OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
RECENT RAMBLES 
 
 or 
 
 In Touch with 
 NATURE 
 
 BY CHARLES C. ABBOTT, M.D. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "A Naturalist's Rambles about Homey " Waste- 
 land Wanderings," " Outings at Odd Times," Etc. 
 
 Drink in a goodly draught of the 
 morning breeze, and keep in touch 
 with Nature. 
 
 ILLUSTRA TED 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 / B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 M D C C C X C I 1 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1892, 
 
 BY 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 BIOLOGY, 
 
 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 V .*. 
 
A 3/4- 
 
 BIOLOGY 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Preface. 
 
 WHENEVER opportunity occurs I take an 
 outing, and the following pages are the outcome 
 of two years of rambling. Whether the main 
 incident of these days out of doors proves grave 
 or gay matters little, if it recalls some pleasant 
 adventure to graybeard readers or spurs the 
 ambition of my youthful friends. Succeeding in 
 this, I am well rewarded. 
 
 When out, on pleasure bent, it is not to be sup- 
 posed that life's shady side will never be turned 
 towards you. Happily, though, the tragedies are 
 one-act, as a rule, while the comedies scarcely 
 know an ending. Even sunshine, however, can 
 be too continuous, and the longest day of summer 
 
 3 
 
 M580033 
 
Preface. 
 
 is not necessarily the jolliest To be many-sided 
 ourselves, we must know all that Nature has to 
 tell. With the sky only above us, we are among 
 quickly-shifting scenes and should be blind to 
 none. 
 
 Sunshine and clouds tell the whole story ; but 
 without the flight of the shadow over the land- 
 scape, without hearing the scream of the victim 
 as well as the exultant cry of the victor, we can 
 never know the world aright,- never keep in 
 touch with Nature. 
 
 C. C. A. 
 
 BRISTOL, PENNSYLVANIA, June i, 1892. 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IN TOUCH WITH NATURE 9 
 
 A WINTER CAT-BIRD 17 
 
 INTIMATIONS 25 
 
 A RIVER VIEW 44 
 
 IN THE SERPENTS' PATH 51 
 
 A VICTIM OF THOREAU 62 
 
 ANIMALS AS BAROMETERS . 70 
 
 A RECENT RAMBLE 81 
 
 MAY-DAY OUT OF TOWN 89 
 
 WINDY BUSH 109 
 
 ON HISTORIC GROUND 119 
 
 ALL DAY AFLOAT 125 
 
 AN UP-RIVER RAMBLE 135 
 
 A DAY IN NEW MEXICO 144 
 
 ROUND ABOUT BISBEE 152 
 
 A ROCKY RAMBLE 160 
 
 AN ARIZONAN HILL-SIDE 170 
 
 IN A SEA-SIDE FOREST 178 
 
 A COOL, GRAY DAY 196 
 
 i* 5 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AN AUGUST REVERIE 205 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF IDLENESS 220 
 
 A PRE-COLUMBIAN MINE 232 
 
 WHY DO SOME BIRDS SING? 242 
 
 AT A PUBLIC SALE 251 
 
 OLD PENNY'S DEAD! 257 
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS 262 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE RAIN 270 
 
 PERSIMMONS 278 
 
 TRACES OF TROGLODYTES 289 
 
 IN WINTER-QUARTERS 301 
 
 THE DUTCH ON THE DELAWARE 312 
 
List of Illustrations. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IN TOUCH WITH NATURE Frontispiece. 
 
 WHERE I FOUND THE CAT-BIRD 19 
 
 A RIVER VIEW 44 
 
 AN INVITING COVE 52 
 
 THE BEAUTIES OF A FROG-POND 63 
 
 MAY-DAY our OF TOWN 89 
 
 " LET NATURE BE YOUR TEACHER" 100 
 
 AT WINDY BUSH 116 
 
 "AND THE LONG RIPPLE WASHING IN THE REEDS" . . 126 
 
 THE HILLS ABOUT BISBEE 152 
 
 A COOL, GRAY DAY 197 
 
 A BY-ROAD IN AUGUST 207 
 
 IDLE DAYS 220 
 
 A CONTEMPLATIVE TREE-TOAD 231 
 
 WHERE THE SONG-BIRDS GATHER 245 
 
 THE HAUNT OF THE BLACKBIRD . . . 262 
 
 PERSIMMONS 279 
 
 IN WINTER-QUARTERS 303 
 
 WHERE THE OLD HOUSE STOOD 317 
 
 7 
 
In Touch with Nature. 
 
 W E carry too much with us when we go into the 
 woods. I had rather dine upon a handful of wild 
 strawberries than gorge myself with canned apri- 
 cots. Doing the former, one is ready to realize 
 what is transpiring; the latter, and the chances 
 are you will feel like a fool. Eat, as a matter of 
 necessity, when in the field ; but do not poison 
 the fresh air of a wilderness with the fumes from 
 a frying-pan. It is a woful error to carry the city 
 in a grip-sack whenever we take to wild life. It 
 forces the thoughts of civilization to the front, 
 and we are simply out of place, while anxious to 
 be in touch with nature. Town trumpery in the 
 woods is mental poison. Twist a broad oak-leaf 
 into a funnel, and you have a goblet worthy of 
 pure spring water ; and if a mussel-shell, reflect- 
 ing all the hues of a sunset sky, is not a spoon to 
 
 9 
 
io In Touch with Nature. 
 
 suit you, keep out of the woods. The shady side 
 of a village street is all you need. 
 
 There were high hills behind the tent, a broad 
 river in front, and in mid-stream two beautiful 
 islands. The latter were evidently one island 
 originally, although the oldest inhabitant denies 
 it. Whether or not, I shall call them one, for the 
 separating cross-flow of water does not prevent 
 wading from the upper to the lower section. The 
 interest here is threefold, its natural histoiy, its 
 archaeology, and its colonial history. When we 
 find so much worthy of contemplation, and so 
 little of man's destructive interference, it is well 
 to be in touch with our surroundings. Merely 
 catching a glimpse from the car-window of the 
 river and its double island, one would little sus- 
 pect how much has transpired in this quiet nook, 
 and how very much remains of truly olden times. 
 Moss had gathered on the walls of more than one 
 house before the Revolution was dreamed of, and 
 on that island once lived that sturdy hunter that 
 walked (?) sixty odd miles in a day and a half, in 
 the interests of the brothers Penn. 
 
 This man, Edward Marshall, has passed into 
 
In Touch with Nature. 1 1 
 
 history, and tales of his exploits in Indian warfare 
 are endless throughout the neighborhood. I sat 
 for a while, one morning, on the porch of his 
 brother's house, holding the doughty Edward's 
 rifle in my lap, the while listening to the strange 
 adventures, as tradition has them, wherein this 
 rifle played a most important part. With it, one 
 story goes, Marshall killed ninety-nine Indians, 
 and his sole regret at dying was, that he had not 
 had opportunity to make it an even hundred. It 
 is true the Indians had killed his wife, but this is 
 overmuch revenge for one who claimed to be a 
 Quaker. Doubtless many a fanciful touch has 
 been added to the family traditions in the last 
 century, but that he was a man of unusual parts is 
 certain. A few words concerning Indians credited 
 to him indicates this : " When I discover an Indian 
 I shut one eye and we never meet again." 
 
 But let us to weightier matters : awake at dawn, 
 but not responding with commendable promptness 
 to the call of a red-bird perched upon the high 
 rocks behind us, I allowed myself to indulge in 
 that dearest of the day's occupations, matutinal 
 reveries, too often " dear" in every sense of the 
 
12 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 word. There was endless work to do, but who 
 can resist the golden chains that birds bind about 
 us ? There was a Carolina wren within a stone's 
 throw of the tent, and when it sang, I was down 
 the river fifty miles or more, and rusty barns re- 
 placed the rugged mountains. It is not advocating 
 laziness to lie abed, if life's pleasure comes by so 
 doing, and our time is not another's. To insure 
 being in touch with nature this day, I had the 
 birds rouse me very gradually, and my proper 
 business was to do wholly as I pleased. 
 
 The sun was well above the Jersey hills when 
 the river was crossed and we stood on the island. 
 I confess to our method being too cold-blooded 
 and business-like. It had been told us that In- 
 dians once lived here ; it was left to us to prove 
 it. Nothing would come amiss, whether bones or 
 stone weapons. It was our purpose to explore, but 
 with the first arrow-head found, I was surfeited ; 
 kicked over the traces and made for the woods. 
 The others labored ; I loafed. Shut in by a goodly 
 company of ancient trees, there was opportunity 
 to reduce loafing to a fine art. I did not offer to 
 take the trees by the hand, but every one patted 
 
In Touch with Nature. 13 
 
 me upon the back. There was no stereotyped 
 murmur of the wind high overhead, but, instead, a 
 gentle crooning of every tree and shrub : a com- 
 muning among themselves that my presence did 
 not disturb. T was welcome to all they had to tell, 
 but alas ! who has lived that can report the secrets 
 of a forest ? It is idle to attempt it, but none the 
 less is the rambler repaid who can unaffectedly 
 think of trees as his friends. 
 
 While walking thus aimlessly along, profiting, I 
 trust, through unconscious cerebration, I chanced 
 upon a dark pool that might from appearance have 
 been bottomless, but doubtless was extremely 
 shallow. Probably it would not be remembered 
 now, but for a turtle that proved a physicist, if not 
 a philosopher. It was sunning itself or taking an 
 airing, for the sunshine was limited to very uncer- 
 tain flashes, and resting on a bit of wood more 
 than sufficient for its own needs, but not enough 
 for a neighbor. This latter fact was doubtless 
 well impressed upon its mind, and when presently 
 another turtle popped its head above the surface 
 of the water near the raft and attempted to climb 
 on board, the turtle in possession objected and 
 
14 In Touch with Nature, 
 
 pushed the intruder back. Again and again the 
 swimming turtle tried, but without success. Brute 
 force failing, the persistent fellow sunk out of sight 
 and was gone perhaps a minute, when it suddenly 
 reappeared in the rear of the one on the raft, and, 
 giving it a quick blow with its snout from below 
 upward, sent it sprawling into the water; then 
 the tricky fellow climbed quickly on board and 
 looked about, oh, so innocently. It was the 
 modern political game of the " ins" and the " outs." 
 It showed, too, that a ready wit counts for a great 
 deal, even among turtles. 
 
 But now, although little past noontide, the 
 woods began to grow dark; the pleasant murmur 
 ceased, and a forbidding muttering came from the 
 clustered giants of the wood. The lofty tulip- 
 trees were violently moved; the older oaks pro- 
 tested sullenly : a moment of absolute silence, and 
 then the pelting rain. It proved but a passing 
 cloud, and there is no merrier music than tinkling 
 rain-drops rolling from leaf to leaf, splashing and 
 sparkling in the fitful sunbeams. Every bird, too, 
 was ready to sing the song of the shower. Better, 
 I thought, living woods than dead Indians, as I 
 
In Touch with Nature. 1 5 
 
 re-entered the open country : a conclusion that led 
 to discussion when I saw my campmate's grand dis- 
 covery. He had laid bare a one-time village site, 
 and brought to light many a long-buried secret 
 
 In suggestive array were the simple weapons 
 with which they hunted and fought ; the devices 
 with \vhich they fished ; the simpler tools with 
 which they tilled the ground ; their corn-mills, 
 cooking utensils and dishes; and, more striking 
 than all else, a cache of more than one hundred 
 beautifully-clipped stone knives that, from the day 
 when the cunning artisan hid them safely until 
 now, had been lying in the ground. They had 
 been closely packed in a small circular hole, so 
 closely that but little sand had sifted between the 
 blades. This was a discovery well worth making, 
 and he is but a sluggish lump of laziness who 
 cannot enthuse under such circumstances. Writes 
 William Strachey, in his " History of Travaile in 
 Virginia," more than two centuries ago : " Their 
 corne and (indeed) their copper, hatchetts, howses 
 (hoes), beades, perle and most things with them of 
 value according to their estymacion, they hide, one 
 from knowledge of another, in the ground within 
 
1 6 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the woods and so keep them all the yeare, or until 
 they have fit use for them." 
 
 Seeing all these things, as I stood on that lonely 
 island, my companion was an Indian : so was I. 
 The whole country was, in very truth, a wilderness, 
 and the owner of this unearthed treasure might 
 well have rushed upon us out of the fast-gathering 
 darkness. A shadowy Indian stalked at my elbow 
 as we crossed over to the main shore ; he stood by 
 the flickering camp-fire while supper was prepared ; 
 nor left us in peace until the moon rose above the 
 mountain and flooded the valley with a searching, 
 silvery light. What volumes of history there may 
 be in a fragment of broken stone ! 
 
 No mouldering potsherd from the dusty fields, 
 No battered axe but speaks of ancient glory ; 
 
 No point of arrow that the way-side yields 
 But tells a winsome story. 
 
 All night I dreamed of a dual existence : that 
 of a loafer and of a relic-hunter, the merits of which 
 battled for supremacy. A red-bird aroused me 
 before sunrise with the question still unanswered, 
 but not so torn by conflicting emotions but that I 
 remained still in touch with Nature. 
 
A Winter Cat-Bird. 
 
 1 T is not down in the books. Dr. Warren's " Birds 
 of Pennsylvania," even, does not mention it; and 
 the learned ornithologists of elsewhere pronounce 
 it a myth. But there are those who have seen it, 
 nevertheless, and not merely once but often ; have 
 seen lively, healthy, chattering cat-birds in mid- 
 winter, strong enough of wing to have migrated 
 had they so desired. Occasionally there is but 
 one, more frequently there are two, and scarcely 
 less often four or five together, as though a family 
 had elected to remain, even if they must brave a 
 typical old-style winter. Had they known about 
 it, many a migratory bird might have stayed over 
 from autumn until spring, a year ago. There was 
 no dearth of green grass then, nor of active insect 
 life, even in January ; but not so now : to-day the 
 river is a broad field of ice, and scarcely a leaf 
 b 2* 17 
 
1 8 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 lingers in the sheltered nooks. The greenbrier 
 is a forbidding tangle, offering no shelter from the 
 keen winds that whistle through it ; the tall grasses 
 have long been levelled ; the bare trees stand stiff 
 and stark against a cold gray sky. It is truly a 
 stout-hearted intruder that dares venture now 
 along the river shore, yet such brave creatures 
 are seldom wanting. No winter's blustering ever 
 daunted the chickadee, nor driving snow-storm 
 frightened the crested tit. Less courageous spar- 
 rows and the cardinal red-bird will seek the south- 
 side shelters, and you may ramble for miles and 
 hear not even the twitter of a tree-creeper; but 
 let the next day be warmer, the wind come from 
 the south, and all is changed. Then no nook is 
 too exposed, and we shall have not only birds 
 a-plenty, but bird music. At such a time one 
 may look for January cat-birds. They are no stay- 
 at-homes when the valley is filled with winter sun- 
 shine. Their dreary dens in the dark cedars are 
 promptly vacated. 
 
 I did not think of over-staying summer birds 
 to-day. It was enough to have the nuthatch 
 make merry as it rattled the loose bark of the 
 
A Winter Cat-Bird. 
 
 birches ; and a hint of May-days brightened the 
 outlook as pine-finches twittered in the tops of 
 the tal^ riverside oaks. And then it was a single 
 bird wrought almost a miracle. A cat-bird threaded 
 the tangled maze of underbrush, perched upon a 
 
 pebble at the water's edge, intently eyed the frost- 
 bound ripple that it could not reach, flirted its tail 
 impatiently, and uttered its old-time summer plaint, 
 suggestive of many a long-gone August noontide. 
 A moment more and the bird was gone ; but how 
 
20 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 different that whole day, from the instant of the 
 bird's appearance ! It needs but a tiny twig to 
 ripple the flow of placid waters ; and but for this 
 casual glimpse of a cat-bird, how monotonous 
 might have proved the current of my thought, 
 rambling on such a day ! No, not rambling. It 
 is truer to say, we walk in winter, and ramble in 
 spring; just as one is given to loafing in summer 
 and to taking the world meditatively during 
 autumn's dreamy days. 
 
 But walking does not forbid a searching glance, 
 as we leave trees, rocks, and frozen river behind. 
 Even from a car window the world may be seen 
 suggestively. Turning, by mere chance, at the 
 proper moment, I once saw a prong-horned ante- 
 lope bounding over the prairie, while the train was 
 speeding through Colorado ; and again, in Arizona, 
 saw the ground cuckoo or chaparral cock running 
 from the train as rapidly as we were moving from 
 it ; yet in neither case did so simple an incident 
 fail to bring back many a bright picture and page 
 after page of many a well-thumbed volume. To 
 walk successfully, every step should give our wits 
 as well as our bodies an impetus. My winter cat- 
 
A Winter Cat-Bird. 21 
 
 bird, that came and went so quickly, tinged with 
 rosy light the dullest of dull-gray, leaden days. 
 That dreary aspect for which we are prepared at 
 the outset of a walk in winter vanishes into thin 
 air when unlooked-for phenomena become promi- 
 nent. It becomes a matter now of changed con- 
 ditions merely, and not the repellent outlook of a 
 dead past ; while in ourselves a constant longing 
 for a return of better things gives way to eager 
 anticipation. Pleased with what is, we cease to 
 dwell moodily upon what has been. So it proved 
 with the frozen river. The blue waters glittering 
 in golden sunshine, the rippling shallows hid by 
 the encroaching grass, the trembling shadows of 
 overarching trees, these we held dear while sum- 
 mer lasted, but have we nothing left us ? The sun 
 shines fitfully to-day, but when the drifting clouds 
 break from his path, how daintily the ice-gorged 
 shore is tinted ! Never a bow so brilliant in the 
 sky above as the roseate masses of uplifted ice 
 that bind the river. If in the bright blossoms of 
 early June we see only color, we have it here 
 again : the valley and the river offer us not merely 
 the ruins of more genial seasons, but one that 
 
22 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 teems with merit of its own. Not even the broad 
 expanse of ice, forbidding as this may seem, is 
 shunned ; a white gull even now is searching for 
 open water, and a crow, perched upon drift-wood, 
 calls to his kind that have gathered in the trees 
 along the shore. How wondrously clear is his 
 meaning cry, floating in frosty air ! and does it 
 revive, among other birds, the memory of other 
 days ? It had scarcely died away before the cat- 
 bird reappeared and murmured in his old-time 
 way; the gathering finches chirped far more 
 cheerily than before ; the tit whistled to the pass- 
 ing wind a clearly defiant note. Call this winter 
 if you choose ; shudder at every blast of the cold 
 west wind, and seek the nearest shelter ; but in all 
 fairness use no disparaging adjectives. 
 
 I have said there was no green thing in my 
 path. True, for a mile or more, but one may turn 
 homeward too soon. It is easy to fail, by a single 
 step, of reaching the great prize of a long day's 
 ramble, but I was not so unfortunate. Beneath 
 the oaks, where the crisp leaves carpeted the 
 frozen turf, prince's-pine grew rankly, and no lus- 
 tier growth greets the eager botanist even in May. 
 
A Winter Cat-Bird. 23 
 
 Its pearly-striped and dark-green leaves had all the 
 freshness of a flower, and I plucked them quite as 
 eagerly^ 
 
 There is nothing strange in seeing much, even 
 when Nature seems to close the doors upon you. 
 Even if so disposed, she cannot hide all her treas- 
 ures. And, after all, is it not a misconception 
 upon our part to suppose her back is ever turned, 
 or that she really closes a door upon you ? Can 
 the world be dead or sleeping where there are 
 birds, and living, growing plants ? Plunge but the 
 tip of your finger in the icy waters and you will 
 realize how chill they are ; yet, overturning a little 
 stone, some strange creature darted away and took 
 refuge beneath another sheltering pebble. Even 
 there, where ice-crystals replaced the lush grasses 
 of the past summer, strange forms of life found 
 Nature open-handed ; and if such should spurn to 
 hibernate, why should not we be brave enough to 
 laugh at winter even when he frowns ? 
 
 It is easy to catalogue the doings of a day, and 
 even less laborious to list the objects that, in a 
 brief walk, we pass by ; but if they are in nowise 
 suggestive, have we really seen them ? About the 
 
24 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 withered stem should ever linger the ghost of the 
 brilliant blossom. The leafless tree should still 
 cast that shade where in the long June days we 
 were wont to linger. If nothing of this comes of 
 a winter's walk, we have walked in vain. Our 
 limbs may have been exercised, it is true, but what 
 of our wits ? He who sees a winter cat-bird, as I 
 saw one to-day, will not be roused to enthusiasm if 
 the bird is but a mere accident, an overstaying 
 thrush, foolhardy rather than wise. As a mere 
 curiosity, the bird is a flat failure; but in the 
 meagre sunshine, that touched with gold the ice- 
 bound river, this same bird, by its mere presence, 
 clothed every tree with its full complement of 
 leaves ; restored the dead grass to a living green ; 
 unfolded blossoms upon every shrub. While the 
 bird tarried, the swift flight of the winter wind that 
 rocked the oaks and swept through the valley gave 
 forth no dolorous note ; it was but the breath of 
 summer, laden with the melody of many min- 
 strels. 
 
Intimations. 
 
 1 HE first expanded blossom on the tree at once 
 calls up a vision of the perfect fruit. The cherries 
 of June and peaches of August and all that they 
 mean are enjoyed in anticipation, because of the 
 fluttering white or pink blossom that dots the still 
 dreary landscape. 
 
 How far the realization will fill the crowded pic- 
 ture of our spring-tide fancy it boots not to con- 
 sider. It is the end of winter now, and let what 
 joy comes of the thought be unalloyed. Of it- 
 self, the present time is not alluring, but precious 
 by reason of its promises. Doubt is out of place 
 if pleasure is our aim, and to seek for intimations 
 that come to the front, even while yet ice and snow 
 prevail, may happily fill the short hours of a win- 
 ter ramble. 
 
 The drooping branches of the leafless larch, as 
 I see it from afar, are dreary beyond words. Every 
 B 3 25 
 
26 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 twig is of so dull and rusty a hue that one can 
 think only of decay and death. But, drawing 
 nearer, a faint blush overspreads it all, and when I 
 stand beneath the tree, every twig bears a roseate 
 blossom that has no lovelier rival in the bowers of 
 June. We stand too far aloof and wait until the 
 new birth is quite accomplished. There has been 
 a potent but unobtrusive force long at work, un- 
 suspected because unheralded by blare of trump- 
 ets ; and we, shutting ourselves from Nature, cry 
 " dreary, dreary," because of lack of knowledge 
 and lack of faith. 
 
 Where the rocks shelter from the wind, and 
 catch the mid-day sunbeams, I turn the heaped-up 
 leaves that have lain since autumn and find green 
 growths are everywhere. Pale spring-beauties are 
 even now in bud, and the purple myrtle offers us 
 its simple flowers as a proof that winter has ceased 
 to kill. The rank leaf-growth of the sassafras is 
 of fresher tint than a month ago, and prince's-pine 
 flourishes even in the shadow of a snow-bank. In 
 the swamps, at the very name of which so many 
 shudder, the skunk-cabbage is well above the 
 ground, and far above them, where there is no 
 
Intimations. 27 
 
 shelter from the cutting north wind, the buds of 
 the brave maples are ruddy. Even the chilly 
 waters are not without promise, and that dainty, 
 crimson-decked creature, the fairy shrimp, lights 
 up the shady pool with flashes of brilliant color. 
 We have but to look and listen. Many a wood- 
 bird has abundant faith, and far off among the 
 cedars I hear the love-call of the black-cap, and 
 that sweetest of all sounds, the anticipatory warble 
 of the bluebird. To hear this is to be well repaid, 
 whatever you may have undergone. It soothes 
 the smart of every pricking thorn. What fairy 
 structure will not rise at the mind's bidding and 
 shape itself a thing of beauty to the bluebird's 
 song ! Nature, here where I stand, is in truth 
 repulsively brutal ; the margin of the swamp is 
 but scattered ruins of last winter's storms ; but 
 how the jagged edges round off and meet their 
 neighbors ! how green the dead rushes grow ! 
 how quickly the naked branches of a lone tree 
 bend to the little arbor of my early home, while 
 that song of songs fills all the upper air ! The 
 song of the bluebird works a greater miracle than 
 any magician's wand. 
 
28 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 The river is near by, and across the meadows 
 and beyond the wood I see, floating high overhead 
 and darkly limned against the leaden sky, restless 
 gulls that have wandered from the sea. The 
 naturalist has not yet shown that they have aught 
 to do with any change, but they are oftener seen 
 now than when all signs of winter have disap- 
 peared. This of late years ; but it was not always 
 so. In the long ago of colonial days, and when 
 the Dutch even were the only white people on the 
 Delaware, gulls were as frequent here as swallows 
 in midsummer. But something closer in touch 
 with intimations is near at hand : a flock of red- 
 winged blackbirds. Their keen senses have de- 
 tected the whispered promise, and we may well 
 believe with them that spring is not afar off. True, 
 the north winds may come again, laden with snow 
 and ice, but their fury will be in vain ; no material 
 damage will be wrought, and in the contest between 
 frost and fire, the sun will come off more than 
 conqueror. 
 
 It is a strange habit that the rambler falls into, 
 this of merely cataloguing. Signs of spring ! 
 These I came to look for, but why not rest content 
 
Intimations. 29 
 
 when they have been found ? Is not one flower 
 and one song enough ? In such a matter, having 
 one swallow, you can make the summer. The 
 merit of this, the last day of February, is that it is 
 inexpressibly dismal. A chilling northeast storm 
 prevails. The woods moan ; the marsh is wrapped 
 in fog; over the river race the white-capped 
 waves ; the scream of the gulls and cry of despair- 
 ing crows cause me to shudder, but for a moment. 
 Safe by a lordly oak, I can laugh at the storm, and 
 did laugh when, in its sheltered nook, a song- 
 sparrow saw or felt or heard the promise of spring- 
 tide's milder sway, and sang his sweetest of sweet 
 summer songs. 
 
 Not a creature of all the varied forms of wild 
 life but may have its own almanac and unwritten 
 rules of forecasting the weather. Many a bird or 
 beast or fish but may be our superior in this, and 
 it is little of merit to be only our equal. 
 
 If there be and who can doubt it pleasure in 
 anticipation, likewise there is in seeking out an 
 intimation in these matters of nature, and, securing 
 it, spend the hours in contemplation. This is a 
 subtle form of fancy that defies description. A 
 3* 
 
30 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 plaguing " what of it ?" thrusts itself forward at 
 every discovery you make, and the predetermined 
 wish to be a poet whenever a flower was found 
 or bird sang vanishes. Wrapped in a stout coat, 
 behind a grand old oak, and not weary from long 
 tramping, the outlook seems favorable for indulging 
 in some grand flight ; but no, the flower would 
 not lead me, nor the bird's song suggest a single 
 thought. It was vexing at first, but should not 
 have been. I had my pleasant thoughts as I wan- 
 dered, and what more could I ask ? It is too soon 
 to discuss even the promises of the coming year ; 
 far too soon to consider the fruit thereof. It was 
 but an intimation that was offered when I ventured 
 into the field, and this is too delicate to be dis- 
 sected ; and, to do it justice, we must dream of it, 
 not wrangle over it. 
 
 The day draws to a close, but not the storm ; 
 yet I have not lost faith. The flower is still mine, 
 and the songs of the brave birds still linger. 
 Surely spring is near at hand when Nature, that so 
 often laughs at our puny efforts to force her to 
 speak out, comes unasked from hidden haunts and 
 vouchsafes us intimations. 
 
Intimations. 3 1 
 
 A week later : It is not wise to expect much 
 of March, for then every slight favor she grants 
 will be^appreciated the more. Such a favor was 
 the seventh of the month. It brought a bee to 
 the flowering whitlow-grass, and at sunrise a wasp 
 was battering against the window-pane. The sky 
 was blue-black and with not a cloud visible. This 
 was sufficient of an invitation to survey the ruin 
 wrought by the still lingering but now listless 
 winter. Before the town was actively astir I was 
 beyond its limits. The maples were more ruddy 
 than a week ago, and daffodils were up. Even a 
 stray spring -beauty dared look out. Better than 
 all else, the blackbirds were prospecting ; and over 
 the swamp and along the river red-wings and 
 grakles were holding a convention. No, not this, 
 but rather, informally, discussing the outlook. The 
 crows only, I take it, are so far methodical as to 
 hold a convention. This they are known to do 
 annually, and, so far as practicable, in the same 
 places and at the same times. Such a gathering 
 is well worth witnessing. Godman has given us, 
 in his " Rambles of a Naturalist," a vivid account 
 of the crows of ninety years ago, and what he 
 
32 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 found to say then is applicable now, except in the 
 matter of numbers. He speaks of millions of 
 crows near Bristol, Pennsylvania, but I have never 
 seen so many as one thousand gathered together 
 since living here. Now, to see more than one 
 hundred on the marshes at low tide is an unusual 
 sight. He accords them a considerable degree of 
 intelligence, dnd we can read between the lines that 
 he wished to use stronger terms than he did. He 
 need not have feared contradiction. Admiring 
 their cunning, and convinced of their advanced 
 mental power as compared to other birds, he, 
 strangely enough, felt he was doing the world a 
 service in stooping to be their murderer. At least, 
 where love of nature and wild life in all its phases 
 is strongly developed, we might suppose the insane 
 desire to kill would be effectually restrained. 
 
 Crows talk, it is true, in an unknown tongue, but 
 their gestures are translatable. The energy with 
 which the leaders lay down the law, or, if argu- 
 ing, make telling speeches, is unmistakable, and the 
 acquiescence or disapproval of the audience, as 
 the case may be, cannot be misconstrued. Who- 
 ever has been at a large political meeting and heard 
 
Intimations. 33 
 
 the half-whispered " that's so" that fills the room 
 when the orator makes a hit, will readily recognize 
 the subdued ca-a-a that is simultaneously uttered 
 by the whole assembly when a more than usually 
 emphatic caw caw! rings through the tree-tops. 
 Such a crow convention is said to be a sign of 
 spring, and on such a day as this one can well 
 accept it as such. But here an ugly fact crops 
 out that robs the saying of its poetry : the con- 
 vention is much more regular than the season, and 
 when, as sometimes happens, we have no spring, 
 the crows convene just the same. 
 
 There were crows to-day, but only about the 
 river, where, by reason it may be of unconscious 
 imitation, they rose and fell, swooped and curved 
 with all the grace of the gulls, with which they 
 associated. But the blackbirds were the feature 
 of the day, and a chorus from a thousand throats 
 should, as it did, draw the sting of winter from the 
 air. Bird music will warm the chilliest of days, 
 because of our ever associating it only with spring 
 or summer. Not that we should do so, for there 
 are scores of winter birds that make the dreary 
 way-sides ring with gladness. Like the crows, 
 
34 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 they did not only sing but chatted volubly, doubt- 
 less discussing the weather, and so showing, by 
 the bye, that men and birds have one mental trait 
 in common. A general knowledge of prearranged 
 plans as a flock was surely a common possession ; 
 for when they moved, it was no uncertain, aimless 
 drifting from point to point. Presumably a signal 
 was given, for they took wing almost as one 
 creature, and, without breaking ranks, crossed the 
 river to the pines that loomed up black and gloomy 
 on the Jersey shore. Do these flocks have leaders ? 
 It is a fair question. Many of their movements 
 suggest it, but the ornithologist is yet to be born 
 who can point out the chosen bird or any of his 
 lieutenants. If not guided by some one or more 
 of their numbers, then there would appear to be 
 a phase of animal intelligence unlike anything 
 human. Certainly a thousand men, or half that 
 number, could not move together without clash- 
 ing, except they be controlled by acknowledged 
 leaders. 
 
 What I hoped for was to witness an upward 
 spiral flight of the principal flock. This is a rare 
 occurrence, I judge, and does not appear to have 
 
Intimations. 35 
 
 been commented upon. Imagine a gigantic screw, 
 some five hundred feet in length and of propor- 
 tionate diameter, standing on its head, and half a 
 thousand blackbirds, in a long and narrow band, 
 starting from the ground and following the thread 
 of the screw. Occasionally a line of dense white 
 smoke will describe much the same figure. When 
 the maximum height is reached a circular course 
 is followed until the birds are all upon the same 
 plane, when, as a huge black blanket, the flock 
 returns to the ground. 
 
 Whatever may be said of blackbirds now, the 
 north-bound geese have their leaders, and if their 
 sonorous honking reaches our ears, one does not 
 think of the bitterness of wild March mornings. 
 This is one of those thoroughly thrilling sounds 
 that quickens the pulse and leads us a long way 
 towards realizing what the world about us really 
 means. When the river was wild and wild men 
 only dwelt about it, this call of the geese was a 
 familiar sound, and one that makes me envious of 
 early colonial days. Think of it ! s-Nils Gustafson, 
 a Swede, above ninety years of age, assured Peter 
 Kalm, in 1748, that he had killed twenty- three 
 
36 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 ducks at a shot ; but now (in 1748) you were forced 
 to ramble about all day and perhaps not see but 
 three or four. It is marvellous that a duck ever 
 appears on the Delaware now, and yet there are 
 often very many to be seen, and he who is awake 
 early or out late can hear the over-flying geese, 
 and possibly see them, when fog-bound on the 
 river. Wildness is not yet quite an unknown 
 element, even though man, for two centuries, has 
 been trying to rub it out. 
 
 Much is missed by those who value a bird 
 merely because of its fine song or bright feathers. 
 Here, in the valley of the Delaware, such birds are 
 in the minority; but the great host of songless 
 and plainly-dressed birds have compensating 
 merits. Many a bird is cunning to a degree, and 
 needs but to be watched a little closely to be ap- 
 preciated for its winsome ways. There is now a 
 merry flock of tree-sparrows in the cedars that do 
 little but chatter in matters vocal, and offer only a 
 color-study of blended browns and black ; but see 
 these birds when at leisure, playing bo-peep in the 
 dead grasses on the meadow ; see them flutter and 
 scold the venturesome meadow-mice as they dart 
 
Intimations. 37 
 
 along their run-ways, and a whole chapter of de- 
 lightful bird-life is opened up to you. The nut- 
 hatch can only fret and scold, so it would seem ; but 
 when it ventures to peep fnto the nest of a gray 
 squirrel, and darts back, startled by the wide- 
 awake occupant, it can chatter so glibly that we 
 know it has something like a sense of humor. 
 
 Watch, too, the wondering kinglets that are 
 half frightened when the white-footed mouse peeps 
 from his bush-nest or threads his way daintily 
 along the tangled maze of greenbrier. This 
 dainty creature, the prettiest of all our mammals, 
 is nocturnal in habit, yet not even the brightest 
 sunshine blinds it, and when it does venture 
 abroad in daylight there is apt to be great excite- 
 ment among the gatherings of our smaller winter 
 birds, and these little kinglets in particular, that 
 love their sun-bath so dearly, are more than 
 roused to energy by the animal's appearance. 
 Their softly-uttered song for they sing only to 
 themselves gives way to emphasis strongly sug- 
 gestive of the little house-wren's well-known pro- 
 fanity. 
 
 Clearly, even in March, bright days may be 
 4 
 
38 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 over-full ; and yet often we fancy much is lacking. 
 We continually make unjust demands. To-day 
 the river did not look chilly and so repellent ; 
 more than one water-plant was growing thriftily, 
 and by the pebbly beach was a faint suspicion of 
 the spice-wood's golden bloom ; but where were 
 the frogs ? I listened in vain, and, at last, to make 
 good my want, rattled the shaggy bark of an old 
 oak with my cane, and fancied I heard the first 
 frogs of the season. How true it is, the shortest 
 journey a man can take is when in search of a 
 fool ! Turning from the tree to the river, I saw 
 my face reflected on its quiet surface. 
 
 Whether we see many sights or few ; hear the 
 rejoicings of every wild-wood bird, or but the 
 song of a single warbler, if that winged cente- 
 narian, with his scythe and hour-glass, old Father 
 Time, would only take a rest such a day as this, 
 the world would be the gainer. 
 
 Still later : 
 
 The intimations of February become substantial 
 promises long before the close of March, but how 
 human are they! The chances are good that 
 every promise will be broken. The big snow- 
 
Intimations. 39 
 
 storm of the season came last night, and, by the 
 almanac, spring commences to-morrow. It will 
 begin terribly handicapped ; but mankind seems 
 more disturbed than the birds, for on the maples 
 there are song-sparrows that sing their May-day 
 melodies, and from the upper air comes the hope- 
 ful whistle of the robin. This is well, so far as it 
 goes ; but the snow is a set-back, do what we will. 
 It is a contradiction ; a confusing of familiar 
 things ; a condition that is repugnant, in spite of 
 novelty, to dig your spring flowers from a snow- 
 bank ; but this was the only way, on and after 
 March 18. 
 
 March skies, March atmosphere, midwinter 
 earth : these the conditions now ; and no wonder 
 that my companion asked, " What have you to say 
 of intimations of spring to-day?" Everywhere 
 endless acres of snow-clad fields, huge drifts by 
 the river-shore, and, beyond, that glittering, steel- 
 blue water that is far colder than any ice. I looked 
 about for maple blossoms, but they were tightly 
 closed and brown. The larch had hidden its 
 promises of spring-tide, and there was nothing to 
 be said. The world had rolled backward many a 
 
40 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 week and left its champion confounded. Not a 
 syllable could be uttered in defence of such con- 
 ditions. March may play fast and loose as it 
 chooses, but a murrain seize its black art that can 
 call midwinter back. Nevertheless, must the 
 rambler sit down in despair because of all this ? 
 We made for the river-shore in spite of the free 
 scope of the cutting wind, for if life was astir at 
 all it was likelier here than on the fields. It 
 proved so. My companion's question, " What's 
 that?" and my exclamation of "A seal!" were 
 uttered at the same instant, and straightway the 
 bad weather was forgiven and forgotten. 
 
 To have this creature twice lift its head above 
 the water and then disappear proved the " presto, 
 change !" of the wonder-workers when I was 
 young. I could have welcomed the north pole 
 then and there. It is a matter of a single seal, 
 and at long intervals now, thousands crowding 
 every rock and raft of ice a few thousands of years 
 ago. To-day, a civilized man gazing in wonder at 
 a solitary creature, formerly here roamed savage 
 men that largely fed upon their oily carcasses. 
 Who can fathom the meaning of these changes of 
 
Intimations. 41 
 
 the centuries : these gains and losses of a half- 
 score of millenniums ? Man mightier, wiser, hap- 
 pier, it ,may be ; and yet the March winds stir the 
 lingering trace of savagery in us all, and we are, 
 for the moment, wild as the flashing waves that 
 hurry by. What a change ! Now but a single 
 seal ; but time was when not only seals, but the 
 walrus, roamed the ancient river, and the masto- 
 don and reindeer, moose and musk-ox, lingered 
 upon its shores. 
 
 The effect of sudden changes of the weather 
 upon animal life is one of the few subjects that 
 have not been written to death, possibly because 
 they have not been closely studied ; and to add to 
 the difficulty, these changes are often quite as sud- 
 den and short-lived as the conditions that produced 
 them. It would certainly seem so in the case of 
 migratory birds, and more prominently so in that 
 of occasional visitors. No one, I venture to assert, 
 has been so fortunate as to see a snow-bunting, 
 the northern white snow-finch, during the past 
 winter; yet a whole host of them suddenly 
 appeared at the close of the storm, and disap- 
 peared quite as quickly as they came. Not once 
 4* 
 
42 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 this year have I seen a cross-bill when peering 
 into the thick-set cedars or watching the myriads 
 of small birds that frequent the pines ; yet a dead 
 one was picked up in a lane near by. Where did 
 they come from? Just beyond the outskirts of 
 every region there are novelties that only the 
 favored few who never rest from rambling occa- 
 sionally see. How quickly the Canadian fauna 
 can overlap its bounds and make, literally, a fly- 
 ing visit to Carolinian territory and return is one 
 of those features of bird-life not of importance in 
 itself, but as certain to excite wonderment as 
 its occurrence gives pleasure to those who wit- 
 ness it. 
 
 Why, then, complain at this return of winter ? 
 It quickens the pulse, and that, too, of every bird 
 that braves its rigors. This is a soothing thought. 
 It is worth wading knee-deep through a snow- 
 bank to hear the cardinal red-bird whistle. There 
 is one now perched near the river-bank, and his 
 clear notes float even across the wide waters, and 
 that faint melody that the wind brings from the 
 opposite shore is, I fancy, the answering call of 
 another of his kind. 
 
Intimations. 43 
 
 Fill, then, the river valley with music, and what 
 matters it if the fields are frozen, the trees droop 
 with frqst, and the winds struggle to drown the 
 exulting songs of wild life defiant ? 
 
A River View. 
 
 WHERE the long reach of gravel and stranded 
 rocks stay their shoreward progress, the ceaseless 
 breaking of the wind-tossed waves is fitting music, 
 while it is yet winter. Such sound was truly out 
 
 of tune and harsh, for nature everywhere was 
 rugged, and, by the river-shore, the plash of 
 troubled water its only proper spokesman. It has 
 44 
 
A River View. 
 
 not been long since the stream was ice-bound ; when 
 not the narrowest line of bright blue water glinted 
 in the fitful sunlight of a half-cloudy day. The 
 river then seemed dreaming of by-gone centuries, 
 when the plaything of a glacier; but to-day all 
 was glitter, or black as forbidding night, save 
 where the short-lived waves with downy crests 
 stood a brief moment in the golden sunshine, 
 waves of marvellous beauty that brightened the 
 bleak world about them, albeit dying at their 
 birth. 
 
