Part 20

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.

This is a rare, shy orchid found in company with the Rose Pogonia and the Grass-Pink in the heart of sphagnous swamps.]

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.