Second Season
X — Westville Swamps and Mount Carmel, Connecticut
When, formerly, I have analyzed my partiality for some farm which I had contemplated purchasing, I have frequently found that I was attracted solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog.... That was the jewel which dazzled me.—Thoreau, Excursions.
May the 1st I departed from New York, to find in bloom many of the earlier flowers that I had missed last year in the Hoosac Highlands. I followed much the same route through Connecticut as I had taken the season previous. The country was aglow with the subtle breath of spring sunshine, that inspires the soul of earth to rise and sprinkle her fields with pulsating life and song. I started out alone to explore the Bogs of Westville, where the dainty Grass-Pinks and Pogonias would later bloom.
There is much diversity of soil about New Haven: it proves a meeting-ground for Southern and Northern species of plant life. The swampy regions of the Great Salt Meadows produce a foreign vegetation that emigrates to our shores; while the rocky ridges of the hills about the City furnish hiding ground for rare ferns and flowers found far northward.
I rode to the end of the car line, near which I turned off into a thicket, and over a bridge above the milldam. On either hand broad fields of marsh-land stretched out to meet the low, rolling hills. To the right, a path led up the slopes of a cow-pasture, along a little stream to West Rock. The damp hillside was carpeted with Innocence or Bluets (Houstonia cærulea), and numerous colonies of violets; and amid the moss-grown hillocks, in the woods, the Dog’s-Tooth Lily (Erythronium Americanum) nodded its yellow bell. This lily, so long designated Dog’s-Tooth Violet, is a plant having a broad continental range,—found from Nova Scotia to Florida, and from Maine to Arkansas. In the South it blooms in March, in the North in May. It grows not only in the low coast hills and valleys, but is known to thrive at an altitude of 5500 feet in Virginia and in the North.
The leaves of Dog’s-Tooth Lily resemble a species of Orchis known to Dioscorides as Satyrion Erythronium, from which Linnæus in 1753 coined the present generic name Erythronium, signifying “red,” for the genus of Dog’s-Tooth Lilies. Wherever the appended term of “Violet” originated for these lilies is not known. According to Frederick H. Blodgett: “In one of the old botanies in the library of the Agricultural Department (Washington), there is a colored plate, illustrating the European species with the name Viola dens-canis, with pen notes, giving the later and more modern names also.”39 That the plant was always considered a lily, however, instead of a violet is evident.
Dr. Rembert Dodoens, as early as 1578, thus described it: “This low base herbe, hath, for the most part but two leaves, speckled with great red spots, betwixt which springeth up a little tender stalke or stem with one floure at the top hanging downeward, which hath certaine small leaves growing together like an arch or haute, and like the wild lily.” (The Amarillis of the Spaniards.) “The names of this herbe now are called Denticulus canis and Dens caninus, and others call it Satyrion Erythronium, wherewithall notwithstanding it has no similitude.”40 It was known to Dioscorides as Lilium sylvestre, and Dodoens remarks that “It may well be called such,” since the flower, when “it hangs downeward toward the grounde, is much like the wild lilies, saving it is smaller.”41
Dioscorides (23-77 A.D.) knew this plant as Ephemeron non lethale, which was also known in Latin as Lilium sylvestre.
Dodoens therefore wrote that if Dog’s-Tooth be Ephemeron, as it seemed to be, the essence extracted from its root by boiling water, according to Dioscorides, was good for the teeth. But the name was more likely suggested by the fact that the bulbous root is shaped like a canine tooth. The appended “violet” originated, perhaps, with children, since this lily blooms in early springtime with violets, bluets, marsh marigolds, and arbutus.
The names of all plants among the early Greeks and Romans originated from the shapes of the flowers, leaves, or roots, and also from their medicinal properties. Dioscorides knew another species which he designated Satyrion Erythronium or Dioscorides Satyrion, signifying Red Satyrion,—known to the ancient Syrians. Satyrion was the ancient “shop” name for species of Orchis.
Without doubt our generic name for Dog’s-Tooth (Erythronium) is a corruption from the Red-spotted Satyrion, whose leaves became confused with Lilium sylvestre. Burroughs has remarked that bulbs of lilies in general lie near the surface of the ground. The bulbs of Erythronium are often found at a depth of eight inches or more in the earth, however, according to the age of the lily. The young plant often produces but one leaf, and its bulb is loosely attached to the moss on the surface, while the older plants produce two leaves, their bulbs each season sinking deeper into the soil.