 It is never well to be influenced by such a 
 thought as that the world was made for man, an 
 idea that forges to the front when Nature appears 
 to seek you out and, thrusting aside the doors of 
 her cabinet, gives generous opportunity to view 
 her gems. Here, where the sloping bank shuts 
 out the chill west wind and a smooth niche in a 
 convenient bowlder proved fitted to my reclining 
 person, the suggestion naturally welled to the 
 surface that something beyond mere chance added 
 the noble outlook. But glacial floods and time's 
 succeeding touch considered only their own whims, 
 and it is well to rest content with the bare fact : it 
 
46 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 so happened we rambled this far, and, resting, 
 voted time and place a full realization of a lazy 
 man's outing. Let the field and forest behind us 
 entertain those who remained at home ; the river 
 alone concerns us. 
 
 It is not a forced expression to say that the 
 wind plays with the water. How else adequately 
 describe the changeful surface? A mile away, 
 this is as a mirror breathed upon ; while nearer, 
 the rippled flow is dark, a broken band of polished 
 purple steel, or glittering and bright, as shimmer- 
 ing silver. Nowhere is there fixity of light and 
 shade. Not an instant but there is a change of 
 place : the blue-black waters now here, now there ; 
 the rippled silver gone ere you can trace it. Let 
 the wind play what pranks it may, the ever-shift- 
 ing scene is not perplexing ; there is enough de- 
 liberation to give us chance to follow; and then 
 there is that delightful uncertainty which twits 
 us, and we fall to guessing what the next freak 
 will be. 
 
 It is reasonable to ask if water-birds realize these 
 constant variations of light-effects upon the surface 
 of a broad stream. They are comparatively safe 
 
A River View. 47 
 
 at such a time, as one wary wild duck proved to 
 be to-day. It was a brightly-plumaged bird, with 
 a great preponderance of white, set off with black 
 upon the wings, neck, head, and shoulders ; a trim 
 bird, at home alike in the air or on the water ; one 
 that has no dread of distance ; here to-day, in a 
 foreign land to-morrow. 
 
 Although gracefully floating near by, this pretty 
 duck often seemed quite in mid-stream, and con- 
 stantly disappeared, yet without diving. Now 
 flashing into view upon the black water, now 
 standing out in ebon contrast to the white, silvery 
 glitter of a wide waste of water, it never quite 
 took proper shape, but ever left us with a linger- 
 ing doubt as to its identity. Had not happy 
 chance rewarded our patience, it would still be a 
 matter of uncertainty ; but no, it was truly a wild 
 duck, and not a fancy. But the point lies here : 
 Might there not have been at least a companion, 
 if, indeed, not many ? Because space only con- 
 fronts you, count not the landscape empty. Un- 
 seen activities are real. A counter-blast, it may 
 be, checked the breeze, and the stilled water gave 
 up its secret. Such a chance one in ten thou- 
 
48 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 sand clothed in flesh, a trembling speck on the 
 troubled waters ; be not over-sure you are alone, 
 even though the coast is very clear. Later, the 
 puff! puff! of a steamboat was heard, and, as the 
 unsightly craft rounded a wooded point, my lone 
 duck was alive to man's proximity at once, and 
 how it had multiplied ! A hundred, and not one, 
 rose in the clear air, moved by a common impulse, 
 and, fringing the low line of snowy clouds that 
 marked the horizon, sped northward. Think of 
 it ! here in the valley of the Delaware to-day ; to- 
 morrow, finding shelter in the rock-bound coves 
 of the New England coast, and at home every- 
 where. 
 
 Were the clouds envious? Rolling in huge 
 masses from the grim, gray east, they filled and 
 chilled the valley at a stroke. How quickly the 
 river responded ! There was left but the stern 
 reality of flowing water. If, before, the waves 
 laughed and were boisterous when they kissed the 
 shore, they sobbed now. Inanimate, of course, 
 but happily we need not hold it so ; and cannot, 
 indeed, when a mere cloud so strangely checks its 
 merriment. This same river, that laughed and 
 
A River View. 49 
 
 frowned at storm and tempest before man's crea- 
 tion, now seemed cowardly to slink away, as 
 though rebuked and ashamed. The final change 
 from life to death was typified. 
 
 However it may be with the more philosophical 
 rambler, the lazy man, when on his outing, has no 
 desire to encounter gloom. The restful couch 
 that the chance bowlder has proved for so long 
 began to grow irksome ; the sloping bank sank to 
 the level of the fields ; the chill west wind came 
 on apace; there was no longer a sprightly river 
 view, but a mere view of a languid river. Less 
 and less the niched bowlder is a bed of down, and 
 as we shift our aching bones, hoping against hope 
 that the waters will again grow glad, a mist slowly 
 arises to meet the overhanging cloud. At first in 
 curling lines, as though the Indians' camp-fires 
 were not yet quenched; and then with a filmy 
 shroud, enwrapping river, valley, and the distant 
 hills beyond. Why tarry ? There is no river- 
 view in the outlook now. The muffled murmur 
 of the changing tide alone assures us that the 
 earth itself has not passed away and left us 
 perched upon a rock in chaos. But is chaos 
 c d 5 
 
50 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 worth acquaintance? That depends. It has 
 never yet had firm hold here ; why now ? The 
 day is not yet done, and there are to-morrows yet 
 to be. If the river is shut out in spite, let us out- 
 sit the imp that mocks us. Even now, while our 
 thoughts are still with what has been, there is a 
 rift in the clouds ; the mist rolls slowly back from 
 whence it came. A ripple of golden light ven- 
 tures along the shore, a mighty flood of mellow 
 sunshine fills the valley. There is not a wave but 
 leaps to catch the life-giving glow, as though it 
 would hold it henceforth forever. Why despair ? 
 That which has so long abided shall not fail us ; 
 the river was a living friend when we came in the 
 morning, and now, in the evening, greets us as 
 heartily. Well may it glow with all its old-time 
 ardor, for the light of every trembling star above 
 it is gathered to its bosom. 
 
 So ended our outing by the river. I say " our," 
 for I had a companion, as I supposed ; but for 
 hours he has been quite forgotten, and long ago he 
 left me. 
 
In the Serpents' Path. 
 
 No month offers less than does March to attract 
 the rambler, and for that reason it is, perhaps, the 
 best month to be out of doors. To see little, and 
 that thoroughly, leaves a more lasting impression 
 than a bewildering multitude of Nature's riches. 
 
 Not long since I turned from a wide expanse of 
 wind-tossed waters to an inviting cove, and then, 
 letting the boat drift where it might, I peered into 
 the depths of a forest that reached to the water's 
 edge. One tall, towering pine, blasted by the 
 storms, pierced the upper air, and dark, tapering 
 cedars on either side shut from view the neighbor- 
 ing hills ; while beneath the lesser growth of 
 birches, rhododendron, and tangled shrubs hid the 
 huge rocks among which they grew. The outlook 
 was grand but gloomy. I was both attracted 
 and repelled. Even the shallow waters were 
 black, lifeless, and unfathomable. No rambler, 
 eager for Nature at her best, could have asked for 
 
52 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 more, and yet my enthusiasm was not aroused. 
 The winds that rioted on the lake dared not ven- 
 ture here. 
 
 " There was no motion in the dumb, dead air 
 
 Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 
 Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
 
 Is not so deadly still 
 As that wide forest ;" 
 
 where 
 
In the Serpents' Path. 53 
 
 " Over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
 
 A sense of mystery the spirit daunted ; 
 Which said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
 v The place is haunted." 
 
 Then, as the sun dashed through a fleecy cloud, 
 the spell was broken. A sluggish snake rolled 
 from a jutting rock, and following the trail of that 
 serpent came the weird glory of a bright March 
 day. 
 
 Guiding my boat to the rocky shore, I drew it 
 from the water, and ventured to explore the dark, 
 dank wood before me. Between loose rocks that 
 threatened to topple over as I passed, I threaded 
 " the sombre boscage," not wholly at ease, and 
 longing for other evidence of life ; for, although 
 death has claimed the lion's share of my treasure, 
 I still love the living world. Happily, there was 
 soon a rustling of dead leaves near by, and then a 
 strange, indefinite shape approached. The path 
 was too narrow for me to step aside, and I had 
 neither time nor room to turn back and reach my 
 boat. Nearer it came, hugging the stony path, a 
 writhing, squirming, tangled knot of serpents, and 
 I must prove the barrier to its progress. As well 
 
54 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 be a fool outright as cursed with a tardy wit. 
 Had every snake been venomous, I should have 
 been safe only by standing immovably, but per- 
 sonal safety crowded all saner thought, and I 
 clutched and scrambled vainly against the wall- 
 like rocks. Of course in vain, and then the snakes 
 were upon me. It was a strange sight. Ankle- 
 deep in garter-snakes ! Let the timid folk think 
 of it. Only to a slight extent did I stay their 
 progress, and before all had passed I sat down and 
 gathered as many as I could hold. They were 
 very cold, sluggish, and many, I think, were 
 blind. The languid darting of their forked tongues 
 was very funny ; as if they felt compelled to keep 
 up the custom, but were terribly bored by it. 
 How often have I known human tongues to wag 
 in just that way ! 
 
 For an hour I toyed with a score of pretty 
 snakes, but they could neither be teased nor 
 Warmed to activity. I despaired of learning any- 
 thing from them, until the thought came to me as 
 to their destination, and why they should seek the 
 icy waters of the lake. Tangles of snakes, in the 
 meadows at home, are not common, although, like 
 
In the Serpents* Path. 55 
 
 many another feature of the fauna of that spot, they 
 can generally be found, when earnestly looked for. 
 There were nothing but crayfish in a meadow- 
 brook when a friend came for the single purpose 
 of studying them ; and how abundant were the 
 rare Muhlenberg turtles when the herpetologist 
 happened along ! The rambler, on the other hand, 
 indulges in hap-hazard observation, and unavoida- 
 bly so. To be constantly on the alert for certain 
 forms of life is to become a specialist, and this 
 means work, that most dreaded of all combina- 
 tions of the alphabet. But the snakes at home : 
 they wait until April sunshine warms them into 
 activity, and away they go until the first ditch is 
 reached, when each individual bids his fellows 
 farewell ; but here, in a mountain-lake, it all 
 seemed different. It is March, and as wintry on 
 the hill-tops as a month ago, and these snakes 
 are taking a brief outing, or some hidden cause 
 has sent them, out of season. This, too, is an 
 occurrence I have known. Huge water-snakes 
 occasionally appear in the fields during warm days 
 in February, coiled into circular mats, and too 
 lazy to uncoil when picked up. Where they 
 
56 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 come from is a mystery, unless they have been 
 sleeping in some spring- hole near by. 
 
 Still retaining a half-dozen large specimens, I 
 went to the water, but the snakes had not plunged 
 in. Instead, they were basking on the sunny rock. 
 Returning to the spot where I met them, I liber- 
 ated my pets, but they had lost all recollection of 
 their original intention, and crawled off in any and 
 every direction. I leave to others to determine 
 how a vast number of snakes, coiled in some 
 hidden, dark cave among heaped-up rocks, could 
 know that the sun was shining brightly; that the 
 warmth of spring bathed the lake shore ; that the 
 world was ready for their active lives. And again, 
 why do they so closely cling to each other until 
 every doubt has disappeared ? We see a single 
 snake in summer, and know it only as a timid creat- 
 ure, or one that vainly hopes to turn you from its 
 path by idle threats ; but, looking longer, if an un- 
 just repugnance can be overcome, we will find there 
 is more credit due a snake than it usually receives. 
 It has a hard time of it at best, and success is 
 proportionate to its cunning in the ever-present 
 struggle for existence. And what is cunning ? 
 
In the Serpents' Path. 57 
 
 Possibly everybody knows and all are familiar 
 with basking snakes, and have traced their going 
 and coming for years; but where is all this re- 
 corded ? A species-monger, the value of whose 
 writings consists in his wealth of quotations, com- 
 plains that what any tyro knows has too often 
 been proclaimed as a discovery. This is false, to 
 be sure, but is notwithstanding a suggestive state- 
 ment; for what of the world of not even tyros, 
 the thousands without an inkling of zoologic lore ? 
 They constitute a considerable proportion of the 
 civilized world, savages, I take it, are necessarily 
 naturalists, in the happier sense of that term, and 
 to say to them that all birds cannot fly, and that 
 one kind of fish can climb a tree, is to announce a 
 novel fact, if not to proclaim a discovery. But to 
 come back to the subject of an animal's habits : 
 there is probably not a creature, whether furred, 
 feathered, or scaled, that does not contradict you 
 sooner or later. The farmer, fisherman, or trapper 
 is the man to whom we had better go for informa- 
 tion on special points. Their facts are more readily 
 separated from a fancy than the professional's from 
 a theory. These men will stagger you with the list 
 
58 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 of surprises that have been theirs. Perhaps fish 
 are so far methodical that they may be unmis- 
 takably reported. Sunfish always make nests in 
 the sand, to the best of my knowledge ; but do not 
 be over-confident; next summer you may find a 
 pair of them doing otherwise. This was written 
 in 1889, and now the novelty is at hand: a pair 
 of sunfish took up their quarters in an old shoe, 
 and kept their offspring in it until August. This 
 was not a forced matter, but voluntary choice. 
 There was a half-acre of available nesting-ground 
 on both sides of them, and nothing to explain 
 their decision, unless they foresaw its security 
 against spawn-eating and fry-eating fishes. The 
 fish stories hardest to believe are the true ones. 
 My old grandmother, that knew the birds in her 
 garden for fifty years, I hold a better authority 
 than the collector, however professionally he col- 
 lects ; yet my grandmother did not know that 
 a cat-bird was a thrush. But she knew the birds 
 of the garden as so many individuals, and real- 
 ized what wealth of common sense was squeezed 
 into their little brains. 
 
 Poor snakes, you have been quite forgotten ; but 
 
In the Serpents' Path. 59 
 
 here is to your health and headway ! May the 
 day of many serpents soon return. Every one 
 knows a^ snake, but how few know anything about 
 them ! Generally, too, they care less, and think 
 only of the advisability of bringing down a crush- 
 ing heel. It is to be hoped that this villainous 
 practice of teaching children to dread snakes will 
 end some day. It is not an inborn dread, for I 
 have given children snakes to play with, time 
 without number, and have never found them 
 otherwise than amused. It is only after silly 
 stories are told them that the fear becomes estab- 
 lished. It is funny to think that there are school- 
 teachers who shudder over a dead snake and 
 forbid the scholars bringing living ones to the 
 class-room. There is no herpetology to be taught 
 outside of the text-books, and the fewer illustra- 
 tions the better. 
 
 The mowing- meadows at home were the snakes' 
 paradise ; and long before the introduction of the 
 mowing-machine what wonderful black-snakes 
 were to be encountered ! They were bold enough, 
 so the mowers averred, to attack you, but none 
 ever did. The champion mower of his day, who 
 
60 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 always cut the grass in the devil's kitchen, as one 
 sunny nook was known, had no end of adventures 
 there with snakes. His strangest tale was not far 
 from the truth, for, as my grandfather said, they 
 were not all " strictly correct." Hercules started 
 to mow the corner, but the snakes rebelled. A 
 dozen, he claimed, stood upon their tail-tips and 
 defied him. He was about to drop his scythe and 
 run, when the idea of being twitted as a coward 
 held him back, and he made a bold strike forward, 
 as if there was nothing there but waving grass. 
 The largest snake was ready for this movement 
 and dashed at the scythe, swallowing the blade 
 and six inches of the sneed. So Hercules said 
 when, weak with terror, he reached the house. 
 My grandfather found that he had struck the 
 snake in the mouth and cut the body so that it 
 covered the end of the blade. This is about the 
 proportion of fact and fiction in modern snake 
 stories. That was fifty years ago, and now the 
 devil's kitchen has to content itself with little 
 garter-snakes. The world grows better, backward, 
 in some respects. 
 
 Leaving the shores, with all their wildness and 
 
In the Serpents' Path. 61 
 
 wonders, I returned to the boat, picking my way 
 among the basking snakes that even now scarce 
 deigned,. to look at me ; and as I faced the rising 
 wind that more than ruffled the wide reach of 
 waters, I thought of my recent adventure, and 
 wondered, and still wonder, if the wind, turning 
 from its path and sweeping that sunny ledge of 
 rocks, drove again to their home in the forest 
 that writhing, squirming, crawling tangle of pretty 
 snakes. 
 
A Victim of Thoreau. 
 
 VvHO ventures to say that length of years 
 bringeth wisdom ? And yet who has ever met an 
 octogenarian whom he did not look upon as wise ? 
 One hears so much about gaining wisdom through 
 experience that it seems impossible not to hold 
 him as very knowing who has reached fourscore 
 years. It is very proper to look up to our elders, 
 but it does not follow that the only course to pur- 
 sue is that pointed out by them. May it not seem 
 ungracious to say so, but there are many aged men 
 living who cannot be accounted wise. Even in 
 those things pertaining peculiarly to their own 
 sphere they are lacking. I met a curious char- 
 acter lately: an old man who professed to be a 
 victim of Thoreau. 
 
 The day was fitting for such a meeting. Al- 
 though in March, there was a wealth of summer 
 62 
 
A Victim of Thoreau. 63 
 
 1 - - 
 
 sunshine, an abundance of green grass, of singing 
 birds, of piping frogs, and, here and there, scat- 
 tered (Jandelions and violets. The day teemed 
 with life, and yet mankind was not astir. No 
 
 farmer was ploughing, and the highway was de- 
 serted. This added zest to my stroll, for such 
 solitude gives one the feeling of a world to him- 
 self. I walked a mile or more alone, and then, 
 
64 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 . 
 
 where the road turned that a brook and noble elm 
 might remain as nature placed them, I met an old 
 man. He was sitting at the foot of the tree and 
 gazing steadily at the rippling waters before him. 
 It was a pretty picture, and I stopped to study it. 
 Then, with a woman's curiosity, I ventured to 
 speak. To have merely said " good-morning" and 
 passed on would not have sufficed. Strangely 
 enough, I was disposed to talk. Although the 
 question was absurd, " Fishing ?" I asked. 
 
 " No ; frogging, after a fashion," he replied, with 
 an assuring smile. 
 
 Then I drew nearer, and, resting against the tree, 
 waited for an explanation of his ambiguous remark. 
 
 " I have been sitting here for hours watching 
 that frog," and he pointed to one squatted upon a 
 stone immediately before him. "It takes the 
 world easy, it seems to me, and, as this same 
 world provides its wants, why should not I do 
 the same, sit still and let the world supply me ?" 
 
 I thought I had met with some wanderer from 
 the poor-house, or the grandfather of some one of 
 my neighbors ; but instead, here was a new phase 
 of humanity, a mild type of philosophical tramp. 
 
A Victim of Thoreau. 65 
 
 " Do you live near by ?" I asked, ignoring his 
 remarks. 
 
 " My^home, if you can call it so, is the range of 
 my rambling; but why are you curious about 
 me ? Such a corner as this ought to be no man's 
 land, except his who rests for a time here, on his 
 way to nowhere." 
 
 " I'm sure I have no claim to your cozy seat, 
 and am only too glad to have met you. You are 
 a stranger about here, I take it?" I remarked, 
 without any definite reason for speaking at all. 
 
 " Yes, I am," and, turning towards me, he said, 
 in most inviting tones, " and yet not altogether. I 
 was here sixty years ago, and sat under this same 
 tree, and again thirty-five years ago, when I read a 
 book that turned my head, and I've been won- 
 dering where the mistake was ever since." 
 
 I was thoroughly interested in the old man now, 
 and could scarcely wait until he had finished 
 speaking to ask what book had so marred his 
 fortunes. 
 
 " Thoreau's ' Walden,' " he replied ; " there are 
 pages of it I can repeat, and often do so, wonder- 
 ing all the time where's the hitch in his phi- 
 
 e 6* 
 
66 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 losophy. Did you ever read the book ?" he asked, 
 abruptly, eying me closely as he put the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " I have, several times," I replied. 
 
 " And what do you think of it ?" he asked. 
 
 "All that I understand I like extremely; the 
 rest I let go unheeded," I told him. 
 
 " It's all easy enough to understand ; but what 
 puzzles me is why his philosophy won't work. 
 I have been trying it, and the contemplation 
 and study of nature, and all that, came easy 
 enough, but I could not get bread from my bean- 
 field." 
 
 "Did you plant one?" I asked. 
 
 " No ; but I helped myself to others' beans, here 
 a little and there a little; but never in a whole 
 neighborhood could I gather enough to trade for 
 bread enough." 
 
 " Was that Thoreau's plan ?" I asked. 
 
 " Not exactly ; but mine had the advantage of 
 allowing more time for study and contemplation. 
 Still, it didn't work. His philosophy is at fault, 
 and mine, which is an improvement, has never 
 worked ; and yet why I do not see ;" and here the 
 
A Victim of Thoreau. 67 
 
 old man thrust his cane at the frog before him, 
 sending it spinning into the brook. 
 
 " May I ask who you are and where you come 
 from ?" I asked, with some impatience, for the old 
 fellow thoroughly puzzled me. 
 
 " Not who I am," he replied, " nor where from ; 
 but I will venture this far with you, stranger, to 
 tell you how I live. Nine months in the year I'm 
 like the frog I stirred up just now. I squat where 
 it suits me, and stick until some fellow-creature 
 comes along with a cane and sends me afloat to 
 squat on the nearest flat stone I come to. There's 
 that frog, a yard or two farther down the brook, 
 and there he'll stick until forced to get up, I sup- 
 pose ; and so it's been with me. I've never found 
 a seat that the world did not force me to quit ; 
 and I've never been able to see why I am not 
 one of the world as well as the crowd that jos- 
 tles me." 
 
 " How do you expect to get food and clothing 
 if you sit still all day ?'' 
 
 " I can get them as easily as did the savages 
 from whom we all came ; but there, too, at every 
 turn I'm headed off. Some one claims the wild 
 
68 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 berries I gather, as if God labelled them, ' These 
 berries grew for John,' and so James must not 
 touch them, not even if John is disposed to let 
 them rot. And if I make cloth out of birch-bark 
 and am suited, why not ? But if I do, I am landed 
 in the mad-house." 
 
 " I cannot see why you blame your ill luck on 
 Thoreau ; the fact is, you've been too lazy to 
 work." 
 
 " You simply talk like all the rest," he replied, 
 with no trace of ill humor. " I have had only 
 myself to consult, and tried the Walden plan, 
 with improvements, and the result was, as you see, 
 a failure. I was told I must do as the world was 
 doing ; must drift with the human tide or strand 
 and rot. The world was right, and yet is not 
 right. Should there not be a little more personal 
 liberty? Why cannot a man break away from 
 this tyranny of established custom ? Of course, it 
 is useless to try ; but then comes up the old ques- 
 tion, Where's the hitch in independent philosophy, 
 as I call it?" 
 
 " It lies in the fact, perhaps, that man is a social 
 and gregarious animal, and in communities the 
 
A Victim of Thoreau. 69 
 
 good of all must be considered as well as the 
 comfort of one's self. Life is a game of give and 
 take. Qive your energy to the community, and 
 take what pay you can." 
 
 " And if the world, young man," he remarked, 
 quietly, as he stood up, " has elbow-room to spare, 
 as it has, for would-be hermits and contemplative 
 ramblers, why should they be molested ? I tried 
 Thoreau's plan, as I understood it, and liked it ; 
 but every man I meet has some harsh criticism. 
 And one thing more before I go ; here's my sum- 
 ming up of the whole matter: there's a screw 
 loose somewhere in the world's ways when a man 
 without detriment to his fellows cannot do as 
 he pleases. If I prefer the sky to any other roof, 
 I am held a nuisance. Why is it ?" 
 
 And the old man, slinging a small bundle over 
 his shoulder, walked down the road, leaving me to 
 wonder who he was. Truly there is an endless 
 series of strange human freaks, yet none so odd, in 
 my experience, as this self-styled victim of Tho- 
 reau. Who would not walk in the country to see 
 such strange men ? 
 
Animals as Barometers. 
 
 -AjLIKE when we listen to our unlettered neigh- 
 bors, or study the collected folk-lore of any people, 
 it will be seen that animals, both wild and domes- 
 ticated, enter largely into every community's 
 weather-wisdom ; nor can we wonder, considering 
 how every creature we meet, whether in the woods 
 or open fields, is influenced by the condition of 
 the weather prevailing at the time. There is, as 
 many know, a vast difference between a bird's ac- 
 tions, for instance, during a bright May morning 
 and perhaps the next day, when a chilly north- 
 east storm prevails. Here, however, we have a 
 change in the bird, subsequent to an altered con- 
 dition of the weather, which is quite natural and 
 of little significance, and so our interest centres in 
 the suggestion that centuries ago arose in the 
 minds of men, Are the animals about us, of 
 70 
 
Animals as Barometers. 71 
 
 whatever grade in the zoological scale, weather- 
 prophets ? Do they realize the coming of a storm 
 so far in_ advance of its actual appearance that, if 
 man could correctly interpret the animal's acts, the 
 creature would be to him a reliable barometer ? 
 Certainly, for a long time man has proceeded upon 
 this assumption, and not until the rationality of 
 so doing has been questioned, in the light of bio- 
 logical science, has it occurred to any one that these 
 same animals were a poor dependence. I have 
 in times past maintained that no animal could 
 be held of barometric value. Possibly this was 
 going too far, but my later studies have not led 
 me to a change of base. 
 
 An aside here, not to be spoken in a stage- 
 whisper. I have touched upon this subject more 
 than once before, but it bears repeating. It needs 
 a deal of hammering to beat the truth into half 
 the heads you meet. One class, I hold, merit 
 ignoring : those apes that ask a question of a 
 naturalist, and then, assuming an air of wisdom, 
 toss their heads and remark, " Oh, I cannot think 
 so." Of course they cannot. Born without 
 thinking power, and yet refuse to be led ; perhaps 
 
72 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 they deserve pity. The trouble is, such folk are 
 not to be recognized at first sight; but once 
 known, let them be shunned as a pestilence. I am 
 at outs with people whom I have sworn at, but my 
 happiness is not curtailed. As years roll by you 
 free yourself of the dross, and the pure gold of 
 humanity makes life worth living, though you 
 have nothing else than their friendship to call your 
 own. 
 
 To return: there are, it would seem, two dis- 
 tinct and not necessarily connected propositions 
 to be considered. First. Do the lower animals 
 recognize, sooner than does man, coming weather 
 changes ? Second. How far are we able to inter- 
 pret a lower animal's acts ? 
 
 Let us consider these questions separately. 
 
 If animals possessed, as is often claimed, mete- 
 orological foreknowledge, then it should appear that 
 little suffering and less loss of life should result 
 from sudden changes. But does not even an 
 ordinary thunder-gust drown creeping creatures, 
 maim vigorous birds, and flood the snug galleries 
 of burrowing mammals ? It needs but a short 
 ramble in the woods or fields, after such a summer 
 
Animals as Barometers. 73 
 
 shower, to see how painfully destructive are mod- 
 erate wind and rain when they rush across the 
 country^hand-in-hand. There is no more touch- 
 ing sight in all nature than the lowly-murmured 
 plaint of nesting-birds as they contemplate, after a 
 shower, their ruined home and drowned fledg- 
 lings. It is not a common occurrence, it is true, 
 but frequent enough to make it an open question 
 whether or not diabolism, in this world, has the 
 upper hand. To credit a bird with weather- 
 wisdom, and yet with no power to guard against 
 probable danger, is to assume that it leads the ter- 
 rible life of one in constant fear, a mental condi- 
 tion the bird's daily life flatly contradicts. I lay 
 stress upon birds rather than mammals, because 
 of the two classes of animals the former are much 
 more at the mercy of storms or even vicissitudes 
 of temperature. Of the two, wet feathers are 
 likely to lead to more serious consequences than 
 wet fur. Again, of the two groups, mammals and 
 birds, that have been exposed to persecution by 
 man for centuries, the birds have acquired greater 
 cunning, and we naturally look to them for the 
 more marked evidences of intelligence; and, 
 D 7 
 
74 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 taking a comprehensive glance at bird-life, it is 
 evident that, while they know, in a general way, 
 what the meteorological conditions are to be, they 
 have as yet failed to provide for the more pro- 
 nounced features of our weather. The truth is, 
 the one thought uppermost in their minds is that 
 of a food-supply, and concerning all else they trust 
 to luck, and, so trusting, are often victims of their 
 helplessness. If, so long ago as the close of the 
 glacial period, birds began to recognize the fore- 
 runnings of a storm, then evolution, which has not 
 yet failed the world, should have made them 
 weather-prophets by this time ; but it has not. 
 
 A good barometer gives us abundant warning 
 of coming changes, but what the mercury recog- 
 nizes is beyond man's ken. Never does the world 
 look brighter than a few hours before some great 
 change. The familiar but senseless term " weather- 
 breeder," applied to an exceptionally clear day, is 
 evidence of this, and certainly animal life has little 
 thought for the future when the skies are without 
 a cloud. Never are birds more merry, mammals 
 more full of play ; yet the impending storm means 
 mischief that to some extent might be averted 
 
Animals as Barometers. 75 
 
 had these happy creatures but an inkling of what 
 was coming. 
 
 Were animals in any sense weather-wise, there 
 would be unmistakable evidences of anticipatory 
 preparation ; and it is unquestionable that vast 
 numbers of animals are destroyed by storms 
 which might easily have saved themselves by a 
 little foreknowledge. Thus, the feathers of birds 
 often become so soaked as to render flight im- 
 practicable, and so the birds fall victims to car- 
 nivorous mammals. My attention was called to 
 this fact during the past autumn, when, after a 
 sudden dash of rain, I found a number of warblers 
 that were too wet to fly. Their fluttering did not 
 prevent my catching one, and directly after I saw 
 a redstart in the clutches of a red squirrel. I 
 could not see the captor and captive as plainly as 
 I wished, but still sufficiently distinctly to recog- 
 nize both the mammal and the bird. 
 
 John Burroughs thinks I made a hasty inference 
 in the matter of rain-soaked warblers. He says, 
 " There is no more danger of a well bird being 
 disabled by a storm of rain than there is of a 
 squirrel being disabled. The robin will some- 
 
j6 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 times get slightly bedraggled, especially about the 
 tail, during a prolonged rain, but never enough to 
 seriously impair its power of flight. Indeed, it is 
 always a surprise to one to see how dry and clean 
 the birds keep during long storms. The swallows 
 will keep on the wing during quite a rain, with 
 plumage apparently as untouched as if they 
 steered between the drops. Both birds and ani- 
 mals seem to wear some charm against wet. I 
 once saw a little meadow-mouse swimming across 
 a lake in the woods. I rowed out and gave him 
 a lift over in my boat, which service, however, he 
 did not need. He was as dry as I was, except 
 upon his extremities." 
 
 My friend is all at sea. It was not a matter 
 where any inference could be drawn. The birds 
 were soaked, and that is all there is of it. The 
 hasty inference is to suppose feathers cannot be 
 wetted. I have had the matter in mind all sum- 
 mer, and have seen the same condition due to 
 another cause. Time and again I have studied 
 bathing birds, and put them to their wit's ends 
 too, as they emerged from their baths. Every 
 time I drift by the pebbly shore of the river, if it 
 
Animals as Barometers. 77 
 
 be not too late in the day, I see many birds sport- 
 ing in knee-deep water. They dip and splash and 
 pirouette in the daintiest fashion, and this for no 
 other reason than to get wet. As a proof of it, I 
 have startled them when in the water, and their 
 efforts to fly were always painful and sometimes 
 unsuccessful. Again, watching them closely, I 
 found that, on leaving the water, they most vigor- 
 ously shook themselves, but only after preening 
 their wings was the normal flight-power restored. 
 A most favorable opportunity to study a bathing 
 bird occurred recently. In the yard is a half- 
 barrel, in which is growing a water-lily, the leaves 
 of which nearly cover the upper surface. A red- 
 eyed vireo, that whistles twelve hours a day in 
 the village street for many days, came here to 
 bathe about noon. The water wet its feathers, I 
 am sure. It evidently anticipated this, and seemed 
 prepared for the temporary disablement. It was 
 well aware of being at a disadvantage when wet, 
 and its half-scared chirp, as it beat its way to a 
 low perch, was extremely amusing. This bird 
 more than once dived rather than plunged into 
 the water. The movement was full of grace, the 
 7* 
 
78 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 head and shoulders of the bird going quite be- 
 neath the surface, but the tail appeared then and 
 at other times to be dry, and invariably was 
 spread slightly when the bird took an upward 
 flight. I had others to watch the bird that my 
 own conclusions might be disputed or verified, but 
 all agreed that bathing for a short time actually 
 wet the feathers, curtailed flight power, and from 
 two to five minutes at least jeopardized the bird's 
 life to a certain extent. 
 
 When it is raining, a bird can readily fly any 
 distance and yet keep dry, if it faces the wind, but 
 not otherwise. The pelting rain-drops, striking 
 the bird's feathers the " right way," will roll off 
 as the water rushes over the shingles of a roof. 
 But let us consider a fitful east wind, a driving 
 rain, and birds in a wood. Here there is no pos- 
 sibility of always facing the wind, and the be- 
 wildered birds are subjected to not only the rude 
 buffeting of contrary winds, but the ruffling of 
 their feathers coincident with a dash of rain. This 
 it is that disables the weak-winged warblers : their 
 feathers are wet, and they can scarcely fly. 
 
 It seems never to have occurred to those people 
 
Animals as Barometers. 79 
 
 of by-gone years who attributed weather-wisdom 
 to animals that possibly the peculiar act of a 
 mammal or bird, or insect even, and the quickly- 
 following change of weather were mere coinci- 
 dences ; and this is what they are in almost every 
 instance. It matters little what "saying" you 
 select, it needs but a six weeks' drought to demon- 
 strate that rain does not follow any particular 
 action of an animal ; and, strangely enough, there 
 appear to be no " sayings" referring to these pro- 
 tracted spells of rainless weather. It is a logical in- 
 ference, were weather-wisdom reliable, that animal 
 life during a drought should be peculiarly monot- 
 onous and undemonstrative, but this is not true. 
 
 A drought, however, will cause a change of 
 base, and this is a matter the out-door naturalist 
 should never overlook ; for the habits of an ani- 
 mal will not remain essentially the one thing 
 wherever they are. Birds generally love the 
 water. The chicken that delights in a dust-bath 
 walks with evident satisfaction to the pool that it 
 may drink, and in times of a drought the upland 
 fields will be practically deserted and the low 
 meadows overcrowded. At such places, and at 
 
8o In Touch with Nature. 
 
 such a time, I have heard strange concerts. The 
 spotted sand-pipers and marsh-wrens had not the 
 watery world to themselves, and the birds of the 
 field, in their novel surroundings, were never 
 seemingly out of place. I once saw a humming- 
 bird perched upon a bending spray of wild rice 
 with only a wide waste of waters about it, but it 
 was quite at home ; and the house-wrens, that 
 should be nowhere but in an old-time garden, 
 thread the mazes of uprooted trees along the 
 river as if they had never known another and far 
 different home. We think of crows and black- 
 birds as tenants in common with the farmer, of 
 the cultivated fields, but the former is a devoted 
 beach-rover, and the blackbirds dip down to the 
 water and snatch up floating tidbits so gracefully 
 that we may call them inland gulls. 
 
 All this reminds me of an instance of natural 
 history gone mad, but really not more absurd 
 than the average chatter about weather- changes. 
 An old fisherman remarked to me, " It is not so 
 that fish bite better when it rains. They seem to 
 me to go in out of the wet, just as we do, when a 
 shower comes up." 
 
A Recent Ramble. 
 
 1 N April, as the world grows green apace, the 
 disposition to ramble becomes daily more pro- 
 nounced, and a fitting aim is to browse among 
 bright meadows, culling here and there a thought- 
 quickening blossom, and at times chancing sud- 
 denly upon a startling novelty that spurs our 
 flagging fancy. Turning my back upon the town 
 to-day, the river literally flashed into view and, 
 imperiously demanding undivided attention, led 
 me a willing captive. There is no feeling of self- 
 debasement in being thus held helpless by a great 
 natural force. If a river is not so powerful, as a 
 whole, as mankind, it is none the less a command- 
 ing feature of the world at large, and worthy of 
 high rank in leadership. Though it may speak in 
 a foreign tongue, its orders are not to be mis- 
 understood, and obedience thereto is ever well 
 / 81 
 
82 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 rewarded. In such a frame, drifting in my little 
 boat, the river toyed with me, as it did with the 
 little sand-pipers that played bo-peep with the 
 waves. What marvellous variety crowds the little 
 beach ! Where I stranded, upon a long and 
 narrow island, there was gold in abundance ; yet 
 gold that passes current only among nature's 
 lovers. It was only the clustered bloom of caltha 
 and the gilded spikes of orontium, but what did 
 this matter ? A coin would have been lost to view 
 here and exchangeable for nothing. 
 
 When, in 1684, one William Watson, yeoman, 
 of Nottinghamshire, England, ventured up the 
 river in search of a home, he landed not far away 
 and left recorded : " Here is not only a pleasant 
 spot for a home, where toil will be rewarded, but 
 a goodly spot wherein to rest." It is true, he 
 might have had in mind a proper place in which 
 to be buried, as under some one of the old oaks 
 that overshadowed the river's winding shores, but 
 I do not believe it. Give him credit for thinking 
 of the closing hours of such April days as these, 
 when the evening hymn of the thrush and plaint 
 of drowsy finches should prove restful as sleep ; 
 
A Recent Ramble. 83 
 
 at least it is a more pleasing fancy to think so. 
 And now it would be charming to know if there 
 is left Na single feature of the river upon which 
 his eyes rested. It is scarcely probable ; but, in 
 the thankful spirit that moved Thoreau to be glad 
 that man could not cut down the clouds, I am 
 grateful that the same river gladdens the land- 
 scape in these later days. 
 
 Wheresoever we wander on land, nature, as the 
 Indian knew it, must be sought after ; here, on the 
 river, we have the same sky above and waters be- 
 neath us. The bateau has replaced the canoe, 
 but this is not a disturbing fact, and, whether we 
 peer into the waves or gaze upward at the fleecy 
 clouds, we have nature pure and undefiled. And, 
 better, many a sweet sound that floats from the 
 distant shores is the same that held old William 
 Watson when on his homestead quest, and 
 charmed, I hope, even the stolid Indian when on 
 mischief bent. Warblers throng the willows ; tee- 
 tering sand-pipers call to their mates afar off; the 
 thrush ^and blackbird whistle in wild glee; the 
 weird cry of the unseen spirit duck trembles in 
 the breeze; the air is filled with music. 
 
84 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 Before a day's outing has well advanced, nature, 
 as a whole, proves bewildering. It cannot be long 
 continued in its entirety without fatigue, and the 
 mind soon sinks to the level of specific observation. 
 It is first a matter of choice, and then follows the 
 exquisite pleasure of deciphering the purport of a 
 single object. It was by mere chance, but, when 
 again afloat, a spotted sand-piper passed very near 
 and turned to look at me as it crossed the boat's 
 bow. I caught the gay creature's bright and 
 beady eye, and nodded in friendly recognition. I 
 followed its course until lost in the glitter of dis- 
 tant ripples, and gave thought then only to these 
 familiar birds as seen to-day and in years gone by. 
 They are here now ahead of time. Ten days of 
 summer weather and a waxing moon have wooed 
 them northward, and, while May is almost a week 
 off, they are hunting in their old-time haunts and 
 threading the green pastures where they nested a 
 year ago. It is strange that this bird is so little 
 appreciated. There are even human fiends who 
 eat them. Because they are not noisy like robins, 
 or do not chatter and scold like Jenny Wren, the 
 world gives them the go-by. 
 
A Recent Ramble. 85 
 
 Hearing these sand-pipers everywhere along 
 shore, I landed by a huge uprooted tree, and 
 watched them as they came and went. How 
 aptly they have caught the motion of the rippling 
 water, and never venture more than to wet their 
 feet ! Their teetering motion is clearly protective 
 here, where the pebbles are large and nowhere is 
 the sand free from rubbish. Scan the shore as 
 closely as one may, these birds are part and parcel 
 of the little waves, and only at long intervals 
 stand out in bold relief; appearing so suddenly 
 that only emergence from the water seemed pos- 
 sible, as spring-tide swallows were supposed to 
 do in olden time, a belief, by the bye, not yet 
 extinct. 
 
