice the sleeper was -wide-awake, with his opera-glass in play. The -voice came from yonder thin clump of creosote -bushes. Yes, the bird flits into sight—a gnatcatcher; -and being a gnatcatcher, with such a -note, it must be “the other one,” known as the -plumbeous, which I have been looking for ever -since my arrival in Tucson. And so it was—a -pretty creature with a jaunty black cap. I shall -know him henceforth, I hope, even without seeing -him. We are fortunate, both of us, I take -leave to say, to have made each other’s acquaintance -on so ideal an afternoon.</p> - -<p>The gnatcatcher disappeared, and the dreamer -was just dozing off again, when two large birds -were seen to be having a hot encounter, high -overhead. This time the field-glass came into requisition. -A raven was teasing a red-tailed hawk, -with all a raven’s pertinacity and spite. Again -and again and again he swooped upon him, while -the hawk ducked and turned to avoid the stroke. -Why the big fellow, biggest of all our hawks, -larger and stronger in every way than the raven, -did not face his tormentor and lay him out was a -mystery. I confess, I should have been glad to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -see him do it. Instead, he made off toward the -mountains, and after a long chase and much croaking, -the raven turned away.</p> - -<p>This also had passed out of mind, and I was -on my way homeward, barely putting one foot -before the other, enjoying the air and the sun,—and -the mountains,—when, happening to -glance upward, I beheld a grand sight. “That’s -the golden eagle,” I said aloud (in the desert a -man soon falls into the neighborly habit of talking -to himself), and one look through the field-glass -proved the words correct. The great bird -was in perfect light, sailing in circles, so that his -upper parts came every minute into full view as -he swung about, the old gold of the head and -neck, as well as the contrasted brown and black -of the wings, perfectly displayed, with nothing -left for guesswork. I was all eyes, and watched -him and watched him, admiring especially the -firm set of his wings, till he, too, sailed away, not -chased, but moving of his own royal will, and -dropped at last out of sight behind the rolling -desert.</p> - -<p>He was my first golden eagle, in some respects -one of the noblest of all North American birds. I -knew him to be not uncommon in the mountains, -and had hoped some day to see him passing, especially -when I should be far out on the edge of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -the foothills; and behold, here he was on my idle -afternoon, close at home. Who says that the lame -and the lazy are not provided for?</p> - -<p>My dreamy saunter was turning out ornithological -in spite of myself, and as if the gnatcatcher -and the eagle had not done enough to that end, -the ubiquitous raven now took a hand at the -business. My thoughts were just settling back -into vacancy, when the ravens were seen to be -commencing their regular afternoon progress to -their roosting grounds, wherever those may be, -on the other side of the city. A detachment of -some scores was already on the move. And presently -I observed what was to me a strange and -interesting thing, although, for aught I can affirm -to the contrary, it may be only an every-day occurrence.</p> - -<p>A great part of the birds were playing by twos, -one chasing the other, as if engaged in a frolic to -which all parties were perfectly accustomed. I -had not expected such a pitch of levity on the -part of these black-suited, and as I should have -thought, rather gloomy-natured scavengers. But -they were going to roost, and like children at the -hour of bedtime, they were making a lark of it. -Perhaps the day’s picking had been uncommonly -good; they had been over by a certain cattle-slaughtering -establishment; something, at all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -events, had put them in high spirits, and so Tom -was having it out with Dick, and Bob with Harry. -To look at them, it seemed as much fun as a pillow-fight, -and as I have said, the greater part of -the flock were engaged in it.</p> - -<p>But the point I started to speak of was not -the game itself, but a certain acrobatic feat by -which it was accompanied. Again and again, in -the course of their doublings and duckings, I -saw the birds turn what looked to be a complete -sidewise somersault. It may have been an optical -illusion; probably it was; but if so, it was absolute. -Sure I am that more than once I saw a -bird flat on his back in the air (as flat on his -back as ever a swimmer was in water), and to all -appearance, as I say, he did not turn back, but -came up like a flash on the other side. Fact or -illusion, clean over or halfway over, it was a -clever trick, and I could not wonder that the -birds seemed to take pleasure in its repetition. -I imagined they were as proud of it as a young -gymnast ever was of his newly acquired back -handspring. And why not? A man must be extremely -well contented with himself, or possess a -feeble imagination, not to feel sometimes a twinge -of envy at sight of a bird’s superiorities.<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>And while one flock of ravens were playing -“it” in this brilliant fashion, another and larger -flock were sailing in mazy circles after the manner -of sea-gulls; a fascinating spectacle, to be -witnessed here every afternoon by any who will -be at the trouble to look up. More than once I -have watched hundreds of the birds thus engaged, -not all at the same elevation, be it understood, -but circle above circle—a kind of Jacob’s ladder—till -the top ones were almost at heaven’s gate. -It is a good time to be out on the desert when the -ravens are going to roost. And what with their -soarings and tumblings, I have begun to think -that perhaps the big hawk was not such an absolute -fool, after all, to decline an aerial combat. -The white-necked raven may be only a little larger -kind of crow, but he is a wonder on the wing.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -<h3 class="nobreak">SHY LIFE IN THE DESERT</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> the desert and the mountains, and some -of the longer-desired birds, I have enjoyed few -sights in Arizona more than that of two coyotes. -Old beaters about the wilds of this Western -country will be ready to scoff, I dare say, at so -simple a confession. “Two coyotes, indeed! A -great sight, that!” So I think I hear them saying. -Well, they are welcome to their fun. It is -kindly ordered, the world being mostly a dull -place, that men shall be mutually amusing, and -there is no great harm in being laughed at, provided -it be done behind one’s back.</p> - -<p>The fact remains, then, as I state it. To me -the coyotes were very interesting and unexpected -beasts. And the pleasure of my encounter with -them was heightened materially (this, too, is a -laughable admission; I know it as well as anybody), -when I learned that hereabouts, whatever -may be true elsewhere, it was to be esteemed a -piece of rather extraordinary luck, unlikely to -be soon repeated. To all men of science, though -they be nothing but amateurs and dabsters, rarity -is one of the cardinal virtues of a specimen.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -My good fortune, be it accounted greater or -less, came about in this way.</p> - -<p>Six or seven miles across the desert, where -the plain comes to an end at the buried Rillito -River, and the foothills of the Catalinas begin -to rise from the opposite bank, are the adobe -ruins (hospital, barracks, and what not) of Old -Camp Lowell, a relic of the Apache wars. I had -heard of the place (in fact, I had been happy -enough to meet a young man who is camping -there with his brother), and started early one -morning to visit it.</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was because of the earliness of the -hour, though the sun was well above the horizon; -at any rate, I had gone but a short distance -before my steps were arrested by the sight -of a gray, long-legged, wolfish-looking animal -not far ahead. He had seen me first, I think -(strange if he had not, so alert as every motion -showed him to be), and was already considering -his course of action, starting away, then stopping -to look back. My glass covered him at once (he -was easily within gunshot), and then, following -a turn of his head, I saw that he had a companion. -The second one had already crossed the -trail, and the question between the two seemed -to be whether he should come back or the other -should follow him. The point was quickly decided;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -the second one recrossed the trail, and -the two ran off among the creosote clumps on -the left, and in a few seconds were lost; but the -hesitation had given me time to note their color, -size, build (especially their long, sharp, collie-shaped -noses), and their general appearance and -action, all very “doggy.”</p> - -<p>This, as I have said, was but a little way beyond -the university buildings, and, knowing no -better, I assumed the occurrence to be a common -one, and spoke of it in a matter-of-fact tone to -the campers at the fort. They exclaimed at once -that I had been surprisingly fortunate; they -themselves, passing their days and nights in the -desert, seldom or never saw one of the animals, -though they often heard them barking after -dark. The circumstantiality of my description, -and it may be their politeness,—for they were -gentlemen, “baching it” here for the older -brother’s health,—made it impossible for them -to suggest a doubt as to the identity of the animals; -but I had no difficulty in perceiving that -if I wished to pass as a man of veracity among -ordinary dwellers hereabouts I must not see coyotes -too frequently. In point of fact, the very -next man to whom I mentioned the circumstance, -a man who has lived here for several years, on -the rim of the desert, answered promptly:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -“They weren’t jack rabbits, were they?” He -had never seen a coyote in Arizona, he said, -though he had seen plenty in Colorado.</p> - -<p>As for the big jack rabbits, if I have not seen -“plenty” of them (and I cannot truthfully profess -so much as that), I have seen a good many. -One cannot walk far in the desert, with his eyes -ranging, without discovering, to right or left or -in advance, a pair of long ears, followed by a -black tail, making quick time out of sight. -Generally the creatures seem to run by fits and -starts (“leaps and bounds and sudden stops” -would express it), but the other morning a fellow -had evidently been frightened almost out of his -five senses by something—not by me—when -a long way from home. There were no stops -in his schedule. Straight across the desert he -bounded, going like an express train—a mile a -minute at the very least.</p> - -<p>So lively as these large rabbits are (there is a -smaller kind that I have not yet seen<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a>) they -would be as interesting as the much larger coyotes -but for their greater commonness. For -grace and lightness, as well as speed, their gait -is next to flying. All the words in the dictionary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -could not describe it. I never see one on the -move without admiration and an impulse to give -him three cheers. Surely, man is a slow coach, -and a race-horse is clumsy.</p> - -<p>To one who comes this way for the first time -in winter, as I have come (and may Heaven save -me from ever being here in summer, so long -at least as I am in an embodied state!), the -desert seems thinly inhabited. Of the scarcity -of bird-life upon it I have before spoken; and -the reason is obvious: there is little here for -birds to feed upon. The smaller quadrupeds, -too, are of surprising infrequency. Once in a -long while a striped squirrel, as I should call it, -with its tail over its back, will be seen squatting -beside a hole in the ground, ready to slip into it -long before you can get near; and somewhat -oftener a gray, rat-tailed, big-eyed squirrel (if it -<i>is</i> a squirrel—I have only half seen it) will -dart across an open space, tail in air, barely visible -before it, too, has ducked into its burrow; -but two or three such small fry, with as many -jack rabbits, in the course of a half-day tramp, -do not go far toward constituting anything to be -accounted populousness.</p> - -<p>One morning I walked out upon the desert -immediately after a snowfall. It would be a favorable -time, I thought, to study zoölogical hieroglyphics;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -and I believe I walked a mile before -I saw a single footprint. Think of doing that, or -anything like it, in our poor, frost-bitten, winter-killed, -over-civilized New England! The tracks -would have been a perfect crisscross.</p> - -<p>And, notwithstanding all this, footprints or no -footprints, the desert is not without its own world -of little people. It is a desert only to our dull, -provincial, self-absorbed, self-sufficient, narrow-minded, -egotistical human apprehension of it. -So much ought to be plain as day to the most -undiscerning traveler; for if he so much as looks -where he steps (lest a snake should bite him), he -cannot help seeing that the ground all about is -almost as full of holes as a colander. Larger -and smaller, the earth is riddled with them. If -the diggers of the holes happen to be just now -within doors instead of gadding abroad like so -many restless tourists, probably their conduct is -not without a reason. Possibly they object to -cold feet. More likely they have an eye to bodily -safety. One thing you may wager upon, homekeepers -though they be—the sharpness of their -wits.</p> - -<p>Whatever would live on this bare, open plain -must be as wise as a serpent. The remainder of -the text may be omitted as locally inapplicable. -The desert-dweller—<i>Deserticola</i>, as we name<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -him in zoölogical Latin—must know the times -and the seasons, and catch the scent of danger -afar off. You will find no trustful innocence in -these diggings. If there ever was any, it long -ago perished. Everything is shy, and has need -to be. “Nature red in tooth and claw” has here -its ancestral seat. He that cannot fight must -run; and however it may be elsewhere, in the -desert the race is to the swift and the battle to -the strong. In one way or another everything -goes armed. It may be set with thorns like the -mesquite and the cactus, or it may have an offensive -oil like the creosote; it may run like the -rabbit, or strike like the rattlesnake. If it can -do nothing else, it must hide. And even the -strong and the speedy must hide when that which -is stronger and speedier heaves in sight. The -desert is open to the sky, but its life is not open. -Like the currents of the rivers, the current of -animal existence runs mostly underground.