Many common names have been suggested by botanists to replace the seemingly inappropriate name of Dog’s-Tooth Violet. While the appended Violet is misapplied, as we observe, the name Dog’s-Tooth is of ancient origin, and really has more appropriateness than does the generic name Erythronium, since none of our species produce red flowers. The name Dog’s-Tooth, therefore, was purposely dropped in the Illustrated Flora of Northeastern North America, and the name Yellow Adder’s-Tongue substituted for the species. There is also an Adder’s-Tongue Fern (Ophioglossum vulgatum). We therefore see that the re-establishing of the former and ancient name, Dog’s-Tooth Lily, for species of Erythronium is to be preferred, not only according to the moral rule of priority, but because it is actually the legal common name.
The Westville Swamps were sparkling with these yellow lily-bells, while in the woods along the sluggish stream, the Marsh Marigolds—often called American Cowslips—were holding up their golden goblets to be filled with morning dew. Farther up the stream, near a rude plank bridge in the pasture roadway, I found a baby turtle basking in the sunshine. He was no larger than the hollow of my palm. The little fellow was too frightened to tumble off his stony couch and run for the stream. He sat still and eyed me distrustfully. He drew in his head and toes, and I lifted him gently in my hand, placing him in a paper bag among the flowers I had gathered. I intended him for a surprise in the school aquarium.
Climbing far up the side of West Rock, I looked over the Woodbridge fields and toward West Peak, near Meriden. In the dim distance the Giant’s form was outlined against the horizon at Mount Carmel. This mountain assumes the form of a gigantic Egyptian mummy. The hands are folded across the breast, and the head and feet are stretched in stiff dignity—so to remain through the ages.
Among the wooded hills and vales below, the cloud-shadows chased each other to the distant mountains far beyond. That pile of granite upon the brow of West Rock, designated in history as Judge’s Cave, stood guard over the hills about me. Farther off, toward Westville, many a roof glistened and peered out among the newly leaved trees of the hillsides. One of them was that of Ik Marvel’s home, where perchance he had smoked the dream pipes of his Bachelor’s Revery. Smoke now curled above the chimney-tops, full of the drowsiness of May mornings.
The song of thrushes and orioles amid the bushes burst joyously upon me, and during the interludes I heard the hum of bees and the distant murmurings of streams. Butterflies sailed by, flashing their brilliant colors in the sunlight, and the air was laden with the delicate fragrance of early woodlands. It was a day marked by hope and promise. Who can forget those fields of spring where forget-me-nots and violets bloom?
During the afternoon of this glorious day, I journeyed to Mount Carmel beyond Lake Whitney. The old canal from Northampton to New Haven formerly passed along this valley, and although the channel is partly filled in, the towpath still remains, and is well-trodden. I followed it from the end of the car-line, until I reached an elevated ledge of rock to the right. This little hill, clothed with white cedars and junipers, lies beneath the stern brow of the Giant, whose face is plainly outlined against the sky far above the village.
After exploring the ridge hereabout, and finding it covered with Columbine in bud, I descended to the hollow, along the stream. In the rocky crevices at the farthest end of the hill, where the midday sun poured down upon the colony, I found the Columbine flowers in full bloom. I pushed my hand beneath the matted soil, and the plant with roots entire loosened and was easily lifted. Poison Ivy grew about over the rocks, warning me to be cautious. I discovered the Dutchman’s Breeches (Bicuculla Cucullaria), but they were faded and nearly fallen. I observed here near the Columbine also another species of the genus not often seen in this locality. It is known commonly as the Bleeding-Heart (Bicuculla eximia), formerly designated generically as Fumaria. It grows in rocky places, especially in southern New York. I collected it once about Montclair, New Jersey, along the Orange Mountains, and on the borders of Bronx Park, New York City, and in the vicinity of Mount Vernon. This species belongs more especially southward, extending to Georgia and Tennessee, flowering from May until September. There are about fourteen species of this genus found in North America and Western Asia. Three of this number are reported for the Atlantic Region of North America. The third species is known as Squirrel-Corn (Bicuculla Canadensis), and is very similar to the Dutchman’s Breeches, save that the plant is smaller.
While waiting for the car at Lake Whitney Junction, on my return to New Haven, I opened the iron gate and wandered along the wooded edges of the shore. I soon distinguished that homely weed of our old dooryard walls and tin-can waste-heaps—the Cat-Mint or Catnip. I gathered some tender shoots for pussy Yale. The name Catnip is of ancient origin, derived from the Latin, Nepete, the name of an Etrurian city. Our native plant is of European origin. Dodoens, in 1578, writes of this plant: “In shops it is called Nepita; in England Pep, and Cat-Mint, in French Herbe de Chat.” The name of our single species is to-day Nepeta Cataria. There are about one hundred and fifty native species of this group of plants found in Europe and Asia.