 It needs but a few minutes for sand-pipers to 
 gain confidence, and soon they came within a few 
 feet of the boat. Their eyes had all the merry 
 glitter of the sunlit river. If they do not laugh, 
 these birds do sing, for their clear voices are melo- 
 dious by merit of the happiness that prompts each 
 utterance. There was not to-day, and never is, a 
 trace of ill humor about them, and they bow and 
 bob even more when two or three are gathered 
 
 8 
 
86 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 together than when alone. Neither wind nor 
 wave troubles them, their slender, sword-like wings 
 cutting the thin air and bearing them to distant 
 shores without a trace of languor. I have never 
 seen them wearied or morose, as many a land-bird 
 is apt to be. They touch the smooth sand so 
 lightly as to leave scarcely a footprint, or perch 
 upon a pebble so daintily that not thistle-down is 
 readier to respond to the passing breeze than 
 they to follow the whim that moves them. And, 
 withal, they sing ; a song of but two notes, it is 
 true, but who that has heard it above the plash of 
 waves, the sullen murmur of the pines, and the 
 sighing of the gathering storm in the lofty tree- 
 tops, but longs to hear it again, a voice of sweet 
 content and child-like confidence ? 
 
 Unlike the great majority of the family of 
 wading birds, to which it belongs, the spotted 
 sand-piper is equally at home in the uplands, where 
 the most commonplace of ponds and little way-side 
 pools content it; and even by these its pretty 
 nest is often placed. This, to be sure, is but a 
 shallow depression in sandy ground, with scarcely 
 enough grass to line it thoroughly; still, it is 
 
A Recent Ramble. 87 
 
 pretty, for the creamy eggs, with purple-brown 
 blotches, stand out in bold relief, and are sure to 
 attract attention, whether found by accident or as 
 the result of nest-hunting. But all this pales to 
 nothing in comparison to the newly-hatched young. 
 These are the funniest little fellows extant. Not 
 ludicrous because awkward, which is true of most 
 young birds, but because of knowingness. They 
 are quicker-witted than young quails, and ready 
 to meet emergencies when scarcely more than 
 a day old. I have knowledge of one cunning 
 youngster that ran from tangled grass, as if fearing 
 it might be trodden upon, into the water, and, 
 using its mites of wings to guide it, swam for per- 
 haps two yards, and then held on to the weeds 
 with its feet. It was taken out by my informant's 
 hand, after a submergence of several seconds, and 
 came to the surface dry as a powder-horn. It 
 would be well to know how often these birds take 
 refuge from pursuing foes in this manner, and how 
 long they can remain beneath the surface. Be it 
 for a few seconds or a few minutes, it is interesting 
 as bearing upon the fact that the ouzel has 
 acquired the habit of hunting over the beds of 
 
In Touch with Nature. 
 
 brooks, and it has been held that such a habit 
 must have been given when the bird was created, 
 and not that either bird or habit could have 
 gradually come upon the scene. The little sand- 
 pipers are a step in that direction, and he who 
 objects to evolution now butts against a stone 
 wall. 
 
 The while I have been wandering in mind, my 
 body has travelled half a mile up stream. The 
 tide, rising, lifted the boat and bore it away while 
 my thoughts lingered on the shore among the 
 sand-pipers, or flitted to other scenes and other 
 days. There are now no birds in view, but their 
 voices from the far-off shore still bear me company, 
 and, bending to the oar against wind and tide, as 
 the last glimmer of the setting sun gilds the 
 waves, I speed homeward to cut another notch in 
 the tally-stick of my memory of days out of 
 doors. 
 
May-Day out of Town. 
 
 " Now hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 
 He, too, is no mean preacher ; 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher." 
 
 MAY-DAY! It is a sluggish heart that does 
 not give a livelier bound at the very mention of 
 the word. May-day ; and never a brighter and 
 breezier one than this of 1890. Even the caged 
 canaiy knew the time, and by dawn was offering 
 a ringing welcome to the advancing sun. I fan- 
 cied there was music even in the alien sparrow's 
 chirp ; but, without stopping to determine, hur- 
 ried along the almost silent streets, eager for the 
 fields, the woods, the meadow, and the misty 
 river-shore. Beyond the city's bounds the whole 
 world was at its best ; green grass, bright foliage, 
 8* 89 
 
90 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 a pale-blue sky, and north-bound warblers every- 
 where. 
 
 Birds are not given to consult the almanac, but 
 it is fitting that the myriad songsters that we have 
 missed for months should appear in force upon 
 this magic date, May I ; and so it was this year. 
 Seldom have I seen so many at one time. A long- 
 neglected field was the first spot at which a halt 
 was made, and it was a happy thought to linger in 
 and about the tall weeds, remnants of last year's 
 growth, and the sturdy bushes that filled the 
 angles of an old worm-fence. Here were sparrows 
 in abundance. Not the unfortunate importations, 
 but our native ones. Song-sparrows were ec- 
 static, field-sparrows exultant, white-throats de- 
 monstrative, and the delightful chippers joyous. 
 It was a competitive concert, each claiming my 
 undivided attention and admiration, and the con- 
 testants receiving my impartial approbation. No 
 other thought than that of making merry seemed 
 to enter the busy brains of any bird, so how could 
 I do otherwise than say each was perfect, and so 
 was each. It appeared as if none could be omitted 
 without marring the effect. As a concert it was 
 
May-Day out of Town. 91 
 
 perfect, and would have repaid the rambler had 
 silence for the whole day succeeded it. But this 
 was not to be. Pausing for a moment, as if by 
 common consent, the brief interval was seized by 
 a rose-breasted grosbeak that perched upon the 
 slender top of a tapering cedar and gave himself 
 up to song. Every feather trembled, and, bowing 
 and bending to the world below, melody poured 
 from his brilliant throat and flooded earth and air. 
 It was a happy thought on the part of the bird, 
 for scarcely had he ceased when the first level 
 rays of the rising sun smote his gorgeous breast. 
 Truly, May-day had had an auspicious opening. 
 
 What a suggestive spot to others than those on 
 natural history bent is an old field ; the scene of 
 busy husbandry when our grandfathers were 
 young: now an open common, a bare, bold, half- 
 deserted tract, its sad fate to become a town-lot ! 
 Soon to be cut and carved until beyond recog- 
 nition. Once a forest, and so truly grand; then 
 a field, and but little less impressive; now, as a 
 common, little better than a desert; the last step, 
 a heap of dirt ! 
 
 There are traces yet of the last furrows that 
 
92 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 were turned, and the broken ridges in the sod are 
 not all hidden by the straggling weeds that have 
 succeeded the corn. As I trace the old headland, 
 where for a century the brier-embowered fence 
 had stood, I find the sturdy growths of poison- 
 ivy still lingering, but with no support but the 
 ground, except where, these many years, a bat- 
 tered apple-tree has withstood the assaults of 
 whole troops of boys. 
 
 To find every trace of fruitfulness gone, and a 
 poisonous weed representing it, is a depressing ex- 
 perience, one that dims even a brilliant May-day ; 
 yet why should it? Is it not too commonplace 
 an occurrence to excite comment? Whether an 
 old farm or an old friend, it is too often a matter 
 of poison-ivy at last. 
 
 The grass is still glistening with the morning 
 dew, but the bees are astir, humming can it be 
 contentedly ? over such poor pasture. Mean be- 
 yond compare are the flowers of this one-time 
 field, and but a single buttercup is within sight. 
 There are weeds, though, that thrive upon ill 
 treatment, and shrubs so hardy they withstand 
 neglect. The village cows cannot tramp all bloom 
 
May- Day out of Town. 93 
 
 out of existence, and a bit of chickweed or a 
 mat of whitlow-grass here and there star the 
 stunte^ grass. But where is the honey for the 
 patient bees ? Surely not in such flowers as these, 
 and their beauty alone is not an attraction ; beauty 
 that needs a magnifier that man may see it. Is it 
 an inherited instinct that brings the bees? 
 Scarcely that ; but the day was when the bloom- 
 ing clover tempted the whole hive. 
 
 Everywhere there is ruin nature cannot wholly 
 conceal. The old apple-tree is the last vestige of 
 an orchard, and beyond it, where the ground 
 slightly rises, are the scattered stones of a founda- 
 tion-wall. Better than these, even, to recall the 
 past, there grows a dwarfed lilac-bush hard by, 
 with no other evidence of life than a few half- 
 expanded leaves. Wild life, save the few birds 
 and omnipresent insects, has long since disap- 
 peared, and this it is makes the song of every 
 sparrow heard to-day sad, when we pause to think 
 of what has been. The sparrow now perched on 
 the lone lilac sings sweetly as ever, but what of 
 the merry host that thronged the vanished lilac 
 hedge and dreamed of no better world than the 
 
94 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 cottage garden of nigh a century ago ? Then 
 the morning songs of merry birds fell not upon 
 deaf ears here, where the farmer lived far from the 
 town, and his fields on every side were weighted 
 with the award of toil. But we must bow to the 
 inevitable. The growing town is inexorable, and 
 to mourn a dismantled farm is mawkish sentimen- 
 tality. Another May-day will be celebrated here, 
 not by the songs of birds, but by the grating of 
 saws and thud of the hammer. New habitations 
 will arise upon the ruins of the old, and still 
 longer become the town-dweller's tramp ere he 
 reaches the open country. The naturalist's last 
 chance at this spot will then be when the earth is 
 upturned and a cellar dug ; when, perchance, relics 
 of the Indians, or bones of the animals the dusky 
 hunters slew, will hold him for the day; or some 
 local historian may air his knowledge over the 
 belongings of other days, a rusty ploughshare or a 
 well-worn coin. As I now stand listening to the 
 songs of birds, their farewell concert it may be, 
 I fancy that I see a troop of graybeards hobbling 
 hither to watch the building of a new house, and, 
 gathering about some trivial trace of other days, 
 
May-Day out of Town. 95 
 
 hear their leader say, " Here was my father's farm 
 some fifty years ago." 
 
 Ancknow to the near woods. Not even the 
 glorious grosbeak's matchless song could hold me, 
 and the sun gilded the sorrow of the lonely field. 
 I feared that I might fall to serious thinking, even 
 on a May-day, when I would shout and sing. 
 There were other pastures in which to browse, 
 and from them I would cull sweets free from the 
 slightest trace of bitterness. 
 
 With eager steps, brushing the dew from butter- 
 cups, a few scattered oaks were soon reached that 
 as yet but hinted of their bright, broad leaves. 
 Not so the densely-clustered trees beyond. These 
 already shut from the mossy paths beneath the 
 sun's rays, leaving in cool, gray light the snowy 
 blossoms of dentaria, pale-blue houstonia, and 
 pink spring-beauty. The change from field to 
 forest was not abrupt, and yet was startling. All 
 had appealed to the ear before, now nature ap- 
 pealed only to the eye. Not birds and blossoms, 
 as the rambler would ever have it, but from birds 
 to blossoms, from tuneful to silent beauty. It is 
 doubtful if nature in America presents a more 
 
96 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 charming spectacle than the fresh green foliage 
 of a forest. The shadows beneath it are not 
 harshly defined ; the straggling sunbeams light up 
 the crooked paths, even to the winter run-ways of 
 the mice and rabbits; there is no hint of gloom, 
 as in midsummer. Nor is the wood but an ex- 
 panse of mottled green. The snowy dog-wood, 
 the blooming cherry, and violet-mantled knolls 
 give that variety we crave when we look at nature 
 as a whole rather than single features of it. 
 
 But the woods were not deserted. Scarcely a 
 tree was without its attendant warblers. These 
 are essentially May-day birds. There are many 
 that remain throughout the summer, more than 
 one that is with us during winter ; but now the great 
 host are upon us, the greater number bound north- 
 ward to Maine, Canada, and beyond. These birds 
 are widely different, yet the family likeness run- 
 ning through all is very marked. To-day they were 
 abroad in full force, and such marvellous energy 
 and unceasing motion are not seen elsewhere in 
 the bird-world. Swallows may be more swift, the 
 humming-bird outspeed them ; but with the war- 
 blers it is not mere flight, but the gymnastic 
 
May-Day out of Town. 97 
 
 climbing and somersaulting, over and above every 
 twig of every tree, that shows how absolutely tire- 
 less these birds are. Nor are they silent. Faint, 
 but not listless, melody ripples from their breasts, 
 whether in mid-air, seeking new hunting-grounds, 
 or busy with the food their sharp eyes have spied 
 out in the crannies of rough bark. Not all keep 
 to the tree-tops. There is one, the Maryland 
 yellow-throat, that loves the swampy ground, with 
 its rank growth of symplocarpus and arum, and 
 few finer song-birds have we than this, if we judge 
 bird music by its associations. 
 
 It is hard to choose among them, but I hold in 
 high regard the bay-breasted warblers that come 
 and go with such delightful uncertainty. It was 
 not May-day, but nearly three weeks later, that I 
 chanced in these woods a year ago. It might well 
 have been called Warbler-day, so abundant were 
 these dainty birds. To watch them was bewilder- 
 ing, to single out any one well-nigh impossible. 
 As I stood by a group of four large tulip-trees, 
 that towered above the surrounding oaks, I heard 
 a merry twitter that sounded from above, and, 
 while clear and distinct, was distant. It came 
 E g 9 
 
In Touch with Nature. 
 
 from the tall trees, and there, sure enough, were 
 a host of these beauties, fly-catching on the out- 
 skirts of creation. In the clear sunlight their 
 contrasted colors showed well, but the moment 
 they entered the shade each was black as ebony. 
 Not one would come near me ; none came within 
 thirty or forty feet from the ground. So far, a most 
 commonplace occurrence; but, with that abrupt- 
 ness that bewilders the on-looker, these warblers 
 suddenly disappeared. Not a trace of them any- 
 where, though I searched most diligently : for 
 aught I knew, they had dissolved into the thin air 
 in which they had been sporting. 
 
 Merely a coincidence, doubtless, but this is a 
 foundation we all build upon. Late in the evening 
 of that day, while sitting before a film of smoke 
 that half hid the andirons, there came a tapping 
 at the window, loud enough to suggest Poe's raven, 
 and, when the sash was raised, in came a bay- 
 breasted warbler. There was no bust of Pallas 
 for it ; and, after flitting aimlessly in the dim light, 
 it rested on the head of a stuffed owl. The yield- 
 ing feathers offered no foothold, and it perched 
 next upon my table, twittered as if half afraid, and 
 
May-Day out of Town. 99 
 
 then darted back into the night. Did it come with 
 a message from its fellows and forget or fear to 
 deliver it ? We will never know, but I hold them 
 now above other warblers and await their commu- 
 nication. How many secrets do the birds with- 
 hold ? Is there one that we can fully comprehend ? 
 This bay -breasted fairy is a lover of tall trees, and 
 seldom deigns to descend even to the lower 
 branches ; yet I have twice had them peer into 
 my face since one entered my study. There is a 
 bond between us, yet of its import I know nothing. 
 None the less does it bind me, and I have an inkling 
 now of the mystery of superstition. Such trivial 
 coincidences as I have mentioned have affected 
 my whole life, and why not others? To injure a 
 bay-breasted warbler would be murder on my part. 
 Beyond the woods were the river-skirting mead- 
 ows. There is much in a name, after all. Meadow 
 and May-day fit well together, and he who now 
 sees the low-lying reaches of green pasture and 
 treacherous marsh, perhaps sees them at their best. 
 Possibly this has been said of these same meadows 
 seen at other seasons, but something must be 
 allowed for May-day enthusiasm. We are under 
 
IOO 
 
 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 a new order of things now, and abrupt changes 
 always lead to extravagant expressions. Spring 
 has been relegated to mythology ; is a pretty play- 
 
 thing for the folk-lore student. It is a long time 
 since we have had a real winter, and April of this 
 year was once white with snow, and wore a frosty 
 mantle oftener than did March ; but to-day, May- 
 
May-Day out of Town. 101 
 
 day, it is summer. If there is any meaning in 
 temperature, in the condition of vegetation, in the 
 activity of animal life, then summer reached us 
 during the past night. She came with the whip- 
 poorwill, as, according to the Indians, she always 
 does. What could have given rise to the idea of 
 a whole season sandwiched between winter and 
 summer? 
 
 As so often happens, the reckless profusion of 
 attractions was bewildering, and every one with 
 merit worthy of undivided attention. It is well to 
 be a specialist in such a place. He is the happier 
 botanist who never hears a bird sing. This morn- 
 ing, in and about the marshes, little and great 
 frogs vied with each other in shouting the merits 
 of May-day. The shrill, fife-like notes of some, 
 the rattling click of others, and the deep bass of 
 batrachian patriarchs proved a mighty chorus, that 
 impressed if it did not charm. Think of frogs, 
 perhaps tens of thousands to an acre, and each 
 screeching, roaring, whistling at its best ! These 
 creatures have an object in all this, but what? 
 The naturalists say these sounds are love-calls; 
 but what of affection as violent as their cacopho- 
 
102 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 nous announcement of it ? What if the tender 
 human swain proposed through a fog-horn, and 
 his lady replied with a steam-whistle ? But in an 
 instant the meadows were silent. Not a frog 
 whimpered. In wonderment I looked about, and 
 saw nothing amiss but the shadow of a cloud ; 
 and this, doubtless, had been the cause. Could 
 it have been associated in their minds with the 
 shadows cast by passing birds, as the herons and 
 bittern, their greatest enemies ? This is giving 
 the frogs credit for considerable wit, but not more 
 than is their due. 
 
 Soon the great roaring recommenced, and again 
 as suddenly ceased. No shadow of a cloud dis- 
 turbed them then, but a gentle breeze, that swept 
 over the water with great speed, leaving a chill 
 behind it. It would seem as if the day's outing 
 must abruptly close. With folded arms, and back 
 resting against a sturdy oak, it was not so doleful 
 an incident after all, even on May-day, to look 
 across the meadows while it rained. The swal- 
 lows were in ecstasies ; the hawks screamed with 
 delight ; robins replied to the distant thunder ; 
 and now, as if assured that no danger threatened 
 
May-Day out of Town. 103 
 
 them, the frogs joined in their mighty chorus once 
 again. Surely for many minutes the lovers of 
 Wagnerian music would have been entranced. 
 
 The shower was of short duration, and a happy 
 incident, for beauty emerging from a bath is ever 
 engaging. While waiting for this the time sped 
 happily. The huge oak that sheltered me has no 
 history, it is true, being a growth of this quiet 
 Indian and staid Quaker country, but no tree 
 needs such fortuitous aid to render it an object 
 of admiration. Here on the meadows oaks re- 
 place rocks, and are scarcely less an evidence of 
 the world's stability. The rocks have their his- 
 tory plainly written upon them ; but what of the 
 chafed and gnarly branches of the primeval oaks ? 
 what of the murmuring breezes that I now hear, 
 and the scream of the winters' storms that has 
 been so often sounded ? Truly, the autobiogra- 
 phy of an oak would be rare reading. And yet, 
 so strongly implanted is our belief in man's tran- 
 scendent importance that trees with a human his- 
 tory outvie all others. Let us be sure that a 
 tragedy even a disgusting one was enacted be- 
 neath its branches, and the gaping crowd will be 
 
104 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 blind to all else the forest contains. What boots 
 it that some truly great man stood here two cen- 
 turies ago, if his coming was a necessity and not 
 a sentiment ? He who follows, not merely in an- 
 other's footsteps, but breaks his own path to do 
 homage to an aged tree, is the greater man. Tree- 
 worship is as old as religion itself, and a worthier 
 phase of it than hero-worship. 
 
 It still rains, and I recall another May-day out- 
 ing when colonial history gave zest to the ramble 
 at the outset, but soon faded before the teeming 
 wealth of natural history. With a companion I 
 followed the general trend of the Towsissink 
 Creek, where yet stands a remnant of the primeval 
 forest, and came suddenly to a shallow basin 
 where bubbles many a sparkling spring, the whole 
 overshadowed by the out-spreading branches of a 
 single tree. A nobler temple was never reared 
 than a white-oak in its prime, and here was one 
 without a blemish ; a tree five feet in diameter and 
 more than one hundred in the spread of its 
 branches. But there are other and larger oaks 
 nearer home, so why come so far to visit this ? 
 It is a tree with a history; one that was blazed 
 
May-Day out of Town. 105 
 
 with P when the boundary of Penn's first purchase 
 was marked, from the spruce upon the bank of the 
 Delaware westward to the Neshaminy. Armed 
 with his note-book and compass, my companion 
 studied the tree as an ancient deed-mark, and left 
 me to drift wheresoever fancy might determine. 
 I scarcely moved and had no desire to wander. 
 It was my most happy fate to be held by the mute 
 eloquence of the imperious oak, and I long rested 
 upon a grassy bed, looked upward at the tree's 
 strange gestures, and marked the continuous 
 stream of life that, as if to consult an oracle, sud- 
 denly appeared and as speedily departed. I was 
 the only slave, perhaps, but ready to kiss my 
 chains. There was little to commend and much 
 to deplore when my companion reappeared and 
 snapped them. Probably nowhere, in the same 
 space, could life in such varied forms be found as 
 in, on, and about such an oak as this. It was 
 alike the home or resting-place of the extremes 
 of bird-life, the eagle and the humming-bird. The 
 raccoon, squirrel, and mice of two kinds made it 
 a home or temporary refuge ; snakes were among 
 its branches and about its roots ; the lizard and 
 
106 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the tortoise were here alike at home, and the pool 
 where gathered the waters of the springs so closely 
 nestled by the tree that the two were one; and 
 here were lithe salamanders and dainty fishes. 
 The teeming millions of insect-life I pass by. Is 
 it strange, then, to have forgotten that here was 
 the tree singled by Penn as one of his landmarks, 
 and one that every Indian must recognize when he 
 hunted in the surrounding forest or planted his 
 corn-field in the clearings ? 
 
 But what of the meadows again ? for it has 
 ceased raining. Doubtless there might be much 
 discovered if one had the pluck to plunge in 
 medias res, but walking through wet weeds is not 
 attractive. Man's ancestor was an aquatic creature 
 so very long ago that his love of water has not 
 remained equal to such a task. I skirted the low 
 grounds, where the cow-path offered a fair footing, 
 and played bo-peep with a bull-frog. He was a 
 monstrous fellow of his kind, and took my in- 
 trusion testily. There was a trace of fire in his 
 great, watery eyes, and defiance, I fancied, in the 
 grunt that heralded every leap. Was this really 
 meant as a warning that injury would be inflicted 
 
May- Day out of Town. 107 
 
 if I ventured too far ? So far, at least, I have not 
 solved the problem of a frog's intelligence ; and 
 the sunshine now was growing too bright to 
 warrant tarrying longer. I left the frog to his 
 Maying and went upon my own. The flowers 
 were fresher since their recent bath; the birds 
 took up the songs the shower had cut short ; every 
 wheel was again in motion, and I walked as if 
 speed was the true spirit of an outing. Such 
 spurts of aimless activity are not uncommon, but, 
 happily, they are of short duration ; sooner or 
 later we butt against a stone wall. I butted against 
 the strange spectacle of a bat's carnival ; at least, 
 I can think of no clearer description. There were 
 hundreds of them, or so it seemed, and not one 
 was bat-like and natural. Had it been March I, 
 and not May-day, I should have concluded it was 
 their first outing, and much joy had made them 
 mad ; but here they were, dancing up and down 
 and seldom circling, the point of attraction or fas- 
 cination being a tall tulip-tree that, I knew, had a 
 great hollow in its trunk. From it, it may be, 
 they had come ; but why in broad daylight ? Not 
 one made any sound save the fluttering of their 
 
io8 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 leathern wings. There was no quarrelling. It 
 was a thoroughly weird, unearthly, and disturbing 
 sight, that gave a sombre tint to the remaining 
 hours of the day ; that reversed the happy order 
 that gives a silver lining to a leaden cloud, and 
 unto this day I never see a bat but I recall that 
 host of fluttering imps that, by their mysterious 
 antics, closed in sadness a merry May- day out of 
 town. 
 
Windy Bush. 
 
 1 F it be true that the birds which haunt the bab- 
 bling brooks sing only of rippling waters, echo 
 the bell-like trickling of tiny streams, and trill the 
 murmuring of the fretted tide, then the wood- 
 peewee has caught the languor of the hot high 
 noon, and his note, when it fills the woods, even 
 before the sun climbs the distant hills, is an 
 evidence of what the day will be. For years I 
 have held the long-drawn notes of this fly-catcher 
 to be so far prophetic. To-day, save the red-eye, 
 that, too, braves the noontide, all other birds were 
 silent before the dew had gone from the grass, and 
 the doleful peewee was our perpetual reminder of 
 what was coming. Its song was so languid, so 
 full of longing, that the breeze seemed to lose its 
 freshness, as though commanded to be sad and 
 
 10 109 
 
no In Touch with Nature. 
 
 take on a funereal pace, leaving all thought of 
 May-day merriment behind it. 
 
 But let me say where I happen to be, and why. 
 As the sun set yesterday, our wanderings ceased, 
 and, by happy chance, M. and I camped on 
 Windy Bush. What a grandly suggestive name 
 for hot-weather days ! The tent ready, the supper 
 cooked, the camp-fire freshened, we were ready 
 for a moonlight stroll, and by its happily uncertain 
 light, that leaves the imagination to build what it 
 chooses of that our prosy eyes but dimly see, we 
 listened to the charming chatter of the oldest 
 inhabitant ; learned when and by whom the oldest 
 houses were built ; the strange adventures of the 
 " originals," as he called the first settlers ; what 
 was still current of the Indians. He pointed out 
 the mineral spring, a cave dug by the Indians in 
 the hill-side, and showed us where red men were 
 buried ; told so much, indeed, that we felt as if on 
 Windy Bush had always been our home, brought 
 us in touch with Nature, ever kind fortune's 
 goodliest gift. Many an old man of an old 
 neighborhood is an uncut gem of humanity. He 
 had, at least, not rounded out fourscore years for 
 
Windy Bush. in 
 
 nothing; and when at last the wordy interview 
 was over, and I had sought the shelter of my 
 tent, there was many a grain of good wheat to be 
 sifted from his abundant chaff. 
 
 Morning broke beautifully over the ringing 
 woods, and as the birds discovered us we were 
 greeted not as new-comers, but as old friends. 
 Whether thrush or grosbeak, lark or robin 
 sounded the louder or the sweeter welcome, it 
 matters not; but let the future wanderer rest 
 assured bird-music is best heard when we are 
 but half awake. Then its spirit only is sifted 
 into our senses : the pure wine without a trace 
 of lees. 
 
 Where nothing comes amiss, be it botany or 
 history, a matter of birds and beasts, or the find- 
 ing of a flint arrow, it is safe to start off in any 
 direction ; and the initial tramp was towards the 
 quaint old house, of which we had heard much. 
 It was but a little two-story stone dwelling, 
 framed of huge oak logs, and the interspaces filled 
 with broken stone and held by mortar as white as 
 the driven snow. At the chimney or fireplace end 
 the masonry was solid. All was weed-grown and 
 
ii2 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 forsaken about the one-time yard, but I noticed a 
 straggling yes, struggling rose-bush clung to a 
 corner, and a single half-opened bud showed tim- 
 idly above the tall grass. How like, I thought, 
 many a man who has lost heart, living hopelessly 
 among unsympathetic folks, a very prince in the 
 realm of beggardom. 
 
 Turning a great iron key that threaded the 
 maze of a ponderous lock and drew back its bolt, 
 I entered this ancient dwelling, now deserted, but 
 straightway peopled with the spirits of that hardy 
 folk who knew the Indians as neighbors. The 
 cavernous fireplace, now cold and clammy, fit 
 home for salamanders that scuttled across the 
 hearth-stones, grew quickly bright with the flick- 
 ering flames that of old leapt from the back log. 
 The dim outline of a high-backed settle filled the 
 corner; the trusty rifle leaned against the wall. 
 From the crane swung the steaming kettle : there 
 lacked nothing of a happy old-time colonial 
 home. The wind that moaned through the huge 
 chimney and rattled the loose shingles of the roof 
 was not a sobering sound ; fancy freed it of all 
 melancholy. The wild tales of woodland adven- 
 
Windy Bush. 1 1 3 
 
 ture and hair-breadth escape were heard again, 
 for an hour I lived in an earlier century. 
 
 It is well that the scene should shift suddenly. 
 It was but a step to the deep woods, and both M. 
 and myself aimed for the time to live a free wild 
 life, in touch only with uncontaminated Nature. 
 Birds sang almost without a pause, yet the woods 
 were silent. The brief intermissions were so 
 deadly still that about us we had not sound, but 
 silence framed in song. Yet this is Windy Bush, 
 and suggestive of tumult rather than peace. It 
 was the trees' holiday, I concluded, for no rude 
 blasts troubled them, and the fitful breezes were 
 considerate. The truth is, they happened to pass 
 by high overhead, as the masses of white clouds 
 clearly showed. When, particularly in winter, 
 these blasts of cruel air swept across the hill, it is 
 not strange that every tree shivered and the dang- 
 ling dead leaves rattled, and suggested all manner 
 of uncanny thoughts to the Indians. Indeed, 
 they claimed that summer or winter the wind 
 never ceased, and hence the name that still clings 
 to it. Later, these rustling leaves made faint- 
 hearted folk a little timid, or, as the octogenarian 
 h 10* 
 
H4 I* 1 Touch with Nature. 
 
 put it, " better minded to go 'round the hill o* 
 nights than go over it." I am happy to say I 
 slept unguarded upon its summit, nor came to 
 grief. My only sorrow was that of leaving so 
 soon. The Indians were right about the wind, 
 perhaps, but it was not always the trees that were 
 bowed before it ; to-day it was the clouds. 
 
 Swift as the swallow, on its deadly quest, 
 
 The fleecy clouds of summer hurry by, 
 Borne by the breeze : as by great fear oppressed 
 
 They onward rush where sounds the warning cry ; 
 'Tis said a curse upon the hill doth rest 
 For crime of ages gone ; by Nature still unblest. 
 
 But brave of heart in these sad latter days 
 
 The woodland bird forgives the deed once done ; 
 
 He shouts at break of day his hymn of praise, 
 And trills a soothing song at set of sun ; 
 
 No fear of harm to him his tongue betrays, 
 
 Then, lingering here, why stand in dread amaze? 
 
 No blanched and trembling blossom starred the grass, 
 No feathery fern shrank curled upon its stem ; 
 
 Though restless breezes through their petals pass, 
 The forest flowers looked boldly back at them. 
 
 Why then, unmeaning dread, our minds harass ? 
 
 Despite our pride and strength, a coward still, alas ! 
 
Windy Bush. 1 1 5 
 
 The wood-peewee was right in his prognostics ; 
 it was torrid at noontide. The cows in the distant 
 pastures gathered in the shade of scattered trees, 
 and in many ways it is well to take our cue from 
 other forms of life. Many a despised creature, 
 even a worm, can give us useful hints, if we but 
 heed their methods. A nap at mid- day may prove 
 more refreshing than a night-long slumber. I was 
 painfully envious of the far-off cows until, like 
 them, I curled in the shade of a hill-side chestnut, 
 and then how trivial a matter was the blazing sun ! 
 Whether a-dreaming or awake, it matters not, but 
 the distant landscape was a source of joy. Bow- 
 man's Hill and many a mile of intervening 
 meadow spread out before me, and what a laden 
 table at which one's soul might feast ! We may 
 envy the eagle his all-searching gaze, but are con- 
 soled by feeling we can reach, in thought, beyond 
 the horizon. Whether hill or dale, it is but the 
 bird's resting-place ; but within the same bounds 
 is a home for more than a mere body. Weary 
 now, I halt in the restoring shade of a splendid 
 chestnut and wander, the while, among the far-off 
 hills. 
 
 
u6 
 
 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 The looked-for shower came far sooner than 
 expected, and my first intimation of its approach 
 was the threatening peal of thunder that echoed 
 down the valley, and seemed rather to gather 
 strength, than die, as it had reached the hills be- 
 yond. Such thunder, without a hint of lightning's 
 destructive touch in its tones, is one of Nature's 
 
 noblest melodies. It does not awe the birds that 
 sang merrily in reply to many a peal. But the 
 
Windy Bush. 117 
 
 sudden downpour silenced them, and, like myself, 
 they sought shelter. Doubtless they have in mind 
 many^ a safe retreat, for they suffer from wet 
 feathers at times as much or more than we do 
 by wet clothing. I found none with bedraggled 
 feathers, however, when the rain was over, and, 
 indeed, was more entertained by a huge slug that 
 slipped slimily over a prostrate log than by the 
 robins and thrushes that made every nook and 
 corner of the forest ring with their rejoicings. 
 This slug watched me curiously with its absurd 
 telescopic eyes, which continuously collapsed when 
 I became too demonstrative. But its curiosity 
 was unbounded, and quickly reappeared the 
 slender stalks with eyes perched on their tips. I 
 teased his slugship for a long time, and finally 
 made bold to touch one of the eye-stalks. Of- 
 fended beyond measure, it moved off with its head 
 tucked under its breast, and took a back track 
 gracefully, turning at a sharp angle, and made of 
 its body for a time a squeezed-up letter V. Then 
 I left the poor creature in peace. The glistening 
 trail of slime that it left behind it, by which alone 
 I was to remember the meeting, was not pleasing ; 
 
1 1 8 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 but why complain ? Half the people we meet 
 leave as uncanny a track on the tablet of our 
 memory. 
 
 By the camp-fire, not long after, I was disposed 
 to rebel at the thought of leaving so sweet a spot ; 
 but there was the great beyond through which we 
 proposed to ramble, and I soon returned to com- 
 mon sense. How easy it is to be foolish ! Whether 
 paradise or purgatory depends in great measure 
 upon ourselves ; but looking across the valley 
 now, I cannot believe the hills beyond hold in 
 store for us anything better than these wood-clad 
 reaches of old Windy Bush. 
 
> 
 
 On Historic Ground. 
 
 IT is an experience worth the having to pass a 
 delightful May-day in an old colonial mansion ; to 
 be able to wander about a spacious dwelling built 
 more than two hundred years ago, still in excellent 
 repair, and not fatally modernized. Think of it ! 
 I passed a postprandial hour in a cozy room 
 wherein Franklin and his friend Galloway were 
 wont to discuss electricity and the coming crisis. 
 Whether or not Galloway thought Franklin a 
 crank in the matter of electricity, possibly no one 
 knows ; but these intellectual giants took opposite 
 sides politically, and for aught I know, parted, 
 during Revolutionary times, for their remaining 
 years. 
 
 It was a happy thought, on mine host's part, to 
 give me an inkling of the mansion's history; 
 forthwith my imagination did me good service in 
 peopling every nook and corner with the old-time 
 folk. The stately, high-backed chairs were 
 
 119 
 
120 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 occupied by grave, but not forbidding, men ; the 
 wide hall resounded with the pleasant patter of 
 fun-loving youth, whose romping savored of the 
 wild woods about them. Life had its drawbacks, 
 doubtless, then as now; but who has not cast 
 loving backward glances and thought of the 
 boundless forest before the moccasin-print of the 
 Indian had vanished ? It was so to-day. The 
 hands of the world-clock were set back two cen- 
 turies while I tarried in the house. 
 
 Then, the afternoon's ramble. It is an unfor- 
 tunate taste, perhaps, but tales and traditions of 
 long ago, howsoever teeming with comedy or with 
 tragic events, are soon forgotten when, in the 
 shade of clustered hemlocks, the wild-bird's song 
 and flaunting blossoms champion the passing hour. 
 It was so to-day. Strolling over grassy fields and 
 pausing only to pay due respect to an enormous 
 hawthorn that stands like a sentinel in a wide 
 reach of pasture, we soon reached the creek-side 
 woods. No sound save the rippling of rapid 
 waters stayed our progress ; for who is not ready 
 to pause when the wood-thrush sings ? Then, 
 afar off, was heard the vehement reiteration of the 
 
On Historic Ground. 121 
 
 oven-bird and the pleasant lisping of a passing 
 warbler. Reading here and there in the open 
 pagesx of the woodland almanac, my mind ran to 
 orchids, and, careless of the treacherous foot-path, 
 my eyes sought the damp soil between mossy 
 rocks, hoping at every step to find some treasure 
 of fantastic bloom. Nor did I look in vain. That 
 pink-and-white beauty, the showy orchis, unknown 
 at the home hill-side, grew here in great profusion. 
 Still, despite their numbers, it needed constant 
 care to spy them out, they were so carefully 
 guarded by overtopping growths. It is not 
 strange that many people pass through the woods 
 and xre-enter the open world empty-handed, and 
 worse, without a new idea. In matters botanical, 
 as well as those of more practical and prosy 
 nature, eternal vigilance is the price of novelty. 
 
 But the woods were not all green and orchid- 
 spotted. The pinxter flower held its showy head 
 aloft, and whenever the genial sunbeams struggled 
 through the interlocking branches of the trees, 
 bluebells and snowy wind-flower brightened the 
 grim, gray rocks. It was a fitting place to rest 
 and ruminate, here, where the sloping rocks offered 
 
 F H 
 
122 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 a tempting seat ; but our rumination was strictly 
 physical. We were lost, for the time, to nature's 
 beauties, and vigorously chewed sweet cicely. 
 
 It may seem to many a sad fall to quit the 
 higher pleasures of contemplation and seek com- 
 fort in eating weeds, but the merit of sweet cicely 
 lies hidden in the aromatic root rather than in its 
 inconspicuous white flowers, which, as yet, had 
 not appeared. Why not, then, if the weed be 
 mentioned, tell the whole truth ? It is good to 
 eat, and good for nothing else ; and its merit as 
 food is not merely that it is pleasantly aromatic ; 
 it has, too, the magic charm of recalling other 
 days. He who chewed sweet cicely forty years 
 ago, and had no other care than the fear that the 
 supply might some day be exhausted, will know 
 what joy in after-years lies in reclining on a rock 
 in the woods, and while listening to birds and 
 rippling waters, chewing sweet cicely again. It is 
 worth a small fortune, after weeks of worry, to be 
 able, if but for a brief hour, to be a boy once 
 more. 
 
 The goal was not yet reached. On through 
 the tangled underbrush and over hill-side brooks 
 
On Historic Ground. 123 
 
 we came at last to other rocks that jutted from 
 the steeply-sloping bank and the creek's bed. 
 These- uptilted rocks also offered us most tempting 
 seats, and had not a shower threatened, I, for one, 
 should have gladly remained until now. It is not 
 enough to see the world by daylight. There is a 
 night side of nature full of meaning and attractive- 
 ness, and he who knows it not has but half of the 
 world's story wherewith to please him. It would 
 have been jolly indeed to camp at such a spot, 
 notwithstanding the rain, for the prospect of an 
 early return to the city was a blacker cloud than 
 any the sky above could ever boast of. 
 
 Regardless of the distant mutterings of the 
 coming storm, I looked for garnets in the glisten- 
 ing rocks, and saw hundreds that were still held 
 fast, but found none that I could carry away. 
 They were dingy anyhow, so I do not care ; and 
 perhaps in anticipation of such a result, I was 
 given a huge rosy crystal from Alaska that out- 
 glittered all the gems in the Neshaminy valley. 
 
 It was the old story of the many against one ; 
 there were none to bear me company, and I 
 paused when it came to perching alone upon the 
 
124 ^ n Touch with Nature. 
 
 wrinkled rock. All reluctantly, I turned my face 
 homeward, and there was something soothing in 
 the silence of the woods. Scarcely a bird 
 twittered save the restless swallows, and blossoms 
 lost their brightness. Sorrow, it seems, sees the 
 world through a smoked glass. 
 
 If a summer shower is to be avoided as though 
 there was pestilence in its touch, we were none too 
 soon in reaching the kindly shelter of the old 
 mansion. It rained steadily for a short time, and 
 so I was given again opportunity to linger in the 
 historic rooms. The subdued light fitted well 
 with the surroundings, for antiquity loses some- 
 thing of its charm when exposed to too bright 
 sunlight. In the gloaming time's ravages are 
 veiled, and what might have marred the scene at 
 noonday was now an added glory. 
 
 The rain ceasing, a second start was made, and 
 with those pleasing impressions that such a visit 
 is sure to give, we hurried down a long lane, 
 pausing a moment to look once more at the giant 
 hemlocks that overshadowed the gate, and then 
 Trevose, the one-time home of the Growdens, was 
 to us a thing of the past. 
 
All Day Afloat. 
 
 1 HE world is never as empty as it seems; but 
 then, when beyond the town limits, one must be 
 willing to link arms with a weed or commune 
 with a cobble-stone. For an hour I had seen little 
 but water, the boat merely skimming the surface 
 in response to the oar-stroke, and disturbing 
 nothing save the few spirit ducks that cleft the 
 clear air without a sound ; then I tarried at the 
 fishery, as the seine was drawn, and what wealth 
 of vigorous life was brought to the " keen, sword- 
 cutting air !" Shad, herring, and a host of lesser 
 fry were tossed ashore, life that so soon before 
 had peopled the unsuspected world of water over 
 which I had thoughtlessly passed. Let me again 
 protest against the common impression that life is 
 absent because beyond the range of our vision. 
 If it should so happen that at a given hour every 
 ri* 125 
 
1 26 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 one remained in-doors, a city would appear 
 deserted ; so the well-wooded banks of the river 
 as I passed by. Not a leaf seemed to stir, and 
 
 not a bird came or went; not even a swallow. 
 Life absent, indeed ! Rounding a pine-clad point, 
 while drifting in the mile-wide stream where not a 
 feather was to be seen, the music from a hundred 
 
All Day Afloat. 127 
 
 gleesome throats was mingled : the tireless red- 
 eye's half-impatient cry, the fretting of the over- 
 anxious crows, the boasting oriole's exultant call, 
 the sad song of the plaintive thrush, the ceaseless 
 chatter of the restless wren, here met upon the 
 waters. 
 