</p> - -<p>A Tucson business man was telling me about -the great antiquity of the town: the oldest settlement -in the country, I think he called it, with -the exception of St. Augustine, Florida.</p> - -<p>“But how in the world came a city to grow -up here?” I inquired. “I can see no sufficient -reason.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said he, as if he could think of nothing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -else, “the river comes to the surface here, -you know.”</p> - -<p>He spoke of the Santa Cruz. And it is true. -The river comes to the surface; the stretch of -watered farms and the brimming irrigation -ditches bear witness to the fact; but it does not -stay there. I have frequent occasion to go over -the four roads that cross it from the city. On the -southernmost of these, where Mexican women -are always to be seen washing clothes, spreading -the garment over a stone and beating it clean -with a stick (“mangling,” I should suppose the -word ought to be), carriages drive through the -stream, while foot-passengers cross by means of -stepping-stones; six or eight boulders of the size -of a man’s head, perhaps, picked up at random -and laid in a row. The next road is furnished -with a bridge, though it is hard to see why. The -other two (they are all within the distance of a -mile) have neither bridge nor stepping-stones, -nor need of any. The river bottom, so called, -though it is rather roof than bottom, is as dry as -the Sahara.</p> - -<p>So it is with the Rillito, and, I suppose, with -all the rivers of the desert. They are shy creatures. -They love not the garish day. Like the -saints of old and the capitalists of our own -time, they abhor publicity. Water, they think,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> -shouldn’t be too much in sight. With the squirrel -and the rabbit, they live mostly in burrows.</p> - -<p>Of certain more highly specialized inhabitants -of the desert—rattlesnakes, Gila monsters, -tarantulas, and the like—a winter stroller can -have little or nothing to relate. They are all -here, no doubt, and will disport themselves in -their season. No midsummer sun will be too hot -for them. For myself, in three weeks’ wandering -I have seen one lizard, nothing else. And it, too, -was shy, legging it for shelter; running, literally, -“like a streak.” That was really all that I saw—a -streak of brown over the gray sand. I was -neither a road-runner nor a hawk, and for that -time the lizard was more scared than hurt.</p> - -<p>If this shy life of the desert is happy, as I -believe it is, after its manner and according to -its measure, we can only admire once more the -beneficent effect of use and custom. The safest of -us are always in danger. Whether we tread the -sands of the desert or the shaded paths of some -Garden of Eden, our steps all tend to one end, -the one event that happeneth alike to all; and -if we, who look before and after, go on our way -smiling, why not the humbler and presumably -less sensitive people whose homes are under the -roots of the creosote bushes?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A NEW ACQUAINTANCE</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">A student</span> of nature, differing from some less -fortunate folk that one meets at wintering places, -is never at a loss what to do with his day. In a -strange land, at least (the stranger the better), -he possesses one of the prime requisites of a contented -life: he knows every night what is on his -docket for the morrow. His days, so to express -it, are all dovetailed together. Tuesday’s work -is to finish Monday’s; Wednesday’s is to finish -Tuesday’s; and so the weeks run by. What could -be simpler, or more conducive to cheerfulness? -A day should have a motive, as well as a piece -of music or a poem.</p> - -<p>I am still at Tucson. Two mornings ago there -was but one thing for me to do. I knew it before -I rose. I must take the half-past seven horse-car, -ride down town as far as Simpson Street, walk -thence across the Santa Cruz Valley to the base -of Tucson Mountain, and from there follow the -narrow road that winds between the foot of the -cliffs and the old canal, till I came to a certain -bush. The name of this bush I cannot give, not -knowing it, but it bears millions of small, fleshy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -leaves, and, what is more to the present purpose, -is covered with thousands, if not millions, of -small purple flowers.</p> - -<p>I had noticed it for the first time the forenoon -before; and I noticed it then because, as I passed, -I heard to my great surprise and intense gratification -the buzz of a hummingbird’s wings. I -was not in the least expecting to see any bird of -that sort during my brief winter’s stay in Arizona; -and which is better, ornithologically speaking, -to find the long expected or the unexpected, -is a point that wiser heads than mine may settle. -For myself, either happening will do, so it be not -too infrequent.</p> - -<p>My eyes turned of themselves in the right -direction, and there at my elbow was the tiny, -emerald-backed, familiar-looking beauty, hovering -before the blossoms of this spreading bush. -It was only for a second or two. Then for another -such period he perched on the slender tip -of the nearest mesquite, and then was away on -the wings of the wind. I waited for his return, -but not long enough, and came back to the city, -wondering.</p> - -<p>His upper parts, as I say, were green, and he -looked at a first glance much like our common -ruby-throat of the East. But in the few seconds -that my eye followed him—a time too short for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -catching myself up and making sure even of the -little I had seen—I received an impression (it -was nothing more) of a black head as well as of -a black throat. If the impression was correct, -the bird could not be a ruby-throat, and besides, -unless my memory was at fault, the ruby-throat -was not to be looked for in this longitude. I -must see the handbook.</p> - -<p>A reference to that authority showed that eight -species of hummingbirds had been reported from -the Catalina Mountains, but not the ruby-throat. -Of the two or three common ones among the -eight, the most likely candidate seemed to be the -black-chinned, <i>Trochilus alexandri</i>, though that -bird’s crown is not black. Probably my impression -upon that point had been erroneous; so surprised -and hurried as I had been, a measure of -inexactness was rather to be looked for. At all -events, it was impossible to make out how the -bird could be any one of the other seven. By -the rule of exclusion—a pretty safe rule, I told -myself—he ought to be a black-chin.</p> - -<p>So the matter rested, not much to my satisfaction, -till the next morning. Then, as I have already -said, I went immediately after breakfast -to stand beside that blossoming bush until the -bird should again show himself. If my confidence -that he would be there, in that precise spot, no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span> -different from thousands of others in all those -miles and miles of country, all so exactly alike, -beside that particular bush, itself like thousands -of others,—if my confidence seems presumptuous, -as to many readers I dare say it will, I can -only profess that it was based upon no small acquaintance -with the ruby-throat’s habit of frequenting -day after day the same tree, and even -the same twig, as a resting-place, or post of observation. -It was not at all unlikely, I reasoned, -that the black-chin’s habit would prove to be -similar. At any rate, there was no harm in proceeding -upon that hypothesis.</p> - -<p>I went at once to the place, therefore, took -a favorable position with the sun at my back, -focused my eight-power glass to a nicety upon -the topmost twig of the mesquite bush (quarter -seconds might be precious), and waited. As the -capable reader has already divined, the bird did -not fail me, nor keep me long in suspense. There -was a sound of wings, and in another instant the -hummer stood on the top spray of the mesquite. -And his crown was black, like his throat. He -could not be <i>alexandri</i>. But before I had time -to take in the full awkwardness of my dilemma—since -I had already ruled the other seven -species out of the account—the bird turned his -head to one side, the sun struck him at the right<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -angle, and behold, his gorget had long, flaring -wings, like the loose ends of a broad necktie, or, -to use the homely comparison which occurred to -me at the moment, like a pair of big mutton-chop -whiskers, and was no longer black, but of a most -exquisite and brilliant shade of violet. The radiant -vision shone upon me for an instant; then, -at another movement of the head, all was black -again, and in another instant the bird was gone.</p> - -<p>Now, then, I began to see daylight. The bird, -having a ruff, was not of the genus <i>Trochilus</i>, -and the question was so far simplified, though it -would be necessary to consult the book again -before it could be settled. Meanwhile, I must -by all means have another look at the beauty. -Such splendor of color was worth waiting for, -though it came only in flashes. And I waited. -But though the creature finally returned to the -mesquite he persisted in sitting with his back to -the sun, and I came away without seeing him -again transfigured.</p> - -<p>Another reference to the handbook, and I knew -him for <i>Calypte costæ</i>, the Costa hummingbird. -But now mark how one day’s work is linked -with another’s. The book informed me that the -crown, as well as the gorget and the ruff, was -“brilliantly burnished amethyst violet.” I had -not seen that, doubtless because the light had not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -fallen upon the crown at the necessary angle. -The detail must nevertheless be verified. Here, -then, was my business for to-morrow.</p> - -<p>I was late in arriving,—a full hour, at least, -behind my appointment,—having walked the -whole distance this time, and by a roundabout -course; and the hummer was waiting for me. -“You are late,” I fancied him saying; but of -course that was my “pathetic fallacy.” In the -course of my stay he “gave me three sittings,” -as my penciled memorandum puts it, and I saw -that his forehead and a spot behind the ear were -of the same dazzling, indescribably beautiful color -as the gorget and ruff. The whole crown I did -not see illuminated, but the forehead sufficed.</p> - -<p>At one time a ruby-crowned kinglet came and -played about in the same bush, and in that comparison -he seemed almost a giant. “The hummer -is smaller and smaller,” my pencil remarked, -“every time I see him.” I might have addressed -him as Charles Lamb addressed the shade of -Elliston, when he saw that worthy, all his stage -trappings removed, seated in Charon’s boat,—“Bless -me, how little you look.”</p> - -<p>The identification was now complete. I had -doubled my list of hummingbirds, having seen -but one species in all my previous years, and the -next morning I might reasonably have turned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -my steps elsewhere. But when the hour came -round I could think of nothing else I wanted so -much to do as to see that hummer again. And I -followed my inclination. It was well I did.</p> - -<p>We were both prompt. As I drew near I saw -the tiny creature perched as usual at the tip of -the mesquite. How many times he came and -went during the hour that I stayed by him I fail -to remember; but on the second or third occasion -a verdin happened into the neighborhood. -The hummer descended upon him hotly, drove -him away in no time, and then, as if in celebration -of his triumph, mounted straight into the -air till he was like a dot, and came down again -almost vertically to his perch. It was a brilliant -and lovely display, an ebullition of vital spirits -well worth a forenoon of any man’s life to witness. -There are city parades, hours in length, -with martial music and all manner of bright regalia, -that might better be skipped. And a few -minutes later, the enemy having returned, the -entire performance was repeated, ecstatic flight, -vertical drop and all. The verdin’s presence, it -appeared, was extremely annoying to the hummer. -This place was his. Trespassing was forbidden, -and the verdin ought to know it.</p> - -<p>Once, watching for another flash of color, I -had my glass on the hummer as he sat quiet.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -Suddenly the verdin began sputtering to himself, -after his manner, a little way off. Quick as -thought the hummer cocked his head, waited an -instant as if to make sure he had heard correctly -(it seemed impossible, I suppose, after such a -drubbing), and then, like a bullet out of a gun, -flew at the persistent intruder. His spirit was -wonderful, and being roused to his work, he finished -by descending at full speed upon a black -phœbe that just then blundered innocently along. -The big flycatcher, many times bigger than the -hummer,—but so is a man many times bigger -than a rifle ball,—did not stand upon the order -of his going, but went at once. I did not wonder. -The fellow might have driven me away, also, had -he taken it into his head to try. He was irresistible. -Talk of a strenuous life!</p> - -<p>At another time he darted from his perch in -a quite unwonted direction, and flew on the line -to a palo-verde shrub off on the hillside. The -verdin was there, it turned out, down at the very -bottom of the bush,—though to my senses he -had made no sign,—and must be dislodged forthwith.</p> - -<p>Why the hummer offered no objection to -the kinglet’s presence is beyond my knowledge. -Perhaps he took into account the fact that the -kinglet was here only for the winter; for it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -impossible not to surmise that the hummer had -selected this particular spot for his summer -home, and as such meant to hold it against all -comers, exercising over it all the rights of sovereignty. -Let the verdin and the phœbe go -elsewhere.</p> - -<p>The phœbe pretty certainly would have gone -elsewhere, hummer or no hummer. As to what -the verdin will conclude to do, things being as -they are, my mind is less clearly made up. He -is not so swift as his bullet of a rival, but I fancy -him to be a pretty dogged fighter, able to be -whipped a good many times without finding it -out. Still, as between the two, if I were compelled -to wager, I think I should risk my money -on the hummingbird.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">THE DESERT REJOICES</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">What</span> was foretold in Judea is fulfilled in -Arizona—the desert has blossomed like the -rose.