This family of Mints was known to the ancients as Calamint or Calamintha, and included in Dodoens’ day four or five species described by the Greeks, each of them having several names marked by different medicinal virtues. The first kind was called Mountain Calamint; the second was known as Wild Pennyroyal, and the third variety as Cat’s-Mint or Cat’s-Herbe,—just described as Nepeta. The Wild Pennyroyal of the ancients resembled the cultivated species at that time also, which was known in England, during 1500, as Podding-Grasse or Pudding-Grass. Pliny attributed twenty-five medicinal and mystical properties to Pennyroyal, in Christ’s day, while Dodoens and Lyte mention fourteen uses of the herb in 1578. Xenocrates prescribed “a branch of Penny-Royall wrapped in wool,” and placed beneath the bedclothes as a remedy against malignant fevers.
The Mints in general were called in ancient apothecary shops Mentha. This group of plants was known to Theophrastus, and named Mentha, from a nymph fabled in classical literature as having been changed into this plant by the jealous Proserpine.
Yale was delighted with the Herbe de Chat, and scented spring and the cat’s heal-all indeed in these tender sprays, rolling and purring over the leaves like a tiger, until at last, soothed, he fell a-napping.
The next morning, May 2d, I started for the Berkshire Highlands, where I arrived in the afternoon. I remained on Aurora’s Hill in North Adams about a week. I was too early for orchid flowers, and the arbutus was still in bloom. These were the real arbutus days here, in spite of their breaking the record now and then by blooming in February. I soon left the slopes of North Adams for Pownal Hills. I found them bleak and cold, and that here, too, I was ahead of all species of the Orchid Family.
I made several excursions to the heart of Rattlesnake Swamp and Rattlesnake Ledge, between May 7th and 15th, searching for Trailing Arbutus. I courted the Swamp of Oracles and the Glen of Comus, watching the buds unfold. The woods were bare and leafless, the paths and dry-brook beds were flooded with sunshine. There is a desolate expression to these deep swamps in early spring, before the tender green leaves of trees and budding flowers burst forth. The birds, however, are here, and their song tells us that it is spring instead of the Indian summer of late autumn. These awakening days of the sleeping woodlands reminded one of the death of the flowers in November. Equally sad is the birth and death of the flowers. The sod steams with the warm southern sunlight pouring upon it until, behold, a week later the green, luxuriant foliage hides all the rocky paths in dense shades, and sprinkles dainty stars and clinging vines over all the ruins of the autumn’s faded stalks and leaves. May holds greater charm and more silent mysteries than the overflowing joy of full-grown June.
I wandered on through the winding paths, finding them draped with mosses and Goldthread blossoms and Painted Trillium. I continued daily to search the woods through and through for the first sight of the Pink Moccasin-Flower. I found three species of Cypripedium on May 15th, and was a little curious to observe how the race would end in their unfolding. There were the rare Ram’s-Head, the Pink and the Large Yellow Moccasin-Flowers in bud. The Pink Cypripedium was the first to open, upon the 19th, while on the same day also the Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower burst into bloom, dropping its long, twisting side petals gracefully beside the stump of a hemlock tree fallen across Ball Brook. The Ram’s-Head, which is supposed to be the earliest Cypripedium to bloom, was not so fortunate. Venturing where it stood among the Amidon Pines one sunny morning, I found the bud still sheathed in the tender green bract-like leaf, laid low and withering upon the ground beside the ruined stem. I picked it up and wondered what or who could have brought about this tragedy. The bract, containing the bud, appeared cut from the stem as with a keen-edged knife. As I held it, I observed a large worm concealed within the plicate folds of the bracted leaf, amid the musky sweetness of the bud. It was round and emerald green, and unlike most worms was possessed of a great degree of spryness; for before my senses were astir, it had dropped to the ground, wriggling out of sight among the leaves and earth at my feet. I poked about, hoping to follow its trail, but to no avail.
That this rare Cypripedium has a vile destroyer in this worm, is evident. I felt that I should like to know more about the worm’s life, and why it seeks the rarest species of Cypripedium in North America to feast upon. Perhaps this may account for this flower’s rarity in Pownal, as well as throughout its continental range. I have observed the worm among the Ram’s-Heads in Amidon’s Pines during the past two seasons.