 A moment here and the silence was oppressive ; 
 turning but a step and all the world was merry. 
 There seems to be little doubt but that birds and 
 blossoms have tastes in common. Of all the 
 features of a bright May morning, no one is more 
 in touch with the conditions than the north-bound 
 warblers. It may be that, if they tarried long, we 
 would count them tiresome, but never at such a 
 time as this will one weary of watching such 
 marvels of brilliant bird-life. There are three to 
 be found in this river valley that match well with 
 the bright plumage of the birds of the tropics, 
 the hooded, the spotted, and Blackburnian war- 
 blers. To-day I had the spotted only to keep me 
 company, and had they chosen to remain so long, 
 I would willingly still be sitting in my boat. 
 Never a pessimistic thought clouds their joy, and 
 none overshadows the on-looker at such a time 
 
128 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 and place. The sobering thought that these birds 
 were dealing death to myriads of unseen insects 
 does not intrude. 
 
 It is well to be without a settled purpose if, 
 .being baffled in that, we are stranded and helpless. 
 I turned from the river's bank to the river's bed, 
 hoping to see and recognize some, at least, of the 
 many fishes found here. In this I failed. All 
 were in too great haste to reach some distant 
 point, and the occasional dark flash or silvery 
 glitter may have been a herring or a perch. Not 
 even the minnows tarried within range, and the 
 curious darters that rest on the sand jerked 
 themselves into new positions or quite burrowed 
 under flat pebbles whenever I moved my head for 
 a better view. At last a puff of wind half turned 
 the drifting boat,, and a little company of these 
 darters was brought to view. I had not to move 
 to see each one, and, very conveniently, they did 
 not stir. These fish cannot take a leisurely stroll 
 up or down stream ; it is either a question of 
 sitting still or darting off to new quarters. As I 
 looked at them to-day, each rested as demurely on 
 the rippled sand as listening and learned judges. 
 
All Day Afloat. 129 
 
 Let us hope they have thoughts to occupy them, 
 for they appear to have little else ; and that their 
 wits are ready events proved. A small snake 
 passed dangerously near, and straightway these 
 little darters disappeared ; but it was a desperate 
 effort. Not a tittle of the ease of a startled pike, 
 but a heavy contortion of the whole body, rapid 
 vibration of every fin, and a mad rush for shelter. 
 In spite of this, they seemed to take in their 
 surroundings at a glance, for the snake passed by 
 without a victim, and then, reaching down, I lifted 
 here and there a flat pebble, and found these fish 
 beneath them. 
 
 But one source of entertainment was lacking. 
 No sturgeons were seen. One hundred and forty- 
 two years ago an observing traveller passed this 
 very spot, and has left on record, " Sturgeons 
 leaped often a fathom into the air. We saw them 
 continuing this exercise all day, till we came to 
 Trenton." It is not so strange that our bird-life 
 should have lost many attractive features, as cranes 
 and pelicans, but the bottom of the river appeared 
 to offer a fairly, safe harbor for even such huge 
 
 fishes. If increase of human population has alone 
 i 
 
130 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 to do with it, are we slowly being reduced to 
 domestic animals and insects ? 
 
 What an undiscovered country is the bed of a 
 river! A mile or more away, where the water 
 was much deeper, I again endeavored to peer into 
 the depths, and saw more than one suggestive 
 object. Not strange forms of life merely, albeit 
 there were many, and these may well suffice to 
 bid us pause, for however commonplace any 
 creature may be when dead and out of place, it is 
 an object of ceaseless interest when in its native 
 haunts. Let one watch mackerel in the open sea, 
 and then draw comparison with the hacked and 
 salted carcass in the corner grocery. There were 
 dimly to be discerned traces of old-time navigation, 
 and how I longed to catch a glimpse of an Indian 
 canoe ! Doubtless a vain wish, but not an absurd 
 one. Writes Peter Kalm of the Indians of this 
 very river valley : " Whenever they intended to 
 hollow out a thick tree for a canoe, they laid dry 
 branches all along the stem of the tree as far as it 
 must be hollowed out. They then put fire to 
 those dry branches, and as soon as they were 
 burnt they were replaced by others. . . . The tree 
 
All Day Afloat. 131 
 
 being burnt hollow as far as they found it sufficient, 
 . . they took . . . stone hatchets or sharp flints 
 and quartzes, or sharp shells, and scraped off the 
 burnt part of the wood and smoothened the boats 
 within. By this means they likewise gave it what 
 shape they pleased. ... A canoe was commonly 
 between thirty and forty feet long." 
 
 There are doubtless many of these deeply 
 buried in the river mud, but how small the chance 
 of their discovery ! I have no such excellent for- 
 tune to report, but something scarcely less sug- 
 gestive: above the sand projected a ship-timber; 
 possibly a bit of some old Dutchman's boat, such 
 as passed up and down this stream almost three 
 centuries ago. It looked old, and why not think 
 it? It is on record that about 1624-25 the Dutch 
 West India Company established a trading-house 
 on a small island near the western shore of the 
 Delaware, just below Trenton Falls, a mere rocky 
 ripple, and placed thereon four families. The 
 Dutch carried on a profitable trade with the In- 
 dians as early as 1621. There is evidence of this 
 in the objects gathered from one-time village sites, 
 and many valuable relics were unearthed well-nigh 
 
132 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 a century ago near the head of tide-water, which 
 would be worth their weight in gold were they in 
 existence now ; but they were valueless then, when 
 the Indians were looked upon simply as " hea- 
 then" and scarcely human ; although a book con- 
 cerning them had appeared declaring them to be 
 the lost tribes. Was it not enough to juggle them 
 out of their lands without permitting a crank to 
 lie about them afterwards ? This slowly-decaying 
 piece of hewn timber was suffering no sea-change. 
 Neither coral nor sea-weed beautified it, and the 
 few lazy mussels that ploughed the sand near by 
 were as dull and forbidding in hue ; but there was, 
 better than all this, a wealth of suggestiveness. 
 
 Taking my oars in hand, I hurried now to the 
 opposite shore and landed upon a narrow but 
 clean, bright, pebbly beach. Again the Indian 
 loomed up, but without the Dutch traders. The 
 rounded bits of many different rocks were full of 
 beauty in themselves, and here they were mingled 
 with fragments of bog iron ore or limonite, which 
 recalled the contents of more than one Indian 
 grave I had opened. Here were scattered little 
 cups and rings and many an oddly-fashioned form 
 
All Day Afloat. 133 
 
 such as attracted other eyes, centuries ago, for 
 reasons given ; and it was evident whence came the 
 cue to^the Indian in the matter of personal adorn- 
 ment. Not a type of stone ornament as they are 
 found on the upland fields but has its double in 
 the water-worn and frost-fractured fragments that 
 strewed the beach. But was there ever an Indian 
 at this point ? Who can say ? Nevertheless, as I 
 pushed my boat off shore, I sighted a broken 
 arrow-point. 
 
 It was a quick transition from the past to 
 the present, but not an unwelcome one. A 
 straining tug rounded the near-by bend, and, 
 following in its wake, a string of rafts. Here was 
 a golden opportunity to return without labor. I 
 had but to hold to the long rudder of the hindmost 
 raft, and did so. All was novel, and he who loves 
 laziness would have been charmed. Still, I could 
 not be altogether idle. The same incentive, it may 
 be, moved the birds, and many took the ride with 
 me. It was rather startling to see a green heron 
 perched upon a log and in no wise concerned about 
 my close proximity. It seldom shifted its position, 
 and seemed asleep, not even noticing its fellows that 
 
 12 
 
134 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 continually crossed and recrossed the river. These 
 were never silent ; my companion always so, for 
 which I was grateful, as the others were forever 
 clearing their throats, and never getting beyond a 
 guttural. Purple grakles hopped from log to log, 
 insect-hunting, I supposed, but nothing like a bug 
 was within sight from where I sat. A song-spar- 
 row came within a log's length and sang twice be- 
 fore departing. All told, we were a merry com- 
 pany ; and what a luxury is elbow-room ! Public 
 highways a mile wide are seldom a feature of the 
 land. Here we were as much alone as if in the 
 moon. 
 
An Up-River Ramble. 
 
 1 HE definition of " picnic," given by Stormonth, 
 is really a brief but suggestive essay on a delight- 
 ful subject. Perhaps I can meet all requirements 
 by merely stating: June 20, perfect day, picnic. 
 See Stormonth. 
 
 Think of a perfect June day ! And add thereto 
 "Top-Rock," the "Ringing Stones," and "High 
 Falls," with a ride in the valley of the Delaware 
 that never becomes commonplace, however long 
 the day's ramble. The drive at the base of the 
 cliff was of itself sufficient to fill the day ; but 
 although we might well have halted at every step 
 to revel in nature's riches, there was an over- 
 powering impulse in every one to go yet farther 
 and reach Ultima Thule. It is scarcely to one's 
 credit to admit that these mag'nificent rocks, with 
 ferns, flowers, and reckless trees that clung to 
 
 135 
 
136 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 giddy heights, should have passed with but a 
 glance. There was such suggestiveness in each 
 overhanging shelf and gloomy crevice, indelible 
 footprints of Time, the day might well have been 
 spent in contemplation at any point. There was 
 food for thought in abundance, but, alas ! there 
 was food also in various hampers, and the day was 
 devoted to a picnic in its broadest sense. 
 
 Let us return to Stormonth : he says, Pick, to 
 eat by morsels ; Nick, the former familiar name of 
 the tankard for liquor. Strictly, then, we were to 
 Pic, and the nicking was to be omitted. At least, 
 I have nothing to say of the latter. The rocks 
 whereon we halted for the feast afforded ample 
 room not only to recline while eating, but to 
 dance and make merry should one be inclined, 
 while the more staid and geologically inclined 
 found the flat layers of slaty rock an absorbing 
 object-lesson. There was but a mere rivulet trick- 
 ling over one edge of the exposure at the time, 
 but every evidence that at no distant day, geologi- 
 cally speaking, a torrent had rushed through the 
 glen and leaped with majestic force over the brink 
 of a precipice hard by. How much more readily 
 
An Up-River Ramble. 137 
 
 we may recall the past if we have even the slen- 
 derest thread holding us thereto ! This little rivu- 
 let, that one might pass over without seeing, sang 
 no less the wondrous story of the past because it 
 lisped in childish treble, and every utterance was 
 lost if a bird sang or the wind murmured through 
 the hemlocks. It was almost pathetic to see the 
 waters gather their puny strength where the flat 
 rocks abruptly ended and plunge into the deep 
 gorge below. Plunging as if to move the mighty 
 rocks that barred their way, but only to be lost 
 among the broken masses that strewed the dark, 
 tortuous channel of the mountain-brook. No 
 charm was missing because the spot was now so 
 calm. It was a time fitted to contemplate what 
 had been rather than follow the rush of tumultu- 
 ous activity. I was thankful, for one, that there 
 was no roar of sullen waters to awe, no giddy 
 abyss from which to shrink in fear. Better, by 
 far, the bell-like ripple, cheery as a bird's song, 
 that so gently hinted of the tragic long-ago. 
 
 The feast over, we were conducted to the 
 " Ringing Stones," and here grandeur of a 
 wholly different type confronted us. It is hard 
 
 12* 
 
138 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 to believe that such a spot could fail to arouse 
 interest in the spectator, and yet the fame of these 
 rocks is not far-travelled. Until I saw them to- 
 day I never knew of them, and yet have lived 
 within almost a day's walk of them all my life. 
 In a little woods we found them resting in absolute 
 silence, but not one but responded in deep or 
 gayer tones to the touch of our timid feet. It 
 was wretched walking, but we little thought of 
 danger, as peal after peal rang out, when chosen 
 masses were sharply struck with bits of stone. It 
 was a most strange spot. A veritable crater, from 
 which had bubbled up a molten mass, now cracked 
 into huge angular masses, heaped in the most hap- 
 hazard way, 
 
 " Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, 
 The fragments of an earlier world." 
 
 This rugged, rocky music will not bear trans- 
 planting, and rejects a home in any mere frag- 
 ment such as one might carry away. I am glad 
 of this, for else these massive stones would be 
 stolen by lovers of Wagner. The sound given 
 out, when these masses of crystalline rock are 
 
An Up-River Ramble. 139 
 
 sharply struck with a metal hammer or a piece of 
 stone, is due not only to the crystalline structure 
 of the. rock itself, but to the position in which each 
 mass lies, those having fewest points of contact 
 with the surrounding masses having the clearest 
 and sweetest " voices," as I call them. 
 
 As had been true of every other point whereat 
 we had tarried through the day, so here was a 
 spot about which I longed to tarry, and, as in 
 many a melancholy case before, was forced to 
 console myself with the hope that I might come 
 again. The plan of the leader must be followed 
 out, and reluctantly turning from these sweet- 
 tongued rocks, we were soon en route for the 
 great feature of the day's excursion, " Top-Rock." 
 This was no outstanding point to be seen from a 
 distance, like a snow-capped peak, and climbed in 
 imagination before its base was reached. To all 
 but the leader it was a matter of faith until the 
 moment it was fairly stepped upon. In fact, it was 
 with some misgiving that a pedestrian tour was un- 
 dertaken, when, the carriages halting in the dusty 
 highway, the fact that such was necessary was 
 announced. Had I not already seen enough ? 
 
140 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 was the question asked by more than one. Be- 
 sides, we were at a cottage-door, and a bubbling 
 spring,- with mossy pebbles set about, and a clam- 
 shell cup, tempted too strongly to have faith in 
 stronger things. But we started at last, and never 
 hath a hedge shut in so marvellous a view. As 
 the field was crossed, there was nothing suggestive 
 of other than the lowest lowlands, but we were, in 
 fact, on a long reach of table-land that ended with 
 startling suddenness behind a hedge. A mere 
 fragment of a wood-path was followed, when, 
 without an intimation of what was near, the valley 
 of the Delaware was spread out before us. We 
 stood upon an overhanging cliff, nearly four hun- 
 dred feet above the water. 
 
 These are the Nockamixon Rocks, we were 
 told, and very different the appearance from the 
 summit as compared with that at the base; not 
 that the latter does not merit all that can be said, 
 but here we are above comparative description. 
 These rocks are really a cliff, nearly one mile in 
 length, of the new red sandstone, but do not be 
 misled by this term " new." They are ancient in 
 every sense, and their sheer front facing the east 
 
An Up-River Ramble. 141 
 
 has borne the brunt of untold centuries of storms. 
 All that is new about them is each succeeding sum- 
 mer'svmantle of vine and flower. These, clinging 
 to the narrowest of ledges, and finding root-hold 
 in the shallow cracks, gave rise to much specula- 
 tion in my mind, for they seemed so unequal to 
 withstanding storms, yet were as luxuriant as the 
 growths in the valley beneath. 
 
 We had had an opportunity of comparing 
 man's work with nature, and the little canal at 
 the very base of the bluff was a ludicrous feature 
 of the landscape from where we stood. But the 
 river beyond was in no wise commonplace. It 
 flowed, as of old, serenely past innumerable bould- 
 ers that fretted its course, but from our point of 
 view there was no evidence of haste or hesitancy ; 
 the flow seemingly as calm and unruffled as the 
 wide-reaching landscape and the overarching sky. 
 Heeding only the hills that hemmed it in, as a 
 glistening thread of silver it reached to other 
 scenes the high hills shut from us, and was the 
 dearer to every rambler for that, miles away, with 
 the same gladsome brightness, it rippled past our 
 homes. How much there is in such a feeling ! Not 
 
142 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 strangers in a strange land, but at home, whether 
 we wander where the river is but a mountain-brook, 
 or broadens until lost in the sea. This it is that 
 makes, for me, the Delaware something more than 
 
 " A river bare, 
 That glides the dark hills under," 
 
 and so disputes that 
 
 " There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 As worthy of your wonder." 
 
 Nature never duplicates a birthplace. 
 
 We saw few flowers, but abundant evidence 
 that there are many in their season. Finding no 
 trace of the coveted rose-root, I contented 
 myself with fern and purple raspberry. The 
 rose-root has a history. Gray says of it, found 
 " throughout Arctic America, extending southward 
 to the coast of Maine, and cliffs of Delaware 
 River." Think of a flower that has withstood the 
 changes since the glacial epoch ! Here we have 
 it; one that made the garlands of palaeolithic 
 maidens. There is archaeology gone mad for 
 you ! 
 
 Of the immediate landscape nothing need be 
 
An Up-River Ramble. 143 
 
 said. Description, if detailed, is nauseating ; and 
 to be worthily comprehensive who shall dare? 
 Contemplating a landscape, one naturally drifts 
 towards comparisons, but avoid therri sedulously. 
 My companions, to my sorrow, were not like- 
 minded. A fair pedagogue suggested crazy patch- 
 work ! Miles of magnificent valley compared to a 
 bedquilt ! And this, too, from one who is writing 
 a novel. Her words were the one cloud that 
 dimmed the glorious sunshine of a perfect day. 
 
A Day in New Mexico. 
 
 COMING, as I had, from the far East, where 
 nature, if seen at all, is viewed from a comparatively 
 near stand-point, it was a novel experience to 
 while away the hours of a sunny day, studying 
 mountains apparently near at hand, yet miles and 
 miles away. As I glanced, for the last time, at 
 the landscape from the car-windows, I planned to 
 wander across the intervening plain to at least the 
 base of a beautiful range of rocky hills that 
 bounded it in one direction ; but learning soon 
 after that the proposed goal was twelve miles away, 
 contemplated it, as stated, from afar. Probably I 
 did not lose much, for, protected from the search- 
 ing sunshine of a New Mexican noontide, it was 
 possible to remain delightfully cool and yet mark 
 the endless changes on the mountains beyond. 
 
 The country here is simply a broad, treeless 
 plain, hemmed in, at scattered points, by moun- 
 tains. Without these the hotel would have seemed 
 144 
 
A Day in New Mexico. 145 
 
 more like a ship at sea, so monotonous are these 
 level stretches of almost barren ground ; but there 
 is endless variety where the hills begin. Against 
 the background of cloudless, deep-blue sky there 
 is traced the most fantastic grouping of tapering 
 points, narrow notches, and that chance accumu- 
 lation of shapeless sculpture one tries in vain to 
 disentangle. For this reason the outlook never 
 becomes monotonous. Fancy is slow to weary 
 of playing with such building-blocks ; but when 
 she does, it is but a step from form to color, and 
 the magnificence of this is only equalled by the 
 magnitude of the other. The restless chasing of 
 light and shadow across the rugged hill-sides 
 never ceases. What but a moment ago were deep, 
 dark gorges are now sunlit prominences, and the 
 outstanding features that held our gaze so recently 
 have now faded from view. Later, when the long 
 shadows creep slowly across the plain, masses of 
 snowy clouds rest upon every peak. The scene is 
 wholly changed. Mountains and clouds become 
 as one ; a mighty barrier that shuts out the sun. 
 
 And now what of the intervening plain ? The 
 soil is very like, if not, pulverized lava, and that 
 G k 13 
 
146 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 vegetation should exist at all is marvellous. Yet 
 there are bushes that thickly cover the ground, 
 but, if we except the few sickly cotton-woods that 
 have been planted near the dwellings, there are no 
 trees ; their place is taken by countless windmills. 
 These are no addition to the landscape, and are 
 made the more hideous from being painted white, 
 and too often spotted and splashed with red and 
 blue. A green windmill would be far less con- 
 spicuous, but this color appears to find little favor 
 with the dwellers on this plain. One needs but to 
 tarry here for a few days to learn to love trees, 
 and, indeed, well-nigh every feature of the Atlantic 
 seaboard States. 
 
 Without this beggarly show of vegetation there 
 would be no animal life here worth mentioning ; 
 but as it is, the plain is far from being deserted. 
 My attention, on leaving the cars, was first called 
 to a few swallows twittering about the railway 
 station ; then a dull-gray kingbird perched upon 
 the telegraph-wires, and launched out into the 
 glaring sunshine for huge green beetles, that 
 seemed to replace the house-flies at home. Then, 
 too, there were ravens that flapped lazily over the 
 
A Day in New Mexico. 147 
 
 long rows of freight-cars, croaking dismally, and, 
 by their presence, adding no charm to the land- 
 scape>as do the merry, noisy, cunning crows at 
 home. Of the two birds, I prefer the latter. The 
 raven may figure better in poetry, and its name 
 sound less harshly upon the ear; but for the 
 pleasant purpose of recalling days gone by, or as 
 an object of study, give me the crow. If the 
 ravens at Deming are fair representatives of their 
 race, then the crow is, I believe, a brainier bird. 
 
 Strolling about the plain, one other bird at- 
 tracted my attention continually, and made the 
 place less dreary. It was the black-throated spar- 
 row. Although the voice was harsh and dry, 
 fitting the arid surroundings, there was an as- 
 surance in its lame attempts at song that the 
 world here was not utterly desolate. I listened 
 hour after hour to these cheerful birds, fancying 
 there was melody in their attempts at song, and 
 wondering why, when their lines had been cast in 
 such forbidding places, the gift of a sweet voice had 
 not been vouchsafed them. Does the extremely 
 dry atmosphere have to do with it ? Not a sound 
 that I heard had that fulness of tone common to 
 
148 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the allied utterances at home. At the limit of my 
 longest stroll I heard a mountain mocking-bird, as 
 it is misnamed in the books, and his was a disap- 
 pointing song. It was the twanging of a harp of 
 a single string, and that a loose one. 
 
 Of skunks, lizards, snakes, and creatures of that 
 ilk I heard much, but my stay was too brief to 
 encounter any; but of the dreaded tarantula I 
 saw much, and, as usual, was disappointed. One 
 would fancy, from what he reads, that this huge 
 spider was a veritable fiend incarnate. If so, it 
 must be at seasons only. They were not so here 
 and now. During the day I could find no trace 
 of them, and it is said that during the dry season 
 they remain in their burrows or under heavy tim- 
 ber, as the floor of the railway platform, but after 
 sundown they made their appearance, and the first 
 impression I received was that no other spider 
 was so very timid. They started at approaching 
 footsteps, were ever disposed to run when ap- 
 proached, and showed fight only when cornered. 
 This seemed to me the more strange, as every 
 person I met held them to be very brave, very 
 fierce, and very poisonous. I could not verify 
 
A Day in New Mexico. 149 
 
 these assertions, although I did not experiment 
 upon myself as to the effects of their biting. 
 Thaf^they can produce a very irritating sore, and 
 the venom, when taken up by the circulation, pro- 
 duces constitutional effects, is unquestionably true, 
 but I do not believe that death ever results di- 
 rectly from their bites. Not fearing the creatures, 
 I watched one in particular, to see what evidences 
 of intelligence it would exhibit. These were not 
 very apparent. It simply realized that it was a 
 prisoner, and made desperate efforts to escape. 
 When teased with a bit of straw or leaf, it made 
 no attempt to bite, but appeared to recognize my 
 finger, although protected by a glove, and gave 
 me several vicious nips, but could not penetrate 
 an ordinary kid glove. I noticed that there was 
 left upon my finger a minute drop of yellow, 
 sticky fluid, after the first and second attempts to 
 bite, but not afterwards, these two efforts seem- 
 ingly exhausting the contents of the poison-sacs. 
 
 No person that I questioned attributed a voice 
 
 to the tarantula, and I failed to demonstrate that 
 
 they could make a faint whizzing or whirring 
 
 sound, but I fancied such was the case. On the 
 
 '3* 
 
150 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 whole, these huge black spiders are disappointing, 
 and would scarcely have received the attention 
 that has been given them were they not superla- 
 tively ugly, and mankind naturally afraid of the 
 whole race of Arachnids. 
 
 I was sorry to see no tarantula-hawks, as a 
 certain gigantic blue wasp is called. They are 
 formidable-looking creatures themselves, but de- 
 serve encouragement as the relentless foe of the 
 dreaded spider. It is said of them : they seem 
 " never to rest a moment, and with tireless energy 
 fly and walk rapidly along the ground, running 
 into every crevice and hole, and examining every 
 suspicious object, after the dreaded tarantula. 
 The fate of the giant spider when discovered by 
 the hawk is both certain and attended with fas- 
 cinating horror. 
 
 " The winged insect hovers over the victim until 
 it finds a good opportunity to sting. The poison 
 acts in a peculiar manner, the tarantula becoming 
 paralyzed." 
 
 The twilight is short at Deming, and when the 
 sun sinks at last behind the distant hills it is 
 quickly night. The birds, unlike many a robin 
 
A Day in New Mexico. 151 
 
 and thrush at home, have no evening song, and 
 silence, were it not for myriad insects, would 
 brood over the plain. But the crickets are now in 
 their glory, and a sound as of rushing waters fills 
 the air. Its volume increases and diminishes with 
 the fitful breeze that rushes by or lazily toys with 
 the stiff shrubbery that dots the plain. And it 
 matters not if there be moonlight. Except the 
 insects' steady trill, the world was now at rest ; 
 hushed, as in deep slumber, albeit the moon over- 
 topped the distant hills and flooded the plain with 
 a mellow light that caused every object to stand 
 out with startling distinctness. Here was a feature 
 unlike our moonlit fields at home. There, the 
 charming indistinctness shrouding every object, 
 even when the sky is cloudless, gives the fancy full 
 play, and a bush or tree is whatsoever we are 
 pleased to think it ; but not so here. The plain 
 that was bathed in brilliant sunshine through the 
 day is almost as distinct now; and even the 
 mountains are not less rugged, and every peak 
 pierces the upper air, but with an added glory, for 
 upon each there rest, and over all there twinkle, 
 millions of glittering stars. 
 
Round about Bisbee. 
 
 -ALTHOUGH I had been for some days sight- 
 seeing from a car-window in New Mexico, and 
 had had more than one good stroll over desert- 
 like prairies, I was not so forcibly impressed with 
 the fact that I was in the far West as when I 
 reached this wonderful Arizona mining region. 
 Then the country back of me was indeed " on 
 East," and I was at last " out West." 
 
 Of Bisbee itself there is little to be said. It is 
 gathered together in a little valley, hidden by high 
 hills, and presents no striking feature, as seen from 
 the station, when you leave the cars, or later, as 
 you pass along its single street. The little adobe 
 houses perched upon the hill-sides, however, are 
 somewhat picturesque, and, what is of more 
 importance, very comfortable. It was then late 
 in July the rainy season, and from noon until 
 152 
 
Round about Bisbee. 153 
 
 about sunset the rain is likely to be violent ; but 
 during the early morning one may wander over 
 the hills and along the valleys without fear of a 
 wetting. 
 
 What had I in view in coming here ? was the 
 tiresome question that every miner asked as 
 opportunity afforded; and when assured that it 
 was merely to see new sights and a new country, 
 an expression of doubt was plainly depicted on 
 their countenances. They believed it was not 
 merely to see a new flower or hear a new bird 
 that brought me here. But it was : and now what 
 of the sights and sounds round about Bisbee? 
 
 Upon arrival I did not plunge in medias res, but 
 looked upon the summits of the highest hills as 
 inaccessible, and revelled in what I called mountain- 
 climbing by scrambling over the near-by rocks. 
 This tested my strength, gave me practice, added 
 to my surefootedness, and so the day of a steep 
 ascent found me equal to the task. We were off 
 by 5 A.M., three of us, with a burro to carry 
 our traps and a small boy to coax the patient 
 donkey over the rocky trail. Our purpose was 
 twofold : to reach the summit, and take photo- 
 
154 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 graphs of such objects as struck our fancy. We 
 succeeded admirably. 
 
 There was not one familiar feature about or 
 above us from the very start, for even the air and 
 sky were strangely clear, and a soaring eagle that 
 kept long in view seemed almost within gunshot, 
 although circling far above an adjoining mountain ; 
 and later, when, following a swift-descending swoop, 
 its impatient scream came floating earthward, we 
 stopped as if the bird was threatening us. So it 
 was that at the very outset the scales dropped from 
 our eyes and our ears were quickened to novel 
 sounds. But no new sound, as a bird's song, is so 
 sure to attract attention as some one that has the 
 subtle charm of association. A curved-billed 
 thrush across the wide valley commenced singing, 
 and at once the mountains vanished. How long 
 I stood in the cool shadow of a thrifty oak I can- 
 not tell, but when from a misty cloud the moun- 
 tains reappeared, I was quite alone. I had been 
 wandering under the homestead oaks, and for 
 long after their misty outlines stood against the 
 sky. 
 
 If a clear atmosphere and high altitude sharpens 
 
Round about Bisbee. 155 
 
 one's wits, it may, too, overstrain the nerves and 
 lead to many a blunder, particularly if the spirit 
 of adventure is well upon one. I was in such a 
 plight, and strange indeed if something should 
 not befall me before I joined my party ! As I was 
 trudging along alone, every pebble rattling beneath 
 my tread, I fancied some strange creature in my 
 path. Not a crooked stick but suggested a ser- 
 pent; and so, guarding against imagined dan- 
 gers, I finally met with a real one : I sat upon a 
 cactus. As a cure for unbridled imagination, I 
 commend it. 
 
 To better nurse my countless trivial wounds, I 
 chose a rock for a resting-place, and considered 
 the innumerable fragments of flinty stone that 
 covered the entire hill-side. If color has aught 
 to do with it, I was leaving behind me most 
 tempting specimens of minerals. At almost every 
 step I had been rolling down the hill crystals of 
 many a hue, and dull-colored stone made beauti- 
 ful by the green, blue, and crimson incrustations 
 that covered them. Many a bit that I picked up 
 and flung away was varied as the rainbow. But, 
 beautiful as were all these, they paled to utter 
 
156 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 insignificance when brought in contact with the 
 masses from the heart of the mountain. If one 
 would know how magnificent a mineral may be, 
 how it surpasses even the orchids among flowers, 
 the butterflies among insects, or birds of paradise 
 among birds, let him gather from the mouth of the 
 great copper-mine fragments of the ore as they 
 are ruthlessly dumped upon the ground. When 
 malachite, azurite, and cuprite are seen as I saw 
 them at Bisbee, then one can form some idea of 
 Nature's perfected handiwork. If in the earth's 
 unexplored regions there is awaiting man's com- 
 ing some yet more magnificent exhibition than 
 the play of sunlight upon clustered crystals, as I 
 found them here, then man should have other 
 senses whereby to appreciate it. 
 
 Resuming my journey, I soon overtook my 
 companions, and long before noon reached the 
 summit. It was but a mass of loose, angular 
 rocks, no larger than those that covered the 
 mountain-side, nor more weather-beaten, although 
 it is at such a spot that the clouds literally burst 
 and spend their pent-up fury. This thought in 
 mind, I was surprised to find, scattered between 
 
Round about Bisbee. 157 
 
 rock-masses, gray-green, brittle ferns, and one 
 bright, ruddy flower, akin in appearance to our 
 brilliant " painted cup" of the Jersey hills. How 
 they could withstand the fury of the storms that 
 rage thereabout, let some philosopher explain. 
 Insignificant as was the vegetation here, it was 
 equal to the task of holding desolation at bay, 
 and no gloomy thoughts arose as we stood over- 
 looking miles and miles of country. We were 
 perched well aloft, surely, but as a mere speck 
 overhead still floated the eagle that we had seen 
 early in the day. It was a thrilling fancy that the 
 eagle above us might be looking over the Pacific, 
 and, with scarcely an effort, might turn eastward 
 and be over our New Jersey home before we 
 could reach the village at our feet. It was a 
 merit of this day that rapid transit was the rule in 
 all things, and we were never shocked by sudden 
 transition from fancy to fact. From the soaring 
 eagle to the broad-tailed humming-bird was a not 
 unpleasant change, as I had never before seen a 
 living species of this family except the familiar 
 ruby-throat. It came and went, as such birds 
 always do, without our knowledge of the direction 
 14 
 
158 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 it took, and promised to be quite uninteresting, 
 until at last it spied our dog, and then its ire was 
 excited. With an angry, bee-like whiz it darted 
 to and fro, never actually touching the dog, but 
 very loud in its threatenings as to the constantly- 
 postponed next time. It seemed a more cowardly 
 bird than the Eastern ruby-throat, which makes 
 good its threats, and has been known to strike 
 first and threaten afterwards. Fear of man seemed 
 characteristic of a great deal of the animal life 
 met with on the mountain, and I was not pre- 
 pared to cope with this difficulty, having expected 
 to find even the birds comparatively tame. Cer- 
 tainly the creatures that still linger in these now 
 treeless mountains are seldom molested, and yet 
 they all were more difficult to approach than allied 
 forms at home. I realized this when a shining- 
 crested flycatcher, that, as I saw it, looked like a 
 black cedar-bird, came within fifty feet, and would 
 permit of no nearer approach. But, thanks to the 
 clear air, where nothing obstructs the sound, and 
 vision is surprisingly acute, I could both see and 
 hear this curious bird with some satisfaction. Its 
 song is very sweet, yet I did not hear the full 
 
Round about Bisbee. 159 
 
 range of its melody, as one does who meets the 
 bird during the nesting season. As to the wrens, 
 they were not so bold as the little, brown fellows 
 at home ; and so through the whole list of ani- 
 mated nature. Herein lay the one disappointing 
 feature of my mountain-climb. 
 
 Over-anxiety for my neck caused my thoughts 
 to centre in my heels on the return, and I saw 
 surprisingly little ; so consoled myself with the 
 thought that what my first mountain failed to 
 yield might be the special gift of an adjoining 
 hill ; and so it proved. 
 
 But to spend hours on a mountain and come 
 back with but one poor weed was too much for 
 the patience of the miners, and I was truly pitied. 
 For once, if not oftener, they had found an un- 
 questionable crank. Very likely. But, then, if a 
 man is not mildly a crank in some one direction, 
 is he not sure to be a nonentity in all ? 
 
A Rocky Ramble. 
 
 IT* ROM the top of the highest peak, the adjoining 
 mountains look much alike, but it will not do to 
 climb one hill and then judge of the whole range. 
 This may suffice for some purposes, as those of a 
 physical geographer, but will never satisfy the 
 whims of a rambler bent on close acquaintance 
 with each hill-side's unconsidered trifles. 
 
 It has been asked, What is the distinguishing 
 whim of a professional rambler ? It is, I take it, 
 to gather pleasure rather than profit from the 
 world about him. He is supposed to be one free 
 of all definiteness of purpose other than that 
 mentioned. Whether some projecting rock is 
 diorite or dolerite is to him of little moment, but 
 whether it is dull or glistening, bare or covered, 
 becomes a matter of importance. Upon it may 
 depend the measure of his joy as he scans the 
 160 
 
A Rocky Ramble. 161 
 
 landscape. How vividly I recall one long, bare 
 ledge of pale-gray rock, capping the precipitous 
 wall sf a deep ravine ! As at first seen, it was 
 mere Titanic masonry, but soon I caught a glimpse 
 of one trembling fern fluttering in the fitful breeze. 
 The rocks were changed ; they were no longer 
 grand by reason of their desolation, but glorious 
 because of the little fern that clung to them. A 
 fig for the name of the species ! That it grew at 
 such a dizzy height and brightened the grim gray 
 wall was fact enough for the rambler. It is some- 
 times well not to be a botanist. Whether ignoble 
 or not, I always yield to the temptations of aim- 
 lessness. 
 
 And now let us to the mountain : the hill is not 
 high, but the path is very rough. Whether man 
 was or was not once a creeping animal, it is well 
 that at times he can go upon all-fours ; otherwise 
 many a chance to see goodly sights would be lost 
 to him. It was so to-day. Loose rocks could 
 not have been better arranged to prevent our 
 progress, there were three of us, and so our 
 satisfaction was increased as we gained, from time 
 to time, a promising outlook. But there were 
 I 14* 
 
1 62 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 dangers that could not be overlooked. There is 
 nothing funny in facing a rattlesnake, and to put 
 your hand upon a centipede may stay farther 
 climbing for that day. Even to have a tarantula 
 comb your eyebrows is somewhat of a shock. 
 None of these things happened, but the climb was 
 by no means stupid ; and when a great bare rock 
 was reached, whereon we rested, each was eager 
 to narrate his own little adventure. He who first 
 spoke uttered the opinion of all, that probably no 
 one had ever been so foolhardy before as to climb 
 this hill, and the pleasant feelings of the discoverer 
 filled our silly breasts ; but only to receive a shock. 
 A clatter as of rolling stones was heard. We 
 looked down the hill, and there was a Mexican 
 walking at his ease, his patient burro following. 
 Conversation ceased and I turned my thoughts 
 into new channels. These Mexican wood-gatherers 
 and their little donkeys or burros did not prove 
 vastly entertaining. They moved along with less 
 animation than the ore-buckets on the tram-way, 
 and recalled the sluggish " Gila monsters," that 
 will wait a week for a rock to roll away rather 
 than go round it. In one case the donkey proved 
 
A Rocky Ramble. 163 
 
 the more polite of the two, for my salutation, 
 " Good-morning," was met by silence on the part 
 of theonan, but the donkey's fifteen inches of ears 
 waved gracefully as the animal passed. Still, 
 sitting on the great flat rock, I watched the man 
 and his donkey as they walked towards the woods 
 above us. Their trained eyes made out a path to 
 which we were blind, and the sole merit of the 
 Mexican was his ease in stepping from stone to 
 stone without pausing to look at the loose rocks 
 before him. Soon he passed out of sight and out 
 of mind, leaving us to the hill-side, which we had 
 fondly supposed no others would be rash enough 
 to visit. It is something to have neighbors, even 
 if the mere knowledge of their existence meets 
 every need. 
 
 Except a solitary bird, at long intervals, or 
 butterflies that we brushed from blooming cacti, 
 there was no evidence of animal life upon this 
 rugged hill-side ; but when we were quietly perched 
 upon the roomy rock and made no pronounced 
 demonstration, many a creature that had been 
 startled by our strange appearance as we scram- 
 bled upward, came one by one in view. It was 
 
164 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the old story. We had been watched at every 
 step, as is every noisy rambler in Eastern woods 
 when he fancies himself alone. As an illustration : 
 our presence was held not unsafe to them by a. 
 pair of huge gray squirrels, after some consultation 
 upon their part, and, while in full view, they 
 warned every creature not to come too near, by 
 barking as loudly and as lustily as a peevish ter- 
 rier. It became tiresome at last, and I innocently 
 threw a stone at them. Here my ignorance 
 cropped out again. The stone fell so far short of 
 the squirrels that they were not aware of my mur- 
 derous design. They were quite a quarter of a 
 mile away, perhaps farther, and yet their every 
 movement was plainly seen, and I fancied I could 
 hear their chattering, meant for themselves only. 
 It is not strange, in such an atmosphere, that timid 
 animals should be rarely seen. A man's approach 
 would be signalled by his footsteps when almost a 
 mile away, and every unfamiliar sound would put 
 an animal on the alert. Certainly many a one 
 could discriminate, too, between clumsy Easterners 
 like ourselves and that machine-like Mexican that 
 just passed. 
 
A Rocky Ramble. 165 
 
 It was here that I saw my first centipede, a shiny, 
 brown creature, that rested in a crevice of the 
 rock. N.It did not suggest " melancholy ferocity," 
 I quote the " Encyclopaedia Britannica," and 
 if possessed of such poisonous fangs, why should 
 it be so cowardly? A slight movement on my 
 part, after I had discovered it, caused it to disap- 
 pear instantly. No animal, I take it, ever moved 
 more rapidly, not even a humming-bird. Here is 
 the puzzling feature of this uncanny beast. For 
 long it had been resting in this sunny crevice, and 
 had, of course, seen us, and may I add ? saw that 
 we did not see it. If this startling suggestion is 
 true, it ascribes a deal of wit to a centipede ; and 
 the longer I take note of the creatures about me, 
 the more I am inclined to exalt their mental 
 status. We often see such actions on the part of 
 birds and mammals, and, too, of snakes. They 
 are swayed by conflicting emotions, curiosity and 
 fear, and while the latter usually gets the upper 
 hand in time, it is not always so. Why a centi- 
 pede, several inches long, feared by all creatures, 
 even by man, should be so extremely shy, is a 
 difficult problem to solve. If they have wit 
 
1 66 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 
 
 enough to act as I hold did this one to-day, they 
 need scarcely trouble themselves about possible 
 enemies before an attack is made. 
 