</p> - -<p>I could hardly believe it, a month ago, when a -Tucson business man, who in the kindness of -his heart had turned the city upside down, almost, -seeking to find a home for a man who was -not a consumptive and did not wish to live in a -hospital or a pest-house—I could hardly believe -it, I repeat, when he said: “Oh, you mustn’t -go back to Texas yet. You must stay and see -the desert in bloom. After these unusual rains -and snowfalls it will soon be all like a flower -garden.” “So may it turn out,” I thought; -“but time will tell.”</p> - -<p>He spoke, according to the privilege of prophets, -in the language of hyperbole; for, although -his prediction has come true, its fulfillment -is more than a little straitened and stingy. -The desert has blossomed, but it is like a flower -garden only in this respect—that there are -flowers in it. They are numbered by millions, -indeed; or, rather, they are beyond all thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -of numeration; but, as far as the appearance of -the place is concerned, it is scarcely more like a -flower garden than like a billiard table. A careless -traveler—and not so very careless, neither—might -tread the blossoms under his feet for -miles without seeing so much as one of them. -They are desert flowers; vegetable Lilliputians; -minute, almost microscopic, for the most part, -as if moisture had been doled out to them by -the drop or the thimbleful, as indeed it has -been; and the few that are larger have in the -main a weedy aspect, such as blinds the eye of -the ordinary non-observer, to whom, rightly or -wrongly, a flower is one thing and a weed another. -As for the tiny ones, the overwhelming -majority, a blossom that you can see in its place -only by getting down on your knees to look for -it may be a “flower” to a botanist, but hardly -to a plain, unlettered, matter-of-fact citizen.</p> - -<p>And still, after the prophetic manner, the -prediction has come true. The desert has blossomed -abundantly. As it now is, I can imagine -that it would be a place of unspeakable interest -to a philosophic botanist. He would know, presumably, -what I do not, whether these starveling -races, existers upon nothing, are to be accounted -species by themselves, or only stunted representatives -of species that under favoring conditions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -grow to a more considerable size. To his mind -numberless problems would be suggested touching -the methods by which plants, sturdy and -patient beings, adapt themselves to untoward -circumstances and keep themselves alive—so -perpetuating the race—upon the chariest of -encouragement. He would understand the significance -of the prevailing hairiness of desert-inhabiting -species, as well as of the all but universal -light bluish or dusty color of the foliage; -for, saving the yellow-green creosote, there is -hardly so much as a bright green leaf from one -end of the desert to the other.</p> - -<p>The state of my own unphilosophic mind is -peculiar, like the circumstances in which it finds -itself. It is (or perhaps it would be more honest -to say, it ought to be) humiliating, but it has -something of the charm of novelty.</p> - -<p>I spoke a month ago of my ornithological predicament -when, newly arrived in Texas, I found -myself surrounded by a quite strange set of -birds. I was back in the primer, I think I said. -Well, botanically, here in Tucson, I have retrograded -a long step farther even than that. If I -may say so, my state is pre-primeric. I am not -even a primary scholar. I am no scholar at all. -My condition is what it was in childhood, when -I had never heard of botany. In those days, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -what for some reason was known as a grammar -school, we studied reading, writing, arithmetic, -geography, and grammar. One older girl, long -since dead (poor child, I can see her now, reciting -all by herself), studied “Watts on the -Mind!” At the high school we added algebra, -geometry, Latin, and Greek. As for “nature -study,” neither the name nor the thing was ever -mentioned to us. Mr. Burroughs had not yet -written, and if Thoreau had written, his books -were not yet heard of. Botany and Hebrew -were alike absent from our curriculum. For -my own part, at any rate, whatever may have -been true of my cleverer or more home-favored -contemporaries, I neither knew the names of -the flowers I saw, nor did I aspire to know -them. If I ever thought of such knowledge, I -regarded it as permanently beyond my ken. -Who was I, that I should be wiser than all my -betters? I contented myself with liking the -things themselves.</p> - -<p>Then, years afterward, I somehow began to -“botanize,” as we say, by myself; and from that -time to the present, whether at home or abroad, -I have always had a “manual” at my elbow or -in my trunk. A strange flower must be looked -up and set in its place.</p> - -<p>But now, in Arizona, all this is done. I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -no manual. This carpet of desert plants I walk -over almost without curiosity, as I might walk -over a flowery carpet in a parlor. Their names -are nothing more to me than the jabberings of -the Mexicans who pass me on the desert with -loads of wood. Sometimes, indeed, I guess at a -relationship, as now and then I catch a word of -Spanish. This flower, I say, may be a <i>Myosotis</i>. -But nine chances to one I do not so much as -guess. It’s a pretty red flower, or a dainty white -blossom, and there’s an end of it. As I said just -now, the state of my mind is pre-primeric. I am -too ignorant even to ask questions.</p> - -<p>A sad case, certainly, but, like sad cases in -general, it brings its own partial compensations. -I have the more leisure for the birds, and for -looking at the mountains. Two months ago it -would not have seemed possible, but it has come -true; I can sit upon the ground with half a -dozen kinds of unknown flowers about me, and -gaze upon the Catalinas or the snow-capped -Santa Ritas as peacefully or rapturously as if I -had never used a manual or a pocket-lens since -I was born. Have I been converted, and become -as a little child? Possibly; but I anticipate a -speedy backsliding when conditions alter.</p> - -<p>Yet I perceive that, like the prophet, I am -waxing tropical, and using language that requires<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -“interpretation.” There are at least three kinds -of flowers in the desert that are not microscopic, -and that I call by name. They are not very -numerous; you may walk long distances without -meeting them; but they are there. I mean the -evening primrose, the lupine, and the California -poppy. The primrose, which is much the commonest -of the three, has no stalk, or none that -is apparent; the large, handsome, lemon-colored -flower opens directly from a tuft of leaves lying -flat on the ground. As for the poppies, I should -hardly speak of them as growing in the desert -but for the fact that two or three days ago I -stumbled upon a place (it would be like trying -to find a spot in the ocean to look for it again) -where the ground for the space of an acre or -more was sparsely sprinkled with them. They -were abnormally small, and very short in the -stem; but they were bright as the sun, and being -lighted upon thus unexpectedly they really -made the spot a garden. As the prophet said, -the place was “glad for them;” and so was I.</p> - -<p>Both poppy and primrose (and the lupine as -well) are much more at home on the foothills. -There, too, are many flowers not to be seen at all -on the desert. I cannot talk about them for lack -of names. The brightest and showiest of them -all is of a vivid, but, in my vocabulary, nameless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> -shade of red; not scarlet, nor crimson, nor -orange, nor pink, but red. The plant stands a -foot or so in height and bears a dozen, more or -less, of rather large cup-shaped blossoms, the -lively color of which would attract notice in any -garden.</p> - -<p>A very different favorite of mine (I have been -intimate with it for a week) is a low—inch-high—composite -flower, of the size of a ten-cent -piece, with seven or eight white rays and a yellow -disk; a dwarf daisy, it looks to be, with -soft, cottony stem and leaves. It grows in the -driest and most barren places, and as I sit down -here and there on the hillsides to rest (looking -meanwhile at the green barley fields and the ever-glorious -mountains) I am sensibly happier if I -see this dainty bit of nature’s loveliness (a child, -not a dwarf—I take back the word) within my -hand’s reach. It is the very flower to make a -pet of; prettier by far than if it were taller and -showier. Cultivation would spoil it. It was made -for the desert.</p> - -<p>And this reminds me to say that, if the hills -are to be counted as part of the desert, as in reason -they may be, then the prophet’s word has -been fulfilled, not partially but in all strictness. -The desert has blossomed like the rose. For the -slopes of the Tucson range are literally on fire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -with blossoms. Patches of sun-bright yellow, -some of them to all appearance an acre or more -in extent, can be seen clear across the plain. I -saw them yesterday afternoon as I started homeward -from Camp Lowell. The distance could -hardly be less than eight miles, and probably -they would have been visible had it been twice -as far. That the flowers are poppies, and not -blossoms of a smaller cruciferous plant that is -very abundant and gregarious hereabout, I am -confident, not only because I am assured so by -residents of the city, but because the patches are -much less conspicuous in the early forenoon, -when poppies are not wide open, than later in -the day. Some of the patches (I can see a dozen -from my window as I write, fully five miles off<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a>) -are well toward the tops of the mountains, which, -needless to say, are not of great elevation, perhaps -four thousand feet.</p> - -<p>The poppy is the Tucson flower. Children go -out upon the hills and bring back bunches to sell -along the streets and from house to house. Their -splendid color need not be praised. It is known -to all Eastern people, who grow the plants in gardens -(I seem to remember when they came in) -under the name of <i>Eschscholtzia</i>. And here, on -the mountain walls of this Arizona desert, are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> -hanging-gardens so full of them as to form masses -of color visible ten or fifteen miles away! “They -shall blossom abundantly,” said the prophet; -and who knows but he spoke of the Tucson -Mountains in poppy time?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">NESTS AND OTHER MATTERS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">With</span> the first of April approaching, the life of -Arizona birds takes on a busier complexion. The -idle season is over; now there are nests to be -built (no small undertaking, in itself, as a man -may easily find out by setting himself to build -one), and a family to be watched over and defended. -Now the human visitor begins to understand -what cactuses were made for. As he walks -among the whitish-green chollas, giving them -elbow-room, he has only to glance to right and -left to see what a considerable proportion of them -are inhabited; this one by a pair of thrashers, -the other by a pair of cactus wrens. In neither -case is there any serious attempt at concealment; -partly because the attempt would be useless; -partly, we may guess, because concealment is -unnecessary. If your safe is burglar proof, why -be at the trouble to hide it? Neither squirrel -nor snake is likely to climb a cholla cactus, and -even a man knows enough to approach it with -caution.</p> - -<p>Of the two species of thrasher that live in the -desert the larger one, known as Palmer’s, seems<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -to be the earlier breeder. I found a nest with -eggs on the first day of March; and on the ninth, -I came upon a brood of young birds already out -of the nest. They were still new to the world, -acting as if they found it a strange, unintelligible -place; but they were fully fledged, and when put -to it, flew from one cholla to another without difficulty. -Still, they had more faith in cactus -thorns than in wing-power, and allowed me almost -to lay hands on them before taking flight.</p> - -<p>The two desert-inhabiting thrashers, by the by, -Palmer’s and Bendire’s, are so much alike (the -Palmer being somewhat longer and darker than -its neighbor), that it was some time before I felt -sure of myself in discriminating between them. -As to the question of comparative length (one of -the most uncertain points on which an observer -can base a determination), I fell back upon an -old method, which it seems worth while to mention -here, because I have never seen it referred -to in print. It has served one man well, and may -do as much for another.</p> - -<p>Two of our Eastern birds that are most troublesome -to beginners in ornithology are the downy -and the hairy woodpecker, the only difference -between them—the only one that can ordinarily -be seen in the field, I mean to say—being one -of size. Well, I long ago discovered for myself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -that it was much easier to carry in my eye the -comparative measurements of the two birds’ bills -than the comparative measurements of the birds -themselves. Let me see the head in profile, and -I could name its owner almost beyond mistake.</p> - -<p>This method, as I say, I resorted to in the case -of my two desert thrashers, and little by little -(time itself being of great service in such matters), -I settled the question with myself. And -still there remained a certain fact that cast a -shade of doubt over my determination. In Mrs. -Bailey’s Handbook, the only authority I had -brought with me, Mr. Herbert Brown, after -twenty years’ experience with Tucson birds, is -quoted as saying that the Bendire thrasher almost -never sings, whereas the birds that I was -calling by that name were in song continually. -What was I to think? It seemed a case for a -gun. Without it, how could I ever be sure of -my reckoning? I was in a box, as we say. But -there was a way out. There almost always is. -The two species lay eggs of different colors. I -must find them; and with patience I did; first, -the blue-green eggs of Palmer, and then (two -sets in one day), the whitish eggs of Bendire; -and my identification of the owners, made before -the eggs were examined, turned out to be correct -in all cases.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>In the way of music, neither bird is equal to -the brown thrasher of the East. In fact, if I am -to be judge, one Massachusetts thrasher, in his -cinnamon-colored suit (and in the top of a gray -birch), could outsing any half-dozen of the birds -in this Arizona desert. It is to be said, however, -that there is a third species here (not on the face -of the desert itself, but in the thickets along the -Rillito River), the crissal thrasher so called, -whose song I have yet to make sure of. He is -larger even than the Palmer, and to look at him -should have a fuller voice.