The budded plants of this species in Witch Hollow were also blasted in embryo this season. The two buds observed turned brown and withered on the stem, while yet very tiny, leaving the bract perfectly intact. Some plants, however, were untouched by the destroying worm. They were without doubt too young to bloom, as it requires four or five seasons before seedling Cypripediums produce perfect blossoms in their native haunts.
The seeds of orchids are minute, mostly “spindle shaped,” are found in great numbers, and resemble fine saw-dust. The ovules of the Orchid Family mature slowly, and as far as scientific observations count, in the tests made with the cultivated species, it is said the seeds are a year in coming to maturity. These fertile seeds need several months in which to germinate, requiring, as will be seen, some years to produce seedlings old enough to blossom from the self-sowing capsules of our wild native orchids. Furthermore, a certain temperature and continuous moisture are absolutely necessary to produce seedlings. Our variable Northern climate is one of the natural causes of hindrance to the production of native seedlings of this sensitive family. Continuous moisture does not prevail long enough to promote perfect germination of the thousands of seeds annually produced. They die in embryo from lack of moisture during dry seasons; or if developed, are frozen out in the ice-capped swamps by our long, harsh winters; or in the tender seasons of their seedling-hood the following years, are dwarfed and die from drought. This, in part, is the explanation of the lack of natural seedlings in our native orchid haunts. Adding to this the destructiveness of man, the beasts of the fields, worms, and storms, and the tardiness of insects in fertilization, a hard struggle lies in the perpetuation of the family’s future generations.
Orchids are spoken of as the “weeds of the tropics”; notwithstanding their devastation by the present orchid craze,—which far outstrips the tulip mania in Holland two hundred and fifty years ago,—in regions where continuous heat and moisture prevail, germination of their fertile seeds is rapid and natural.
XI — May Showers and White Moccasin-Flowers
If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded a loafer; but if he spend his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bare before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.—Thoreau, Letters.
There is something charming about an unwearied rain in spring. I chose a day upon which rain was falling to journey through the swamps, observing my orchid buds. The clouds would lift now and then with sudden brightening, although the gentle patter of the rain was constant. The wind scarcely stirred the leaves. Nature was quiet in her weeping, as a heart that has a grievance which it does not care to share with any one. The meadows grew green, the buds expanded, and the heart of May began to pulsate and sing new songs.
I started out to visit the Glen of Comus, but found the underbrush too laden with rain. I then decided to go through the fields and seek the Chalk Pond colonies. Over the hills lowered a heavy fog, which, as the rain slackened, would for a time lift again, showing the blue peaks in the distance. I turned westward from the glen, through Amidon’s Pines. I had soon passed beyond the limits of this sheltering wood, making a gradual ascent through the raspberry pastures of John-Fallow.
The higher I climbed the harder it poured. However, I arrived among the low white birch saplings and berry bushes. Here I managed to shake the rain off them, becoming as bedraggled as though I had waded in a stream. My umbrella began to leak, and my cap and hair were being soaked, the water actually running down my face. Entering the deeper underwood of birches, I aroused a flock of sheep and their lambs. They ran bleating after me, asking for salt. A mother followed me closely, stamped the earth with her tiny feet, showing her petulance and fear; although she did not turn and run from me as I ventured nearer, but rubbed her nose against my hand.
I now began descending the western slopes of John-Fallow, and was in sight of the woods closing about Witch Hollow. Upon entering the thicket, I soon found my colonies of Orchis spectabilis, which were not yet unfolded, although it was May 20th. The Cypripediums had come in far ahead of them this season.
The group of Ram’s-Head also disappointed me, the buds having been blasted in embryo. The plants, however, looked healthy and promising.
Chilled through as I was on my way out of the woods, I thought of stopping at the nearest house on Butternut Lane for a drink of hot milk. I refrained, however, because of my fog-covered garments and the curiosity I might arouse in the neighborhood. Onward I trudged another mile or two, up through the pastures, across the old Welch Farm, following the grass-grown road that originally led from Mount Œta to the valley of the Hoosac, during Revolutionary days.
I had been out about four hours, and it was time I sought shelter, since I had waded through the tall grasses and bushes, regardless of the rain upon their leaves. Once in the house, I realized the comfort of possessing warm, dry garments.
On May 23d I made a journey to Rattlesnake Swamp. Arbutus was still in blossom near the hemlocks,—late clusters, indeed, hiding in the moss at the feet of small spruces, where the ice and snow had lingered latest.