 There was more upon this hill to attract a bot- 
 anist than upon those previously climbed. One 
 sprawling, prickly weed was very common, and 
 conspicuous by reason of its handsome blossoms. 
 These were snowy white, with a deep golden cen- 
 tre, and contrasted admirably with the light-green 
 leaves of the plant. Again, there were tangled 
 mats of vine-like growth, bearing numerous nar- 
 row leaves, and many a huge trumpet-shaped 
 flower, also purely white, but with a rich purple 
 throat. These, with other less conspicuous bloom, 
 relieved the monotony of bare rocks and brown 
 earth ; but a far more striking feature was the 
 growth of mistletoe on the mountain-oaks. I had 
 long been familiar with this parasite on the gum- 
 trees of Southern New Jersey, and in Kentucky, 
 along the Ohio River, but nowhere does it grow 
 in greater luxuriance than in this corner of Ari- 
 zona. Nor does it seem to have the same blight- 
 ing effect that marks its progress on our Eastern 
 trees. Upon one oak, well down in the valley, I 
 
A Rocky Ramble. 167 
 
 counted eleven bunches, each as large as a bushel- 
 basket, yet the tree showed no symptoms of 
 decay. ^ 
 
 Having rested long enough to forget our sev- 
 eral aches and pains, it was without misgiving 
 that the descent was undertaken ; but as the up- 
 ward climb was laborious, it followed, in our 
 fancy, that the downward progress would be very 
 easy. Not a bit of it. There was no stone that 
 did not threaten to roll as we touched it, and 
 many carried out their threats at the most inop- 
 portune moment. How quickly and how often I 
 sat down ! And then, when well-nigh discouraged, 
 we heard footsteps behind us, and, looking back- 
 ward, saw that morose Mexican with his burro. 
 How deftly they picked their way ; how stately 
 the tread of that swarthy mountaineer ! He did 
 not deign to glance at us; and even if we had 
 been helpless, would doubtless have passed us by. 
 But that little burro ! His ears alone were plainly 
 visible, and by them we knew him. His burden 
 made him not less polite, and again the long ears 
 waved gracefully as he passed. That this animal 
 could bear up under two great bundles of crooked 
 
1 68 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 sticks, each as large as the creature's body, and, 
 withal, walk down a steep hill covered with loose 
 stones, this was the most marvellous of the many 
 strange sights I witnessed. But I was in part on 
 the same errand, and strove to learn a lesson from 
 this patient donkey. I followed closely at his 
 heels, watching every movement. Unfortunately, 
 I have but two legs and the donkey rejoiced in 
 four, and that I should imitate successfully with 
 two limbs the movements of a quadruped was not 
 to be expected. How, when, where, and why I 
 threw my legs about I cannot now recall, but at 
 last my antics caused both the Mexican and his 
 burro to halt, and I sat down upon a jagged rock 
 utterly bewildered. After that it was a matter of 
 careful climbing, with but here and there an occa- 
 sional step upon some kindly level ledge; and 
 so, without serious mishap, the valley road was 
 reached, with, I trust, a proper feeling of thank- 
 fulness. I have said, " without serious mishap," 
 but this bears reference to my body only. I was 
 still in distress. Into what strange shapes my 
 clothes had been converted, and how freely the 
 passing breeze swept through them ! Now that I 
 
A Rocky Ramble. 169 
 
 was upon level ground, I recalled that I had been 
 stoutly shod at the outset; but now the soles 
 of my^ shoes were as loose box-lids. Was it 
 strange, as I entered the village, that many miners 
 laughed ? 
 
An Arizonan Hill-side. 
 
 jVlY many questions caused me to be set down 
 as a " tender-foot" the moment I reached a certain 
 mining-camp in Southern Arizona. Amusement 
 or disgust was depicted upon the countenance of 
 every miner that I questioned, and both, in one 
 unhappy instance, when I asked if the San Pedro 
 River was an irrigation ditch. This blunder de- 
 monstrated that I had all to learn, and from that 
 moment I pursued a course of quiet investigation. 
 Of mining-camps in general nothing need here 
 be said. Probably this particular one has no dis- 
 tinctive feature. Let it suffice that the surround- 
 ings, and not the camp, called me so far from 
 home, and it was to them that I turned as soon as 
 possible. Out of the village there was but one of 
 two things for the rambler to do : to follow this 
 or that tortuous valley, or climb to some one 
 170 
 
An Arizonan Hill-side. 171 
 
 of the innumerable hills, as anything akin to a 
 prairie was beyond easy walking-distance. 
 
 I reached Bisbee at noon, July 8, and climbed a 
 high hill early the next morning. 
 
 There is a never-failing charm in turning into 
 new paths ; to have opened to you a new vista ; to 
 enter for the first time the bounds of a new terri- 
 tory. Fatigue is set at defiance. One's old self 
 slinks into the background. We are mentally born 
 again. What though the region was here a des- 
 ert, so long had it been since a refreshing rain had 
 fallen. The oaks were brave of heart and held 
 their leafy crowns aloft, cacti were in bloom, birds 
 sang, butterflies flitted in the brilliant sunshine, 
 and snow-white clouds floated from peak to peak 
 of the distant mountains. At last I was in a wil- 
 derness, with not a familiar object about me, and 
 it was with honest pleasure that I handled rocks, 
 plants, and many a living creature of which I 
 knew not the name. It was sufficient merely to 
 recognize their position in the grand scheme of 
 organic nature. 
 
 For long there had been no rain, and the first 
 impression was that of wonder that so great a 
 
1 72 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 variety of animals should choose so arid a region, 
 when capable of migrating to others more in- 
 viting. Here were birds in abundance, nesting in 
 scattered oaks, and finding abundant food-supply 
 among the heated rocks and repellent cacti. It 
 is true, I was told that the rainy season should 
 have commenced before this, and that the birds 
 simply anticipated the coming change ; but could 
 they not have waited for it ? In the East we cer- 
 tainly associate abundance of animal life with the 
 constant presence of water, and never an upland 
 field so teeming with creatures of every kind as 
 the low-lying marshes with their ranker vegeta- 
 tion. The river valleys within reach of these 
 Arizonan hills have not much to commend them : 
 still, that they were not over-crowded, and the 
 hills deserted, was a surprise ; the more so that 
 Professor Henshaw, our authority on the orni- 
 thology of this region, states that this over-crowd- 
 ing near water commonly occurs. However, here 
 among the uplifted rocks were the birds and a 
 goodly company of less prominent creatures, to 
 which I turned again and again, notwithstanding 
 the grandeur of the landscape spread before me. 
 
An Arizonan Hill-side. 173 
 
 The cactus-wren, because of its close kinship to 
 the dear wrens of the homestead door-yard, but 
 more y reason of its own merits, held me long, 
 and it will ever be a mystery how this restless bird 
 thridded the maze of spiny branches that baffled 
 all my efforts to follow it. That it could dart 
 through the tangled branches of a stag-horn 
 cactus without a wound is simply miraculous, and 
 do this, too, when pursued ; rushing with reckless 
 haste from a supposed enemy. Possibly it was 
 pricked now and then, but if its feathers were ever 
 ruffled, not so its temper ; and often, when the fates 
 seemed most against it, this bird would perch be- 
 tween thorns of dangerous lengths and sing with 
 that whole-souled ardor that should cause faint- 
 hearted folk to blush. If ever a little foot-sore, 
 and you long to return to the smoothened path- 
 way of the village street, pray for the cactus-wren 
 to find you out. Never a blue- devil so brave as to 
 listen to that bird's song. 
 
 There were other creatures on the hill-side that 
 
 merit our attention, and I would that I had weeks 
 
 instead of minutes to devote to them. Lizards 
 
 and skinks are well-nigh countless ; but not, too, 
 
 15* 
 
174 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 the snakes, which fact I deplored. It was not so 
 long ago that the lively lizards in New Jersey pine 
 barrens had given me much to do to gain some 
 insight into their life-history, and now I recalled 
 each time, place, and circumstance, as these same 
 animals darted over the rocks and between the 
 scattered cacti. The surroundings were not dis- 
 similar : was there any peculiarity of habit ? I 
 could detect none. The lizards were as swift, but 
 still a little strategy enabled me to capture them 
 with my hands, and they straightway became 
 tame, as had proved the case in the East, while 
 the wary skinks defied all my efforts to capture 
 them, and even when badly wounded by bird-shot, 
 bit me savagely, an Eastern experience also. Let 
 him who will attempt to explain why these ani- 
 mals, with essentially the same habits, and con- 
 stantly associated, differ in this one respect of 
 temper. In New Jersey the skink is a solitary 
 animal, and lives in hollows of old trees, often 
 twenty, thirty, or fifty feet from the ground, 
 locations the common lizard seldom visits, which 
 may or may not explain the difference of temper 
 of the two animals ; but here, on this Arizonan 
 
An Arizonan Hill-side. 175 
 
 hill-side, the same rocks and cacti sheltered both. 
 They basked upon the same sunlit surfaces, often 
 in actual contact; they fed upon the same food, 
 and took refuge in the same safe harbors when 
 pursued ; but in every instance it held good that 
 the lizard was amiable and the skink otherwise. 
 I fancied a score of reasons for this while on the 
 spot, but have no foundation upon which to rest 
 any one of them, even for superficial investigation. 
 A merit of such a stroll as this of to-day is that 
 one must keep moving. To sit long in the same 
 spot where rocks are rugged and loose wearies far 
 more quickly than a constant change of position, 
 and with this change is endless novelty. It needed 
 but half a turn of the head to catch winning 
 glimpses of a new world From the wriggling 
 centipede at my feet, which delighted me by reason 
 of its graceful movements, to some distant moun- 
 tain, wrapped in rosy clouds, was a bold leap, but 
 one that the mountain rambler has constantly to 
 make. However vividly an object impressed itself 
 upon me, be it one at hand or many a mile away, 
 I was never so occupied as to be too late for 
 something new; and why regret such aimless 
 
176 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 wandering ? If I learned little, I enjoyed much, 
 and these are vacation days. But does one learn 
 so little when method is left in the lurch ? There 
 is at such a time a deal of unconscious cerebra- 
 tion, and the most trivial incident of a mountain, 
 tramp, when recalled, stands out in boldest out- 
 line and has far more significance than we sup- 
 posed. I shall not need to turn to the photo- 
 graphs that my companions took to see the 
 landscapes that were spread out before me, and I 
 doubt not but that in years to come, when wan- 
 dering about the fields at home, I will have their 
 familiar birds and plants bring vividly before me 
 incident after incident that at the time made but 
 the faintest impression upon me. It has proved 
 so heretofore, and I look for its repetition in the 
 future. We learn much, if we but desire to learn, 
 without making further effort. It adds a bright 
 leaf to memory's volume to walk over a mountain. 
 The day is well advanced, and what of the 
 landscape that I have so frequently mentioned ? 
 Who shall dare describe it ? If it needs a lifetime 
 to fathom the secrets of a single hill, what can be 
 said, after a few hours, of scores of mountains 
 
An Arizonan Hill-side. 177 
 
 clustered about you ? It is well to be passive 
 rather than active when among them, and accept 
 what they offer rather than be importunate. One 
 can seldom anticipate their lesson of the day, but 
 it is never one not worth the learning. When I 
 gazed at their wrinkled fronts, deaf to the birds and 
 blind to the flowers about me, the initial thought 
 was that of their unchangeableness. Nature is 
 here at rest, if anywhere. Peak after peak, ridge 
 beyond ridge, valley after valley ; a troubled ocean, 
 motionless. But such a thought was scarcely 
 crystallized before it dissolved. A cloud passed 
 betwixt the sun and the hills, and every one was 
 set in motion. What mighty magic lurked in that 
 single shadow ! As well, now, try to catch the 
 contour of a troubled wave as single out one of 
 the hundred hills before me. What but the mo- 
 ment before typified eternal rest was now the 
 embodiment of the poetry of motion. Such mas- 
 sive clouds, hung in so blue a sky, and casting 
 such shadows, are common to few places, and 
 here their glory is supreme. It is little wonder, 
 then, that the mountains were thrilled by that 
 shadow's gentle touch. 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 
 
 IT too often happens in these latter days that a 
 suggestive name proves sadly disappointing. We 
 look in vain for the attractive features the mind 
 pictured, and have good cause to criticise the un- 
 bridled imagination of forerunning visitors. For- 
 tunately, a recent ramble had no such painful 
 ending. I had heard of a wild-wood, and since 
 have found it. 
 
 Clustered trees, though there be many, do not 
 of themselves make a forest. Many a woodland 
 tract is as uniform as a cornfield, or, at best, but 
 indefinite duplication of the trees along a village 
 street. If the rambler merely seeks the shade, 
 then one tree is sufficient, and perhaps an um- 
 brella is even an improvement, seeing we can plant 
 it where we choose. But now I had found a wild- 
 wood in the fullest sense of that suggestive phrase. 
 178 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 179 
 
 Here variety ruled, and only the choicest of Na- 
 ture's handiwork had foothold. Think of it! 
 Century^ after century Nature had had full sway, 
 and turned out a finished piece of work. Every 
 sense is charmed ; eye, ear, and nose are alike 
 regaled ; the sense of touch delighted. Perfect 
 trees to look upon ; the birds' songs and the moan- 
 ing of the sea to hear ; the bloom of a thousand 
 roses to smell ; the carpeted sand to lie upon. 
 Yet, where all was nearing perfection, there stood 
 out one grand feature overtopping all else, scores 
 of magnificent hollies. I had seen many of these 
 trees before, but never where they gave a distinct 
 character to the woods. Elsewhere they occur in 
 clumps of three or four, or perhaps a dozen, but 
 here, on an island by the sea, there are hundreds. 
 One that I measured was sixty-eight inches in 
 circumference and forty feet high. The pale-gray 
 trunk was well mottled with curious black lichen, 
 and among the branches drooped long tresses of 
 beard-like lichen. The pathless wood about it 
 was a most fit surrounding, the abundant birds its 
 appropriate comrades, the murmur of the sea the 
 music to which its branches gently swayed. To 
 
180 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 be able to throw oneself on a moss-carpeted sand 
 dune and gaze upward at such a tree is abundant 
 recompense for miles of weary walking. 
 
 But this little nook was not the whole wild- 
 wood, and every tree was worthy of description. 
 I would that I could write the history of a tree : 
 the stories of these hollies would pass for fairy 
 tales. 
 
 Irregularities in tree-growth are nowhere un- 
 usual features of a forest, but here the hollies 
 are, or have been, on the lookout to break away 
 from all restraint and become as wayward as pos- 
 sible. Here is one that has twirled about until 
 now the trunk is a gigantic corkscrew ; and not 
 far off, another and larger tree has branched some 
 ten feet from the ground, and then the two main 
 divisions of the trunk have been reunited. A 
 modification of this, where a stout limb has re- 
 turned to the parent stem and re-entered, making 
 "jug-handles," is a common occurrence, and, more 
 marvellous still, a venerable cedar has some of its 
 outreaching branches passing not merely into, but 
 entirely through huge hollies that stand near by. 
 Evidently the cedar here is the older tree and the 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 181 
 
 hollies have grown around the now imprisoned 
 branches. And, as if not content with such 
 irregularities as these, other hollies have assumed 
 even animal-like shapes; the resemblance in one 
 instance to an elephant's head and trunk being 
 very marked. Even the stately and proper-grown 
 hollies have their trunks incased in strangely 
 wrinkled barks, suggestive of a plastic mass that 
 has suddenly hardened. 
 
 Why all this irregularity I leave to others. 
 There was no patent explanation for him who ran 
 to read, and I was puzzled at the outset to know 
 in what direction to commence guessing. This is 
 an entertainment, when idling in the woods, the 
 rambler should not despise. Our best outings are 
 when we wear other head-gear than a thinking-cap. 
 So far as the crooked hollies are concerned, it will 
 be time enough next winter to muse over the 
 conclusions of the botanist. 
 
 Equally startling in such wonderland is it to see 
 a thrifty blueberry bush growing from the trunk 
 of a tree, so high in the air that you need a ladder 
 to reach it. This bush annually bears a full crop 
 of excellent fruit. That I am at last in a bit of 
 
 16 
 
1 82 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 Jersey's primeval forest there is little doubt. Had 
 an elk darted by, or a mastodon screamed, it would 
 hardly have been surprising. This not seriously, 
 of course ; but how promptly the present vanishes 
 in such a wood ; how vividly the past is pictured 
 before us ! Everywhere towering trees bearing 
 evidence of age, and early in the day I found my- 
 self face to face with a huge cedar, dating back at 
 least to the Norsemen, who it is thought reached 
 America, if not the New England coast. Here 
 was a tree that for centuries the Indians had known 
 as a landmark. 
 
 It is a mistake to suppose that old trees do not 
 remain in almost every neighborhood, for an old 
 tree is not of necessity a big one. A dwarf will 
 wrinkle and crook as surely as a giant. In many 
 a swamp there are gnarly hornbeams that date 
 back at least two centuries, and grape-vines are 
 known that are even older. It is common to 
 consider as old every object that has rounded out 
 a single century, but this is nothing uncommon in 
 tree-growths, and even some shrubs. Many a 
 wild growth, if undisturbed, becomes practically 
 permanent, and I am positive any number of in- 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 183 
 
 significant growths in the undrained swamps and 
 plough-defying meadows date back to Penn's 
 treaty ,%and even earlier. There is a familiar lilac 
 hedge, or part of it, within the bounds of my 
 ordinary rambles, planted by my grandfather in 
 1 804, and so, in a dozen years, will be a hundred 
 years old; but it looks nothing different from 
 similar hedges planted fifty years ago. The old 
 cedar in the lane was but eighteen inches in 
 diameter, and I have documentary evidence that it 
 was a familiar landmark much more than a cen- 
 tury ago. A thunderbolt or tornado recently 
 shivered the old tree beyond recognition, literally 
 reduced it to splinters, and I found that the heart 
 was very much decayed. There was no possibility 
 of determining the age by counting the rings of 
 growth shown in a cross section, and so I have but 
 the poor satisfaction of merely conjecturing. At 
 one place a narrow bit of the outer edge was 
 smooth, and I counted forty-eight rings, one for 
 each year of my life, and these had added but 
 little to the tree's girth. 
 
 But here, at Wildwood Beach, is a cedar almost 
 twelve feet in circumference, considerably more 
 
184 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 than double that of the cedar in the lane. There 
 is no reason to consider that its growth has been 
 forced by peculiarly favorable conditions. It is 
 simply a magnificent example of what a tree may 
 become if a fair chance is shown it. I have 
 suggested that the tree may be nearly or quite one 
 thousand years old, and I believe it. Peter Kalm, 
 when wandering in the Jersey wilderness in 1749, 
 noticed the cedars carefully, and mentions the fact 
 of " very slow growth ; for a stem thirteen inches 
 and a quarter in diameter had one hundred and 
 eighty-eight rings, or annual circles, and another, 
 eighteen inches in diameter, had at least two hun- 
 dred and fifty, for a great number of the rings 
 were so fine that they could not be counted." 
 
 Of course, much of the beauty of this huge, 
 lone, sea-side cedar is lost in being so hemmed in 
 by other growths, and it is a startling fact that, if 
 the rambler was not very open-eyed, he might 
 pass it by unheeded. Think of what wealth of 
 wonders are in every wood, and that so few persons 
 find them : what a staggering array of marvels in 
 a forest laid bare ! 
 
 I would that Kalm, whom I have just quoted, 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 185 
 
 had taken in the Jersey coast as well as Jersey 
 inland. He would have found more to praise and 
 less tb criticise. His remark, "the rattlesnakes, 
 horned snakes, red-bellied, green, and other poison- 
 ous snakes . . . are in great plenty here," would 
 never have been written of the coast, and, in truth, 
 did not apply to the Delaware valley, where he 
 wrote the above. In all probability rattlers were 
 never very numerous, the horned snake is a 
 myth, and all others harmless. And to all these 
 demerits of dear Jersey, Kalm adds another: 
 " To these I must add," he writes, " the wood-lice, 
 with which the forests are so pestered that it is 
 impossible to pass through a bush without having 
 a whole army of them on your clothes, or to sit 
 down, though the place be ever so pleasant." 
 While in much, to my mind, the world has moved 
 backward, it has improved in this. I have passed 
 through many bushes, and sat down often, but 
 never with so inconvenient a result. 
 
 Why this luxuriant vegetation on a sandy island 
 
 by the sea ? The soil suggests barrenness only. 
 
 Except the faint traces of decayed vegetation, it 
 
 is a matter of pure white sand. It is known that 
 
 1 6* 
 
1 86 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the land along the Jersey coast is sinking, and we 
 naturally look for a stratum of loam, once well 
 above but now below or at the level of the sea. 
 This, in our fancy, we hold necessary for timber 
 growth ; but if it is here at all, these trees' roots 
 have not reached it. It is strange that such huge 
 growths can find safe anchorage in these light and 
 shifting sands. They have found some strength in 
 union and close companionship, it is true ; but, 
 though they are built on a sandy foundation, the 
 storms have not prevailed to their detriment even. 
 Whence the trees' nourishment? Largely from 
 the atmosphere: but why speculate? Suffice it 
 to say, that, were we to take these same trees and 
 shrubs inland and set them in pure silica, though 
 Paul planted and Apollos watered never so 
 carefully, there would be no increase. 
 
 The undergrowth, too, is everywhere equally 
 luxuriant and gives a semi-tropical appearance 
 to the landscape, this feature being emphasized by 
 the vigor of vine growths that bind together the 
 tallest trees and unite many an oak, cedar, and 
 holly standing scores of feet apart. We are forced 
 to smile nowadays when we read the glowing 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 187 
 
 accounts of America's earliest visitors, and wonder 
 how it was possible that they should have been so 
 deceived ; but the truth dawns upon me when I 
 recall these early writers and see the wondrous 
 conditions obtaining on this sea- side island. The 
 least that can be truthfully said is rather a descrip- 
 tion of Florida than of New Jersey, and would 
 give no true idea of the State as a whole. 
 
 This little island, I take it, is a relic of old New 
 Jersey : this forest a living fragment of that now 
 buried one, not far away, which has " given rise to 
 a singular industry, the literal mining of timber. 
 At several points . . . enormous quantities of 
 white cedar, liquidambar, and magnolia logs, 
 sound and fit for use, are found submerged in the 
 salt marshes, sometimes so near the surface that 
 roots and branches protrude, and again deeply 
 covered with smooth meadow sod. Many of the 
 trees overthrown and buried were forest giants. 
 In the great cedar swamp . . . the logs reach a 
 diameter of four, five, and even seven feet, and 
 average between two and three feet in thickness." 
 
 In one case, one thousand and eighty rings of 
 annual growth have been counted ; and under this 
 
In Touch with Nature. 
 
 huge stump was discovered a prostrate tree, which 
 had fallen and been buried before the larger one 
 had sprouted. This lower-lying log was deter- 
 mined to be fully five hundred years old. Here, 
 then, is evidence of fifteen centuries that have 
 elapsed, and forests even before then had grown, 
 flourished,, and decayed. It is a series of surprises 
 to dig into such strange earth. Think of passing 
 through an underground cedar swamp and coming 
 upon magnolias and sweet-gum still deeper down ! 
 What if there were tongues in such trees ? Here 
 is a spot whereat a poet might dwell to his and 
 the world's advantage. Not all the grandeur of 
 the world centres in the sea or rests upon a moun- 
 tain. There are other beauties than those of a 
 spreading landscape or a rocky gorge ; a strange, 
 peculiar beauty, worthy of a poet, clings to every 
 trunk and broken branch of this sunken sea-side 
 forest. 
 
 When we consider that for miles at sea, as we 
 stand upon the present beach, we are looking upon 
 waters that cover what was once, and not so very 
 long ago, dry and habitable land, we can better 
 realize the one-time conditions of this region when 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 189 
 
 primitive man threaded the mazes of the primeval 
 forest. Dr. Lockwood has told us of masses of 
 peat <md vegetable growth cast ashore during 
 storms, and of a mastodon tooth that had long 
 been buried in a swamp, and yet came from the 
 bottom of the sea, waves breaking now where 
 but a few centuries ago a forest had withstood the 
 tempest's fury. Was man here then ? How con- 
 stantly this question comes to mind when we re- 
 call the past ! One cannot reasonably doubt it, 
 and it never would have been a debatable matter 
 had not ignorance declared man's recent creation, 
 and that our continent's quota of humanity had to 
 force the ice-barriers of Siberia and Behring's 
 Strait, and so finally reach the Atlantic coast 
 of America. Happily, such nonsense is forever 
 downed. 
 
 While, the island over, I found not even an 
 arrow-head, yet other traces of early man were not 
 wanting ; traces contemporaneous with the buried 
 swamps at sea and hidden forests on the main- 
 land. I refer to submerged shell-heaps. These 
 are now a feature of the marshes, and would be 
 puzzles, indeed, were it not that they rest upon 
 
190 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 hard-pan, and so were started upon what was then 
 dry land. Now, the marsh has grown about them 
 to a depth of several feet, and not far from the 
 dark holly forest, wherein I am now resting, there 
 is a long, narrow deposit of broken and burnt 
 shells that is not exposed even at low tide. One 
 need not fear that his fancy will run riot in pict- 
 uring that early time when the broad marsh and 
 shallow bay were scenes of human industry of a 
 most primitive kind. While the gathering of 
 shell-fish, for both immediate and future needs, 
 was kept up by the Indians into historic times, it 
 must not be concluded that the remains of their 
 feasting are all comparatively modern and offer no 
 differences among themselves. 
 
 These Indian shell heaps or " kitchen-mid- 
 dens" vary considerably in one particular, some 
 containing traces of Indian art in its highest 
 development ; others have little else than a few 
 broken and battered stone hammers. This might 
 be explained if there was no evidence of antiquity 
 of a geological character ; but this exists, and a 
 very superficial tabulation of these shell-heaps, 
 scattered over a few square miles of territory, 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 191 
 
 showed that those most deeply buried in the 
 marshes contained no pottery or evidence of skil- 
 fully-worked stone, while those that are still above 
 the water-level do contain elaborately-wrought 
 implements. Further, here, as .elsewhere, I doubt 
 not, if careful sections of the most extensive of 
 these shell deposits could be made, their bases 
 would show a lower stage of primitive art than is 
 found near their surfaces. And what of the shell- 
 heaps that have been washed away ? Thousands 
 of acres of habitable land have been engulfed. If 
 this was forested, as is the little island over which 
 I now wander, what a paradise for primitive man ! 
 To turn aside, when a wonderful forest is at 
 hand, and the ocean not a mile away, to consider 
 Nature's commonplaces, may startle or even dis- 
 gust ; but for me there is a never-ending charm in 
 the meandering meadow-mice that I cannot with- 
 stand. I found them on the margin of the 
 marshes, lively as ever on the home-pastures, but 
 here, how big, noisy, and rusty-coated they are ! 
 I scarcely knew them as bay-side dwellers; yet 
 the most inveterate species-monger would hardly 
 say they were not the same. They seemed to be 
 
192 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 considerably more aquatic, and when they stood 
 erect and squeaked shrilly, they recalled the shy 
 woodchucks when raiding a field of clover. It is 
 safe to presume that the superabundance of food 
 has to do with their plumpness, and possibly the 
 brine has reddened their fur. What do they eat ? 
 I had no means of determining, for every one 
 kept beyond my reach, and possibly dissection of 
 a dozen victims would have thrown no light on 
 the subject. To question the old baymen was a 
 loss of time. As if they had nothing to do but 
 look after mice. At last, however, I got this 
 piece of information, if it was not an attempt to 
 humbug. He said, " They go crabbin' on the 
 ma'sh at low tide." Whether this means that they 
 are on the mud-flats at that time, and so associ- 
 ated with certain Crustacea, or are really in pursuit 
 of them, others must determine. Not one and I 
 saw several went crabbing while I lingered on 
 the " ma'sh." There were spidery crabs enough 
 to feed all the mice in Jersey, and all the world 
 knows these rodents are carnivorous as cats, in 
 spite of their teeth. I have never had a caged 
 mouse or squirrel that had not a pronounced 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 193 
 
 fondness for meat, and the fresher and bloodier 
 the better. 
 
 In ^arly summer there is one source of animal 
 food in abundance : the eggs and newly-hatched 
 young of the clapper-rails. These birds are phe- 
 nomenally abundant now, their kek-kek-kek rattling 
 over the meadows until the whole marsh trembles. 
 That mice feast upon their eggs seems to me the 
 more probable, because in the mucky meadow at 
 home the king-rail has the same creature to con- 
 tend with. Is it safe upon such data to come to 
 any conclusion ? I have never seen a mouse with 
 a mud-hen's egg, but I have found this same 
 animal rioting in a king-rail's nest, and so infer as 
 stated. 
 
 It is among the marvels of nature that any bird 
 should nest upon the ground ; their common- 
 sense should warn them, but does not. Probably 
 in a wide marsh of a thousand acres or more the 
 clapper-rails or mud-hens are comparatively safe ; 
 but not so in the upland mucky meadows. I have 
 king-rails every year nesting at my elbow, as it 
 were, and every year suffering from mice, minks, 
 and snapping-turtles. How many generations are 
 
 I n 17 
 
194 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 needed to bring about an inherited suspicion of 
 such exposed places ? That beautiful bird, the 
 least bittern, too, will make a nest where every 
 cow can brush it with its tail or trample it to 
 pieces ; and yet, in spite of all possible dangers, 
 the young reach maturity and in due season repeat 
 their parents' blunders. 
 
 The sea-side and the upland marshes had other 
 features in common : there were plenty of tuneful 
 sparrows. Their voices were not the same, but so 
 far alike that I had but to shut my eyes when the 
 sea-side finches sang and hear the sweet ripple 
 of song that quivers above the meadows at 
 home. Could I not do this, travel would have 
 no pleasure. 
 
 The raccoon, I was told, is another lover of the 
 marsh, and dweller in the thick-set holly woods. 
 I saw none, very naturally, because they are too 
 wise to brave the daylight, and only the equipped 
 hunter is likely to meet with them at night. Still, 
 they are known to be abundant. That they go 
 crabbing is beyond question ; and again comes up 
 a comparison with the meadows at home. I have 
 had recent convincing evidence that the raccoon is 
 
In a Sea-side Forest. 195 
 
 fond of crayfish, and not only knocks down the 
 towers, but digs out the tunnel-nest of the mud- 
 dwel-Ung Cambarus diogenes. Occasionally, it 
 would seem, the raccoon ventures abroad before 
 sundown. I was told of one that started from the 
 mainland in broad daylight, but did not reach the 
 holly forest. Wide-awake gulls spied him and 
 reported his presence. They darted upon him as 
 he crouched in the grass, and severely nipped him 
 with their cruel beaks, time and again. Finally, 
 a fisherman, seeing the commotion, hurried to the 
 spot and divided the spoils with the gulls, keeping 
 the lion's share. 
 
 " As the sands of the sea :" how often we hear 
 it ! and it is one of a few expressions equal to all 
 occasions. Here were attractions equally as 
 numerous, and every one worthy of our whole 
 attention. But the day was drawing to a close, 
 and I had the long shadows in mind that dimmed 
 the sun's glare upon the beach. Across lots 
 through the woods was but a step, and in all its 
 summer glory glittered the broad Atlantic. What 
 a quick transition ! Here, literally joining hands, 
 a sea-side forest and the boundless ocean. 
 
A Cool, Gray Day. 
 
 1 HERE is many a pat phrase that comes to 
 mind, particularly when, on pleasure bent, we stand 
 at the portal of the out-door world. It matters 
 not whether we go to meet the sun upon the up- 
 land lawn, or thread the misty by-paths of a lonely 
 valley, the initial thought will come with effort on 
 our part, and, what is of greater significance, will 
 color all thought throughout the day. When I 
 reached the river this morning, and took a compre- 
 hensive glance of the world about me, this thought 
 was uppermost : a cool, gray day. And although 
 it is yet early in August, every moment has been 
 tempered with the breath of autumn ; every out- 
 look that of fulfilment. 
 
 It was a cool, gray day, and with nothing so 
 prominent as to suggest an outing. No nook or 
 corner had put its best foot forward and beckoned 
 196 
 
A Cool, Gray Day. 197 
 
 to the doubting pedestrian to come. The fringe 
 of forest that hems in the river was asleep. The 
 unresting tide flowed by in sullen silence and 
 passed the rocky shore without a ripple. The 
 purple spires of the pickerel-weed scarcely bent to 
 
 the current of the outflowing water, and the 
 tangled ribbon-grass that at each succeeding mo- 
 ment came more and more to view, moved so 
 slowly that even it seemed weary. Silence rested 
 upon the scene. The summer's work was finished, 
 
198 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the harvest ended, the whole earth rested. It was 
 fitting rather to pause and count our gains and 
 losses than consider some new venture. Aught 
 that savored of real labor was repugnant this cool, 
 gray day. It was with an effort that I roused 
 myself to contemplate a sleeping beauty. There 
 was an unbroken gray sky above ; a mile-wide 
 expanse of gray water before me, and banks of 
 pearly mist shut out all but the nearest trees on 
 the main shore. As to an island opposite, there 
 was that dreamy indistinctness about it that made 
 it possible to fancy all things as one voyaged 
 thither. But an island is but a main shore on a 
 smaller scale, and why hasten towards it ? The 
 river is, at least, hospitably inclined to-day, and 
 not so much as hints at buffeting my frail canoe, 
 and in it, if not so swiftly, almost as airily as the 
 swallows, I drift with the tide. 
 
 The swallows to-day are not the aerial creat- 
 ures of early summer. They fly so closely to 
 the water now their wings seem actually to touch 
 it. I see that they snap from the surface such in- 
 sects as have fallen, as well as those spidery imps 
 that run between the ripples. Except these, I can 
 
A 'Cool, Gray Day. 199 
 
 see no insect life whatever, and yet hundreds of 
 tireless swallows are passing to and fro incessantly. 
 Their activity demands an enormous supply of 
 food, and, were it not here, the birds would not be. 
 Sitting so closely to the water's surface, there is 
 every chance to observe closely whatsoever is 
 transpiring, and how different is the outlook from 
 the ordinary point of view, as one sits bolt upright 
 in an ordinary boat ! Nothing now is clearly 
 familiar ; while to bring about still greater novelty, 
 it is necessary only to bend over quite to the 
 water, and so reverse the relative positions of 
 earth and sky. It is a quick way of transporting 
 yourself to another country ; but do not try this 
 when in a canoe ; it may lead to other conditions 
 being reversed. But the swallows : they are mar- 
 vellously tame. A more innocent and harmless 
 bird cannot be imagined, and yet I confess, to sit 
 helpless in a canoe and have them come directly 
 towards your eyes with the speed of a bullet is 
 not a pleasant sensation. We do not like to be 
 forced to wink or to toss the head suddenly to 
 one side. There may have been no danger of an 
 accident ; there was none ; but I felt the wind from 
 
2OO In Touch with N'ature. 
 
 their wings as they suddenly turned aside and 
 heard that whish ! that means mischief when a 
 collision does occur. 
 
 Later, there was another feature of bird-life over 
 the river and high overhead that spoke more elo- 
 quently of the dying summer than did the skim- 
 ming swallows : the blackbirds were already flock- 
 ing. In little companies of a dozen or more the 
 grakles flew by from shore to shore, and then a 
 great gathering of red-wings went hurrying west- 
 ward. Not merely passing from near-by point to 
 point, but journeying to some new meadows they 
 had in mind, or wending their way to another 
 river valley. A flock of blackbirds is a familiar 
 feature of an October landscape, but in August it 
 is sadly suggestive. For the birds at least there 
 has come a change of season, and the merry 
 nesting days, the flowery upland thickets, the 
 heyday of grassy meadows when the year was 
 young, all is now but a memory. 
 
 I would that those who for some vague reason 
 or through ignorance deny birds a language in 
 the ordinary acceptation of that term, and who 
 deny them everything else that cannot be squeezed 
 
A Cool, Gray Day. 201 
 
 into the cramped category of instinct, could wit- 
 ness the initial steps of the formation of a flock. 
 The scales would drop from their eyes. One of 
 the most wonderful of all the common incidents 
 of bird-life is when two small flocks merge into 
 one. Having met, they discuss the matter. Some- 
 times they unite, and when so, upon signal, every 
 individual rises into the air at the same moment, 
 there is a brief circling about and their ranks are 
 closed. It is a beautiful manoeuvre. But it some- 
 times happens that the small flocks, or one of 
 them, prefers to preserve its autonomy, at least 
 for the present. There may be much discussion, 
 but no quarrelling, and the matter is soon dropped. 
 I have used the word " discussion," for this alone 
 correctly describes what transpires in such cases. 
 To use any other word, unless a synonyme, or to 
 offer any other explanation is to mislead. 
 
 To take to a canoe is to become aquatic. With 
 the wild life of the waters at your elbow, you be- 
 come one with it, and the little fishes in the weedy 
 shallows accept you as a companion now, when 
 they would dart in terror were the shadow of 
 your whole body to darken the water. There is 
 
202 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 an advantage over being in an ordinary boat, or 
 else it was these fishes were phenomenally tame. 
 Diminutive billfish or silvery gars were sporting 
 in the little pool-like shadows above half-emerged 
 leaves, and seemed to be feeding even when the 
 water was clear as crystal. The microscope must 
 be brought into play to tell the whole story. 
 Small as they were, these billfish had much of 
 the apparent spirit of fun that animates the adult. 
 They darted off at a tangent in the most eccentric 
 manner, and then, demurely returning to some 
 favorite spot, would vary the play by spinning 
 around in a brief circle, precisely as a kitten 
 chases its own tail. With minnows proper and 
 the young of other fishes they associated to some 
 extent, but not so as to suggest companionship. 
 
 From the shallow waters to the shore ; from the 
 canoe to the dry land ; a putting aside of the 
 paddle and taking up the pedestrian's staff. I will 
 not admit that the change was pleasant ; enough 
 that it was necessary. But no landsman, when in 
 the country, should be melancholy. Here on the 
 island was green grass, enriched with the purple 
 and gold of mimulus and hypericum ; and how 
 
A Cool, Gray Day. 203 
 
 strangely beautiful were the spires of bloom of the 
 pontederias, now nearly a foot beneath the surface 
 of the^ water ! It was a flower-garden for the 
 fishes, and when their silvery sides flashed in the 
 light among the purple blossoms of the pickerel- 
 weed, there was then and there a brightness that 
 contrasted with the cool, gray day of the outer 
 world. But before wandering long, I find color, 
 and in such abundance and brilliancy that the day 
 needs nothing else to warm the cool shadows. 
 Along the water's edge, where other growths hold 
 back that they may shed their glory freely, stand 
 in unbroken ranks the lusty stalks of lobelia, 
 weighted with scarlet banners. Even the fresh 
 young summer had nothing to equal this, and 
 here present joy holds us rather than sober retro- 
 spection. All effort seems to have fallen short, 
 however bright the season's earlier blossoms. Not 
 until now have we seen the crowning effort 
 of nature's artist. Does there occur anywhere 
 throughout this wide world a more brilliant spec- 
 tacle than masses of scarlet lobelia in the height 
 of bloom ? 
 
 There came no cheerful flood of mellow light 
 
204 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 as the day closed. It was cool and gray even to 
 the end, but the roof of clouds was not leaky, and 
 no happiness was dampened. It is not to love 
 sunshine less to learn as years roll by that other 
 light may lead us, and nature has many a charm- 
 ing offering for those who not only wander on a 
 cool, gray day, but venture even into the black- 
 ness of night. 
 
An August Reverie. 
 
 UZ GAUNT remarked to me, many years ago, 
 " I never saw the critter, but there's a bird that 
 whistles ' wait a bit' at sunrise, and the day counts 
 for nothing if you listen." To escape the en- 
 snaring charm of this strange bird, start before 
 daylight. Even in so light a matter as an August 
 day-dream, keep the day behind you. Then, too, 
 no one loves to be crowded, and there is more 
 room ahead of time than behind it. 
 
 This is the way in which Zadkiel, the English 
 astrologer, forecasts the character of this August 
 day : " Travel and visit thy friends." Not all of 
 my friends are asleep at 3 A.M., if, so be it, we have 
 cultivated the good graces of our non-human 
 neighbors. As I left my home, the harvest-moon, 
 in filmy drapery, still held court, and the morning 
 star shone with darkest midnight's deepest bril- 
 
 18 205 
 
206 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 liancy. It was friendship enough to have them 
 light our path, and while yesterday was a memory 
 and to-morrow but vague expectation, the woods 
 and waters, meadows and fair fields awaited the 
 rambler. 
 
 Says Zadkiel, " Travel and visit thy friends." It 
 is well to do this in the order given : travelling 
 first, for only too vividly the rambler recalls the 
 torrid noontides of this ripened season ; recalls 
 what time 
 
 " The sun, from meridian height, 
 
 Illumines the depths of the sea ; 
 And fishes, beginning to sweat, 
 Cry " 
 
 Well, let their excusable profanity go unrecorded. 
 It is enough to know that long before noonday 
 wild life, as a whole, will gladly seek the shade, 
 leaving the world to parched weeds and fiery 
 dragon-flies. And so, having travelled while the 
 day was new, your friends will be gathered in the 
 shady nook in which you take refuge. 
 
 So ran my anticipatory thoughts as I wormed 
 my way along the village street, and what now of 
 
An August Reverie. 
 
 207 
 
 the outer world that offers such varied attractions ? 
 Let no thought of discovery creep in. It is 
 August, and a time of rest. If it will, let the 
 morning breeze transport you, or, better, drift with 
 
 the tide. Be gay as a butterfly, but only in butter- 
 fly fashion. Do not be serious. Close your ears 
 if a bird scolds. Laugh your loudest when the 
 robin announces dawn. 
 