</p> - -<p>And this reminds me that I had been in Tucson -more than a month before I saw a mockingbird; -and even now, when I have been here -almost two months, I have seen but three. The -people generally seem to mistake the thrashers -for mockers. If I speak to them about the -strangeness of the mocker’s absence, they declare -that mockers are common here. At least two -persons have turned upon me with the assertion, -“Why, there’s one singing out there at this -minute.” And they point to a thrasher, a bird -that wears not one of the mocker’s three colors,—gray, -black, and white,—and for music is as -much like him as a child’s tin whistle is like a -master’s flute. And still it is true, at least the -systematists tell us so, and I have no thought of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -questioning it, that the mockingbird is only a -nobler kind of thrasher. And thrashers, the -mocker included, are only larger kinds of wrens.</p> - -<p>Arizona is the wrens’ country. During my -short stay in Tucson I have seen ten species: the -sage thrasher, the Western mockingbird, the -Bendire thrasher, the Palmer thrasher, the crissal -thrasher, the cactus wren, the rock wren, the -canyon wren, the Baird wren, and the interior -tule wren.</p> - -<p>The sage thrashers, whose mysterious silence -was commented upon in a previous article, are -only now beginning to find their voices; for they -are still (March 21) in the desert, though they -will go elsewhere to breed. Two days ago, while -returning from the Rillito Valley, I came upon -a group of them, and to my great pleasure two -or three were in song; not letting themselves -out, to be sure, but running over a medley of -a tune under their breath in a kind of dumb -rehearsal. I could barely hear it, but I saw at -once why the birds, for all their short bills and -unthrasher-like ways, are called sometimes sage -thrashers and sometimes mountain mockingbirds. -I hope their <i>sotto voce</i> preludings will not outlast -my stay among them.</p> - -<p>One of my particular favorites here is the Say -phœbe. From the first he took my fancy. All<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> -his ways please me. As the homely phrase is, I -like the cut of his jib. His plaintive call is never -wearisome, though he is exceedingly free with it. -And I have grown to like him and his mate the -better because they are fond of certain places -where I myself am given to spending now and -then an idle hour. There are four abandoned -shanties in different parts of the desert, in the -shade of which I often rest; and every one of -them has its pair of Say phœbes. I saw the -birds with building materials in their bills, and -began by expecting to find the nest inside the -open building; but by and by I discovered that -they liked best of all a site down in a well! It -seems a safe position to begin with—as long as -the nest contains nothing but eggs; but I ask -myself about the danger to the little ones when -they become big enough to be uneasy. If they -are anything like young robins, for example, a -pitiful share of them must perish sixty feet -underground. However, the birds may be presumed -to understand their own business better -than any outsider can teach it to them; and -they unquestionably prefer the well. Of the -four pairs just mentioned, three have built in -that position (the wells, it should be understood, -are not stoned), and the fourth would have done -likewise, I dare say, only that the well in their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span> -case happens to be covered. As it is, the nest is -on one of the joists of a shed, and an impertinent -stranger has been known to clamber up and -examine the eggs. “Oh, if that well had only -been left open!” the birds probably thought, as -they saw what he was doing.</p> - -<p>One kind of nest that is common here is set -so out in sight that none but a blind man could -miss it, though from its color it might readily be -passed as an old one, not worth investigation. I -do not remember just how many I have seen,—half -a dozen, it may be,—but I have never -looked into one. They cannot be looked into, -unless they are first torn to pieces.</p> - -<p>I speak of the verdin’s nest. It is a marvel -of workmanship: globular, or roughly so, with -an entrance neatly roofed over well down on one -side; constructed outwardly—I cannot speak -beyond that, of course—of countless small -thorny sticks, and in size and general color resembling -a large paper-wasps’ nest. The bird, -as I say, plants it in full sight, in a leafless cat’s-claw -bush, by preference, though I have seen -one beauty in a palo-verde tree.</p> - -<p>My first one I was directed to by the outcries -of the owner. The foolish thing—if she <i>was</i> -foolish—actually went inside, and while there -scolded me. She took it for granted, I suppose,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> -that I had seen her go in, and was determined -to let me know what she thought of such despicable -espionage. As a matter of fact, I was busy -just then with a rarer bird, and might have -passed her pretty house unnoticed had she held -her peace. But the verdin is a nervously loquacious -body, and perhaps would rather talk than -keep a secret. Such cases have been heard of. -Whatever else we may say of her, she is an architect -of something like genius.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> - -<h3 class="nobreak">A FLYCATCHER AND A SPARROW</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">I believe</span> I have seen two of the oddest birds in -Texas—the road-runner and the scissor-tailed -flycatcher. The first was mentioned some time -ago in these letters; the second I have but lately -met with. When I was in San Antonio in January, -he was absent for the winter. He would -return, I was informed, shortly after the middle -of March, and I have kept it fast in mind that I -must stop here on my way home and make his -acquaintance.</p> - -<p>I knew he was odd, but he has turned out to be -odder even than I supposed. Other places, other -birds, as a matter of course, but surely this one, -to use Emerson’s word, is the “otherest.” When -I saw him first, in San Pedro Park (everything -is saintly in the Southwest), I thought for an -instant that I was looking at a bird which had -seized a long string, or a strip of cloth, and was -flying away with it to his nest. Seen more fully, -he looked, I said to myself, like a Japanese kite, -or some other outlandish plaything. Even now, -when he has been in sight pretty constantly -for five or six days, I can hardly say that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -looks like a bird to me. His enormously long tail -feathers are so fantastic, so almost grotesque! -They render him a kind of monstrosity. One -feels as if he had been made, not born; and some -Oriental must have been the maker.</p> - -<p>Yet if ever a bird was alive, he is. His spirits -are effervescent and apparently inexhaustible. -Few birds are noisier or more continually on the -move. When six or eight scissor-tails meet for -consultation in one small tree, even though it be -in a cemetery, there are “great doings,” as the -country phrase is. What the disturbance is all -about, it is beyond me to tell, but it seems a reasonable -assumption that it has to do somehow -with questions of love and marriage. So far as I -have noticed, such sessions do not last long. In -the nature of things they cannot. The hubbub increases, -the discussion, whatever its subject, waxes -more and more animated, and then, of a sudden, -the assembly breaks up (I was going to say explodes), -and away fly the birds (and the birds’ -tails), every one still contending for the last -word.</p> - -<p>But there is no need of six or eight to set the -pot bubbling. Two are a plenty; and indeed I -suspect that a single bird would have it out with -himself rather than forego for an hour or two -the excitement of a shindy. In temperament the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -scissor-tail, as well as I can determine, is own -brother to the kingbird. As I said, he is brimming -over with spirits. If he gave them no vent -he would burst.</p> - -<p>So after a few minutes of quietness, the calm -that precedes the storm, he darts into the air, -with vehement, mad gyrations, opening and shutting -his tail feathers spasmodically, and uttering -loud cries of one sort and another. Perhaps he -flies straight upward, or as nearly so as possible -(this is one of the kingbird’s tricks), and with -tail outspread comes down headfirst like an arrow. -He is like a creature full of wine, or like one beside -himself. What he does, he has to do. There -is no holding him in.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, when there are two in the air together, -and for anything I know at other times,—I -tell what I have seen,—they utter most -curious, hollow, throbbing, booming noises, such -as one would never attribute to any bird of the -flycatcher family. They utter them, I say, but I -mean only that they make them. How they do it, -whether with the throat, the wings, or the tail, is -something I have yet to discover. The only book -I have at hand makes no mention of such noises, -and I was greatly taken aback when I heard -them.</p> - -<p>As the reader perceives, I am dealing in first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> -impressions. They are all I have. Most of the -scissor-tail’s tricks and manners, indeed, I have -yet to witness. I have not seen him chase a crow, -for instance, or a raven (he would have to travel -a hundred miles, I suspect, to find either the one -or the other), but give him half a chance, and I -am sure he would do it. One thing I have seen -him do: I have seen him fly before an English -sparrow. The action seemed unworthy of him, -but I dare say he did not so regard it. Perhaps -it was all a joke. But apparently no bird considers -it a disgrace to be put to rout by a smaller -one. The shameful thing is to be afraid of one -that is larger than yourself. This is not the -human way of looking at such matters; but -perhaps that does not prove it a false way. I -seem to see that much might be said in defense -of it.</p> - -<p>It is surprising how common the scissor-tail is, -and more surprising yet that nobody seems to -notice him. I should have thought that all the -passers-by would be stopping to stare at so half-absurd -a prodigy. But when he performs his -craziest evolutions here in the Alamo Plaza, in the -very heart of the city, nobody appears to mind -him. The truth is that to these people—to most -of them, at least—he is an old story, while to -me he is like a bird invented last week. Wherever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -you notice men, you will perceive that it is -not the wonderful that attracts their attention, -but the novel and the out-of-the-way. The moon -and the stars they are used to, and quite properly -look upon with indifference; but let a neighbor’s -hencoop catch fire, and they cannot run fast -enough to behold the spectacle.</p> - -<p>Another and better thing I have accomplished -during my present brief stay in San Antonio: -I have heard and seen the Cassin sparrow. A -Washington ornithologist, familiar with this -Southwestern country, learning that I was on my -way thither, wrote to me in January: “On no -account return without hearing the Cassin sparrow.” -To confess the truth, I had almost forgotten -the injunction, emphatic as it was; but a -few mornings ago, on my way back to the terminus -of the street-car line after a jaunt into some -old pecan woods, five or six miles out of the city, -I stopped short at the sound of a few simple bird -notes. What a gracious tune! And as novel -as it was gracious! I had never heard the like: -a long trill or shake, pitched at the top of the -scale, and then, after a rest, a phrase of five -notes in the sweetest of sparrow voices, ending -with the truest and most unexpected of musical -intervals. For mnemonic purposes, as my custom -is (useful to me, if to no one else), I at once put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span> -words to the tune: “She” (this for the long -trill), “pretty, pretty she.”</p> - -<p>The birds were in some scattered mesquite -bushes (very bright now, in their new yellow-green -leafage), and I hastened to get through the -fence and make up to them. They proved to be -very small, and distressingly deficient in marks -or “characters,” but I took such note of them as -I could, in a poor light. The main thing, for the -time being, was the song. That prolonged opening -note, with its sound of an indrawn whistle, -ought to be the work of a <i>Pucæa</i>, I told myself, -remembering the Florida representative of that -genus, and the singers should therefore be Cassin -sparrows.</p> - -<p>The next morning, having refreshed my memory -by a reading of the handbook, I took the car -immediately after breakfast for another visit to -the place. This, I should have said, was in the -rear grounds of an asylum for the insane. It was -Sunday morning, and as I crawled through the -fence and took up my position among the mesquites, -I presently found myself under fire from -the windows and balconies. The distance was too -great for me to understand what was said, but -there was no doubt that the inmates of the institution -regarded me as a queer one. However, I -believed in my own sanity (as things go in this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> -world), and did not propose to be hindered. The -birds were there, and that was enough.</p> - -<p>And now, to my intense satisfaction, I found -that they were doing just what the handbook described: -springing into the air for a few feet, -after the manner of long-billed marsh wrens, and -with fluttering wings dropping slowly back to the -perch, uttering their sweet, “She, pretty, pretty -she,” as they descended. I secured somewhat -fuller observations of their plumage, also, and became -morally certain—which means something -less than scientifically certain, though really, -taking Mr. Attwater’s list of the birds of San -Antonio as a guide, there is nothing else they -can be—that the singers were Cassin sparrows.<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p> - -<p>And glad I am to have heard them. I cannot -speak for others; judgment in such matters must -always be largely a question of personal taste; -but for myself I have heard few bird songs that -satisfy me so well; so quaint and original, yet so -true and simple. San Antonio mockingbirds are -numberless, and their performances are wonderful; -I think I should never tire of them; but -somehow those six quiet notes of the sparrow -seem to go deeper home.