The children in District Fourteen delight in surprising me with strange flowers. Among these I frequently find rare species of plants to name and identify for them. A delicate spray of the Purple-Flowered Clematis was brought to me recently. This vine is rare hereabout, growing only in rocky woods about the Rabbit Plain, and along the Gulf Road of Witch Hollow.
Children in the country districts are the first nature students in spring. In May and June the woods and fields become veritable classrooms in which Nature alone presides as instructor. A dense oak and pine forest formerly sheltered the vale near the schoolhouse, where the children seldom dared to wander without their teacher. The wood was dark and full of the twilight shades of the virgin forest trees of our New England hills.
In May, many seasons ago, the Purple-Flowered Clematis (Atragene Americana) grew abundant in the heart of this rocky wood, covering, in one instance, a bush six feet high with its graceful vine. This plant is rare from Maine to Minnesota. It ranges northward to Hudson Bay, and southward to Virginia, often ascending great heights. It is reported in the Catskills at an altitude of three thousand feet. There are but three species of this genus found natively in the North Temperate Zone, one being reported for the Rocky Mountain region, the other farther to the northwest coast of America. The common Virgin’s-Bower (Clematis Virginiana) grows also in rocky places, covering roadside walls and bordering swamps and river banks in July and August.
Later in the autumn, this species is very attractive. The seed-pods burst and produce a light, feathery down—little wings to aid the seeds in their flight, like those of the dandelion and milkweed. The seed-capsules of the Purple-Flowered Clematis also produce tails like the plumes of a feather.
Several species of Clematis were known to the ancients in Christ’s day. The name originated with Dioscorides, and was used to designate all climbing vines. He knew three kinds under the generic name of Aristolochia, named in honor of Aristotle. The “branched vine” with “deepe violet floures,” was called Aristolochia clematites. Peter Bellon of ye olden time remarks that this plant grew in the mountains of Ida in Crete, or Candie. Carolus Clusius reported it as growing among the bushes and briars about the city of Hispalis, or Civill, in Spain, before the sixteenth century.
I visited Oak Hill Cemetery on May 29th,—a very good place to observe the early flowers of the woods about the valley. The country folk come here with their laurels for Decoration Day, as Milton came to his “Lycidas,” “to empurple all the ground with vernal flowers.”42 Here may be seen the pink azalea, the marsh marigolds—those golden-cups of Caltha,—violets, and painted trilliums amid the bunches of pink and golden moccasin-flowers, brought here in abundance by the school children.
On June 5th I sought the swamps of Etchowog. I followed down through the Glen of Comus, in search of the great colony of Pink Moccasin-Flowers. I found them in full bud,—two hundred in number, as formerly. As I entered the hollow, I found in the middle of the path a Small Round-Leaved Orchis (Habenaria Hookeriana).
This region is being slowly despoiled of its stately pines. I saw fresh scars of the axe among them. Three first-growth trees were laid low, piled on the side of the road.
I followed, as usual, the path through the Swamp of Oracles beside Ball Brook, leading out through the clearings of Ball Farm. Here I waded through Iris Swamp beyond, coming out to the pasture-land of Kimball Farm.
This season, many changes have occurred in the Kimball Bogs, the hillsides closing in about them having been almost sheared of their trees. This results in flooding the heart of the swamp with sunshine, and may in time dry up the growth of the beautiful moss known as Sphagnum, and also destroy the Buckbeans. The cows were browsing among the small tamaracks, and no signs of the Showy Queen of the Moccasin-Flowers were visible hereabout this June. The Tall Green Orchis (Habenaria hyperborea) grew luxuriantly in a pool over the fence near the clearing. Purple Trilliums were also very abundant along my path. I passed out through the vale, keeping the winding road until I reached the brow of the orchard beyond, which was in full bloom.
The distant hills wore a delicate clear blue tone, and as I caught glimpses of them between the round hills about me, I distinguished Mount Æolus, that distant pile of Dorset marble far to the northeast of the Gap. Leaving the orchard, I crossed the road and entered the deep grasses of the old lake meadow, where the sphagnum is knee-deep. Here, as last June, the Indian Poke and cowslip blossoms freshened the borders of the stream. Along the edges of this wet region, I waded carefully until I reached the famous Spring of Arethusa, around the glacial hill to the left. I searched in the open meadow beyond the mill for Pitcher-Plant blossoms,—and found many in full bloom. The grasses were ablaze with tasselled sedges and nodding flowers of Iris,—a sight well worth a long journey to see.