208 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 I have been drifting in the canoe for an hour 
 and the east grows gray. Afar off, there is the 
 half-uttered note of a sleepy bird that dies upon 
 the river. I have to be more than watchful to 
 catch the next note that comes, but as the light 
 strengthens, a hundred voices announce the dawn, 
 and the wide world is again astir. A filmy thread 
 of smoke rises from the woods, and why be so 
 prosy as to think of farmers and the kitchen 
 stove? As yet, civilization has nowhere marred 
 the broad landscape, so why not this thread of 
 smoke the sign of an Indian camp ; or, perhaps, 
 of more gloomy import ? Here is what a close 
 observer writes me of Indian mortuary customs : 
 "According to local tradition, the Indians never 
 buried their dead in this part of the Delaware 
 valley, but placed them in the sun to dry, cover- 
 ing the bodies with bark and leaves. When thus 
 laid out they were carefully watched and fires kept 
 burning to keep wild animals away. After a certain 
 time the bodies were burned. This crude tradition 
 is verified, I think, by the numerous stone graves 
 or cists found in this neighborhood. The stones 
 forming the framework of the graves were flat 
 
An August Reverie. 209 
 
 slabs that together made an enclosure only about 
 three feet in length by little more than one-half 
 that ^measurement in width and depth. In all 
 these occur charcoal and partly consumed human 
 remains. Cremation was never complete, and the 
 burning occurred in the stone cists or graves ; and 
 further, many of them were used time after time 
 until filled with human mould and ashes, and then 
 sealed up." As yet I have found no evidence of 
 such ceremonies here in the tide-water portion of 
 the river valley, and my friend writes of the moun- 
 tains some sixty miles away. That the same 
 people in the two localities had different burial 
 customs is very possible, but it may be the inter- 
 loping Shawnees were the stone-grave people and 
 not the Delawares. But let us turn from this 
 gruesome subject, fit only for dull days and dys- 
 peptics, and seek the glare and glitter of August 
 sunshine. 
 
 This is the proper work for August days : put 
 your hands behind your back and send imagination 
 on a picnic. It so happened that where the river- 
 shore kindly offered firm root-hold to enormous 
 elms there was, besides, a gently-sloping beach. 
 o 18* 
 
210 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 Here, upon a pebbly strand, I drew the canoe and 
 rested myself in star-gazing attitude. All things 
 tended to perfecting the reception-room, and my 
 friends overlooked the deficiencies. No invitations 
 had been sent out, and with that delightful infor- 
 mality which is of itself a charm, the birds came 
 trooping in. First a cuckoo, that, deftly swinging 
 on a pendulous twig, clucked or called the rain, as 
 farmers say, and beat time with a graceful swaying 
 of its tail. How few people know this common 
 bird ! All summer one has been living in the 
 maples on the village street, and more than one 
 wise villager has been wondering what queer 
 trouble affected some neighbor's throat. Although 
 there is a cheap edition of Wilson's Ornithology, 
 ignorance of birds is all-prevalent. Ten to one, 
 if a cuckoo is hung in the market-place it will not 
 be recognized. The cuckoo of this morning was 
 as lazy as myself, and yet August is his favorite 
 month. I say this because nesting duties are over 
 and the birds have only themselves to look after. 
 A fat caterpillar rouses him at all times, and what 
 bird-energy means can be learned by discovering 
 an ailanth us-tree covered with cecropia worms at 
 
An August Reverie. 211 
 
 the moment a cuckoo makes the same disovery. 
 The bird is afraid some of them may escape, and 
 such frantic slaughtering cannot be described. It 
 equals the killing of small fry when the blue-fish 
 attack them. The cuckoo to-day solved no prob- 
 lem. It was studiously bird-like and reserved, 
 chattered but for a moment and passed by, making 
 no more impression than the acquaintances one 
 meets on the street. Not so the next comer, a 
 black-and-white tree-creeping warbler, a bird so 
 small that it mighj: nest by your front porch and 
 you never know it. The little fellow knew nothing 
 of August lassitude, but rattled loose bark and 
 darted over an enormous area of arboreal territory. 
 It is but a rough calculation, to be sure, but not far 
 from a correct measurement, I take it. I counted 
 twenty-seven main branches, each of which, as 
 travelled by the bird, is twenty feet long, a stretch 
 of five hundred and forty feet ; then came one 
 hundred branches of the second size with about 
 ten feet of running room upon them, and, finally, 
 fully fifteen hundred twigs, some five feet in length. 
 This gives us a run-way over which the bird 
 travelled of nine thousand and forty feet. Guess- 
 
212 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 ing at the meaning of certain suggestive move- 
 ments when the bird was near, I concluded it cap- 
 tured an insect at every twenty feet ; and so quickly 
 is it all done that a hundred trees might be 
 exhaustively searched in a day. No, not exhaust- 
 ively, for no sooner has one bird left than another 
 comes ; and none go away empty. Doubtless 
 every creeper visits at least fifty trees, and often 
 twice that many, in a day, and so from two to five 
 thousand insects is the amount of food consumed 
 by a bird no bigger than your thumb. Man reaps 
 the benefit of this destruction of insect-life, and 
 yet I once saw one of these tree-creeping warblers 
 on a girl's bonnet. Not a live one insect-hunting, 
 but a dead one stuck on for an ornament ! 
 
 There is a spasmodic outburst of indignation at 
 long intervals, and bird-killing is condemned ; but 
 the millinery devils laugh and only lay up the 
 larger stock against the return of the demand for 
 feathers, which they know will come in due time. 
 I recently walked for ten miles on the sea-beach, 
 and saw less than ten gulls or terns. Twenty 
 years ago you could not have heard yourself 
 speak for the noise of these birds at the same time of 
 
An August Reverie. 213 
 
 year and place. It was near here, not many years 
 ago, that I sat upon a sand dune to eat my lunch, 
 and became so interested in throwing bits of bread 
 and meat to the fearless terns that I went away, at 
 last, hungry, having thrown all of my lunch to 
 the birds. I remember an eccentric druggist who 
 placed a stuffed fish-hawk over his counter, and 
 the next spring a taxidermist near by had orders 
 for a score of skins. To the credit of one wise 
 man in the village, be it recorded, the law inter- 
 fered ; but who ever heard of the law protecting 
 a wren or a bluebird ? In some one of the 
 forthcoming dictionaries let the compound word 
 " dead-letter" be defined as " the law protecting 
 useful birds." 
 
 As it neared high noon, the expected happened. 
 Birds came trooping in, and every one on the 
 same errand, to take life easily. At times they 
 were absurdly distributed, and recalled the com- 
 partment bird-cages in a menagerie. But inborn 
 restlessness soon changed all this, and their noon- 
 ing became as active as a morning hunt, but in a 
 different way. The rippling water below them 
 was a constant attraction, and from the tree to 
 
214 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the river and return was a short journey that 
 was often made. When at the water's edge, 
 the behavior of the birds was widely different. 
 Some merely drank, others bathed, and a cat-bird 
 seemed wholly absorbed in contemplation, for it 
 stood quietly on a flat stone and looked up and 
 down the river. Did as I have done many a time, 
 pausing before I pushed the boat into the stream, 
 to determine which way to go. Here is a nice 
 question for students of animal intelligence : Do 
 animals of any kind ever contemplate ? Closing 
 my eyes to the busy world about me, I look back- 
 ward and recall many a ramble in this same river 
 valley. The nesting-birds of many a spring-tide 
 are pictured on memory's tablet, and how often, as 
 I interpreted it, a puzzled bird stopped to think! 
 How evidently plans were changed ! How fre- 
 quently advanced work was abandoned ! Why ? 
 If we can describe a bird at all, we must do so as 
 we state our own actions. If sudden thoughts 
 did not come to these birds ; if unforeseen occur- 
 rences did not change their plans ; if they were 
 not moved as men are moved, then every move- 
 ment was backed by some unknown phase of 
 
An August Reverie. 215 
 
 life-power of which man has no trace and can 
 never realize. If so, we can look upon them as we 
 do wind-tossed thistle-down, but can go no further. 
 I doubt this. There is closer kinship than the 
 world allows. 
 
 I clipped the following from a recent newspaper 
 because of its suggestiveness : 
 
 " A number of ornithologists, possessed of the 
 zeal that marks the faithful devotee of science, 
 have climbed Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty by 
 night and nestled in the hand of the goddess in 
 order to make a study of the habits of migratory 
 birds at this season of the year. It was a curious 
 vantage-ground of study, and has yielded some 
 curious results. Thus, it is stated by one of the 
 observers that birds from Canada and Labrador, 
 travelling by the sea-coast, seem to have learned 
 the peril of collision with the statue, as year by 
 year the number of the killed from this cause grows 
 less. Another most interesting fact reported by 
 another gentleman of the party was the evidence 
 of a system of signals in flocks of birds. Each 
 of the different flocks seemed to have a veteran 
 leader, who gave a shrill call when passing strange 
 
216 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 sights. ' The call was invariably answered by some 
 birds in the rear, and it seemed to me that the 
 cries of the leaders mean an order to close up and 
 keep together.' As self-preservation is the first 
 law of nature, it is not a fanciful assumption that 
 the birds of the air are gifted with this instinct in 
 common with mankind; and that being so, the 
 power of communing with each other would seem 
 to follow as a necessary conclusion." 
 
 But birdmen need not climb so high to observe 
 much of this, if, indeed, not every phenomenon. 
 The trackless highway of the moonlit river-valley 
 tells the same story. Anchor amid-stream when 
 the hunter-moon is full, and mark the sounds that 
 come floating earthward from the starlit skies. 
 Signal and reply, alarm and general response ; all 
 that transpires as hosts are hurrying by can be 
 noted here. Few suspect what a busy world there 
 is above the tree-tops. 
 
 Amid all the varied changes in the tree above 
 me, one feature of bird-life never varied. An in- 
 digo-finch sang without ceasing. I make this 
 statement without qualification, although it con- 
 flicts with our views of physiology and usual ex- 
 
An August Reverie. 
 
 periences in observation. For hours it never left 
 the tree, and seldom its perch. Its greatest jour- 
 ney was as short as " from the blue bed to the 
 brown," and all the while it rang the brief changes 
 of its sprightly song. Whether the sun poured its 
 torrent of fervid rays upon it, or a passing cloud 
 sheltered it and wooed a reviving breeze, mattered 
 not ; its sole aim was to rejoice that its lines had 
 fallen in such pleasant places. 
 
 The world was given over to happiness alone, 
 in the mind of the dreamer ; but, alas ! things are 
 not always what they seem. Far overhead a dark 
 spot flecked the summer sky. It meant death to 
 many a happy songster should it come too near. 
 There are feathered as well as human demons. 
 Why, indeed, should a falcon have been cre- 
 ated ? Its passing shadow chilled half a hundred 
 hearts. 
 
 But the world was not made for singing-birds 
 alone. The air trembled with the hum of count- 
 less myriads of lesser creatures, and every one re- 
 joiced in the fulness of its heart. I pressed my 
 head to the ground, and a tremor, as if every 
 blade of grass was singing, rang in my ear. Every 
 K 19 
 
21 8 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 leaf of the huge elm above me, too, had a tuneful 
 throat. But never a life of unclouded sunshine. 
 The vehement whirring of a harvest-fly held the 
 destroyer in its course. A flash in mid-air ; a cry 
 of agony that stilled the million tongues about 
 me startled the earth ; a fiery-banded hornet bore 
 its helpless victim away. 
 
 After all, happiness is but comparative. It is 
 well to rejoice if we escape misery, but it is weak- 
 ness to look upon the last overshadowing cloud 
 as really the last. We may deal only with sun- 
 shine while it is August, but winter is drawing on 
 apace. We may rest now as though the world's 
 work was done, but the demands of other days 
 already peep above the horizon. To turn our 
 backs upon them is but the fool's device. Well 
 we know this ; but yet, what journey so seductive 
 as that without a goal ? I would be a great 
 traveller, but the world must come to me. I have 
 been nowhere to-day, as the man of affairs would 
 say, yet I have journeyed for hours. Why not 
 pause at one point as well as another? Nature 
 does not trumpet her glories to him who hastens. 
 The river invited both to the mountains and the 
 
An August Reverie. 219 
 
 sea, but the influence of August to-day, as 
 throughout all of my year, forbade a greater 
 undertaking. 
 
 Labor no charm to my existence lends ; 
 I love to dream : there my ambition ends. 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 
 
 (CHESTERFIELD asks somewhere, of some 
 one, " Will you improve that hour instead of 
 idling it away?" That depends. For myself, I 
 hold it most righteous to idle away many an hour, 
 for, paradoxical as it may seem, with folded arms 
 and half-closed eyes we may wax wiser with every 
 hour. An " idle hour" is a contradiction. The 
 world does not pause because your step becomes 
 a shuffle ; and where, out of doors, is it empty ? 
 Custom is a cruel taskmaster ; but when his back 
 is turned it is well to watch a chance and give 
 ourselves over to receptive idleness. It is the en- 
 joyment of such moments in anticipation that 
 makes labor tolerable. One day in seven is every 
 man's by law, and so he values it at far less than 
 its real worth. A stolen week-day hour, for which 
 one plans and struggles, is a tidbit more clearly 
 
 220 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 221 
 
 remembered than a month of Sundays. I never 
 met him yet who had no love for a holiday. Toil 
 is necessary, but it does not charm ; labor per se is 
 not man's chiefest aim, but to complete a life-work 
 as soon as possible, that the inactive contempla- 
 tion of it may be indulged. So universal is a 
 love of such idleness that, it is safe to assume, 
 idleness is the aim of life. Every one disputes 
 this, but it matters not. We all know it as a feel- 
 ing hidden in every breast ; else why every one 
 wishes he was so far rich that he need not labor ? 
 Not necessarily to sit with folded hands and 
 dream ; but to be able to follow the whim of the 
 moment, to do as he pleases, to indulge in 
 idleness. This, unhappily, is the lot of few, but 
 the many are not so sorely stricken as they im- 
 agine, and hours of happy idleness are lost through 
 ignorance. 
 
 A truce to sermonizing : let us to serious con- 
 sideration. To be idle is not to be passive and 
 semi-unconscious. Who really does the greater 
 work, he who moves a mountain by the shovelful, 
 or he who fathoms the mystery of how it came to 
 be? Nor is this but referring to the difference 
 19* 
 
222 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 between manual and mental labor. The latter 
 may be far more onerous. The idleness I advo- 
 cate is that which allows the world to be our 
 teacher. As I write these words the river is flow- 
 ing by, bearing many a storm- riven branch and 
 uprooted tree towards the ocean. Do you sup- 
 pose that to idly drift with these, careless of where 
 the journey ended, would not be to your gain? 
 Is it possible that the river would withhold all it 
 knows because you forcibly wrested nothing from 
 it ? Let us idle away this summery September 
 day, and count our gains in the moonlight. Who 
 ever encountered the chaotic side of Nature? 
 Turn your back on the workshop and stroll along 
 a country highway. Here, perhaps, you will come 
 nearest to wasting your time ; but such a disaster 
 can be avoided. Why a highway is so common- 
 place is a problem to solve while lying in the 
 shade. There is seldom ground so barren but a 
 weed will find roothold, and a weed is not beyond 
 the pale of a botanist's consideration. No fence 
 was ever so intensely ugly that a spider shunned 
 it ; and what a marvel is a spider's web ! Earth- 
 worms will break the monotony of a smoothly- 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 223 
 
 trodden path during the night, and what their 
 earth-casts mean, as they lie over the bare ground, 
 set Darwin to thinking. What nonsense it is to 
 decry an aimless stroll, a journey without a goal ! 
 As if all life's excellence was to be purchased 
 only by sweat-drops. It is a happy thought, that 
 of idling away odd bits of time, only do so with- 
 out thought of possibly better things. When I 
 stop to eat a frost-nipped persimmon, a plague on 
 the intruding thought that finer fruits grow in the 
 tropics. To walk from Littleworth to Smalltown 
 may be merely the taking of so many steps ; but, 
 if you reach there one fact the wiser, you have 
 taken the first step in profitable idling. 
 
 To idle away an hour, a day, or a week, let your 
 mind drift. Do not hold back, whatever beckons. 
 Be it the humblest weed, a dusty worm, or even 
 an English sparrow, let it be your leader, if it will, 
 and you will not be the worse for the company 
 you have kept. It is not a question of studying 
 any of these despised common things, but the re- 
 ception of such ideas as they may offer. Not one, 
 mind you, but has a part to play in the great 
 world drama, and, the chances are, can give you a 
 
224 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 hint that will not need to be kept seven years be- 
 fore it proves useful. This is what I mean by 
 idling, and hold it worthy of a vigorous defence. 
 
 Never reach beyond arm's length, for that is 
 labor and not idleness, or chase a white blackbird 
 from dawn till dark, forgetting that color is but 
 feather-deep, and that the mystery of a bird, and 
 not a chance happening, is the fact worth know- 
 ing. Do not count yourself a lord of creation, 
 either, when you enter the field, for you are not, 
 and the assumption makes you merely an in- 
 truder. Knock at the door, and ask to come in, 
 and you will be accorded a hearty welcome. Thus 
 it is, by humbling yourself, you shall be exalted. 
 
 It is September, and the summer yet lingers. 
 Let us idly saunter beyond the town, gathering 
 the best fruit that offers, but not passing by un- 
 heeded that which is blighted. Here is matter for 
 leisurely contemplation : what caused the untimely 
 destruction ? What is blight ? Some creature 
 having equal claim to fruit has been ahead of you 
 merely, and you, man, lord of creation, get angry 
 because beaten by a bug ! As a spectator, and 
 not a victim, I am amused, and, lolling in the Sep- 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 225 
 
 tember .sunshine, have learned something without 
 an effort. After all, fruit does not grow that you 
 may t*e filled. The fruit is but your prey, and the 
 insect has as good cause to hate you as have you 
 to be enraged when it gets the upper hand. Might 
 makes right, in spite of the preacher ; and I do 
 not blame a wasp for stinging me when I disturb 
 him at his feast. His is the rosy cheek of the 
 apple, mine the yellow ; and why not keep within 
 bounds ? Here is not an idle thought, but one 
 bred in idleness ; it is only the victim of his own 
 unreasonableness that is deaf to reason. We are 
 beyond the orchard, and a new field, and ever an 
 attractive one, lies before us. What can be better 
 than the wilds of an unkempt meadow? Have 
 but one care as you cross the threshold : avoid 
 haste. Not a step can be taken that does not pass 
 by more than a lifetime can wholly comprehend. 
 Remember, it is September, and summer's day is 
 over before the month goes by. Long ago as 
 June we found the firstlings of every flock full of 
 interest, but what of the lastlings ? Nature is 
 never an old story. We think the glory of June 
 has faded before the close of summer, but Nature 
 
226 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 paints with fast colors, and the dust is in our own 
 eyes. When the orchard bends with an over- 
 crop, as now, who stops to admire the flushed 
 cheeks of a single apple ? But in years of scarcity, 
 the single beauties are perched upon mantel- 
 pieces as too valuable for the dumpling, where 
 they really show to best advantage. 
 
 I have this day witnessed the first scene of the 
 last act of summer ; and if the bank whereon the 
 wild thyme blows could hold the gaze of Shake- 
 speare, how he would have lingered over a way-side 
 pond this morning, flecked with white water-lilies 
 and hemmed by the tall scarlet spires of lobelia ! 
 Never shone the sun more brightly ; earth and air 
 were flooded with its penetrating rays. Nothing 
 was hidden, not even a blade of grass but stood 
 bravely forth, as if conscious of its beauty. It is 
 a crystalline day, when we have insight in a literal 
 sense, and not merely the dim outlines of the ex- 
 ternal world ; a day when Nature draws the veil 
 and you are brought face to face with beauty. A 
 pool becomes now something more than a hollow 
 in the ground, decked with lilies and lobelia ; but 
 if it were not more than this, there would still be 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 227 
 
 reason for lingering here, for idling away an 
 hour. Can flowers bloom without whispering to 
 the world facts worth knowing ? It is no fault of 
 theirs if their bright sayings fall forever on deaf 
 ears. Mankind loves color. His eye craves it as 
 his stomach craves food. We carry it into our 
 houses, dreading the depressing effect of cold gray 
 walls, but how sadly we use it ! If an hour's idle- 
 ness brings us nearer to Nature in such a matter 
 as house-decoration, we have done our duty to 
 the world as well as to ourselves. Why flowers, 
 that Nature stamps as monstrosities, should replace 
 the gems of her handiwork on the walls of our 
 houses is not readily explained. Here at the pool 
 is scarlet and white, and every imaginable shade 
 of purple, green, and brown, even polished and 
 old gold; a dozen blooming plants in the scope 
 of a single glance, and every one a masterpiece 
 of grace as well as color ; but where upon wall- 
 paper will we find them ? Such a scene as this 
 way-side pool haunts us. It is carried as a flitting 
 ghost of landscape to the workshop, and even so 
 makes labor less onerous, and we are well re- 
 warded for that idling at which the unthinking 
 
228 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 rail. Commune with a cloud or chat with a way- 
 side weed and you have done better, hour for hour, 
 than laboring under protest. At the end of your 
 term, in the latter case, you have gold as your 
 recompense ; but who, after an hour's wandering 
 afield, happily chancing upon Nature's flower- 
 garden, and strolling through its by-paths, loiter- 
 ing by its lilies, sauntering in its scented sunshine, 
 can return to the work-a-day world empty-handed ? 
 What of that wider vision of the universe, that 
 assurance of right royal living which is ever at 
 hand ? A finer metal than gold is needed for its 
 purchase. Some joys that we have tasted will 
 return whenever called. Nature's torch grows 
 faster at the base than ever the top turns to ashes. 
 There is a new light for the idler every hour, and 
 a new thought to cheer when the burden is once 
 more to be shouldered. Who dare say that the 
 more we learn of this world the less will we have 
 to learn of the next ? I dare think it. The lilies 
 that float in the still water and the flaming lobelia 
 that surrounds them, all this is no less a part of 
 the world because beyond the town's limits. 
 
 There is a homely phrase common to all, 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 229 
 
 something to think about. This is a wide-spread 
 want, and its value may be measured by its uni- 
 versality. Buried in bricks, the brain will still 
 work, and what wonders has it not wrought when 
 there was no trace of Nature near to cheer it ! 
 Books have been written in dungeons, but would 
 this have been possible had the prisoner never 
 wandered in a green field or rambled in a forest ? 
 
 But speak of out-of-doors and Thoreau comes 
 to mind. He was a surveyor, but how much 
 more an idler in the fields ! Was it when he 
 measured the farmers' wood-lots that he nailed to 
 the mast those bright thoughts that have been a 
 help to mankind ever since ? What of the days 
 when, to shield himself from the driving storms, 
 he crouched behind the stone wall ? He thought 
 himself a philosopher then, as he distinctly states, 
 and he was right. The life that is wholly given 
 to manual labor is a life half lost. 
 
 Nature was not limited to the lilies and lobelia 
 to-day. The fields reaching to the far-off woods 
 were bright with golden-rod ; there were ivory- 
 white "turtle-heads" clustered in shady nooks, 
 orchids in abundance, purple gerardia, eupatorium, 
 
 20 
 
23 
 
 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 asters of regal mould, and a host of lesser lights 
 that make good the claim that Nature's palette 
 was not used up in painting the June landscape. 
 To be surfeited with flowers is a weakness against 
 which to guard ; rather, they should be that joy 
 forever which Keats immortalized. Surely it is a 
 red-letter day when we greet the fringed gentian. 
 Where autumn flowers bloom there, too, will be 
 music. Merit never lacks good company. The 
 singing-bird may have drifted from exultation to 
 meditation ; from May to September is a long 
 journey, if we have been awake to the world as 
 it was passing; so, too, with the birds. Their 
 holiday has come, and they have desire to fritter 
 it away. Perhaps they are planning for the year 
 to come ; perhaps for their migratorial flight ; but 
 no sweetness has been lost. We have it in the 
 books that the birds cease to sing when the sum- 
 mer is over, as if they mourned the separation, 
 the severing of family ties. It is not true. The 
 young follow their parents, and the parents remain 
 mated. Because we cannot see how this can be, 
 how natural to deny it ! but every returning spring 
 proves it nevertheless. Autumn bird-songs are 
 
The Defence of Idleness. 231 
 
 meditative, that is all, and no less charming be- 
 cause of this. The woods do not ring now ; but 
 there is a gentle murmur, a whispering melody 
 that can soothe the savage breast. If all the 
 world idled in the September sunshine, no one 
 need wonder why. But idle in the proper way. 
 Be receptive ; for this is but another name for 
 contemplation, and contemplation is the noblest 
 occupation. The ultra-utilitarian may condemn 
 even such idleness, but it is an error. To rest 
 with half-closed eyes, even for half a day, where 
 Nature is busiest is not to lose time. It is that 
 half-sleep which renews our stock of ideas, as 
 slumber restores the outworn body. 
 
A Pre-Columbian Mine. 
 
 " Let's to plain prose and talk as men of sense ; 
 No mouthing of great mystery, or rolling eyes 
 At colors brighter than the world e'er saw ; 
 Let's to the world of hard and rugged fact." 
 
 oO my companion thought to take the wind from 
 my sails, as though only a mining engineer could 
 deal with the facts before us. But I would not 
 listen, and go about our work with but a compass 
 and tape-line. It is not always to play the fool to 
 link arms with a lively fancy. If a rosy light plays 
 over a heap of stones, why not say so ? No one 
 will be deceived because I say I heard Indians 
 chipping flint while I sat at the entrance of the 
 mine whence had come the rainbow-tinted jasper 
 that to-day, as marvels of aboriginal handicraft, 
 are scattered up and down the valley of the 
 Delaware. I even went a step farther, and above 
 232 
 
A Pre-Columbian Mine. 233 
 
 the heaps of blackened stones, where fires, now 
 quenched for centuries, had once blazed year after 
 year, again flickered the ruddy light of the camp- 
 fire ; and through the forest a pale yet penetrating 
 light brought upon the scene the whole village,-^ 
 men, women, and children. With the gloaming 
 comes fancy's holiday ; but we need not loiter in a 
 fool's paradise. The natural sequence of seeing 
 and then contemplating the remains of one-time 
 human activities is to rebuild upon these ruins the 
 structures they call for. Happily, the time had 
 spared sufficient for a firm foundation in this in- 
 stance ; nor were the ancient fireplaces less tangi- 
 ble facts. What my fancy saw to-night was not a 
 fevered vision, but what every archaeologist ear- 
 nestly longs for, a vivid glimpse of the Delaware 
 valley in pre-Columbian days. He finds himself 
 as poor as at the outset who treats of such matters 
 without reference to what has been. It may be 
 true that a field is sprinkled with broken stones, 
 but never all the truth. Who broke them, and 
 when? Or has frost been playing pranks with 
 the living rock ? Think how much is implied 
 when we speak of an arrow-head ! We gather 
 
 20* 
 
234 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 them in our walks afield ; perhaps preserve them, 
 if pretty ; or throw them down again, if rudely 
 wrought or broken, and think of them merely 
 long enough to mention the name " arrow-head." 
 But what, really, is it ? Of itself, nothing. Abso- 
 lutely as valueless then, when made, as now. But 
 as the effective point of a shaft, and the two as 
 the projectile of the bow ; and this, with its armed 
 arrow, as the weapon of a man, and what a pict- 
 ure of the past looms up before us ! We do not, 
 and cannot, know more of the man than this 
 arrow-head, this chipped fragment of jasper tells 
 us ; but does it not speak volumes ? 
 
 Out of deference to my matter-of-fact compan- 
 ion, let's to plain prose. These jasper mines, for 
 there are several, are situated about one mile east 
 of the village of Durham, Bucks County, Pennsyl- 
 vania, in the synclinal basin of Rattlesnake and 
 Mine Hills, on the lowermost spur of the South 
 Mountain range. These mines, or quarries, as 
 they are usually called, cover an area of about one 
 acre. Nature kindly left the ground in the condi- 
 tion brought about by the Indians' mining opera- 
 tions, and half a century ago extensive deposits 
 
A Pre-Columbian Mine. 235 
 
 of the mineral were exposed to view ; but of late 
 years every one of the depressions on the hill-top 
 has become the receptacle for refuse stone gathered 
 from the surrounding fields, and these most inter- 
 esting archaeological features of the country are 
 well-nigh obliterated. The shafts, pits, or what 
 you will, are remembered to have been from four 
 to six feet in depth and from ten to twenty feet 
 in diameter, and near by were mound-like eleva- 
 tions made up of the vast amount of refuse 
 material. It is evident that the greatly varying 
 depths of these excavations were due to the 
 superior or inferior quality of the exposed ledges. 
 But how do we know that the Indians had to do 
 with these pits at all ? Have we found their 
 autographs packed in the rock, or found their 
 bones in graves of their own digging ? Not yet ; 
 but of equal significance is the immense quantity 
 of chips and slender flakes, besides hammers, 
 large and small, and a goodly range of stone im- 
 plements no white man, since he became white, 
 has used. We can follow the trail of the aborigine 
 here without being thrown off the scent. We can 
 see, in the mind's eye, and we need no clearer 
 
236 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 vision, that after the jasper had been mined it 
 was directly subjected to a hammering process 
 that determined the precise quality of the mass. 
 This was a necessary preliminary, for the imple- 
 ment-maker and the miner were not one and the 
 same person, or, if so, pursued the two occupations 
 at different times. 
 
 Before considering the adjacent workshop sites, 
 let me prevent a possible misconception. Here is 
 not the one sole source of supply from which the 
 Indians derived jasper, but, I take it, the principal 
 one. It is true a block of jasper, if pure and 
 faultless, that measured twenty feet across and six 
 feet in thickness, would make an enormous number 
 of arrow-points, but it is to be remembered that 
 in every such block there is a vast amount of 
 refuse flint that Indians could not use, and the 
 chips resulting from a single arrow-point equalled 
 usually a mass a hundredfold the size of the 
 finished implement. Then, too, we have proof 
 that jasper boulders from the bed of the river were 
 used by those Indians who lived far south of the 
 mine on Rattlesnake Hill, and that many a little 
 pebble was gathered for the purpose of making an 
 
A Pre-Columbian Mine. 237 
 
 arrow-point of it, for these, in every stage of in- 
 completeness, are everywhere abundant. 
 
 And now, what of the workshop sites ? It is 
 a natural inference that if at the mine itself the 
 jasper was not reduced to its ultimate condition 
 of a finished implement, then such spots as were 
 well adapted to a flint-chipping industry would be 
 found to have been utilized as such ; nor are we 
 mistaken. Every Indian was not his own imple- 
 ment-maker. There were professional chippers in 
 those days, and just as we find manufactories to- 
 day near the sources of supply of raw material, 
 so was it with flint-chipping when jasper mines 
 were a scene of busy industry. Less than a mile 
 from the mine is more than one such site, and 
 many, by recent changes and the violence of 
 floods, have been wholly obliterated. One of 
 the most important, but not one that can now be 
 traced, was some five hundred yards distant from 
 the Durham Cave. It reached back from the 
 Delaware about a fourth of a mile. The sod was 
 never broken or a furrow turned that the refuse 
 incident to arrow-making was not brought to light 
 in startling abundance. Again, on the bank of a 
 
238 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 small stream, for a distance of six hundred yards, 
 was the same abundance of such refuse, and that 
 a permanent village, with its varied interests, ex- 
 isted here is shown by the occurrence of that full 
 range of objects having to do with their domestic 
 life, agriculture, hunting, fishing, and, most sug- 
 gestive of all, their personal vanity. They had, 
 too, if not banks, a reliable system of safe deposit, 
 for "in unmarked holes in the ground were placed 
 enormous numbers of valuable objects. In this 
 creek-side village-site were found above one hun- 
 dred globular stones, some with grooves, and all 
 artificially rounded. These had evidently been 
 placed where found by their owner, and the secret 
 of their whereabouts had died with him. So much 
 the naked facts, but is nothing more to be said ? 
 For years I have rambled in the Delaware valley 
 and gathered arrow-points, until now their number 
 reaches far into the thousands, and all the while 
 wondered if from river pebbles alone the material 
 was derived. This seemed improbable, for I could 
 find so little trace in the gravel of the delicate 
 green and bright red jasper such as occurred on 
 the fields as broken implements or chips ; but now 
 
A Pre-Columbian Mine. 239 
 
 the problem was solved. My wanderings had 
 brought me at last to this beautiful spot, to a 
 camping-ground perched upon a high hill that 
 overlooked a glorious country. Recompense 
 enough of itself when taking an outing, and how 
 much more when now, at my feet, was the key 
 that unlocked a mystery that for years had teased 
 me ! How much fuller was every known feature 
 of Indian life by reason of this discovery ! Hence- 
 forth every arrow-point will have an added interest. 
 If I cannot trace its career, I can, at least, point to 
 its home. It is useless, however, to speculate con- 
 cerning the antiquity of these jasper mines, and 
 yet almost the first question asked is, " How old 
 are they ?" as if they needed a few centuries, more 
 or less, to give them interest. When the Indian 
 first happened here matters not ; but it was long 
 ago, and even then his range of culture was not 
 so insignificant as the average reader supposes. 
 He could work marvellously well in stone of other 
 sorts, and proved his eye for symmetry by objects 
 of ceremonial import of wonderful beauty, both 
 in design and workmanship ; and then, what of 
 those etched gorgets so common among them? 
 
240 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 By the light of the camp-fire to-night a precious 
 relic was brought forth, and its possible signifi- 
 cance discussed for the hundredth time. How far 
 are the lines and curves and dots ornamental, and 
 how far a matter of record ? Who shall say ? 
 For many days we have been wandering in search 
 of Indian relics, and on one of the beautiful 
 islands in the river a curiously-etched stone has 
 been found. The marks are cleanly and deeply 
 cut, as if by a graver's tool, and yet no metal ever 
 came in contact with this specimen. Here we 
 have set aside one of the objections raised against 
 the mastodon stone found not many miles away ; 
 a specimen, be it said, that was hastily condemned, 
 but in the light of added knowledge may prove to 
 have an interest To find a picture rather than a 
 grouping of significatory or merely ornamental 
 markings may be highly improbable, but in the 
 light of what has been gathered in this same river 
 valley in recent years it is foolhardy to pronounce 
 it impossible, and inexcusable to cry " fraud" when- 
 ever the unexpected happens. 
 
 Then, as night drew on apace, our minds re- 
 verted to the long-deserted mine. The hum of 
 
A Pre-Columbian Mine. 241 
 
 human industry was hushed, but silence did not 
 prevail. A thousand crickets chirped in the weedy 
 wilderness, squirrels were astir in the heaped-up 
 rocks, birds, although dreaming, sang sweetly 
 through the woods, and when, at last, we too 
 wandered, in our thoughts was it strange that the 
 many sounds we still heard were not, in truth, 
 voices of the night, but the cries and clamor of 
 strange men who toiled and wrestled with the 
 unyielding rock of this pre-Columbian mine ? 
 q 
 
Why do some Birds Sing? 
 
 W^ HEREVER we happen to be, we are given to 
 asking ourselves or others unanswerable questions. 
 Why do birds sing? is one of these. It is not 
 enough to reply, as I know has too often been 
 done : because it is their nature to sing. If 
 nothing more rational than this can be said, then 
 let us keep silent. To admit our ignorance is 
 manly, while to assume knowledge is detestable. 
 Whether, in the present case, we are confronted 
 with an unsolvable problem or not remains to be 
 seen. 
 
 My reply to this often-put query is a series of 
 suggestions. Nearly twenty years ago, in an 
 English magazine I suggested that " birds, like 
 mankind, sing for pleasure and talk from neces- 
 sity." Many years spent more in the company of 
 242 
 
Why do some Birds Sing ? 243 
 
 birds than of men have not caused me to change 
 my mind. 
 
 Butvlet us go over the ground anew. Let us 
 take a somewhat careful survey of familiar bird- 
 life, such as we find it in the outskirts of all our 
 towns. By so doing we will free ourselves of 
 many wrong impressions, especially that common 
 one that every bird of a given species is like all 
 its fellows. There is as much individuality among 
 birds as among men. It will be noticed, too, at 
 the very outset, that not all birds sing, and yet 
 not one of them is mute. Of course, it will be 
 very necessary in such an investigation to distin- 
 guish between utterances that, while harsh to our 
 ears, may not be so to the bird, and not set down 
 as an exclamation of surprise or fear what may be 
 one of soothing import to the utterer or its in- 
 terested hearer. There is one note, or rather a 
 brief series of notes, uttered by the crow that 
 probably should come under the heading of song ; 
 and every one who is familiar with our blue-jay 
 knows that at times it trills a few flute-like notes 
 that are very musical. Here are instances where, 
 in the case of a crow, we might go astray, while 
 
244 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 no one would fail to credit the jay with ability to 
 sing; yet neither bird is ever classed under the 
 heading of songsters. 
 
 Whether logical or not, in studies of animal life 
 we must consider what we would do and have 
 done and are daily doing under like circumstances, 
 and from such data draw our conclusions. Now, 
 it is significant that no song-bird proper, be it 
 thrush, lark, or grosbeak, is limited in its utter- 
 ances to the characteristic song. This is but one 
 of a considerable series, and is heard only under 
 certain circumstances, and the other utterances, 
 each as well defined as the song, are, too, only 
 uttered when conditions arise that call for them. 
 In the same way, speaking of ourselves, we laugh 
 when amused, cry when in pain, and sing when 
 merry or contemplative. Who, with a jumping 
 toothache, could sing " Annie Laurie" ? 
 
 Are these but catchy phrases to avoid straight- 
 forward consideration of the question ? Let us 
 take a walk across lots, into the woods, and look 
 about the swamps and river. Here in the angle 
 of an old worm-fence is a clump of blackberry 
 briers, and it is easy to watch the pair of cat-birds 
 
Why do some Birds Sing ? 245 
 
 that have their nest where the briers are most 
 tangled. This nest and the four green eggs are 
 sufficient to command their owner's whole atten- 
 tion. This is evident at a glance ; but see how the 
 
 lord of the little manor breaks free of life's exact- 
 ing cares and yields to a love of less laborious 
 life. All men are not lazy, but who among us 
 does not love his ease ? Above the briers, away 
 
 21* 
 
246 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 from all entanglement, the cat-bird perches on a 
 convenient limb of the nearest tree and gives 
 himself up to song. This is not a mere repetition 
 of the chirps and twitters that marked every 
 movement when busy about the nest or intent upon 
 securing food. These were not by any means 
 monotonous twangings of a single string, but 
 highly varied, and clearly had reference to the 
 various demands of the moment. A low chuckle 
 calls his mate ; a shrill chirp warns her of possible 
 danger ; the scarcely audible utterances when near 
 each other, when " billing and cooing," are clearly 
 the interchange of ideas ; but now, how vastly 
 different and yet equally significant ! 
 
 The self-released bird needs, or thinks he needs, 
 rest and recreation, and for the time gives him- 
 self up to song. He rejoices in his own musical 
 powers. Every note of every other bird that is 
 within the compass of his voice he repeats, and, 
 withal, sounds many a matchless note wholly his 
 own. From side to side he tosses his head as if 
 such movements affected his voice. His body 
 sways to and fro or pitches forward as the sounds 
 grow shriller, and then, as if exhausted by the 
 
Why do some Birds Sing ? 247 
 
 effort, he wraps his feathers more closely about 
 him, and then the song dies away as though he 
 could vbut whisper the thought that latest came to 
 him. The whole performance is ecstatic ; an ex- 
 pression of the emotions that is the counterpart 
 of music, whether vocal or instrumental, among 
 mankind. Here, then, we have an inkling, if not 
 much more, of why a bird sings. It has emotions 
 like unto our own, and expresses them in like 
 manner. 
 
 Not every bird has the same manner ; very many 
 are far less demonstrative, and yet underlying it 
 all will be found the same impulse. Here is the 
 confiding little field-sparrow that will scarcely 
 move from your path. It is too happy to be for- 
 ever busy with life's commonplaces, and a hundred 
 times a day warbles a few gleeful notes that should 
 touch the heart of even a hawk, if the world was 
 not so far from perfect. The meadow-lark, too, 
 is another prominent example of what I would 
 make clear. It cannot withstand the temptation to 
 mount to the very topmost twig of the tallest tree 
 in the pasture, and for half an hour whistle " I see 
 you, you can't see me !" This song has nothing 
 
248 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 to do with the bird's ordinary occupations. It is 
 a breaking in upon them, just as we who labor all 
 love to do, lay aside our tools and take up the 
 fiddle and the bow. I do not propose to trifle 
 with the subject, but give honest expression to my 
 convictions in this matter. So long as we persist 
 in considering ourselves as something widely dif- 
 ferent and wholly set apart from the animal crea- 
 tion, birds and all other forms of life will be a 
 profound mystery to us, and whatsoever they do, 
 beyond our powers of interpretation; but let it 
 dawn upon us that they are largely governed by 
 the same laws, actuated by the same motives, the 
 same causes urging them to do and dare, then 
 the differences between the various utterances of 
 a bird will become evident, and we will go away 
 convinced that birds, like mankind, sing for pleas- 
 ure and toil from necessity. 
 