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> -<h3 class="nobreak">A BUNCH OF BRIGHT BIRDS</h3> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Almost</span> or quite the most brilliant bird that I -saw in Arizona was the vermilion flycatcher. I -had heard of it as sometimes appearing in the -neighborhood of Tucson, but entertained small -hope of meeting it there myself. A stranger, -straitened for time, and that time in winter, -blundering about by himself, with no pilot to -show him the likely places, could hardly expect -to find many besides the commoner things. So -I reasoned with myself, aiming to be philosophical. -Nevertheless, there is always the chance of -green hand’s luck; I knew it by more than one -happy experience; and who could tell what -might happen? Possibly it was not for nothing -that my eye, as by a kind of magnetic attraction, -fell so often upon Mrs. Bailey’s opening sentence -about this particular bird as day after day, on -one hunt and another, I turned the leaves of her -Handbook. “Of all the rare Mexican birds seen -in southern Arizona and Texas,” so I read, “the -vermilion flycatcher is the gem.”</p> - -<p>One thing was certain: this famous Mexican -rarity was not confusingly like anything else,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -as so many of its Northern relatives have the -unhandsome trick of being. If I saw it, ever so -hurriedly, I should recognize it.</p> - -<p>Well, I did see it, and almost of course at a -moment when I was least looking for it. This -was on the 5th of February, my fifth day in -Tucson. I had crossed the Santa Cruz Valley, -west of the city, by one road, and after a stroll -among the foothills opposite, was returning by -another, when a bit of flashing red started up -from the wire fence directly before me. I knew -what it was, almost before I saw it, as it seemed, -so eager was I, and so well prepared; and as the -solitary’s companionable habit is, I spoke aloud. -“There’s the vermilion flycatcher!” I heard -myself saying.</p> - -<p>The fellow was every whit as splendid as my -fancy had painted him, and to my joy he seemed -to be not in the least put out by my approach nor -chary of displaying himself. He was too innocent -and too busy; darting into the air to snatch a -passing insect, and anon returning to his perch, -which was now a fence-post, now the wire, and -now, best of all, the topmost, tilting spray of a -dwarf mesquite. Thus engaged, every motion a -delight to the eye, he flitted along the road in -advance of me, till finally, having reached the -limit of his hunting-ground,—the roadside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> -ditches filled with water from the overflow of irrigated -barley fields,—he turned back by the way -he had come.</p> - -<p>I went home a happy man; I had added one -of the choicest and most beautiful of American -birds to my mental collection. One thing was -still lacking, however: flycatchers are not song-birds, -but the humblest of them has a voice, and -having things to say is apt to say them; my -new acquaintance had kept his thoughts to himself.</p> - -<p>This was in the forenoon, and after luncheon -I went back to walk again over that muddy road -between those ditches of muddy water. The bird -might still be there. And he was,—still catching -insects, and still silent. But so handsome! -At first sight most people, I suppose, would compare -him, as I did, with the scarlet tanager. The -red parts are of nearly or quite the same shade,—a -little deeper and richer, if anything,—while -the wings, tail, and back are dark brown, -approaching black,—the wings and tail especially,—dark -enough, at any rate, to afford a -brilliant contrast. His scientific name is Pyrocephalus, -which is admirable as far as it goes, -but falls a long way short of telling the whole -truth about him; for not only is his head of a -fiery hue, but his whole body as well, with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> -exceptions already noted. In size he ranks between -the least flycatcher and the wood pewee. -In liveliness of action he is equal to the spryest -of his family, with a flirt of the tail which to my -eye is identical with that of the phœbe. His gorgeous -color is the more effective because of his -aerial habits. The tanager is bright sitting on -the bough, but how much brighter he would look -if every few minutes he were seen hovering in -mid-air with the sunlight playing upon him!</p> - -<p>Certainly I was in great luck, and I felt it the -more as day after day I found the dashing beauty -in the same place. I could not spend my whole -winter vacation in visiting him, but I saw him -there at odd times,—nearly as often as I passed,—until -February 17. Then he disappeared; but -a week later I discovered him, or another like -him, in a different part of the valley, and on the -26th I saw two. The next day, for the first time, -one of the birds was in voice, uttering a few fine, -short notes, little remarkable in themselves, but -thoroughly characteristic; not suggestive of any -other flycatcher notes known to me; so that, -from that time to the end of my stay in Tucson, -I was never in doubt as to their authorship, no -matter where I heard them.</p> - -<p>All these earlier birds were males in full -plumage. The first female—herself a beauty,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> -with a modest tinge of red upon her lower parts, -enough to mark the relationship—was noticed -March 5. Males were now becoming common, -and on the 9th, although my walks covered no -very wide territory, I counted, of males and females -together, seventeen. From first to last not -one was met with on the creosote and cactus-covered -desert, but after the first few days of -March they were well distributed over the Santa -Cruz and Rillito valleys and about the grounds -of the university. I found no nest until March -27, although at least two weeks earlier than that -a female was seen pulling shreds of dry bark from -a cottonwood limb, while her mate flitted about -the neighborhood, now here, now there, as if he -were too happy to contain himself.</p> - -<p>The prettiest performance of the male, witnessed -almost daily, and sometimes many times a -day, after the arrival of the other sex, was a surprisingly -protracted ecstatic flight, half flying, -half hovering, the wings being held unnaturally -high above the back, as if on purpose to display -the red body (a most peculiar action, by which -the bird could be told as far as he could be seen), -accompanied throughout by a rapid repetition of -his simple call; all thoroughly in the flycatcher -manner; exactly such a mad, lyrical outburst as -one frequently sees indulged in by the chebec, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> -instance, and the different species of phœbe. In -endurance, as well as in passion, Pyrocephalus is -not behind the best of them, while his exceptional -bravery of color gives him at such moments a -glory altogether his own. Sometimes, indeed, he -seems to be emulous of the skylark himself, he -rises to such a height, beating his way upward, -hovering for breath, and then pushing higher and -still higher. Once I saw him and the large Arizona -crested flycatcher in the air side by side, -one as crazy as the other; but the big <i>magister</i> -was an awkward hand at the business, compared -with the tiny Pyrocephalus.</p> - -<p>It was good to find so showy a bird so little -disposed to shyness. At Old Camp Lowell, where -I often rested for an hour at noon in the shade -of one of the adobe buildings, the bachelor winter -occupants of which were kind enough to give me -food and shelter (together with pleasant company) -whenever my walk took me so far from -home, our siesta was constantly enlivened by his -bright presence and engaging tricks. One day, -as he perched at the top of a low mesquite, on a -level with our eyes, I put my glass into the hand -of the younger of my hosts. He broke out in a -tone of wonder. “Well, now,” said he (he spoke -to the bird), “you are a peach.” And so he is. -It is exactly what, in my more old-fashioned and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -less collegiate English, I have been vainly endeavoring -to say.</p> - -<p>And to be a “peach” is a fine thing. A vivacious -living essayist, it is true, who is probably -a handsome man himself, at least in the looking-glass, -declares that “male ugliness is an endearing -quality.” The remark may be true—in a -sense; by all means let us hope so, seeing how -lavish Nature has been with the commodity in -question; but I am confident that the female -vermilion flycatcher would never admit it. As -for her glorious dandy of a husband, there can -be no doubt what opinion he would hold of such -an impudent reflection upon feminine perspicacity -and taste. “A plague upon paradoxes and -aphorisms,” I hear him answer. “If fine feathers -don’t make fine birds, what in Heaven’s name -do they make?”</p> - -<p>It was only two days after my discovery of the -vermilion flycatcher (if I remember correctly I -was at that moment on my way to enjoy a third -or fourth look at him) that I first saw a very -different but scarcely less interesting novelty. I -was on the sidewalk of Main Street, in the busy -part of the day, my thoughts running upon a -batch of delayed letters just received, when suddenly -I looked up (probably I had heard a voice -without being conscious of it, for the confirmed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -hobby-rider is sometimes in the saddle unwittingly) -and caught sight of a few swifts far overhead. -People were passing, but it was now or -never with me, and I whipped out my opera-glass. -There were six of the birds, and their throats were -white. So much I saw, having known what to -look for, and then they were gone,—as if the -heavens had opened and swallowed them up. It -was a niggardly interview, at pretty long range, -but a deal better than nothing; enough, at all -events, for an identification. They were white-throated -swifts,—<i>Aëronautes melanoleucus</i>.</p> - -<p>Three days later a flock of at least seventeen -birds of the same species were hawking over the -Santa Cruz Valley, and now, as they swept this -way and that at their feeding, there was leisure -for the field-glass and something like a real examination. -To my surprise (surprise is the compensation -of ignorance) I discovered that they -had not only white throats, as their name implies, -but white breasts, and more noticeable still, white -rumps. Those who are familiar with our common -dingy, soot-colored chimney swift of the East will -be able to form some idea of the distinguished -appearance of this Westerner: a considerably -larger bird, built on the same rakish lines, shooting -about the sky in the same lightning-like zigzags, -and marked in this striking and original<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -manner with white. I saw the birds only four -times afterward, the last time on the 17th of February. -So I say, speaking after the manner of -men; but in truth I can see them now, their white -rumps lighting up as they wheel and catch the -sun. It pleases me to learn that it is next to -impossible to shoot them, and that they are scarce -in collections. So may they continue. They were -made for better things.</p> - -<p>The most <i>beautiful</i> bird that I found in Arizona, -though judgments of this kind are of necessity -liable to revision as one’s mood changes, -was the Arizona Pyrrhuloxia. I should be glad -to give the reader, as well as to have for my own -use, an English name for it, but so far as I am -aware it has none. It has lived beyond the range -of the vernacular. My delight in its beauty was -less keen than naturally it would have been, because -I had spent my first raptures upon its -equally handsome Texas relative of the same -name a few weeks before. This was at San Antonio, -in the chaparral just outside the city. I -had been listening to a flock of lark sparrows, -I remember, and looking at sundry things, where -almost everything was new, when all at once I -saw before me at the foot of a bush the loveliest -bunch of feathers that I had ever set eyes on. -Without the least thought of what I was doing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -I began repeating to myself under my breath, -“O my soul! O my soul!” And in sober truth -the creature was deserving of all the admiration -it excited: a bird of the cardinal’s size and build, -dressed not in gaudy red, but in the most exquisite -shade of gray, with a plentiful spilling of -an equally exquisite rose color over its under-parts. -Its bright orange bill was surrounded at -the base by a double ring of black and rose, -and on its head was a most distinguished-looking, -divided crest, tipped with rose color of a deeper -shade. It was loveliness to wonder at. I cannot -profess that I was awe-struck (not being sure -that I know just what that excellent word means), -but it would hardly be too much to say that “as -I passed, I worshiped.”</p> - -<p>The Arizona bird, unhappily, was not often -seen (the Texas bird treated me better), though -when I did come upon it, it was generally in accessible -places (in wayside hedgerows) not far -from houses. It would be impossible to see either -the Texas or the Arizona bird for the first time -without comparing it with the cardinal, the two -are so much alike, and yet so different. The -cardinal is brighter, but for beauty give me -Pyrrhuloxia. I do not expect the sight of any -other bird ever to fill me with quite so rapturous -a delight in pure color as that first unlooked-for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span> -Pyrrhuloxia did in the San Antonio chaparral. -It was like the joy that comes from falling suddenly -upon a stanza of magical verse, or catching -from some unexpected quarter a strain of -heavenly music.</p> - -<p>If Pyrocephalus was the brightest and Pyrrhuloxia -the most beautiful of my Arizona birds, -Phainopepla must be called the most elegant, -the most supremely graceful, if I may be pardoned -such an application of the word, the most -incomparably genteel. I saw it first at Old Camp -Lowell, before mentioned, near the Rillito, at the -base of the low foothills of the Santa Catalina -Mountains. At my first visit to the camp, which -is six or seven miles from the city of Tucson, -straight across the desert, I mistook my way at -the last and approached the place from the farther -end by a cross-cut through the creosote -bushes. Just as I reached the adobe ruins, all -that is left of the old camp, I descried a black -bird balancing itself daintily at the tip of a -mesquite. I lifted my glass, caught sight of -the bird’s crest, and knew it for a Phainopepla. -How good it is to find something you have greatly -desired and little expected!