I rounded about the swamp, and passed out at the north end, near Washon Bridge House. Here I ascended westward,—over the knob-like hill north of Pownal Pond. On the opposite slope I descended, finding nothing but trees and fences in my way. I observed a hollow-hearted chestnut tree,—a shell and nothing more. I could scarcely see where its green branches could gain nourishment. The leaves were, however, the largest in the wood, and the buds were perfect. The heart of this old tree was an empty, blackened space, the outer bark weather-worn and crumbling in decay.
Arriving on the north shore of the pond, I searched for the aquatic plant Polygonum amphibium, which I had observed last season along the muddy pools. The fencing of the sheep-pasture here debarred very free progress about the shore. I was forced to climb the hill for some distance to find an opening through the network of barbed wires. The day was warm, and the sheep had taken shelter in the shade of the pines on the hillside.
The small pine grove along the west shore of Pownal Pond is often used as a picnic ground. Years ago the south shore of this lake was clothed with dense oak, pine, and maple trees. These vales were the homes of many sturdy settlers while the fields were being cleared. The stone walls which they erected outlast the memory of their builders, and are the only monuments that time cannot remove. The few remaining gable-roofed houses with their gaping doors and windows, along the East Road, during the next few years will become obliterated entirely. The overgrown hedges of cherry-trees and grape-vines are still struggling for existence by the road; while the cinnamon-rose and southernwood are choked amid the cat-mint and burdock along the border of the dooryard path.
These vales of Etchowog are deserted, and the thrift of the Revolutionary days has departed. Nature is returning to her pristine state, and seeks to subdue these traces of man by covering all with weeds, slow decay, and mould.
Once in the pine grove, I discovered that I was in the vicinity of a small cabin, which stood on the brow of the hill overlooking the pond. A door opened southward from the house, and pasted upon it in bold handwriting was the declaration that it was inhabited.
“Rented by Edward Green, Esquire.
Do not trespass on these premises.”
The water along the muddy edges of the pond displayed innumerable wriggling pollywogs and small fishes. About midway along the shore, I found the Polygonum in blossom. I recognized the pink clusters nodding on the water at some distance from the bank. The wind, blowing in little whirling gusts, ruffled the waves. The distant Yellow Lily pads (Nymphæa advena) flapped strangely for an instant or two,—turning their great round leaves over on the water’s surface, and displaying their crimson linings.
I now devoted myself to solving the great problem of snaring the Lady’s-Thumbs of this deep-water species of Polygonum. They were just beyond my reach, and I was obliged to drag up an old weather-worn, decaying pine, and float it out to walk upon. With a staff in one hand and a willowy snare in the other, I ventured out upon the bridge as far as I dared to go. I managed after many a slip to snare off the blossoms and float them in to shore. On June 26th I was able to secure some of the flowers of Polygonum growing in the centre of Thompson’s Pond, and found the two plants identical.
There are seventy-one species of this genus in North America, and about two hundred reported for the world. The above species, found in our lakes and ponds, is not rare, yet it is seldom observed in clear water. It was for me a new discovery for this region.
I was pretty well soaked after wading around these muddy shores, and not a little tired with the planning and building of bridges. I rested, therefore, on the hillside among the ferns, watching the daring devil’s-darning-needles—dragon-flies—come and go about my head. The name of darning-needle is still full of alarm to me, but the dragon-fly is harmless both in name and nature. Bees were busy humming at their duty, frogs were croaking the hours away, and the wind was still flapping the ancient pads of Nymphæa, while low, sweet tones through the forest crept. I could have fallen fast asleep here beneath these shades, yet I was far from home, and my boots were heavy and wet.
I made slow progress homeward to-day, with my heavy foot-gear and vasculum. I followed the dusty road to the Ball Farm gate. Here I turned into the old grassy way which had been in use before the present road was built near Thompson’s Brook. One can scarcely trace a track of the traffic of the past years in the present sod. The stone walls on either side of the lane are hidden with woodbine and red-raspberry bushes. Beside this path towers a great pine tree. I had promised myself a long rest beneath this shade, and gladly threw down my pack, and made a pillow of my tin can.
The fleecy clouds rolled across the infinite blue over my head, and a sense of relaxation and solitude stole over me. I must have fallen asleep, and I was suddenly aroused by the cawing of crows that were circling above me,—wondering perhaps whether Major and I were in a proper condition for their approach.