 It has been shown conclusively by philosophical 
 naturalists that the songs of birds have a close 
 association with the pairing of birds, and all that 
 belongs to the continuance of the race. Here we 
 are brought, I doubt not, face to face with the 
 question of the origin of song, which is not that 
 
Why do some Birds Sing ? 249 
 
 which heads this article. In the beginning of bird- 
 life there were few, if any, songsters. The birds' 
 immediate ancestors made day or night hideous if 
 they cried out at all, and only after countless cen- 
 turies of gradual evolution of highly-specialized 
 forms did the song-bird, as we know it, come upon 
 the scene. These early musicians possibly sang 
 only during the nesting season, and more to please 
 their mates than themselves. The original impulse 
 still survives ; but there is now an added phase, 
 singing from pure love of music. I have men- 
 tioned several instances of this, and many more 
 could be given, but with one of a striking char- 
 acter I will conclude. It is well known that in 
 autumn there is comparative silence among those 
 birds that in early summer made the woods and 
 fields fairly tremble with the flood of song, and in 
 autumn those birds that are migrating southward 
 seldom utter more than an occasional chirp. 
 Among all these an exception to the rule some- 
 times happens. As if some object near recalled 
 happy by-gone days, the almost silent bird pauses 
 in his occupation and sings as though it were 
 May-day and not October. This is not so unusual 
 
250 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 as to have no significance. I have heard it a thou- 
 sand times, and now offer such songs out of season 
 as further evidence that the prompting of birds 
 and men to indulge in song is essentially the 
 same. 
 
At a Public Sale. 
 
 IT is not so very long ago that I swore off, in the 
 matter of attendance upon public sales. I was 
 always victimized, and finally became disgruntled. 
 But many an Ephraim, not joined to his idols, oc- 
 casionally takes a sly backward glance. It was so 
 recently. A huge red flag was fluttering opposite 
 the door of Smalltown's oldest dwelling-house. 
 Furniture that had been in use since the Revolu- 
 tion, and a few odd pieces for nearly a century 
 prior to those stirring times, were now to be sold. 
 Even into this Smalltown house had drifted a 
 " Mayflower" chest, and a bed upon which Wash- 
 ington had slept. Little wonder that every family 
 of this inland village was well represented in the 
 crowd of expectant buyers. 
 
 That red flag at the door merely announced in 
 four words a public sale, but he is wise who reads 
 
 251 
 
252 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 between the lines : Who enters here leaves wits 
 behind. He who is sane in such a crowd is 
 scarcely human. Covetousness is epidemic. Never 
 a thought of the effect of long years of use x enters 
 our minds. Every colonial acorn has grown to a 
 latter-day oak. Here the glamour of age has 
 proved the transmuter of metal : pre- Revolution- 
 ary pewter is sterling silver. And now the sale 
 begins. Perched upon a chair, from his coign of 
 vantage the sea of fools is calmly surveyed by the 
 auctioneer, and distorted truth charms the will- 
 ing victim. A long table was covered with china, 
 earthenware, and glass ; and the mantel beyond a 
 narrow shelf quite near the ceiling glittered with 
 a tangled maze of clean brass candlesticks, steel 
 snuffers, and plated trays. At one end dangled a 
 huge warming-pan, and on the wall near it hung a 
 bit of canvas in a gilded frame, from which the 
 portrait had as utterly faded as he whom it repre- 
 sented had vanished into thin air. It was a strange 
 place, a room from which many a colonial citizen 
 had passed to take a stroll upon the village street ; 
 and here, in sad confusion to be sure r the dishes 
 that graced his breakfast-table. I could have lin- 
 
At a Public Sale. 253 
 
 gered there, if alone, for half a day ; but not will- 
 ingly for half an hour in such a crowd. The 
 crowd,showever, closed every exit, and all had to 
 submit. A possible chance to secure some odd 
 bit was my only consolation. Why the good old 
 soul who last occupied the house, and who was born 
 in it fourscore years ago, should necessarily have 
 had only her grandmother's table-ware ; why every 
 generation of this family should have suffered no 
 losses by breakage, was not asked. Every bit, 
 even to baking-powder prizes of green and greasy 
 glass, antedated the Revolution ; and the wise and 
 mighty of Smalltown knew no better. A bit of 
 egg-shell, sticking to a cracked teacup, was stolen 
 as a relic of Washington's last breakfast in Small- 
 town. 
 
 While willow-pattern china was passing into 
 other hands, I made a discovery. A curious piece 
 of polished, crooked mahogany was seen lying 
 between soup-tureens and gravy-boats. I picked 
 it up cautiously, fearing to attract attention, and, 
 with one eye everywhere else, scanned it closely. 
 What a curious paper-knife ! was my first thought, 
 and the prize was slyly tucked back of a pile of 
 
 22 
 
254 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 plates. This must be kept track of. It may prove 
 a veritable treasure. But all my care went for 
 naught. An inquisitive old lady, standing near, 
 had seen every action. " What is it ?" she asked ; 
 and the wooden wonder was brought to light. 
 " It's an old-fashioned wooden butter-knife. I've 
 seen 'em afore this. Don't you know, in old times, 
 it wasn't everybody as had silver, and mahogany 
 knives for butter was put on the table for big folks. 
 We folks each used our own knife." All this was 
 dribbled into my willing ears, and have the relic 
 I would at any cost. Time and again I ner- 
 vously turned it over, to be sure that it was still 
 on the table, and so excited another's curiosity. 
 " What is it ?" a second and still older lady asked. 
 " A colonial butter-knife," I promptly replied, with 
 an air of much antiquarian lore. "A butter- 
 knife ! No such thing. My grandfather had one 
 just like this, and it's a pruning-knife. He wouldn't 
 use a steel knife 'cause it poisoned the sap." What 
 next ? Paper-knife, butter-knife, pruning-knife ! 
 At all events, every new name added a dollar to 
 its value, and my anxious thought was what the 
 crowd would say, for now it was in the auctioneer's 
 
At a Public Sale. 255 
 
 hands. He looked at it with a puzzled expression, 
 and merely cried, " What is bid for this f" His 
 ignorance was encouraging. It started at a dime, 
 and I secured it for a quarter. For a moment I 
 little wondered at the fascination of public sales. 
 The past was forgiven, for now luck had turned, 
 and I gloried in the possession of a prize. 
 
 To seek the outer world was a perilous under- 
 taking, for fear that the triply-named knife might 
 come to grief; but I reached home at last, and, 
 hugging the precious bit, mysteriously disappeared 
 for quite an hour. No one must know of my 
 success until the mystery was cleaned, brightened, 
 and restored to pristine beauty. I rubbed the 
 gummy surface with kerosene, and then polished 
 it with flannel. Then warm water and a tooth- 
 brush were brought into play, and the oil all re- 
 moved. Then a long dry polishing, and the 
 restoration was complete. Certainly no other 
 Smalltowner had such a wooden knife ; and it was 
 indeed beautiful. Black in a cross light, red in 
 direct light, and kaleidoscopic by gas light. Ah, 
 such a prize ! The family knew that something 
 strange was transpiring, but what, no one had an 
 
256 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 inkling. They must wait patiently, and they did. 
 In due time I proudly appeared with my prize in 
 hand. " See there !" I cried in triumph, and they 
 all looked eagerly ; and when my pride was soaring 
 at its highest, a younger daughter cried, " Why, 
 papa, it's the back of a hair-brush !" And it was. 
 
Old Penny's Dead ! 
 
 OLD PENNY'S dead! Gone, at last, the 
 youngest of those rare old men who taught me 
 in my youth : unlettered philosophers who drew 
 me nearer than the learned folk of later years. 
 About the backwoods now degeneracy is painfully 
 marked. Ignorance is still everywhere, but now 
 without the brains to make it respectable. In the 
 days of Uz Gaunt and Miles Overfield it was well 
 worth the while to listen to those to whom life- 
 long contact with Nature had not been without 
 results. Of late, the power of observing seems to 
 have left the backwoodsman, or the present poor 
 apology for such. Old Fenny was the last of his 
 race. There is no one now living who will ever 
 approach him, though he lives to pass the century 
 year-post. Perhaps the change in the country 
 
 r 22* 257 
 
258 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 has to do with it. A child that lives among oaks 
 will have sturdier thought than he who knows 
 nothing but brambles. 
 
 I would that I were rich in the wisdom of these 
 unlearned men. Never knowledge so refreshing 
 as that doled out by octogenarians who have 
 grown up with the trees, in the shade of which 
 they passed their declining years. 
 
 Here, as I recall it, is what one of these old men 
 said to me just before he died, some twenty years 
 ago: " Gran'daddy cleared off the woods in 1765 
 and daddy built this house in '93, and I've growed 
 up with the trees that make it shady round the 
 yard. I got so far as to write my name, when a 
 boy, but always did my figurin' in my head. As 
 to readin', well, I'd rather be read to." Again, he 
 remarked, " A roof's handy, but I live out o' doors, 
 and I tell you, I like these old trees. They talk 
 when the wind blows ; and it never struck me, as 
 it seems to some folks, that a tree was sort of in 
 ruins when it lost its leaves. Or take the bushes, 
 when they're out o' bloom they're not out o' 
 beauty." 
 
 Here was a man worth talking to ; one who 
 
Old Penny's Dead! 259 
 
 charmed Lyell when fossil-hunting over in Jersey, 
 and well he might. 
 
 But^Old Fenny. H He did not rank quite so high, 
 but would there were hundreds like him. Put 
 him in a room where the current tattle of the 
 town was the staple of conversation and he was 
 soon asleep ; but speak of the meadows, of felling 
 trees, of disastrous freshets, great storms, or a 
 barn-raising, and how his eyes flashed ! Every 
 nerve was alert, and every word weighty with 
 earnestness and truth. Yet he was unlearned ; 
 sadly so, as he interpreted Nature, in the light of 
 modern science ; but, though I knew he was wrong, 
 it was more refreshing to hear him talk than to 
 read any text-book ever printed. His was not 
 misleading ignorance. He held to the moon's 
 influence over the weather, and quoted believingly 
 half the weather-sayings ever heard of; but, with 
 all, there were facts. These you could detach 
 from his inferences and forget the latter straight- 
 way, but the others were ever so cleverly put you 
 could not forget them. And, after all, do we not 
 treat the really learned in much the same fashion ? 
 We are all so wedded to our own opinions that 
 
260 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the inferences of the most prominent men in their 
 line are but too apt to fall upon deaf ears. 
 
 As men like Fenny deciphered it, this world 
 was thoroughly intelligible to them. They were 
 all deists, of course, and delved no more deeply 
 into matters spiritual. There was a tendency to 
 spiritualism of the modern kind, because so much 
 was beyond their comprehension, so unsolvable 
 to them, but plain to the learned. This gave them 
 their poetry, and their lives were full of it ; but 
 this feeling extended beyond such things to the 
 trivial incidents of every-day life. Fenny wore 
 upon his little finger a rudely-carved bone ring. 
 I once questioned him about it, and, holding it 
 before him, he said, with a strange change of voice, 
 " It's nothin' of itself, but the sunshiny days of one 
 summer come back whenever I look at it." 
 
 But let us take a walk with Fenny in the woods. 
 If he did not know a tree botanically he did prac- 
 tically. He laid no claim to why or how the 
 growth was thus and so, but he did know what 
 every tree passed through from the sprouting of 
 the seed to maturity. His knowledge shone with 
 positive splendor when he remarked, " That tree's 
 
Old Fenny 's Dead! 261 
 
 doted," and yet to all the world it was typical of 
 perfect health. How did he know ? Of course I 
 asked ^him, and then the full discussion of the 
 color of the leaves, their comparative absence from 
 certain limbs, a smoothness or roughness of the 
 bark, a hundred matters others would never see, 
 yet plain as the printed page to him. Yet he was 
 unlearned. 
 
 Was it the weather ? The moaning of the wind 
 in the pines, the swaying of the meadow-grasses, 
 the rippling of the river's flow, the color of the 
 mill-pond's surface, the quiet or the song of many 
 birds, the hum of bees or flutter of butterflies ; 
 these had their meaning, and another "sign"' that 
 he correctly interpreted was the condition of the 
 atmosphere. Would I know if it would rain to- 
 morrow, Fenny could tell. However black the 
 clouds ; ay, even if it sprinkled at the time, if he 
 said, " Leave your umbrella behind," I should 
 have done so. Yet he was unlearned. 
 
 Alas ! Old Penny's dead, and I must ramble 
 alone or with the scientist. Pardon me, you who 
 have knowledge to explain away the world : Old 
 Penny's dead, and I have lost much. 
 
The Gathering of the Clans 
 
 JN OT even the owl is as much of a hermit as he 
 appears. The little fellow that all summer long 
 has slept by day in the hollow apple-tree, and 
 hooted by night from the adjacent tree- tops, has a 
 taste for company, and when two meet, their hoot- 
 ing gives way to a varied range of lowly-mur- 
 mured chatterings very different from the conven- 
 tional cries of all owldom. Keep a pet one (and 
 they are easily tamed) and you will find them not 
 only as wise as they look, but not averse to rough- 
 and-tumble fun. But a few days ago, in my wan- 
 derings, I reached the bank of a river, long after 
 sundown, and pitched my little tent by the fitful 
 light of a green-wood camp-fire. Ejaculations 
 were not smothered, but explosive, and the whole 
 strange scene brought not one but three little red 
 owls to the front. They were not afraid, and dis- 
 262 
 
The Gathering of the Clans. 263 
 
 cussed my companion, the dog, and myself vigor- 
 ously. They enjoyed the novelty, and all through 
 the nigiit their tremulous tones broke the still- 
 ness of the dense, dark woods. I dreamed of 
 huge flocks of owls, such as no man ever saw, 
 and was routed at dawn by a great rushing of 
 wings that seemed dangerously close at hand. It 
 was a flock of blackbirds. 
 
 Birds are social, and whatever may have been 
 the conditions at the dawn of bird-life, their gath- 
 erings now are purely pleasurable. I do not think 
 any advantage to the individual can come of it, 
 other than satisfying social impulses. Let us go 
 back of the formation of these huge flocks and 
 give a moment's notice to another phase of a bird's 
 existence. This, from a recent paper, covers the 
 whole ground : " Most birds, we are told, ' pair 
 once for all, till either one or the other dies.' Dr. 
 Brehm, the author of ' Bird-Life,' is so filled with 
 admiration for their exemplary family-life as to be 
 led to declare enthusiastically that ' real genuine 
 marriage can only be found among birds.' " The 
 initial point of flocking is there, that of mating ; 
 later, the family keep largely together ; towards 
 
264 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the close of the summer the families of a neigh- 
 borhood unite, and, urged by the approach of 
 autumn, the birds of a whole river valley will 
 merge into some two or three great flocks, and in 
 such close companionship migrate, or wander to 
 and fro, from one feeding-ground to another. 
 
 When did birds begin to flock ? This has often 
 been asked, but never can be told. A close study 
 of this habit, as of many other bird-ways, points 
 to the conclusion that it is a survival of a much 
 more fixed one. There is now a vast deal of 
 irregularity about it. Certainly the red-winged 
 blackbirds, which form our largest flocks, are not 
 all gathered in, and single ones, pairs, and half a 
 dozen together remain all winter scattered up and 
 down the river valley. It is true of every other 
 flocking bird. The majority keep up the old cus- 
 tom, but so many stand aloof in every instance 
 that it might almost be said the custom is dying 
 out. 
 
 Let it be borne in mind that I am writing of a 
 single locality, the Atlantic seaboard of the Middle 
 States, and of this region I am disposed to make 
 the statement that man has so modified the land 
 
The Gathering of the Clans. 265 
 
 that bird-life is rapidly losing its one-time charac- 
 teristic features. It is sad to think that birds have 
 seen their best days, and what we now have left 
 us, as the chief charm of our outings, is but a 
 lingering remnant of the great concourse that not 
 only filled the valley, but made glad the outer- 
 most parts and neglected no nooks or corners of 
 the land. Making due allowance for travellers' 
 exaggerations, it is still evident that we have, 
 except of the English sparrows, not one-half of 
 the birds of some two centuries ago. Even though 
 the flocks of red-wings may sometimes reach well 
 into the thousands, I have positive knowledge of 
 much larger flocks than ever Wilson or Audubon 
 chanced upon. In 1722 a flock of these birds 
 appeared one September afternoon on the Cross- 
 wicks meadows " that shut out the sun and caused 
 great concern among the farmers, who feared if 
 they came to the fields every green growth would 
 be laid waste." Blackbirds then were feared and 
 for years after by reason of their numbers ; and, 
 seemingly, when in such flocks they were far more 
 bold than ever as individuals. 
 
 It has been suggested by some one that proba- 
 M 23 
 
266 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 bly, in Indian times, or when the country was 
 heavily forested, such birds as the red-wing and 
 grakles or crow-blackbirds were really less nu- 
 merous than now ; and that the extensive cultiva- 
 tion of corn had to do with their increase and 
 favored the flocking instinct. This is an error. 
 Writing of crow-blackbirds, or " maize-thieves," 
 as he says the Swedes called the familiar purple 
 grakle, Kalm states of those he saw in New Jer- 
 sey : " They are very bold ; for, when disturbed, 
 they only go and settle in another part of the 
 field. . . . They fly in incredible swarms in 
 autumn ; and it can hardly be conceived whence 
 such immense numbers of them should come. 
 When they rise in the air they darken the sky and 
 make it look quite black. They are then in such 
 great numbers and so close together that it is sur- 
 prising how they find room to move their wings." 
 This was in 1749, when the amount of cleared 
 ground and acreage of corn was not greater than 
 in the palmy days of Indian supremacy, for Kalm 
 was mistaken about Indian agriculture, and the 
 statement, " they planted but little maize," is mis- 
 leading. If small, their fields were numerous, and 
 
The Gathering of the Clans. 267 
 
 some were used for so long a time that to this day 
 they have not recovered their fertility, the applica- 
 tion of patent plant-food even availing little. 
 
 Why do they congregate in such numbers ? It 
 has been suggested that in early autumn their food 
 was to be found only in limited localities, and they 
 naturally drifted there, moved, one and all, by the 
 same cause. In other words, the upland fields, the 
 spring-holes, the grassy nooks in old field-corners, 
 where they nested, offered nothing but shelter, and 
 to stay longer than during summer meant to starve. 
 The fact that scattered birds do frequent the nest- 
 ing-places contradicts this; and the food found in 
 the meadows is not greatly different, and often too 
 many gather in one spot for all to be fed. What- 
 ever the bird, there seems to be nothing gained by 
 flocking, and much is lost. It appears to be an 
 inherited instinct that, once a source of delight and 
 unattended with danger, is now, as ever, attractive, 
 but directly disadvantageous. 
 
 We are accustomed to look upon certain species 
 of birds as flocking in autumn, and that others 
 never do so. I am convinced that all were gre- 
 garious originally, but changes of environment 
 
268 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 have caused it to be relinquished ; but it is aston- 
 ishing to find that there are few birds that cannot 
 be found at least " in loose companies," as it is 
 commonly worded. In September the bluebirds 
 occasionally fly in pretty compact flocks of fifty to 
 one hundred individuals, and a company of twenty 
 or thirty is a common occurrence. The common 
 kingbird is another well-known species that flocks 
 to some extent, and a third is the Baltimore oriole. 
 I have seen the females and young of the pre- 
 ceding summer in flocks of certainly one hundred 
 individuals, and when on the wing they kept so 
 well together as to merit being classed as a flock, 
 rather than a semi-independent gathering. It is 
 evident that such close association, as in the case 
 of red-wings, of bobolinks, of rusty grakles, and 
 other birds, could not occur if there was no power 
 of communication and no predetermination as to 
 movement. I have yet to see a large flock of 
 birds without guards perched in commanding out- 
 looks, and know from experience how difficult it 
 is to outwit these sentinels. ^ It has often been my 
 afternoon's amusement to try to plunge into the 
 midst of a thousand feeding blackbirds, and I 
 
The Gathering of the Clans. 269 
 
 never succeeded. I have reversed the conditions 
 more than once, and, being concealed, have had 
 them pass within arm's reach, and then I took 
 notes of them as fast as possible. That they talked 
 faster when they ate was evident, but my disguise 
 never was effective for long. They always sus- 
 pected that something was wrong, communicated 
 their suspicions, and now the mystery : one and 
 all rise from the ground as one body. Not always, 
 but so frequently that a telegraphic signal is evi- 
 dently theirs that informs a thousand, it may be, 
 at the same moment. Without this power, this 
 possession of rudimentary language, a flock of 
 birds would be at the mercy of every enemy, and 
 they are legion. 
 
 Suggestive as is every flock of birds, we really 
 know but little about them. No naturalist has 
 yet fathomed the mystery of bird-life, and bird- 
 slaughter has accomplished comparatively noth- 
 ing. But no class of animals affords so much 
 pleasure wherever we ramble. 
 
 23* 
 
Caught in the Rain. 
 
 IT is exhilarating to test those faculties that usu- 
 ally lie dormant, as when, being caught in the 
 rain, you accommodate yourself with bewildering 
 promptness to the new order of things. It is to 
 be accounted good fortune, if the mere turning 
 from a well-worn rut and running over new 
 ground leads one to make merry by reason of 
 such trivial novelty. To particularize : I, with two 
 companions, was caught in the rain recently. All 
 were disposed to make the best of it, and found 
 that which contemplation would have painted in 
 sombre tints delightfully rose-colored. 
 
 Somewhere ahead of us how far or near we 
 knew not there was reported to be an excellent 
 Indian field, and each was eager to collect some 
 curious carving, shapely weapon, or even homely 
 potsherds. We had come many miles and dreaded 
 270 
 
Caught in the Rain. 271 
 
 returning empty-handed ; but, as if the spirits of 
 departed red men were in league with the clouds, 
 when 4iear our journey's end it began to rain, and 
 our courage was not equal to facing a storm. It 
 remained to us to return home or seek the shelter 
 of a near-by woods, and we chose the latter. 
 
 Let us hope that our horse was not unhappy, 
 browsing the wet leaves of chestnut sprouts ; we 
 certainly were not, feasting on many a product 
 of foreign lands ; an inspiriting lunch suggesting 
 postprandial contemplation on my part and a 
 spirit of exploration on the part of my compan- 
 ions. I sat in the carriage and studied the woods 
 in front of me ; they hunted for wild-flowers where 
 the trees offered moderate protection : we were all 
 happy. 
 
 There is little merit in a pine woods or a cedar 
 swamp, because of its monotony. We may be 
 impressed with the silence that pervades it, or by 
 its vast extent, but the pleasure that Byron asserts 
 of pathless woods, if he had such as these in 
 mind, is to me a myth. Animal-life seems largely 
 to shun such spots, as if the same feeling of in- 
 tense loneliness unpleasantly affected it ; but when 
 
272 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 we stroll leisurely along, or quietly seat ourselves 
 in such a wood as this, where trees of many sorts 
 are grouped, wholly different feelings arise. That 
 pleasure which variety affords is now our own. 
 We can turn from the tall, arrowy pine to the 
 stately chestnut, from sturdy oaks to the graceful 
 liquidambar; or, tiring of these, scan the thrifty 
 undergrowth that to-day was brilliant with golden, 
 pink, purple, and snow-white bloom. 
 
 But for the time this mixed woods was silent. 
 I could detect no sound save the dripping of the 
 sullen rain-drops upon the leaves. Not a bird 
 chirped, not a squirrel barked, or timid wood- 
 mouse rustled last year's leaves. Wanting this 
 feature, I turned to the trees themselves. 
 
 One noble chestnut, directly before me, em- 
 bodied all the dignity of tree-growth, and I longed 
 to know its history. What of the storms that 
 had tested its strength ; what of the summer's 
 heat and winter's cold that had nourished its 
 growth and bade it rest for a season ; what of the 
 men that had come and gone, resting for a while in 
 its generous shade ; what of the children that had 
 gathered its fruit, since its first few nuts were 
 
Caught in the Rain. 273 
 
 scattered on the ground beneath it ? But a tree is 
 not communicative upon short acquaintance. It 
 is shy of a stranger, as it were, and only warms 
 into genial but mute companionship upon seeking 
 its protection. Then, it may be, every wrinkle of 
 its rugged bark will brighten to a smile, and the 
 limbs that at first were held aloft will reach over 
 us as sheltering arms. 
 
 With the many beautiful flowers that the wan- 
 derers continually brought to the carriage were 
 numbers of those clammy, curious growths, familiar 
 to many as " Indian pipe." Attention being called 
 to it, the plant was found growing in great luxuri- 
 ance everywhere about us. It was a rather strange 
 but pleasant coincidence. Here we were deterred 
 from relic-hunting, and with this plant, that is so 
 suggestive of the Indian's chief treasure, his to- 
 bacco-pipe, scattered over the ground. If it be 
 true that the plain bowl and slender stem, fashioned 
 in clay by the Indians, is their oldest and original 
 form of pipe, then, indeed, they may have taken a 
 hint from the plant in question. Nothing is more 
 common on one-time village-sites of these people 
 than clay pipes of this pattern, and their close re- 
 
274 I* 1 Touch with Nature. 
 
 semblance to the plant mentioned very naturally 
 gave rise to the common name. 
 
 Time and again, as my companions wandered 
 away in search of new treasures, I fell a-dreaming ; 
 and therein lies a merit of a wet day in the woods. 
 The patter of the rain upon the carriage- roof, like 
 the songs of childhood, brought back that other, 
 beneath which I can never rest again, the roof of 
 the little unceiled chamber of the old farm-house, 
 where I whiled away the rainy days of forty years 
 ago. The same low plaint of the dripping trees 
 rilled the air ; the same gray mist walled in our little 
 world ; the same dull, leaden sky shut out the sun. 
 But never a hint of sadness sobered us then ; why 
 should it now ? Why, indeed ? But how usually 
 it does ! Be the effort ever so sincere, we fall short 
 of perfect joy, having put by childish things. I 
 know I love the woods as when a child, but their 
 greeting now is more formal. I can chase a but- 
 terfly with old-time ardor, but the ecstasy of vic- 
 tory is mine no longer. It is a melancholy change 
 from loving a captive for its beauty only to merely 
 prizing a specimen because of its rarity. 
 
 I have said there were no birds about the woods. 
 
Caught in the Rain. 275 
 
 As the day drew to a close, crows began flying 
 over, and their familiar calls filled the air. Again 
 I should have indulged in reverie, but my com- 
 panions' return held me to the st>lid ground of 
 heartless fact. It was time to return, and my 
 eagerness to still listen to the " dear old crows," as 
 I called them, was greeted with ridicule. That 
 such a bird should awaken pleasant memories, or 
 be listened to with pleasure, was evidence of 
 mental weakness. I do not know what passed in 
 their minds, but that they feared I was strangely 
 affected was more than apparent. But no gibes 
 can cure me of loving the crows, and I trust not 
 to suffer from so strange a whim. If man, to be 
 happy, must have a hobby, why not this of mine ? 
 My defence of these much-maligned birds led to 
 my hearers' suggestion, to talk thus savored of a 
 crank ; but, bless me ! why worry if dolts call you 
 names ? Who ever saw a fool in a flock of crows ? 
 and, alas ! who ever saw a flock of men without 
 its quota ? To be cunning as a crow is a laudable 
 ambition ; to be knowing as a crow, a liberal edu- 
 cation. Why not love them? They afford me 
 both pleasure and profit, and of what use, under 
 
276 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 the sun, are the dolts who bray " crank" " crank" 
 when they encounter men who can see beyond 
 their shadows ? 
 
 Dispute, happily, ended as we turned towards 
 home, and as the horse would not or could not take 
 a quick step, we had abundant opportunity for bot- 
 anizing by the road-side, if by so dignified a name 
 one may call the gathering by armfuls of golden- 
 rod, asters, and that gorgeous September bloom, 
 gerardia. All the available space in the carriage 
 being filled with flowers, it is little wonder that pe- 
 destrians stared and children called to us. As we 
 afterwards learned, the county fair had closed the 
 day before, and we were credited with being be- 
 nighted individuals that had not been aware, at 
 the proper time, that the visitors were leaving. 
 How strangely vivid is the average imagination ! 
 All on a strictly scientific errand, and my com- 
 panions learned specialists from a great city, and 
 yet this was the impression of the villagers we 
 met! 
 
 Free from the gibes of one village, we were even 
 less fortunate in the next, for as the horse neared 
 the stable his pace quickened, and undue haste 
 
Caught in the Rain. 277 
 
 broke the carriage. Here was, indeed, disaster ! 
 The yellow dust of the golden-rod had showered 
 upon us until we were well streaked, and now the 
 generous mud of Jersey by-roads spotted us freely. 
 And in this plight we had to walk to the railway 
 station. It was of little use to talk learnedly in 
 the hearing of others. My companions were set 
 down as tramps, and nothing more, and so, it 
 seemed, were in proper company, for to be thus 
 accounted has been my fate whenever and wherever 
 I have rambled, whether the skies were clear or, 
 as to-day, I chanced to be caught in the rain. 
 
Persimmons. 
 
 1 RECALL a conversation once held with an 
 obstinate man in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who 
 insisted that we had no persimmons in New Jersey, 
 and was only convinced by reference to Gray's 
 Botany. It is not an unusual occurrence for the 
 New Englander to be in the dark about our Jersey 
 lowlands, and if he was brought here blindfolded 
 would swear he was in the Carolinas, if not farther 
 South. Well, what the people up North know 
 or do not know matters nothing; we do have 
 persimmon-trees, and in abundance. They are 
 in almost every tract of mixed woodland, and 
 often single trees are found along the road-sides. 
 Whether the ground is dry or damp seems to 
 matter little, for the tree is sure in either case to 
 be a thrifty one, even if not very large. In one 
 important respect it is of consequence what the 
 278 
 
Persimmons. 
 
 279 
 
 soil is, for every boy will tell you there are per- 
 simmons and persimmons : fruit that is never good, 
 and other, when frost-nipped, that is really ex- 
 cellent. 
 
 What of the tree itself as it stands in the wood- 
 lands of to-day ? 
 
 Turning to Kalm, the level-headed Swede, who 
 saw more in Jersey than most naturalists have 
 
280 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 since discovered, I find he associates the tree with 
 wet grounds, " round the water-pits," as he has it; 
 and of the wood itself remarks, it " is very good 
 for joiners' instruments ; . . . but, after being cut 
 down and lain exposed to sunshine and rain, it is 
 the first wood which rots, and in a year's time 
 there is nothing left but what is useless." Let me 
 add, that as firewood it is exasperating, and many 
 an evening has been spoiled for me by having too 
 much of it on the andirons. It is an ebony, ac- 
 cording to botanists, and can be used as Kalm 
 mentions ; but remember also what he says of it, 
 and gather none for the winter's wood-pile. 
 
 If there were but one kind of tree in the world, 
 the forests would be as unattractive as crowded 
 streets. The plain would afford the rambler his 
 best loafing-place, if not his only one. But there 
 are many trees of many kinds, and each has an 
 individuality of its own, quite apparent to him who 
 strolls for pleasure and in a receptive frame of 
 mind. Perhaps this is vague, as it doubtless is 
 nonsense to those who see in trees only so much 
 lumber, so I will restate the case. An oak, a 
 weeping-willow, a holly, and a pine will very dif- 
 
Persimmons. 281 
 
 ferently impress the rambler. When you stop for 
 a moment in your walks, on finding a notably 
 perfect ^example of any one of these trees, you 
 more than admire its beauty ; you fall to thinking 
 in lines that such a tree always suggests. The 
 thought of a tree or trees in the abstract will not 
 obtrude. If it does you are somewhere lacking, 
 or, for the time being, dyspeptic. Oak and strength, 
 willow and grace, cedar and gloom, these are ap- 
 proximately synonymous terms, and not so from 
 your own early associations merely, or through 
 impressions made by what has been told you in 
 childhood. The tree speaks to you. Were this 
 not true, a charm in woodland walks would be 
 lacking. The fact that the motion of the branches 
 is due to the passing breeze should be overlooked, 
 and the rustle of the leaves and murmur that fills 
 every corner of the forest, save where you stand, 
 help in this your fancy. Without a trace of child- 
 ishness on the rambler's part, the tree before him 
 is greeted as a friend. 
 
 Another phase of the subject must be noted, 
 and that is the effect of early association. Here, 
 speaking personally, the persimmon looms up with 
 24* 
 
282 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 greater prominence than its position among forest 
 trees calls for, notwithstanding Gray says it some- 
 times reaches a height of seventy feet. Along the 
 hill-side, in the meadows, and skirting the several 
 huge upland sink-holes are quite a number of 
 persimmon-trees, and when rambling about my 
 one-time country home in summer, I probably 
 quite overlook them. They are not a feature of 
 that season. Every tree about them has been 
 long in leaf, and they are lost in the crowd. But 
 pass this way in the golden days of frosty October. 
 Look through the red-leaved branches or over 
 the brown fields, and spy out at last a tree with 
 branches bare as midwinter of foliage, but laden 
 with golden fruit. It is something to be remem- 
 bered : a goodly sight, one that rids autumn of 
 the charge of emptiness, of being a season of 
 decay and desolation. Doubtless, if this royal- 
 looking fruit competed with strawberries in June, 
 or later with the good things of August, it would 
 lack a champion ; but coming upon the scene after 
 all other fruits have been gathered, it has found 
 many to speak for it, even if never loud in their 
 praises. On the yet green and growing grass I 
 
Persimmons. 283 
 
 have a pyramid now of this regally golden fruit, 
 and what can be said of it ? It is not so brilliant 
 as the^crimson winter-berries on the bush above 
 me, nor does it glow like the ruddy fruit of the 
 holly. Even the clustered bitter-sweet, ragged, 
 yet rich in gold and scarlet, is as showy; but 
 then these are not food for man. The persimmon 
 appeals to other senses than that of sight. I fancy 
 every phase of the past summer is in its juices ; 
 there are both the torrid noondays and the chilling 
 storms. The extremes from April to October are 
 gathered about its seeds, and not until its wrinkled 
 skin has been thrice grimed with frost will the 
 better elements prevail and the fruit be perfected. 
 Even then there is a lurking imp in every berry, 
 and skill is needed to outwit him. Heip be his 
 who rashly bites a green persimmon or crushes 
 the seeds of a ripe one. I have been told that 
 Gray or some one somewhere does or did in a text- 
 book mention this fruit as eaten by pigs and small 
 boys. May I remain so far a small boy to the end 
 that I can eat, with my present relish, wrinkled, 
 frost-nipped persimmons. Eating them means so 
 much. This is no market fruit that has been in 
 
284 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 others' hands too often before reaching the con- 
 sumer. Nature has been the farmer and raised a 
 crop after its own notion. The harvest and the 
 feasting are so near as to be one event ; the la- 
 borer is the small boy, whatever his years, and to 
 what merrier feast has he ever been invited? 
 What though you dine on the threshing-floor? 
 The fruit gathered has not soiled it, and what 
 statelier temple stands than the autumn woods ? 
 You are a guest, not an intruder; and now the 
 feast ! Does not the persimmon smack of the 
 wild-wood ? How little of the tamed orchard or 
 trim garden in its sugary pulp ! The town and 
 all that that means is for the moment forgotten, 
 and you are in touch with Nature while you eat. 
 
 Long years ago there lived a basket-maker in 
 the meadows, having a railroad switch to look 
 after and willow switches to weave into such 
 shapes as he fancied. He was a curious man, and 
 had he never seen some people I could name, 
 would have been a success. A book might be 
 written about him, but not now ; for the present 
 more prominent than he, in my mind, is his wife's 
 persimmon bread. Tastes change, we are told, 
 
Persimmons. 285 
 
 and I might not like it now, but it was better than 
 the average ginger-cake, and possessed the rare 
 merit of novelty. It was something to boast of, 
 and I did boast, and involved it all with mystery, 
 for no one in all that school knew where the 
 basket-maker lived. Every Saturday, in the 
 season, I secured a persimmon loaf and displayed 
 and shared it with the boys on Monday. Life 
 was worth living then, so persimmons, that helped 
 to make it so, have not lost favor since. How 
 often of late I have spoken of this persimmon 
 bread as a novelty, and there has been none to 
 gainsay me ! but it is no novelty after all. In Pick- 
 ering's " Chronological History of Plants" I find 
 it recorded that De Soto found loaves made of per- 
 simmon pulp, " like unto bricks." The basket- 
 maker's cakes were only so far " like unto bricks" 
 as to be of that shape. They were really tooth- 
 some. 
 
 It would appear, according to Kalm, that in 
 early colonial times the persimmon was not so 
 despised as now ; pigs and small boys had their 
 share only, not all. Our author says, " In a 
 great book, which contains a description of Vir- 
 
286 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 ginia, you meet with different ways of preparing 
 the persimmon," and the older Bartram told him 
 "that they were commonly put upon the table 
 amongst the sweetmeats ;" and again, we have a 
 description of how the English and Swedes, a 
 century and a half ago, brewed " a very palatable 
 liquor." The first step was to bake loaves of per- 
 simmon bread, and these were then reduced to a 
 pulp, mixed with malt, and so on, until the beer 
 was ready to be bottled. 
 
 Did the persimmon bear no noticeable fruit the 
 tree would not be overlooked by the rambler, be- 
 cause, as Kalm has said, it grows by the water- 
 pits. A tree some fifty feet in height, standing 
 alone, and near water, will not be shunned by birds, 
 and in autumn affords too good an outlook not to 
 be constantly visited. Of course any tree simi- 
 larly situated will be equally acceptable to birds ; 
 but this matters not ; I have one huge persimmon 
 in mind that is peculiarly favored. Whether in 
 spring or autumn, as the tree's foliage is very late 
 in appearing and soon drops, there is the one 
 requirement of bare branches, and where these 
 are, there will the birds be. The cedar-birds con- 
 
Persimmons. 287 
 
 gregate here when not feeding near by; tree- 
 sparrows gather there and chatter so vehemently, 
 some important matter must be discussed; and 
 well I remember the overstaying warblers that 
 late in November I saw darting over the twigs, 
 hoping their brethren had left a few insects in the 
 crannies of the wrinkled bark. Here, too, as in 
 all lone, way-side persimmon-trees, the sparrow- 
 hawk takes his stand and surveys the grassy 
 haunts and run-ways of field-mice. And as, in 
 midsummer, the " water-pits," with their abundant 
 attractions of curious animal life, often held me 
 throughout the day, here the persimmon-tree 
 again became a prominent feature, because of the 
 shade it threw over and about me. 
 
 Although no strange adventure or narrow es- 
 cape is associated with this tree, and no ugly 
 trick upon strangers, offering them green fruit, 
 pricks me when I gather the frost- ripened harvest, 
 it is a growth of our woodlands that stands promi- 
 nently forth as I recall days gone by, and what 
 greater merit has any tree or product thereof than 
 the power to withdraw the curtain that conceals 
 those days of other years which we fancy were 
 
.288 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 happier than the present ? Think, too, as I hope 
 some time to try, of brewing a beer, as Kalm 
 directs, and, in the middle of a stormy winter 
 night, drinking to the memory of those hardy folk 
 who long ago learned the merits of our Jersey 
 woods ; and drink, too, to the Swede who, loving 
 the wild life found here, was good enough to give 
 us a most excellent account of it. In a mug of 
 persimmon beer I drink to Peter Kalm ! 
 
Traces of Troglodytes. 
 
 IT would be interesting to know how far our 
 country roads follow the lines of the old Indian 
 trails. That some do so we have positive knowl- 
 edge, but how seldom do we think of this when 
 jogging along the present dusty highways, and 
 picture the lazy bucks and burden-bearing squaws 
 as they passed this same way and rested, it may 
 be, in the shade of some still standing way-side 
 oak! If happily our thoughts drift in such a 
 channel, there is added interest even to the most 
 romantic thoroughfare. 
 
 Not long since, with a companion, I wandered 
 many a mile over a hilly country, having the 
 Indian uppermost in mind, because we were in 
 search of whatsoever he had left behind, and for 
 long the road and one-time trail were the same. 
 In and out among the rounded hills, sometimes 
 N / 25 289 
 
290 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 crossing the sparkling waters that brightened the 
 valley, or pausing by the bubbling spring that 
 welled up from the roots of a spreading chestnut, 
 and wherever we tarried we found that the Indian 
 had been there before us. 
 
 It is mere child's play to pick up relics, and it 
 became monotonous before the day was done, for 
 wheresoever we halted had once been a village-site 
 or the spot whereon a wigwam had been built. With 
 what permanent ink fire writes its name ! Burned 
 and blackened pebbles, although cold for nearly, 
 if not quite, two centuries, were everywhere con- 
 spicuous, and half those that had escaped burning 
 were battered or chipped. There were strange 
 forms among them. To decipher their meaning 
 is labor and not pastime, and, out for a holiday, 
 it was enough to gather an abundance of such 
 treasure for the winter's study hours ; and, so 
 laden, we finally halted for the night. But relic- 
 hunting was not the primary object of our outing, 
 and -we had hurried by many a tempting nook in 
 field or woods, having knowledge of a certain far- 
 off cluster of old trees, among which was a clifF- 
 dwelling, rock-shelter, or what you will ; a place 
 
Traces of Troglodytes. 291 
 
 that for centuries had sheltered man in pre-Co- 
 lumbian days. At least so ran the tale. 
 