</p> - -<p>The Phainopepla (like the Pyrrhuloxia it has -no vernacular appellation, living only in that -sparsely settled, Spanish-speaking corner of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -world) is ranked with the waxwings, though except -for its crest there is little or nothing in its -outward appearance to suggest such a relationship; -and the crest itself bears but a moderate resemblance -to the pointed topknot of our familiar -cedar-bird. What I call the Phainopepla’s elegance -comes partly from its form, which is the -very perfection of shapeliness, having in the -highest degree that elusive quality which in semi-slang -phrase is designated as “style;” partly -from its motions, all prettily conscious and in a -pleasing sense affected, like the movements of a -dancing-master; and partly from its color, which -is black with the most exquisite bluish sheen, set -off in the finest manner by broad wing-patches -of white. These wing-patches are noticeable, -furthermore, for being divided into a kind of -network by black lines. It is for this reason, I -suppose, that they have a peculiar gauzy look (I -speak of their appearance while in action) such -as I have never seen in the case of any other bird, -and which often made me think of the ribbed, -translucent wings of certain dragon flies.</p> - -<p>Doubtless this peculiar appearance was heightened -to my eyes, because of the mincing, wavering, -over-buoyant method of flight (the wings -being carried unusually high) to which I have -alluded, and which always suggested to me the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -studied movements of a dance. I think I never -saw one of the birds so far forget itself as to take -a direct, straightforward course from one point -to another. No matter where they might be -going, though the flight were only a matter of a -hundred yards, they progressed always in pretty -zigzags, making so many little, unexpected, indecisive -tacks and turns by the way, butterfly -fashion, that you began to wonder where they -would finally come to rest.</p> - -<p>The two birds first seen—the female in lovely -gray—were evidently at home about the camp. -The berry-bearing parasitic plants in the mesquites -seemed to furnish them with food, and -no doubt they were settled there for the season; -and at least two more were wintering out among -the Chinese kitchen gardens, not far away. And -some weeks afterward I came upon a third pair, -also in a mesquite grove, on the Santa Cruz side -of the desert. But though in the two river valleys -I passed a good many hours in their society, -I never once heard them sing, nor, so far as I -can now recall, did they ever utter any sound -save a mellow <i>pip</i>, almost exactly like a certain -call of the robin; so like it, in fact, that to the -very last I never heard it suddenly given, but -my first thought was of that common Eastern -bird, whose voice in those early spring days it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -would have been so natural and so pleasant to -hear. I could have spared a dozen or two of -thrashers, I thought (not <i>brown</i> thrashers), for -a pair of robins and a pair of bluebirds. But -southern Arizona is a kind of thrasher paradise, -while robins and bluebirds desire a better country, -and seemingly know where to find it.<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> - -<p>In the last week of March, however, there -took place, as well as I could judge, a concerted -movement of Phainopeplas northward. They -showed themselves in the Santa Cruz Valley, -here and there a pair, until they became, not -abundant, indeed, but a counted-upon, every-day -sight. Those that I had heretofore seen, it appeared, -were only a few winter “stay-overs.” Now -the season had opened; and now the birds began -singing. For curiosity’s sake it pleased me -to hear them, but the brief measure, in a thin, -squeaky voice, was nothing for any bird to be -proud of. They sing best to the eye. “Birds of -the shining robes,” their Greek name calls them; -and worthily do they wear it, under that unclouded -Arizona sun, perching, as they habitually -do, at the tip of some tree or bush, where the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -man with birds in his eye can hardly fail to sight -them and name them, across the widest barley -field.</p> - -<p>One of the birds whose acquaintance I chiefly -wished to make on this my first Western journey -was the famous canyon wren,—famous not -for its beauty (beauty is not the wren family’s -mark), but for its voice. Whether my wish -would be gratified was of course a question, especially -as my very modest itinerary included -no exploration of canyons; but I was not without -hope.</p> - -<p>I had been in Tucson nearly a week, when one -cool morning after a cold night (it was February -7) I went down into the Santa Cruz Valley and -took the road that winds—where there is barely -room for it—between the base of Tucson -Mountain and the river. Steep, broken cliffs, -perhaps a hundred feet high, were on my right -hand, and the deep bed of the shallow river lay -below me on my left. Here I was enjoying the -sun, and keeping my eyes open, when a set of -loud, clear bird notes in a descending scale fell -upon my ears from overhead. I stopped, pulled -myself together, and said, “A canyon wren.” I -remembered a description of that descending -scale. The next instant a small hawk took wing -from the spot on the cliff whence the notes had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> -seemed to fall. My mind wavered, but only for -a moment. “No, no,” I said, “it is not in any -hawk’s throat to produce sounds of that quality;” -and I waited. A rock wren began calling, but -rock wrens did not count with me at that moment. -Then, in a very different voice, a wren, presumably -the one I was in search of, began fretting, -unseen, somewhere above my head; and then, -silence. I waited and waited. Finally I tried an -old trick—I started on. If the bird was watching -me, as likely enough he was, a movement to -leave his neighborhood would perhaps excite him -pleasurably. And so it did; or so it seemed; for -almost at once the song was given out and repeated: -a hurried introductory phrase, and then -the fuller, longer, more liquid notes, tripping in -procession down the scale.</p> - -<p>The singer could be no other than the canyon -wren; but of course I must see him. At last, -my patience outwearing his, he fell to scolding -again, and glancing up in the direction of the -sound, I saw him on the jutting top of the very -highest stone, his white throat and breast flashing -in the sun, and the dark, rich brown of his -lower parts setting the whiteness off to marvelous -advantage. There he stood, calling and bobbing, -calling and bobbing, after the familiar wren -manner, though why he should resent an innocent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -man’s presence so far below was more than -any innocent man could imagine.</p> - -<p>It would be an offense against the truth not -to confess that the celebrated song fell at first a -little short of my expectations. Perhaps I had -heard it celebrated somewhat too loudly and too -often. It was very pleasing; the voice beautifully -clear and full, and the cadence of the sweetest; -it had the grace of simplicity; indeed, there was -nothing to be said against it, except that I had -supposed it would be—well, I hardly know -what, but somehow wilder and more telling.</p> - -<p>Within a few days I discovered a second pair -of the birds not far away, about an old, long-disused -adobe mill. They were already building -a nest somewhere inside, entering by a crack over -one of the windows. The female appeared to be -doing the greater part of the work, while her -mate sat upon the edge of the flat roof and sang -for her encouragement, or railed at me for my -too assiduous lounging about the premises. The -more I listened to the song, the better I enjoyed -it; it is certainly a song by itself; I have never -heard anything with which to compare it; and I -was especially pleased to see how many variations -the performer was able to introduce into -his music, and yet leave it always the same.</p> - -<p>The first pair, on the precipitous face of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> -mountain, had chosen the more romantic site, and -I often stopped to admire their address in climbing -about over the almost perpendicular surface -of the rock; now disappearing for a few seconds, -now popping into sight again a little further on; -finding a foothold everywhere, no matter how -smooth and steep the rock might look.</p> - -<p>The canyon wren is a darling bird and a musical -genius; and now that I have ceased to -measure his song by my extravagant expectations -concerning it, I do not wish it in any wise altered. -His natural home is by the side of falling water -(I have heard him since, where I should have -heard him first, in a canyon), and his notes fall -with it. I seem to hear them dropping one by -one, every note by itself, as I write about them. -If they are not of a kind to be ecstatic over at a -first hearing (a little too simple for that), they -are all the surer of a long welcome. Indeed, I -am half ashamed to have so much as referred to -my own early lack of appreciation of their excellence. -Perhaps this was one of the times when -the truth should not have been spoken.</p> - -<p>My mention just now of the wren’s cleverness -in traveling over the steep side of Tucson Mountain -called to mind a similar performance on the -part of a very different bird—a road-runner—in -the same place; and though it was not in my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -plan to name that bird in this paper, I cannot -deny myself the digression.</p> - -<p>I had taken a friend, newly inoculated with -ornithological fever, down to this mountain-side -road to show him a black-chinned hummingbird. -We had seen it, to his amazement, on the -very mesquite where I had told him it would -be (“Well!” he said,—and a most eloquent -“well” it was,—when I pointed the bird out, -scarcely more than a speck, as we came in sight -of the bush), and were driving further, when I -laid my hand on the reins and bade him look up. -There, halfway up the precipitous, broken cliff, -was the big, mottled, long-tailed bird, looking -strangely out of place to both of us, who had -never seen him before except in the lowlands, -running along the road, or dodging among clumps -of bushes. Then of a sudden, he began climbing, -and almost in no time was on the very topmost -stone, at the base of a stunted palo-verde. There -he fell to cooing (like a dove, I said, forgetting -at the moment that the road-runner is a kind of -cuckoo), and by the time he had repeated the -phrase three or four times we remarked that -before doing so he invariably lowered his head. -We sat and watched and listened (“There!” one -or the other would say, as the head was ducked) -for I know not how many minutes, commenting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> -upon the droll appearance of the bird, perched -thus above the world, and cooing in this (for -him) ridiculous, lovelorn, gesticulatory manner.</p> - -<p>Then, as we drove on, I recalled the strangely -rapid and effortless gait with which he had gone -up the mountain. “He didn’t use his wings, did -he?” I asked; and my companion thought not. -I was reminded of a bird of the same kind that -I had seen a few days before cross a deep gully -perhaps twenty feet in width. “He seemed to -slide across,” said the man who was with me. -That was exactly the word. He did not lift a -wing, to the best of our noticing, nor rise so much -as an inch into the air, but as it were stepped -from one bank to the other. So this second bird -went up the mountain-side almost without our -seeing how he did it. A few steps, and he was -there, as by the exercise of some special gift of -specific levity. He did not fly; and yet it might -have “<i>seemed</i> he flew, the way so easy was.” -Take him how you will, the road-runner’s looks -do not belie him: he is an odd one; and never -odder, I should guess, than when he stands upon -a mountain-top and with lowered head pours out -his amorous soul in coos as gentle as a sucking -dove’s. I count myself happy to have witnessed -the moving spectacle.</p> - -<p>I am running into superlatives, but no matter.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> -The feeling against their use is largely prejudice. -Let me suit myself with one or two more, therefore, -and say that the rarest and most exciting -bird seen by me in Arizona was a painted redstart, -<i>Setophaga picta</i>. It was at the base of -Tucson Mountain, close by the canyon wrens’ old -mill. The vermilion flycatcher, rare as I considered -it at first, became after a while almost -excessively common. I believe it is no exaggeration -to say that forty or fifty pairs must have -been living in and about Tucson before the first -of April. Unless you were out upon the desert, -you could hardly turn round without seeing or -hearing them. But there was no danger of the -painted redstart’s cheapening itself after this -fashion. I saw it twice, for perhaps ten minutes -in all, and as long as I live I shall be thankful -for the sight.</p> - -<p>I was playing the spy upon a pair of what I -took to be Arkansas goldfinches, and the question -being a nice one, had got over a wire fence -to have the sun at my back. There I had barely -focused my eight-power glass upon a leafless willow -beside an irrigation ditch, when all at once -there moved into its field such a piece of absolute -gorgeousness as I have no hope of making my -reader see by means of any description: a small -bird in three colors,—deep, velvety black, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -snowiest white, and the most brilliant red. Its -glory lay in the depth and purity of the three -colors; its singularity lay in a point not mentioned -in book descriptions, being inconspicuous, -I suppose, in cabinet specimens: a line (almost -literally a line) of white below the eye. From its -position and its extreme tenuity I took it for the -lower eyelid, but as to that I cannot speak with -positiveness. It would hardly have showed, even -in life, I dare say, but for its intensely black surroundings. -As it was, it fairly stared at me. I -cannot affirm that it added to the bird’s beauty. -Apart from it the colors were all what I may call -solid,—laid on in broad masses, that is: a red -belly, a long white band (not a bar) on each -wing, some white tail feathers, white lower tail -coverts, and everything else black. It does not -sound like anything so very extraordinary, I confess. -But the reader should have <i>seen</i> it. Unless -he is a very dry stick indeed, he would have let -off an exclamation or two, I can warrant. There -are cases in which the whole is a good deal more -than the sum of all its parts.