I was more tired after my rest than before, and I began to question, as many of my neighbors had done, the wisdom and profit of my bog-trotting. Well, my neighbors see no value in pitcher-plants and sundew. They say there is no money in them, and pity me for investing my time as I do. Neither do I understand why the farmer chooses to cultivate squash rather than follow some other occupation. It is his business to cultivate squash as it is my business to cultivate sundew. Some crops are failures in their monetary returns,—others in their yield of pleasure. As many wish money only to procure pleasure, if pleasure can be procured without it, why not take the easy way? The end is the same without the worry of the squash-bugs, and the weeding and hilling of the crop,—to say nothing of selling the fruit. The sundew plant would die were it to exchange its habitat for that of the squash.
Giving myself a shake, I arose and again started on my way. Once through the fence, I nailed fast the board I had loosened, and climbed up to the road through the blackberry briars.
I did not make another journey for a week or more. On June 10th, I ventured through the Glen of Comus to see the colony of the two hundred Moccasins. An albino—a pure white flower of Cypripedium acaule—was found recently by a lad in the district. He reports that he collected it amid a group of thirteen Pink Moccasin-Flowers, apparently the only pale one of the sisters.
Upon close examination of the structural parts of the albino, I observed that the left anther had not developed at all. It appeared blasted in embryo, and now looked like a brown smeared spot. The sepals and lateral petals were of a rich chrome yellow. The dainty labellum was pure white, of a pearl-like texture in the veining, and tinged with chrome on the crest of the moccasin. It was indeed a strange, beautiful flower.
I had always supposed that an albino of any species of orchid was pure white throughout its parts, and was therefore surprised to find the sepals and side petals yellow.
Albinos of this species have been collected in this district for four seasons. A colony, found near the schoolhouse, produced six white blossoms. The children, calling them faded Pink Moccasins, believed them to have lost their color after maturing. It appears from its persistence that the variety is permanent, and not the freak of a season. The abnormal anther may be present in all albinos. If so, it is evident that evolution is taking place in the Pink Moccasin-Flower through the suppression of one anther in genus Cypripedium, which possesses two, while all other genera of the family have but one anther.
The colony of the Showy Lady’s Slipper in Rattlesnake Swamp, producing forty-two blossoms in 1899, unfolded but fifteen flowers this season. For reasons unknown to me, it was not a good year for Cypripediums.
XII — Saucy Jays and Polypores
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
Milton, Il Penseroso.
I followed down one of those sun-dried brook beds that melting snows from the hillsides had eroded during past ages. It proved a short journey to the Glen of Comus, descending northward toward Ball Brook in the vale below. I had not proceeded far when I discovered what at first sight seemed a robin’s nest, built high in the branches of the American Hornbeam,—or, as it is locally known, the Iron-Wood tree (Carpinus Caroliniana). It is the only American species of this genus in the Birch Family. Several saplings stood about fifteen feet high, two having so interlaced their branches as to form a strong crotch about eight feet from the ground. The nest was fashioned roughly, built of small sticks, and fastened in the crotch-like loft of these trees. Looking more closely, I perceived the nest was a third larger than the robin’s, and was not plastered with mud. I soon discovered that the bird upon the nest had blue tail feathers and a jaunty cadet top-knot, as she peeped over the edge of the nest at me. This was, then, the saucy jay’s nest, so seldom found about these woods. She became disturbed, and flew off down the ravine. I managed to climb up the trees high enough to determine that the eggs were still unhatched.
The glen was dark here, and Major and I sat in the dim light beneath the shadows of this dense underwood. The jays began in chorus to scream unmercifully. They were distressed by Major’s presence, and flew saucily above his head. He scarcely knew what to make of it all,—not being a bird-dog,—and sat demurely looking at me and wagging his tail. Finally, tired of their own screaming, the jays proceeded down through the intricate windings of the hollow, and we heard their mutterings at a distance,—a pleasant wild sound through these forests.
I looked carefully over the iron-wood trees. They are not uncommon hereabout. Their trunks are ridged and muscular in appearance. These trees are in fact very strong, possessing the endurance of the oak and beech. They never attain great height,—from fifteen to forty feet or so,—but the weight of their wood to the cubic foot is forty to fifty pounds.