 It is "never wise to build largely upon hearsay. 
 Accept one per cent, as probably true, and if that 
 does not tempt you, stay at home. The excess, if 
 there proves to be any such, is the bonus awarded 
 your courage. The sun went down, not upon our 
 wrath, but our rejoicing. We had ninety-and- 
 nine per cent, in our favor. Rumor for once had 
 held to the straight path, and now our camp-fire 
 chased the dark shadows from a huge rock-shelter. 
 There had been Indians upon the upland fields ; 
 this we knew ; that they had fished in the moun- 
 tain-stream that rippled by we had proved beyond 
 a doubt, and it was now left us to determine what 
 of the yawning cave near which we camped. Do 
 not ask, " Why not in it ?" One of us drew the 
 line at sharing a bedroom with bats, and then it 
 was dangerously damp so near the water. But 
 this was of little moment. The cave would not 
 run off in the night, and we were within arm's 
 reach if it attempted it. Until long after midnight 
 we rejoiced. There were chattering squirrels and 
 hooting owls to keep us company, and the over- 
 
292 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 flying herons called to us from the misty skies. 
 Erratic night-hawks chuckled as we sent columns 
 of smoke into their hunting-grounds, and every 
 vestige of these tame latter days faded from view. 
 We were not, for the time, troglodytes ourselves, 
 but had them for our next-door neighbors. 
 
 It was a most strange night, yet one that I 
 would have repeated often as the years roll by. 
 So much of life's pleasure lies in expectancy. 
 Nothing that our dreams called forth was one 
 whit more strange than the reality that at last was 
 well within our grasp. For how long had we 
 weaned of wigwams ; dotting, in our imagination, 
 every fair landscape with wattled huts thatched 
 with maize-leaves or rushes ! These, we had been 
 told, " were built in groups and surrounded with 
 palisades of stakes driven into the ground." We 
 had a stock of these ever ready to plant at any 
 turn of the road that took our fancy. But now 
 was novelty in most tempting form, a cave. 
 
 Morning came at last. That curious gray light, 
 born of dense mist, and that scarcely more than 
 makes the darkness visible, was sufficient to arouse 
 us, and slight were the preparations for breakfast. 
 
Traces of Troglodytes. 293 
 
 For the first time in my experience the early fire 
 and steaming coffee-pot were too commonplace for 
 contemplation. There was but one influence con- 
 trolling us : to solve the mystery of the cave. It 
 was a matter of pick and shovel, and poetry 
 promptly took to the woods. 
 
 The cave, let me say, is not in limestone, but in 
 shale, and how far, if at all, artificial is a matter 
 of opinion. I could not divest myself of the feel- 
 ing that man had had a good deal to do with its 
 shaping. My companion thought otherwise, and 
 based his views on the peculiarly friable condition 
 of the rock. As it proved, this is not so impor- 
 tant a matter, and I have faith yet in that first im- 
 pression, that whisper in the ear of the returning 
 ghost that tradition holds once groaned and 
 growled in the cave whenever the night was 
 stormy. 
 
 When we came to dig, for the treasure was 
 hidden in the floor, if anywhere, a few prosaic 
 thoughts came to our rescue, and we were sobered 
 straightway. We had a thick deposit of tough 
 earth and broken rock to examine, bit by bit, and 
 this over a space some five feet in width and six 
 25* 
 
294 I n Touch with Nature. 
 
 or more feet in length. But we were not fright- 
 ened. Bit by bit we turned it over, and how all 
 thought of drudgery disappeared when the pot- 
 sherds came to light ! Then bones, broken into 
 small fragments, fire-cracked pebbles, more pottery 
 and flint chips. One by one these were spread out 
 to dry, and made a goodly show when the last 
 shovelful of earth was overturned. And now, 
 what of the story they told ? Here is one of the 
 delights of archaeological research : to reconstruct 
 the past after the digging is done, which is legiti- 
 mate, and something very different from the theo- 
 retical archaeology that occasionally crops out in 
 the pages of learned reviews and believed because 
 of its prominence. 
 
 The result, as we considered it, was that the 
 cave had not been continuously inhabited, but 
 frequently and for many years. The debris upon 
 the floor was not in thin layers, and so to be ex- 
 amined as the leaves of a book ; but whatever we 
 found was scattered through the mass and bore 
 no relation directly to other subjects. The char- 
 coal was in little pockets, as if for a single night 
 had a fire been kindled. But that these fires were 
 
Traces of Troglodytes. 295 
 
 started by Indians there could be no doubt. Their 
 pottery, their implements, and bones of wild ani- 
 mals only were found. Deer, wild turkey, mussels 
 from the creek, and nuts from the trees had been 
 their main-stay, and no white man would have 
 hungered with this at hand. Retired and beauti- 
 ful as the place is, I think no one would have pre- 
 ferred it to the shelter of the grand old woods that 
 covered the surrounding hills. Even with a glow- 
 ing bed of coals in front of it, it must always have 
 been damp and depressing except in winter, and 
 the difficulty of access when ice and snow covered 
 the ground also an objection. We agreed in this : 
 that the cave was for ages a place of temporary 
 shelter rather than one of permanent occupation. 
 
 There was one most striking feature of the cave, 
 a " window," as the farmers called it, in the east 
 wall, and yet it was scarcely intended for such a 
 purpose unless the front was veiled. This hole 
 made me more sceptical of its natural origin, and 
 seemed more probably designed as a means of 
 communication with the next cave, for there was 
 once another ; possibly several more. For a long 
 distance along the creek this same shale-like rock 
 
296 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 outcrops, and at places there are masses of it now 
 resting upon the side of the cliff that suggest the 
 roofs of just such caves or rock-shelters as I have 
 described. Certainly this is true of the east side 
 of the cave we explored, and what treasures may 
 forever be hidden there ! How I longed to lift the 
 huge rock-masses and peep beneath ! But why 
 worry ? There is many another such place in the 
 valley of the Delaware, and the work of recover- 
 ing the past, of placing the Lenni Lenape where 
 he belongs in Indian history, is far from completion. 
 It is not a long walk from where I stand by this 
 cave in a shale outcrop to one of grand propor- 
 tions in limestone rock that has long been known. 
 Along the river-shore the well-defined boundaries 
 of Pechot-woalenk can yet be traced, and its 
 prominent feature is the huge cavern, a consider- 
 able part of which is still intact. In Indian times, 
 this cave " had a total length of about three hun- 
 dred feet, an average height of twelve, and a 
 breadth varying from ten to forty feet." The cave 
 in its natural state was divided into three compart- 
 ments or levels, and each reached by descending 
 a short and slippery incline of at least ten feet. 
 
Traces of Troglodytes. 297 
 
 One narrow passage leads to a dark and gloomy 
 room, about eight feet by twelve in dimension, 
 whichMs still known as Queen Esther's room. 
 Her royal highness was a talented woman of much 
 influence with the Indians, and during her frequent 
 journeys from Philadelphia to the Six Nations, in 
 New York, made this cave one of her halting- 
 places. So runs the story at least. However all 
 this may be, the Indians made good use of the 
 cave and left abundant evidences of their one-time 
 presence. The name of the locality in the Dela- 
 ware tongue, Pechot-woalenk, signifies where 
 there is a great depression in the ground, and 
 obviously refers to this cave. The whole sur- 
 rounding region is beautiful, and the Indians who 
 possessed the land were over-generous, it seems, 
 in allotting it to the Shawnees, who occupied it 
 from 1680 to 1727. 
 
 There are other caves that have been found to 
 contain Indian relics, but not perhaps in such a 
 manner as to clearly evidence that the red man 
 himself was a dweller therein. Floods may have 
 carried them and swept from villages elsewhere 
 the spears, bone implements, and beads that have 
 
298 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 been found. We must know more of the history 
 of the whole region and of what has transpired 
 since glacial times before speaking positively ; but 
 if the good fortune awaits us to be able to report 
 all the secrets of all the caves, a wonderful chapter 
 will be added to Indian history, and such puzzling 
 discoveries as village-sites buried twelve feet be- 
 neath compact beds of sand, high upon table-lands, 
 will no longer plague the archaeologist. 
 
 Nowhere have the Indians of the Atlantic sea- 
 board been essentially cave-dwellers, as were some 
 of the most ancient people of Southern Europe. 
 This has been explained by the assertion that 
 there are no caves, but, as we have seen, it is 
 untrue. There are certainly sufficient of these 
 natural shelters in the Delaware valley, overhang- 
 ing rocks, caves proper, and wide and winding 
 crevices that needed next to no modification to 
 make them habitable. The difficulty is to find 
 those wherein traces still remain of human occu- 
 pancy. It is probable that where used for tempo- 
 rary shelter the fire would not b'e in the cave, but 
 at its mouth, and all traces would be obliterated 
 by the winds and rain. This was true, in a 
 
Traces of Troglodytes. 299 
 
 measure, of the cave explored. The fireplace had 
 usually been beyond the projecting roof, and when 
 the back of the room or cave was reached, no trace 
 of charcoal could be found. Certainly, a cave 
 would be sure to attract an Indian's attention. 
 The Lenape name for them is wdloh, and the fact 
 that such a word was in their language is signifi- 
 cant, for they had a word, too, for a hole in the 
 ground, and drew the same distinction that we do. 
 That such natural shelters were often utilized is a 
 fact worth knowing, and how far cave- dwelling 
 was a feature of our Delaware Indians remains to 
 be determined. But we are dealing now with 
 what has transpired since man first appeared upon 
 the scene, and how many caves may be filled with 
 glacial debris, upon the floors of which rest the 
 remains of feasts of primitive man, of the Indian's 
 remote ancestry ! Perhaps we are wandering too 
 far from solid ground and may find ourselves 
 immersed in the quicksands of theory. Fearing 
 this, I retrace my steps, and, standing, as the sun 
 goes down, at the mouth of the cave that has 
 been so rudely disturbed to-day, I recall the old- 
 time occupants that have rested here, and dimly 
 
3 
 
 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 discern them, in fields beyond, returning from the 
 hunt. Every potsherd is a perfect vessel ; the 
 coals are glowing; the spears are mounted on 
 their slender shafts ; deer and turkeys hang from 
 the giant ash-tree near. This, my fancy, the 
 heap of broken stone, of bone and clay, veritable 
 traces of troglodytes. 
 
In Winter-Quarters. 
 
 WHETHER certain birds are annexationists or 
 not would be hard to tell, but a goodly company 
 of Canadians regularly spend the winter with me 
 here in the valley of the Delaware, and what jolly 
 times we have ! It was later than usual, this year, 
 that we met, but none the less hearty was their 
 cheerful greeting. The wide wilderness of weeds, 
 tangled greenbrier, the grove of stately poplars 
 rang as though the bells of Moscow had been 
 brought with them. There were kinglets and tree- 
 sparrows, snow-birds and bluebirds, black-caps and 
 the crested tit, nuthatches, purple finches, and a 
 winter wren. So much for the deserted woods 
 that newspaper poets are groaning over. Even 
 the upper air was not without its quota, for hun- 
 dreds of bluebirds were passing to and fro and 
 singing that plaintive autumn song that is match- 
 less of a cool October morning. 
 
 26 301 
 
302 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 Shout your merriest, ornithologists, and declare 
 these birds are not Canadian. Of course I know 
 it, but there is a bit of Canada south of the State- 
 line of New Jersey, which possibly you did not 
 know ; and what concerns me only is that my 
 winter friends are from the North country, and 
 some of them very probably did cross the great 
 lakes in coming here. What matters it? They 
 are here, and being a law unto myself, I shall call 
 them " Canadians." The others are here ; but 
 better, because more fixed in their ways, are the 
 white-throats. There is a trace of uncertainty in 
 all the rest ; but who ever failed to find the white- 
 throats at home ? All the year round we have 
 vesper- spar rows in the lane field, and from early 
 October to May the white-throats in the thickets. 
 Perhaps minnows in the brooks and frogs in the 
 marsh are as much a fixture, but it is only perhaps. 
 
 To-day I heard their song, though there was 
 overmuch clatter, and how completely the song 
 and the season go hand in hand ! To us, un- 
 travelled natives, though the whole world was 
 green and the heat of the tropics prevailed, the 
 song of the white-throat would be crisp with frost. 
 
In Winter-Quarters. 303 
 
 It is the same place and without change these 
 thirty years. The rank growths of summer bar 
 all progress to the stranger, but I have found, as 
 
 of old, the one slight trail that leads to the inner 
 court, and here I propose to stay and listen. This 
 is the white-throat's winter-quarters, and I fancy 
 they do not take my intrusion unkindly. Other 
 
304 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 birds are not crowded out, but they are transient 
 visitors ; for the time being, the white-throats and 
 I are at home. 
 
 The charm of this sparrow's song lies in the 
 evident satisfaction of the tone. There is not a 
 trace of longing, but a superabundance of content. 
 It recalls some of the old people whom I have 
 known, who occasionally gave way to whistling a 
 few notes, looking into the far-distant past as they 
 did^ so, and then coming back to real life with a 
 frightened look. Such people remark, " Oh, ex- 
 cuse me ; I was thinking !" as if they needed an 
 excuse. So with the white-throats; they seem 
 always to be thinking, and they are. But of what ? 
 Has the painted hill-side and the gilded meadow 
 aught to do with it ? Is it the haze and shimmer- 
 ing that softens every angle and blends the harshest 
 clustering to a beauteous whole ? This, I fancy, 
 gives color to their thoughts and its dreamy ex- 
 pression ; for " let sage or cynic prattle as he 
 will," the surroundings have to do with a bird's 
 ways in all directions. It is not a valid objection, 
 either, that in summer there is not the same dreamy 
 surroundings, but all the activity and merriment 
 
In Winter-Quarters. 305 
 
 known elsewhere in the bird-world. Very true, 
 but what of the six months of each year in the al- 
 ternately dreamy and dreary thickets of New Jer- 
 sey ? Live six months on the Delaware meadows 
 and the recollection of that experience will not 
 fade away, even though you mount the shoulders 
 of a saint and peep into Paradise. 
 
 I very vaguely recall, just now, a canal-boat trip 
 reported in a magazine. The authors went through 
 the best parts of these meadows and said there was 
 nothing to be seen between the two towns that are 
 separated by these wonderful lowlands. They were 
 not careful in reading the proof-sheets. Grant 
 them credit for meaning there is nothing, abso- 
 lutely nothing, in the town. But evidently they 
 never saw the meadows, though their eyes rested 
 upon them. It matters not. There are half a 
 hundred kinds of birds that know them well, 
 even in winter, and I bear testimony that they 
 are excellent company. Winter birds, too, have 
 an advantage over our summer contingent, in 
 that they are not " wrapped up in their babies," 
 as I heard it said of young mothers recently. No, 
 birds now are free, and how thoroughly the white- 
 
 u 26* 
 
306 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 throated sparrows enjoy it ! As I sat where the 
 noontide sun could shine upon me, I watched these 
 birds, as often before, but now they were newly 
 suggestive. There were five on the same reach 
 of stout greenbrier, all facing me. At brief in- 
 tervals one would chirp and the others reply, but 
 there was little movement and no demonstration. 
 How vividly they recalled certain loungers on the 
 long tavern porch ! There were five of them, too, 
 and I was ever glad to sit near by and listen to 
 their drowsy talk. They talked of old times, and 
 the birds here make me think of my old times ; 
 for, be it few years or more, our best times were 
 those farthest removed from the present. The 
 Delaware is now very tame since I have seen the 
 St. Lawrence, but it is none the less dear, and tells 
 so strange a story that few believe it from hear- 
 say. It is commendable loyalty to defend the 
 merits of one's birthplace, and I think those the 
 wisest birds of their kind that make this river 
 valley their home. The white-throats and I are 
 one in this, and so what wilds in the remotest 
 regions can equal the greenbrier thickets of the 
 homestead meadows ? We are not exclusive, 
 
In Winter-Quarters. 307 
 
 and many a visitor is made welcome. Prettiest, 
 merriest, most restless of them all are the king- 
 lets. "You have but to sit still to meet them face 
 to face. To-day I had them within arm's length, 
 and heard many a lively chirp as I startled them 
 by some uncouth sound I made. As in all birds, 
 each day brings to the front some marked pe- 
 culiarity, and we think of the creature in that 
 regard only. What swallowing capacity they 
 have ! One found a huge worm in its travels, 
 and at first glance it seemed nip and tuck between 
 them. That was due to my ignorance. There was 
 a struggle, of course, but the bird came off con- 
 queror, and ought to have looked twice as big as 
 before. Such incidents have no effect upon the 
 appetite. It was ready for another before the first 
 was swallowed. Only the white-throats seemed 
 indifferent in this matter. They, too, were spec- 
 tators, and never once looked for food. 
 
 The nuthatches came and went. The chicka- 
 dee was somewhere overhead in the persimmon- 
 trees ; a crested tit whistled from time to time, and 
 I fancied I heard a cat-bird. I know a chewink 
 was scratching among the dead leaves. But will 
 
308 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 this continue ? It is an enormous change that is 
 wrought between October and January, and what 
 of the midwinter storms ? If there is actually a 
 storm, then even the south hill-side will be de- 
 serted ; but if it is but clear and cold, where the 
 thermometer ranges is of little moment. Because 
 you shiver and ache, even when wrapped in fur, 
 do not judge your neighbor as equally tender. 
 There are cakes and ale for our winter birds when 
 you look at Nature with a shudder, so desolate 
 is its every aspect. I have seen them on dress 
 parade with the mercury at zero. With grass as 
 brittle as spun-glass, and every twig encased in 
 ice, the cardinal grosbeak has headed the motley 
 troop, and every bird in the neighborhood has 
 marched along the hill showing its best paces to 
 whomsoever would look. Nor were they mute. 
 Not one but sang as joyously as ever the robin 
 greeted morning in the month of May. 
 
 It is worth our while to meet birds- when in 
 their winter-quarters. Why, as has been fancied, 
 should they be mopish and unentertaining ? It 
 would seem as if animal life was but sleep when 
 the cares of reproduction have passed, in many 
 
In Winter-Quarters. 309 
 
 people's minds. s A bird and a bird's nest always 
 go together. This is true, too, of midwinter, and 
 a bird's nest without bird babies is well worth 
 consideration. Not all our birds huddle up in 
 the bushes as the sun goes down, and trust to the 
 little shelter of scantily-leaved twigs. The winter 
 wren, I know, has the same sleeping-place day 
 after day, and this I have seen it fit up until 
 storm-defying. The titmice in December will 
 build nests that they soon abandon, as if they 
 knew a storm was coming up and they proposed 
 to keep dry while it raged. Flying squirrels find 
 themselves with strange bedfellows occasionally; 
 and how often have I found birds sheltering in the 
 hay-mow ! Birds that winter with us have need 
 of all their wit. The struggle for existence is not 
 lessened because no longer burdened with the care 
 of young. There is less available food, and death- 
 dealing storms to be defied. But when these have 
 passed, under the clear skies, my happy white- 
 throats and all their companions are blithe as ever. 
 But who yet has kept track of them from October 
 to May and knows of their coming and going and 
 doings of each day while in winter-quarters ? 
 
310 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 There is work to be done by the winter rambler 
 as well as by him who strolls afield in summer. 
 Forcible evidence of this is the fact that apparently 
 favorable conditions do not influence the birds. 
 In other words, beautifully calm and warm days 
 may be birdless, and forbidding, chilly, half-stormy 
 days may be birdful to a remarkable degree. It 
 is never safe to predict in such matters. I recall 
 one beautiful November day when all the earth 
 and air was simply perfect. I started across lots 
 as the sun was slowly sloping in the west, and saw 
 at a glance how complete was every arrangement, 
 but it was as if you were alone in a vast theatre. 
 The rich brown tones of the ripened leaves ; the 
 dark cedars with their dusty fruit; the tufts of 
 gilded and bronzed grass ; an andropogon bear- 
 ing eider-down tufts ; shimmering cobweb that 
 stretched from everywhere to all places whatso- 
 ever ; and a mellow sunlight that gave welcoming 
 warmth to all. What more could be asked ? yet 
 there was not a bird in sight. Not a vesper-spar- 
 row, yet never in June had they known better 
 days; not a song-sparrow on the weed-grown 
 fences ; no bluebirds in the air. This is the 
 
In Winter-Quarters. 311 
 
 nearest to utter desolation that I have known, a 
 perfect and yet a birdless day. 
 
 While yet the sunlight lingered I walked on and 
 on, until a chilling breeze from the river drove me 
 back. Here were birds. Bluebirds were trying 
 the cedars, as if any one of them would not afford 
 sufficient shelter. Snow-birds darted from bush 
 to thicket and back, and warblers by the score 
 sought refuge from the coming storm. There 
 were enough birds in every tree to have made the 
 whole sunlit fields ring with joy ; but no, perverse 
 things, they must crouch and shiver by the river 
 shore, and fret because the days were growing 
 colder and shorter. 
 
 It was miserably dull the next day. A chilling 
 Scotch mist rested on the fields, and the oak leaves 
 wept shall I say ? at the woful change. What 
 now of the birds ? I asked, and later found them 
 merry, active, and every one afield. It was dull 
 enough to dampen the ardor of an English spar- 
 row, yet not one of them was snugly housed in its 
 winter-quarters. 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 
 
 >LIGZAG journeys are not to my taste, either as 
 matters of personal experience or as the subject- 
 matter of books ; but I have taken several of late, 
 passing in the most abrupt manner from an island 
 in the river to the college book-stack. 
 
 Buried inches deep in gradually-accumulated 
 soil rest the ruins of an ancient house : buried 
 fathoms deep in the mouldy pages of forgotten 
 books are the records of stirring times, before 
 Philadelphia was, when there were Dutch on the 
 Delaware. 
 
 Where I have been paddling in my canoe for 
 many months there is a large island. I have been 
 paddling around this, not over it. Like all the 
 others in the river, this little body of fast land is 
 fighting against two great odds, and slowly wast- 
 ing away. An occasional freshet dumps a mass of 
 312 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 313 
 
 rubbish now and then, but far oftener carries away 
 a goodly slice of some fair field or woodland strip. 
 Certain it is that the tide covers many an acre now 
 of what, even within historic time, was cultivable 
 ground. Huge trees, that within the century 
 crowned a bold headland, have been undermined 
 and swept seaward by the floods. This steady 
 destruction has not in all cases been an entire 
 sweeping away of the island shore, but often of so 
 much earth only as to leave exposed the long- 
 hidden traces of other days. In brief, the island 
 has for ages been a closed cabinet, and now time 
 has rusted its hinges and the floods carried off the 
 door, leaving to the aimless prowler of to-day to 
 rifle the rotten shelves of such treasure as remains. 
 This is how it came about. During a recent 
 ramble I found a yellow brick upon the sand; 
 and, looking farther, another, and curious old red 
 bricks, and bits of roofing tiles, and pipe-stems; 
 scattered everywhere odds and ends that could 
 only have come from some old house near by. 
 But where ? It needed but to ask the question to 
 change from aimless rambler to explorer, and then 
 my troubles began. It was not enough to search 
 o 27 
 
314 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 for the spot whereon had stood the house, for this 
 was soon found ; but who lived here ; when did 
 he build ; when and why did he leave ? A hun- 
 dred questions plagued me at once, and I took 
 refuge in the book-stack. 
 
 As far back as 1668, we learn that Peter Jegou 
 purchased a tract of land including this island, and 
 for his own use built a house, which, by the way, 
 was an inn, and the first house of entertainment, or 
 tavern, built on the Delaware. It stood near the 
 mouth of a large creek, and on what is now the 
 main-land, the Jersey shore ; while within sight, 
 on the end of the island, was another house, and 
 one most advantageously situated, for it com- 
 manded a perfect outlook down the river, which 
 is here fully a mile wide. We will not speculate 
 as to the guests of Jegou's tavern, nor as to who 
 were his neighbors. The whole matter would 
 probably have been irrecoverably lost to history 
 had Peter not gone to law, and left on record that, 
 of this island and the Jersey shore hard by, he 
 was " in Lawfull possession until ye Jeare 1670; 
 att w ch tyme yo r Pit. was plundered by the Indians 
 & by them utterly ruined as is wel knowne to all 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 315 
 
 ye world." This is pleasant reading. Think of 
 being " utterly ruined" for nine years, and then 
 bobbing up serenely in a lawsuit and winning it ! 
 But better news awaited me. About the same 
 time the two men living in the island house were 
 murdered. I was delighted, and hurried back to 
 the island. To think of murder and a state of 
 siege and all the wild tumult of midnight sur- 
 prises having happened so near home! Hereto- 
 fore the Delaware Indian, except among the 
 mountains and in far later times, has seemed a 
 commonplace creature, that gave way to Dutch, 
 Swedes, and Englishmen without a murmur. Now 
 I know better, and every arrow-point and stone 
 axe is of added interest. 
 
 Having gathered the relics that the floods had 
 scattered, I commenced to dig, and soon brought 
 it all to light. But let me not anticipate. I would 
 that some one had written a learned essay on the 
 art of digging. It is something more than mere 
 shovelling of dirt, pitching aside with a spade sand, 
 gravel, and clay. It may mean important dis- 
 covery at any moment and the bringing again to 
 light of day of long-buried treasure. This is a 
 
316 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 powerful incentive to dig. The world has had a 
 host of Captain Kidds, and no one will question 
 our right to search for whatsoever they have hid- 
 den. Then, too, let it be whispered, there is a 
 supreme delight in digging out of bounds. Of 
 course an archaeologist, historian, or curiosity 
 crank looks upon himself as not amenable to 
 common law, and in his case trespass is not tres- 
 pass. I speak from experience, governed in all 
 such cases by a juvenile phrase as faulty in gram- 
 mar as in morals, but very convenient, finding is 
 keeping. 
 
 I stood now on the bank of the river, looking 
 landward. Stood where sturdy Dutch pioneers 
 had passed and repassed many times, and I almost 
 worked myself to the pitch of seeing the well- 
 worn path leading from the dwelling on the high 
 ground to the little wharf. There is almost nothing 
 left now for the imagination to build upon. Here 
 is the same island, but how changed ! The same 
 river, but lacking many a feature of its prehistoric 
 days. Here, happily, all trace of human industry 
 is shut out, and we have to do only with what 
 Nature in her varying moods has fashioned. Tall 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 317 
 
 trees, dense underbrush, and that melancholy array 
 of dead summer fruit, blighted leaves, grass, and 
 seed-pods stranded upon the beach. History has it 
 
 that the Dutch called more than one lonely reach 
 of river shore Verdietige-hoeck, Doleful Corner. 
 To-day, at least, this was such a one ; veritable 
 waste-land and wasting land, too, for the tide is 
 
 27* 
 
318 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 wearing the whole island slowly but surely away. 
 A word here about waste-land. Such is not neces- 
 sarily barren tracts, cold, gray sand dunes, or 
 forbidding rocks. Nature is often most active 
 where man finds no foothold. This is the waste- 
 land that I have in mind ; land that makes it pos- 
 sible for a man to be a naturalist; land where he 
 who loves Nature loves best to linger. 
 
 Sitting upon the damp sand, dotted with bits of 
 the old house and pipe-stems, I burrowed into the 
 low bank with a garden-trowel, making little hori- 
 zontal holes that would have pleased the swallows, 
 saving them half the labor of nest-building. But 
 at last the steel struck a resisting object that was 
 not a stone, but a curious, long, thin brick. This 
 was the outlier of the treasure beyond, and the 
 digging henceforth was a pleasure, notwithstanding 
 the many tree-roots that had enviously wrapped 
 about the one-time belongings of the defunct 
 Dutchman. A part of a wall was finally exposed, 
 and many small, pale-yellow bricks. The larger 
 red ones were generally perfect, but every yellow 
 one was broken. Next came a part of the roof, 
 still intact, three large curved tiles, and beneath 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 319 
 
 them portions of what I took to be a charred beam. 
 Hand-wrought iron spikes were found, all twisted 
 out of shape, the effect of heating when the house 
 was burned. One little fragment of glazed earthen- 
 ware, being slightly curved, I fancied a bit of a 
 beer-mug ; but there was no question about the 
 pipes. Either this old Dutchman was the most 
 inveterate of smokers or he had on hand a stock 
 for trading. Who knows but he had a shop here, 
 just as there was a tavern across the narrow creek, 
 and this pioneer settler bartered not only with the 
 Indians but as well with his fellow-countrymen ; 
 for the island was in the then line of travel be- 
 tween the west shore settlements on Delaware Bay 
 and Manhattan Island. There is authority for 
 this, inasmuch as somewhere about 1621 an effort 
 was made by the Dutch " to truck and trade with 
 the natives" living on the shores of the river, and 
 in 1623 an attempt was made to settle on the part 
 of Europeans. This island house is a matter of 
 more than forty years later. 
 
 I have said the occupants were murdered. 
 These crimes " were owing to Tashiowycan, who, 
 having ajsister dying, expressed great grief for it, 
 
320 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 and said, ' The Mannetta hath killed my sister, and 
 I will go kill the Christians ;' and, taking another 
 with him, they together executed the barbarous 
 facts." Then was the island abandoned, and it 
 returned to waste-land. How soon all traces of 
 the ruined house disappeared can scarcely be con- 
 jectured, but, doubtless, the Indians took every- 
 thing of value, and the destruction was complete. 
 But the history of the troublous time was safe. 
 All the world knew about the tragedy, and, with- 
 out details, George Fox refers to the incident : 
 " On the loth of 7th month," he wrote, " at night, 
 finding an old house, which the Indians had forced 
 the people to leave, we made a fire and lay there, 
 at the head of Delaware Bay. The next day we 
 swam our horses over a river about a mile wide, 
 at twice, first to an island called Upper Dinidock 
 and then to the main land, having hired Indians to 
 help us over in their canoes." This is a reference 
 to Peter Jegou's tavern which stood within sight 
 of the island house. Perhaps Fox paused to con- 
 template these ruins. They offered him a text for 
 preaching to the dusky ferry-men that helped him 
 over to the " main" or Pennsylvania shore. It 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 321 
 
 may be the ruins were weed-grown and hidden 
 then ; if so, the greater interest to me, for, neg- 
 lected by Fox, the opportunity comes more than 
 two centuries later to revive the history of a river 
 tragedy. 
 
 Whether his countrymen ventured back, or some 
 Indian had the courage to do so, is not on record ; 
 but one of the murdered men was buried. His 
 bones a headless skeleton, indeed were found 
 near by, so near that he can be said to have been 
 buried in the ruins of his house. Certainly the 
 bones had not been exposed to fire; but where 
 was the head ? We know of war-clubs and toma- 
 hawks. They are common to all the farm-lands 
 along the Delaware even yet : and was the poor 
 Dutchman's head crushed by the assassin ? Gath- 
 ering up the bones for what purpose I do not 
 know and whatsoever I could move of bricks 
 and tiles, I sat down, at last, to rest at the foot of 
 an old tree, fancying it, of course, one of the 
 Dutchman's shade-trees, and took in those fare- 
 well glances that are ever fullest of meaning. 
 The day was well spent, and that soft south wind, 
 which, according to Roger Williams, was held to 
 
322 In Touch with Nature. 
 
 be the giver of every good and perfect gift to the 
 Narragansetts, was blessing now the Delaware, as 
 in good old Indian days. A misty veil shut out 
 the busy towns on either shore, but allowed a 
 shadowy view of what yet remains of the ancient 
 forest. No sounds save those of untamed Nature 
 disturbed this remote, forgotten, long-forsaken 
 spot. A fierce hawk screamed, the crow uttered 
 his alarm-cry, and startled fish leaped from the 
 water, scattering a generous gift of gems in the 
 dimmed sunlight. Such sights and sounds the 
 old Dutch settler had often witnessed, and, for the 
 passing moment, I took his place. I had no need 
 to turn and look at the uptorn surface of the river 
 shore, but rebuilt it all on the wide expanse of 
 waters before me. The massive walls of squared 
 oak logs, the huge chimney of red brick without, 
 and lined with smaller yellow ones that made 
 bright the generous fireplace and the great living 
 room. Gleaming through the trees, the bright 
 red tiles of the roof gave to this early home a 
 cheery look, contrasting strongly with the un- 
 broken wilderness that then stretched from the 
 river to the sea. 
 
The Dutch on the Delaware. 
 
 3 2 3 
 
 And, as the sun set, with what a strange cargo 
 did I venture home ! A pile of bricks, three 
 precteus tiles, a handful of pipe-stems, and, over- 
 topping all, the skull-less skeleton of a murdered 
 man. 
 
- 
 
 Index 
 
 A. 
 
 Andropogon, 310. 
 Antelope, prong-homed, 20. 
 Apple, 92. 
 Arizona, 20. 
 Ash, 300. 
 Aster, 230, 276. 
 Azurite, 156. 
 
 B. 
 
 Bats, 107, 291. 
 
 Bees, 31. 
 
 Billfish, 202. 
 
 Birch, 19. 
 
 Birds, migration of, 215. 
 
 Bisbee, Arizona, 152, 171. 
 
 Bittern, least 194. 
 
 Bitter-sweet, 283. 
 
 Blackbird, red-winged, 28, 31, 
 
 33, 263- 
 
 Blackbirds (grakles), 200. 
 Black-cap, 27, 301. 
 Bluebells, 12 1. 
 Blueberry, l8i. 
 Bluebird, 27, 268, 301, 310. 
 Brehm, Dr., quoted, 263. 
 Bristol, Pennsylvania, 32. 
 Burroughs, John, quoted, 75. 
 Buttercup, 92. 
 
 C. 
 
 Cactus, 155, 163- 
 Cambarus diogenes, 195. 
 Cat-bird, 17, 58, 244, 307. 
 Cecropia worm, 210. 
 Cedar, 180. 
 Cedar-bird, 286. 
 Centipede, 165. 
 28 325 
 
326 
 
 Index. 
 
 Chaparral cock, 20. 
 
 Cherry, 96. 
 
 Chestnut, 272. 
 
 Chewink, 307. 
 
 Chickadee, 18, 307. 
 
 Chickweed, 93. 
 
 Cicely, sweet, 122. 
 
 Clapper-rail, 193. 
 
 Colorado, 20. 
 
 Crabs, 192* 
 
 Crayfish, 195. 
 
 Cross-bill, 42. 
 
 Crow, 22, 31, 80, 147, 243, 275, 
 
 322. 
 Cuckoo, ground, 20. 
 
 yellow-billed, 210. 
 Cuprite, 156. 
 
 D. 
 
 Daffodils, 31. 
 
 Darters, 128. 
 
 Deer, 295. 
 
 Delaware River, 35, 47> H 2 * 
 
 208, 232. 
 
 Deming, New Mexico, 150. 
 Dentaria, 95. 
 Dog- wood, 96. 
 Ducks, wild, 35, 47, 125. 
 Durham, Pennsylvania, 234. 
 Dutch settlements, 131, 312. 
 
 E. 
 
 Eagle, 154. 
 Eupatorium, 229. 
 
 F. 
 
 Ferns, 142, 161. 
 Fish-hawk, 213. 
 Flycatcher, shining-crested, 158. 
 Fox, George, quoted, 320. 
 Frogs, 38, 1 01, 1 06. 
 
 G. 
 
 Gar, silvery, 202. 
 
 Garnets, 123. 
 
 Gentian, fringed, 230. 
 
 Gerardia, purple, 229, 276. 
 
 Gila monster, 162. 
 
 Godman, John D., quoted, 31. 
 
 Golden-rod, 229, 276. 
 
 Goose, wild, 35. 
 
 Grakle, purple, 134. 
 
 Grape, 182. 
 
 Gray, Asa, quoted, 142, 278. 
 
 Grosbeak, cardinal, 308. 
 
 rose-breasted, 91, 244. 
 Gull, 22, 28, 195, 212. 
 Gustafson, Nils, quoted, 35. 
 
Index. 
 
 3 2 7 
 
 H. 
 
 Harvest-fly, 218. 
 
 Hawthorn, 120. 
 
 Hemlock, 120. 
 
 Henshaw, H. W., quoted, 172. 
 
 Heron, green, 133. 
 
 night, 292. 
 Holly, 179. 
 Hornbeam, 182. 
 Hornet, 218. 
 Houstonia, 95. 
 Humming-bird, broad tailed, 
 
 157- 
 
 ruby-throated, 80, 157- 
 Hypericum, 202. 
 
 I. 
 
 Indian canoes, 130. 
 
 implements, 15, 94, 232, 
 290, 321. 
 
 mines, 234. 
 
 mortuary customs, 208. 
 
 pipe, 273. 
 
 pipes, 273. 
 
 shell -heaps, 190. 
 
 village-sites, 15, 208, 233. 
 Indians, Delaware, 130, 296. 
 Indigo-finch, 216. 
 Iron ore, bog, 132. 
 
 J. 
 
 Jasper mines, Indian, 234. 
 Jay, blue, 243. 
 Jegou, Peter, 314. 
 
 K. 
 
 Kalm, Peter, quoted, 35, 130, 
 
 184, 266, 279, 288. 
 Kingbird, 146, 268. 
 Kinglet, 37, 301. 
 King-rail, 193. 
 
 L. 
 
 Larch, 25, 39. 
 Lark, meadow, 244, 247. 
 Lilac, 93, 183. 
 Lily, water, 226. 
 Liquidambar, 272. 
 Lizard, pine-tree, 174. 
 Lobelia, scarlet, 203, 226. 
 Lockwood, Dr. Samuel, quoted, 
 189. 
 
 M. 
 
 Magnolia, 188. 
 Malachite, 156. 
 Manhattan Island, 319. 
 Maple, 31, 39. 
 Marshall, Edward, 9. 
 Mastodon, 41. 
 
328 
 
 Index. 
 
 Mimulus, 202. 
 
 Mink, 193. 
 
 Mistletoe, 166. 
 
 Mocking-bird, mountain, 148. 
 
 Moose, 41. 
 
 Mouse, meadow, 36, 76, 19 
 
 193, 287. 
 white-footed, 37. 
 Musk-ox, 41. 
 Mussel, 295. 
 
 N. 
 
 Neshaminy, 105. 
 New Mexico, 144. 
 Night-hawk, 292. 
 Nockamixon rocks, 140. 
 Nuthatch, 301. 
 
 O. 
 
 Oak, white, 104, 183. 
 Orchis, showy, 121. 
 Oriole, Baltimore, 268. 
 Owls, 262. 
 
 P. 
 
 Pechot-woalenk, 297. 
 Peewee, wood, 109, 115. 
 Penn, William, 105. 
 Persimmon, 223, 278. 
 Pickerel-weed, 203. 
 
 Pickering, Dr. Charles, quoted, 
 
 285. 
 
 Pike, 129. 
 Pine, 271. 
 Pinxter flower, 12 1. 
 Pontederia, 203. 
 Prince's-pine, 22, 26. 
 Purple finch, 301. 
 
 Q. 
 
 Queen Esther, 297. 
 
 R. 
 
 Raccoon, 107, 194. 
 Raspberry, 142. 
 Raven, 146. 
 Red-bird, II, 18, 42. 
 Reindeer, 41. 
 Rice, wild, 80. 
 Robin, 39, 75, 308. 
 Rose-root, 142. 
 
 S. 
 
 Sand-piper, spotted, 80, 82. 
 San Pedro River, 170. 
 Sassafras, 26. 
 Seal, 40. 
 Skink, 174. 
 Skunk-cabbage, 26. 
 Slug, 117. 
 
Index. 
 
 3 2 9 
 
 Snake, black, 59. 
 
 garter, 52, 60 
 
 water, 55. 
 Snakes, ^85. 
 Snow-bird, 301, 311. 
 Snow-bunting, 41. 
 Sparrow, black-throated, 147. 
 
 English, 223, 265, 311. 
 
 field, 90, 247. 
 
 hawk, 286. 
 
 song, 39, 90. 
 
 tree, 36, 301. 
 
 vesper, 310. 
 
 white-throated, 90, 302. 
 Spice-wood, 38. 
 Spring-beauty, 95. 
 Squirrels, 164, 291. 
 
 flying, 309. 
 
 Stormonth, quoted, 136. 
 Strachey, William, quoted, 15. 
 Sturgeon, 129. 
 Sunfish, 58. 
 Swallows, 198. 
 Sweet gum, 188. 
 
 T. 
 
 Tarantula, 148. 
 hawk, 150. 
 Tashiowycan, 319. 
 
 Terns, 213. 
 
 Thoreau, H. D., 62, 83. 
 
 Thrush, curved-billed, 154. 
 
 wood, 120, 244. 
 Tit, crested, 22, 301. 
 Titmouse, 309. 
 Tree-creeper, 18. 
 Tulip-tree, 107. 
 Turkey, wild, 295. 
 Turtle, red-bellied, 13. 
 snapping, 193. 
 
 U. 
 
 Uz Gaunt, quoted, 205, 257. 
 
 V. 
 
 Vireo, red-eyed, 77, 109. 
 
 W. 
 
 Walrus, 41. 
 
 Warbler, bay-breasted, 97. 
 
 black-and-white creeping, 
 
 211. 
 
 Blackburnian, 127. 
 
 hooded, 127. 
 
 spotted, 127. 
 Warblers, 96. 
 Wasp, 31, 225. 
 Watson, William, quoted, 82. 
 Whippoorwill, 101. 
 
 28* 
 
33 
 
 Index. 
 
 Whitlow-grass, 31, 93. 
 Wildwood Beach, 183. 
 Wind-flower, 121. 
 Windy Bush, 109. 
 Winter-berry, 283. 
 Woodchuck, 192. 
 Wood-lice, 185. 
 Wren, cactus, 173. 
 Carolina, 12. 
 
 Wren, house, 37, 80, 84. 
 marsh, 80. 
 winter, 301. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Yellow-throat, Maryland, 97. 
 
 Z. 
 
 Zadkiel, quoted, 206. 
 
 THE END. 
 
-