</p> - -<p>The bird was on one of the larger branches, -over which it moved in something of the black-and-white -creeper’s manner, turning its head to -one side and the other alternately as it progressed. -Then it sat still a long time (a long time for a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span> -warbler), so near me that the glass brought it almost -into my hand, while I devoured its beauty; -and then, of a sudden, it took flight into the -dense, leafy top of a tall cottonwood, and I saw -it no more. No more for that time, that is to say. -In my mind, indeed, I bade it good-by forever. -It was not to be thought of that such a bit of -splendor (I had read of it as a mountain bird) -should happen in my way more than once. But -eight days afterward (March 28), in nearly the -same place, it appeared again, straight over my -head; and I was almost as much astonished as -before. It was exploring the bare branches of a -row of roadside ash trees, and I followed it, or -rather preceded it, backing away as it flitted from -one tree to the next, keeping the sun behind me. -It carried itself now much like the common redstart; -a little more inclined to moments of inactivity, -perhaps, but at short intervals darting into -the air after a passing insect with all conceivable -quickness.</p> - -<p>And such colors! Such an unspeakable red, -so intense a black, and so pure a white! If I said -that the vermilion flycatcher was the brightest -bird I saw in Arizona, I was like the Hebrew -psalmist. I said it in my haste.</p> - -<p>This time the redstart was in a singing mood. -On the previous occasion it had kept silence, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -I had thought I was glad to have it so, feeling -that no voice could be good enough to go with -such feathers. In its way the feeling was justified; -but, after all, it would have been too bad -to miss the song. Curiosity has its claims, no less -than sentiment. And happily the song proved to -be a very pretty one; similar to that of the -Eastern bird, to be sure, but less hurried (so it -seemed to me), less over-emphatic, and in a voice -less sharp and thin; a very pretty song (for a -warbler), though, as is true of the Phainopepla -and most other brilliantly handsome birds (and -all good children), the redstart’s proper appeal is -to the eye. So far as human appreciation is concerned, -it need make no other.</p> - -<p>I have heard a canyon wren in a canyon, I -said. It was a glorious day in a glorious place,—Sabino -Canyon, it is called, in the Santa -Catalina Mountains. And it was there, where -the ground was all a flower garden, and the dashing -brook a doubly delightful sight and sound -after so much wandering over the desert and so -many crossings of dry, sandy river-beds,—it was -there, amid a cluster of leafy oaks (strange oak -leaves they were) and leafless hackberry trees, -that I saw my first and only solitaire,—<i>Myadestes -townsendii</i>. I have praised other birds for -their brightness and song; this one I must praise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -for a certain nameless dignity and, as the present-day -word is, distinction. He did not deign to -break silence, or to notice in any manner, unless -it were by an added touch of patrician reserve, -the presence of three human intruders. I stared -at him,—exercising a cat’s privilege,—for all -his hauteur, admiring his gray colors, his conspicuous -white eye-ring, and his manner. I say -“manner,” not “manners.” You would never -liken <i>him</i> to a dancing-master.</p> - -<p>He was the solitaire, I somehow felt certain -(certain with a lingering of uncertainty), though -I had forgotten all description of that bird’s appearance. -It was the place for him, and his looks -went with the name. Moreover, to confess a more -prosaic consideration, there was nothing else he -could be.</p> - -<p>“Myadestes,” I said to my two companions, -both unacquainted with such matters; “I think -it is Myadestes, though I can’t exactly tell why I -think so.”</p> - -<p>We must go into the canyon a little way, gazing -up at the walls, picking a few of the more -beautiful flowers, feeling the place itself (the best -thing one <i>can</i> do, whether in a canyon or on a -mountain-top); then we came back to the hackberry -trees, but the solitaire was no longer in -them. I had had my opportunity, and perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> -had made too little of it. It is altogether likely -that I shall never see another bird of his kind.</p> - -<p>For now those cloudless Arizona days, the -creosote-covered desert, and the mountain ranges -standing round about it, are all for me as things -past and done; a bright memory, and no more. -One event conspired with another to put a sudden -end to my visit (which was already longer than -I had planned), and on the last day of March I -walked for the last time under that row of “leafless -ash trees,”—no longer quite leafless, and no -longer with a painted redstart in them,—and -over that piece of winding road between the -craggy hill and the river. Now I courted not the -sun, but the shade; it was the sun, more than -anything else, that was hurrying me away, when -I would gladly have stayed longer; but sunny -or shady, I stopped a bit in each of the more -familiar places. Nobody knew or cared that I -was taking leave. All things remained as they -had been. The same rock wrens were practicing -endless vocal variations here and there upon -the stony hillside; the same fretful verdin was -talking about something, it was beyond me to -tell what, with the old emphatic monotony; the -hummingbird stood on the tip of his mesquite -bush, still turning his head eagerly from side to -side, as if he expected her, and wondered why on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span> -earth she was so long in coming; the mocker -across the field (one of no more than half a dozen -that I saw about Tucson!) was bringing out of -his treasury things new and old (a great bird -that, always with another shot in his locker); -the Lucy warbler, daintiest of the dainty, sang -softly amid the willow catkins, a chorus of bees -accompanying; the black cap of the pileolated -warbler was <i>not</i> in the blossoming quince-bush -hedge (that was a pity); the desert-loving sparrow -hawk sat at the top of a giant cactus, as if -its thorns were nothing but a cushion; the happy -little Mexican boy, who lived in one corner of the -old mill, came down the road with his usual smile -of welcome (we were almost old friends by this -time) and a glance into the trees, meaning to -say, what he could not express in English, nor I -understand in Spanish, “I know what you are -doing;” and then, as I rounded the bend, under -the beetling crags, the same canyon wren, my first -one, not dreaming what a favor he was conferring -upon the man he had so often chided as a trespasser, -let fall a few measures of his lovely song. -How sweet and cool the notes were! Unless it -was the sound of the brook in the Sabino Canyon, -I believe I heard nothing else so good in Arizona.</p> - -<p>But at San Antonio, on my way homeward, I -heard notes not to be called musical, in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span> -smaller and more ordinary sense of the word; as -unlike as possible, certainly, to the classic sweetness -of the canyon wren’s tune; but to me even -more exciting and memorable. On a sultry, indolent -afternoon (April 9) I had betaken myself -to Cemetery Hill for a lazy stroll, and had barely -alighted from the electric car, when I heard -strange noises somewhere near at hand. In my -confusion I thought for an instant of the scissor-tailed -flycatchers, with whose various outlandish -outcries and antics I had been for several days -amusing myself. Then I discovered that the -sound came from above, and looking up, saw -straight over my head, between the hilltop and -the clouds, a wedge-shaped flock of large birds. -Long slender necks and bills, feet drawn up and -projecting out behind the tails, wing-action moderate -(after the manner of geese rather than -ducks), color dark,—so much, and no more, the -glass showed me, while the birds, sixty or more -in number, as I guessed, were fast receding northward. -They should be cranes, I said to myself, -since they were surely not herons, and then, like -a flash, it came over me that I knew the voice. -By good luck I had lived the winter before where -I heard continually the lusty shouts of a captive -sandhill crane; and it was to a chorus of sandhill -cranes that I was now listening.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>The flock disappeared, the tumult lessened and -ceased, and I passed on. But fifteen minutes -afterward, as I was retracing my steps over the -hill, suddenly I heard the same resounding chorus -again. A second flock of cranes was passing. -This, too, was in a V-shaped line, though for -some reason it fell into disorder almost immediately. -Now I essayed a count, and had just concluded -that there were some eighty of the birds, -when a commotion behind me caused me to turn -my head. To my amazement, a third and much -larger flock was following close behind the -second. There was no numbering it with exactness, -but I ran my glass down the long, wavering -line, as best I could, and counted one hundred -and fifteen.</p> - -<p>An hour before I had never seen a sandhill -crane in its native wildness (a creature nearly -or quite as tall as myself), and behold, here was -the sky full of them. And what a judgment-day -trumpeting they made! Angels and archangels, -cherubim and seraphim! Perhaps I did not enjoy -it,—there, with the white gravestones standing -all about me. After all, there is something in -mere volume of sound. If it does not feed the -soul, at least it stirs the blood. And that is a -good thing, also. I wonder if Michelangelo did -not at some time or other see and hear the like.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">INDEX</h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> -<h3 class="nobreak">INDEX</h3> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p> -Adder’s-tongue, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.<br> -<br> -Anemone, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.<br> -<br> -Azalea, Lapland, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Bayberry, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>.<br> -<br> -Bellwort, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.<br> -<br> -Birch, yellow, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.<br> -<br> -Bittern, least, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>.<br> -<br> -Blackbird, Brewer’s, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">crow, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">red-winged, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">rusty, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Bluebird, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">chestnut-backed, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Western, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Butterfly, clouded-sulphur, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">red admiral, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Buzzard, turkey, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Cactus, giant, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.<br> -<br> -Callicarpa, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>.<br> -<br> -Catbird, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br> -<br> -Chewink, Arctic, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">red-eyed, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">white-eyed, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Chickadee, black-capped, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Hudsonian, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Chuck-will’s-widow, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br> -<br> -Clintonia, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.<br> -<br> -Coccoloba, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.<br> -<br> -Cocoa plum, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.<br> -<br> -Cormorant, Florida, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br> -<br> -Coyote, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br> -<br> -Cranberry, mountain, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.<br> -<br> -Crane, sandhill, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>.<br> -<br> -Creosote bush, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>.<br> -<br> -Crescentia, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.<br> -<br> -Crinum, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>.<br> -<br> -Crossbill, red, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.<br> -<br> -Crow, American, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">carrion, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">fish, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Cypress, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Diapensia, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.<br> -<br> -Dove, ground, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br> -<br> -Dutchman’s-breeches, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Eagle, bald, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">golden, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Evening primrose, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.<br> -<br> -Eyebright, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Ficus aurea, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>.<br> -<br> -Finch, Lincoln, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">purple, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Flicker, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">red-shafted, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Flycatcher, Arizona crested, <a href="#Page_271">271</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">crested, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">olive-sided, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">scissor-tailed, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">vermilion, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>, <a href="#Page_286">286</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Gallinule, Florida, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.<br> -<br> -Gnatcatcher, blue-gray, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">plumbeous, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Goldfinch, American, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.<br> -<br> -Goldfinch, Mexican, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span><br> -<br> -Grackle, boat-tailed, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br> -<br> -Grosbeak, cardinal, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">rose-breasted, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Grouse, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.