Many decaying logs of yellow birch and pine stumps were scattered along the brook bed. They were covered with beautiful mosses and fungi. The shelf-like growth, known as Polypores, was abundant on these trees. There are several varieties of this group of fungi here. The larger kind often attains a diameter from six inches to three or four feet, in a semicircle, according to age. It is a hard, leathery or cork-like growth full of pores, the top of the shelf seeming like a slanting roof, grained and striated as it were, with colored slates of gray and brown. This fungus seeks no special species of decayed tree, as I find it clinging to several,—the yellow and white birch, and hemlock logs and stumps.
The underside of Polypores is of a soft ashes-of-roses hue when fresh, later becoming a dull gray-brown. If one looks sharply at the under surface, even with the naked eye, he will observe little pores no larger than pin-points. Under the magnifying-glass, these appear like giant honeycomb cells. Cutting through a section of the shelf, we find that these pores penetrate the heart of the shelf. In these little pore-like cells, the spores or seeds are borne, more hidden even than those of the Fern Family.
The name Polypores originated from these minute pores. Puff-balls or toadstools spring up during a night in pastures or corners in rich wood. But the Polypores are slow in growth.
A beautiful species of the Polypores is worshipped by the natives in Guinea. I also have found and worshipped several specimens of great beauty. I discovered a very large shelf on a decaying hemlock stump in Rattlesnake Swamp, which I severed carefully with a woodsaw, removing enough of the stump to show its attachment to the tree.
As I passed through the glen to-day, I found many large and small specimens of this fungus, whose growth demands a humid atmosphere. The fact that decay does not take place rapidly save in a damp, warm wood, naturally proves that Polypores require such shades as these in which to develop.
Tall brakes rose luxuriantly four feet high or more. The atmosphere was heavy, and the sphagnum was steaming wherever the sunshine poured through the leaves upon it. A certain fragrance of the earth rose up from the swamp and met me everywhere,—a mingled perfume as of violets and Cypripediums. I explored about the pools to the left, finding many flowers in bloom.
Upon a miniature island in the centre of the pool grew the tall spikes of the Queen Moccasin-Flower, in bud. Turning to the south, under the hill among the rocks, is the fountain of the glen, which freshens the heart of the flowers beyond. Surely these are the haunts of thrushes, as well as the home of the queen of the orchids. The Golden Moccasin-Flowers peeped out from beneath the shades of ferns, and sprinkled the mellow glooms with jewels, like footsteps of sunshine left by the wood-nymphs of old.
The footprints of the woodman and the clips from his axe are yet unknown in this Glen of Comus. This is the sanctuary of the gods of old, and these the altars beneath the roofless temples, where man may worship still the deities of Nature. The wood-thrush’s song rings through these cathedral aisles:
“Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony.”43
I crept quietly through all these winding halls, which I had never before explored. Near the northern portal of the glen stood a white birch, branchless, and mellow in decay, yet beautifully robed with delicate Butterfly Polypores of a velvety-purplish hue. Turning at the junction of the streams, I frightened up the oven-bird, the golden-crowned thrush. She moaned and fluttered away, as though in distress, dropping her wings and hiding among the ferns. I searched about for her nest, and soon found it low upon the ground. Her cottage door was open to the south, revealing five pinkish eggs mottled with purple. The nest was hooded,—thatched, as it were, like an Indian’s wigwam, with leaves, twigs, ferns, and mosses,—so like the ground itself that I nearly walked upon it.
We have five true thrushes of genus Turdus in the Atlantic Region—the Veery, Wood-Thrush, and Hermit-Thrush are found in this immediate region. They are our peerless woodland songsters, coming about May 1st, and often lingering until September 15th. The Veery winters in Central America, and flies as far north as Newfoundland to nest in summer. Like the Hermit-Thrush, it builds its nest on the ground. The Veery has a mysterious strain likened often to an Æolian harp; the Wood-Thrush rings like the chimes of vesper bells, and the Hermit-Thrush has the deepest note of all, rolling like “anthems clear” through the dim woods. Burroughs translates its song thus: “O spheral, spheral! O holy, holy!”
My delight was complete, since I had found two rare birds’ nests within an hour,—those of the melancholy songster and the screaming jay. Four days later I visited both of these nests to see the birdlings. The mother jay was not at home, so I did not distress her when I climbed up to peep at the homely babies. I passed on down to the deeper glen to the oven-bird’s wigwam. She too was absent. Five little bald heads and five wide-gaping mouths were revealed as I drew near the nest, bespeaking the necessity of a thrifty mother to search for food to satisfy their needs. I touched their little heads, then drew back and waited almost an hour for the return of the mother bird, hoping to see the feeding of the young. But she was either shy or belated, and did not appear.