<br> -<br> -Gumbo-limbo, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Hawk, desert sparrow, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_292">292</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">sharp-shinned, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">sparrow, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Western red-tailed, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Heron, great blue, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Louisiana, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Hickory, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>.<br> -<br> -Hornbeam, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.<br> -<br> -House finch, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.<br> -<br> -Huisache, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.<br> -<br> -Hummingbird, black-chinned, <a href="#Page_284">284</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Costa, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">ruby-throated, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Jay, blue, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Florida, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Jessamine, yellow, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.<br> -<br> -Junco, intermediate, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Kingfisher, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br> -<br> -Kinglet, golden-crowned, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">ruby-crowned, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Lark bunting, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.<br> -<br> -Lupine, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Mangrove, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.<br> -<br> -Martin, purple, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br> -<br> -Meadow lark, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.<br> -<br> -Mockingbird, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, -<a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Western, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>, <a href="#Page_292">292</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Moon-flower, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.<br> -<br> -Morning-glory, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Nonpareil, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.<br> -<br> -Nuthatch, brown-headed, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Canadian (red-breasted), <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Carolina (white-breasted), <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Ocotillo, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.<br> -<br> -Orchids, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.<br> -<br> -Oriole, Baltimore, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br> -<br> -Osprey, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.<br> -<br> -Oven-bird, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Pavonia, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.<br> -<br> -Pelican, brown, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.<br> -<br> -Phainopepla, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>.<br> -<br> -Phlox, Drummond, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.<br> -<br> -Phœbe, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">black, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Say’s, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Pithecolobium, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.<br> -<br> -Plover, killdeer, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br> -<br> -Poppy, California, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>.<br> -<br> -Porcupine, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.<br> -<br> -Pyrrhuloxia, Arizona, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Texas, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Rabbits, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br> -<br> -Rail, Carolina, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.<br> -<br> -Raven, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">white-necked, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Redstart, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">painted, <a href="#Page_286">286</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Road-runner, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>, <a href="#Page_284">284</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span><br> -<br> -Robin, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Western, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Rose, Cherokee, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Sandwort, Greenland, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.<br> -<br> -Sapsucker, yellow-bellied, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.<br> -<br> -Seven-year apple, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.<br> -<br> -Shrike, loggerhead, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.<br> -<br> -Siskin, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.<br> -<br> -Snowbird, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.<br> -<br> -Solitaire, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>.<br> -<br> -Sparrow, Cassin, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">chipping, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">desert, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">pine-wood, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">sage, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">savanna, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">song, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">vesper, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">white-crowned, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">white-throated, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Swallow, barn, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">tree, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Sweet-bay, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.<br> -<br> -Sweet-gum, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.<br> -<br> -Swift, white-throated, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>.<br> -<br> -<br> -Tanager, summer, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.<br> -<br> -Thrasher, Bendire, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">brown, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">crissal, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Palmer, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">sage, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Thrush, Bicknell’s, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">hermit, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Swainson’s, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Titmouse, tufted, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.<br> -<br> -Trema, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.<br> -<br> -Trillium, painted, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">purple, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Vaccinium cæspitosum, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>.<br> -<br> -Verdin, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a>.<br> -<br> -Violet, round-leaved, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Selkirk’s, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Vireo, blue-headed (solitary), <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">red-eyed, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">yellow-throated, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">white-eyed, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Warbler, Bachman’s, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">bay-breasted, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">black-and-white, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Blackburnian, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">black-throated blue, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">black-throated green, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Lucy, <a href="#Page_292">292</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">myrtle, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">palm, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">parula, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">pileolated, <a href="#Page_292">292</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">pine, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">prairie, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">yellow palm, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">yellow-throated, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Woodpecker, downy, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">hairy, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">ivory-billed, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">pileated, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">red-bellied, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">red-cockaded, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">red-headed, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</span><br> -<br> -Wood pewee, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span><br> -<br> -Wren, Baird, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">cactus, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">canyon, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280</a>, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>, <a href="#Page_292">292</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">Carolina, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">house, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">interior tule, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">rock, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a>.</span><br> -<span class="indexindent">winter, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -Yellow-throat, Florida, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.<br> -<span class="indexindent">Maryland, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</span><br> -</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph1">FOOTNOTES:</p> -</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> It may have been some species of <i>Pellia</i>, to judge by the -plate in <i>Gray’s Manual</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> And if New Hampshire people will call the mountain -“Moose Hillock,” as, alas, they will, then we have here another -proof of the degeneracy which follows the white man’s addiction -to the punning habit.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> And so it was; for though I <i>felt</i> sure, I wanted to <i>be</i> sure, -and submitted it to an expert.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> One was living in the greenhouse connected with the big -hotel. The gardener told me that it had come in of itself, and -persisted in staying. He had tried in vain to get rid of it. -Tossed out of doors, it would at once return and make itself -at home.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> And after all this talk about the plant I must in candor -add that it turned out to be by no means rare along the bay -shore. I think I am not wrong in remembering to have heard -it called the calabash tree.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> One of the most striking peculiarities of Southern speech -among the illiterate classes (I have observed it in other states -besides Florida) is the almost total absence of the word “saw.”</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> We often fed the birds afterward, and one or two, at least, -were never shy about coming into our laps.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> <i>Vachellia Farnesiana</i>, sparingly naturalized in Florida, -where it goes by the name of Opopanax.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> Since this letter was first printed I have been warned more -than once that walking upon railroad tracks, in the Southwestern -country, at least, is an unsafe proceeding, for a man -alone and unarmed; and I think it right to pass along the -caution.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> I could hardly believe it anything but an accidental omission -when I noticed the total absence of jays, crows, and ravens -from Mr. Attwater’s list of the birds of San Antonio and -vicinity. See <i>The Auk</i>, vol. ix, p. 229.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> True as a general statement; but once, at Tucson, I saw -a bird standing on the top of a telegraph pole facing a pretty -stiff breeze, which blew the feathers of the throat apart till -they showed a snow-white spot as large as a silver dollar.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> Botanically, if I am correctly informed, the plant is <i>Fouquiera -splendens</i>, otherwise known as candlewood, Jacob’s staff, -and coach-whip. Like the giant cactus it seems to be restricted -to the foothills.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> Alas, it never does.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> There is another raven in Arizona, rarer and larger,—a -<i>real</i> raven, so to speak,—but I saw it only a few times, always -high in air, as if it were passing from one mountain -range to another.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> The trick was seen to fuller advantage on subsequent occasions, -and I came to the settled conclusion that the birds turned -but halfway over; that is to say, they lay on their backs for -an instant, and then, as by the recoil of a spring, recovered -themselves. How they acquired the trick, and for what purpose -they practice it, are questions beyond my answering. -Since my return home, indeed, I have discovered that Gilbert -White, who noted so many things, noted this same habit on -the part of the European raven. According to him, the birds -“lose the centre of gravity” while “scratching themselves -with one foot.” How he knows this he does not inform us, and -I must confess myself unconvinced.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> They are not to be found on the desert, I afterward -learned, but along the watercourses. There I often saw -them.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> I visited more than one of them afterward.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> And so they were, on the testimony of the Washington -ornithologist above quoted, who knows both bird and song.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> It should be said, nevertheless, that straggling flocks of -Western bluebirds—lovely creatures—were met with on the -desert on rare occasions, and once, at Old Camp Lowell, three -robins—Westerners, no doubt—passed over my head, flying -toward the mountains, in which they are said to winter.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press</span><br> -<i>Electrotyped and printed by H. O. 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