Part 23

I followed the Canadensis Brook to the edge of the Swamp of Oracles, crossing Ball Brook at the junction of these streams. I penetrated where the rarer orchids dwell, and where few children dare to travel. I was still too early for the Showy Queen Moccasin-Flower, but on time for the large and the small golden slippers, as well as the Pink Acaule—that humble two-leaved Cypripedium which, as a rule, only seeks the dryer edges of the swamps. The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flowers were beginning to fade and turn brown. The swamp was luxuriant in its growth of ferns and vines and foliage. Dogwood trees are very scarce here, but the azaleas, mountain laurel, or calico-bush, and the lambkill flowers make up for the missing snowy blossoms.

In the heart of the swamp I was attracted by an uprooted tree, about whose stump stagnant water had settled, now reflecting the shadows and sunshine as a miniature lake. Several baby deer-mice were in the pool. Many were dead, and the live ones were swimming about in desperation. I counted six or seven in all. I fished them out, and placed them on the sun-dried moss, which covered the roots of the turnover, forming little islands in the lake. But these white-faced, pink-eyed little creatures were no safer after my rescue than before; for soon, in their nervous fright, they crawled off the mossy islands, and were still swimming when—not wishing to witness the end—I went away. It was one of the many mid-forest tragedies which Nature seems to plan with so little philosophy, and which I knew I could not prevent. Had I removed them from the water again and placed them at a distance from the mud-hole over which they were born, certain starvation would have awaited them. In the topmost parts of the overturned stump, amid the roots and peat, a pile of forest leaves was rudely huddled, forming the deer-mouse mansion, hidden from the crawling turtles and creeping snakes, as well as from the hawks and owls in the trees above. There are many natural causes of destruction for such animals in the woods. Usually I have found the deer-mouse’s nest in low thorn-apple bushes, at least six feet above the ground, but always near the borders of streams. Such nests at first remind one of a last year’s bird-nest filled with drifted autumn leaves, until the little wildwood albinos are discovered.

With my vasculum packed full of perfect blossoms, I started homeward, following the Pownal Centre road westward, in order to have a look at the Ram’s-Head Cypripedium. On the edge of the marsh, as usual I found the two hundred unfolding buds of the Pink Moccasins (Cypripedium acaule).

Near the Amidon Meadows, I startled up two mother partridges and their broods—the Ruffled Grouse (Bonasa umbellus), so prolific in these woods. The old hens, fluttering and sputtering, limped away with their wings drooping, and continued to warn their chickens to hide. The little speckled fellows were soon lost sight of beneath the dead leaves at my feet. They ceased to peep, and being of the colors of the leaves, I hardly dared to advance for fear of stepping upon them. I sat down upon a stone by a tree, and waited for the return of the wild hens. Before long, I heard a rustling of leaves in the distance, and a clucking and calling as of a tame hen summoning her chickens to feed upon a worm. The little brown balls began—one, three, then a dozen, all at once to take their heads from under the leaves, and they ran like streaks of lightning. The mother partridge came so near, unawares, that I saw the color of her eyes. Finally, discovering me, she in terror signalled again, much as the tame hen does in real or fancied danger. The little grouse hid again, some of them putting their heads under leaves, while the body was wholly exposed.

On June 8th I visited Rattlesnake Swamp. Pink Moccasin-Flowers and late blossoms of Painted Trillium were abundant under the hemlocks along the slopes of the Domelet.

On June 10th I heard of a colony of albinos or white Cypripedium acaule reported on the Rabbit Plain north of the Swamp of Oracles. In searching unsuccessfully for it, I frightened up an old mother whippoorwill. She feigned broken wings, attempting to distract my attention from her two unprotected yellow eggs upon the leaves at my feet. Both partridges and whippoorwills remain on their nests until almost stepped upon, as a rule, believing that they are concealed because of their dead-leaf ground-coloring. The old whippoorwill perched on some distant pine logs, and moaned piteously while I looked at her eggs. Her great round, sad eyes distressed me, while she gave forth a sighing sound. I broke down a small tree over the nest and near the path as I left, hung my linen collar on a tree, marking the line of entrance for another day.

Four days later I returned, and found two little round balls of yellow down, just out of their shells which were lying near. Creeping up softly within touch of the mother, I had a chance of observing her carefully. She had no shelter or protection but a leaf of the False Lily-of-the-Valley (Unifolium Canadense) which covered her eyes and part of her head. She never stirred a feather nor blinked either of her round brown eyes. Close to the earth like the leaves themselves, pressed down with winter snows, it was difficult to distinguish her feathers from them. I finally frightened her from the spot. The poor little birds heard their mother’s cry of alarm, and, babes as they were, instinctively understood it all, opening their dreamy sad eyes, and trying to hide away. Nest they had none, and rolled about over the leaves. I visited these birdlings so often, in my eagerness to make observations, that the mother finally left her young. One cold night, finding them almost freezing and starving, I took them home. They did not live more than a week, however, on account of my ignorance as to what food to give them. During this time they became very tame and dependent upon my care, rejoicing strangely when I came near.

The Southern Chuck-Will’s-Widow, a species closely allied to our Whippoorwill, builds no nest, but is said to move her eggs and young, in her large mouth, from place to place, wherever she may choose to abide. It would be well if Nature had thus taught our Northern Whippoorwills.

I continued to visit the Bogs of Etchowog, collecting azalea, iris, and the other flowers in their turn. In circling the Pownal Pond one day, I ran upon a Water Thrush (Selurus noveboracensis) and her brood of five little foolish, half-grown thrushlings. The awkward birds ran peeping across my path, not in the least afraid. I caught them all, and placed three in my hat, leaving two for consolation to the mother, while I hurried home to obtain a photograph of my prizes. But I was not able to reconcile them to their new conditions and food so easily as I had domesticated my whippoorwills. As soon as I had secured a negative, I returned them, nearly famished, to the mother, who was running along the shore of the pond, tipping-up her tail like the wagtail. These birds are swift in flight, skimming near the water, whistling as it were, while they catch insects. Their nest is very difficult to find, being as a rule among the roots of trees along the shores of ponds or streams in damp woods. I frequently observe these birds walking in the stony brook flowing down from Cold Spring in Chalk Pond region, as well as about the shores of Aurora’s Lake in North Adams.

The hillside clearings in this region are the haunts of woodchucks (Arctomys monax). Many holes show where they have burrowed. Usually these ground-pigs seek for their habitations clover and bean fields, which furnish them provender. Exploring the dooryard of the woodchuck, I found several plants of the Small Round-Leaved Orchis maturing their seed-capsules. Not every wild pig’s garden bears this evidence of æstheticism.

The fertilization of these strange Round-Leaved Habenarias is unique. The anther is eager to give up its pollinia. The adhesive masses shot from their cells when I touched them, and fastened to the head of my hat-pin. When placed near the viscid surface of the stigma, they were drawn forcefully from it, thus impregnating the ovules in the ovary. These masses of pollinia, once glued upon the thigh of an insect, would remain there until deposited on the attractive stigma of their proper species.

On my next excursion to the Bogs of Etchowog, I found nothing new, save six spikes of the Small Purple-Fringed Orchis in bud. I was too early for Pogonias and Limodorums, which are fast disappearing from this swamp. The colony of Fragrant Yellow Moccasin-Flowers, in the Glen of Comus, was photographed one morning while the sunshine struggled in through the leaves, lighting up the flowers in this labyrinth of tropical foliage. They were fragrant in the highest degree—a true form of Cypripedium parviflorum, with a slight variegated effect of carmine coloring on the tips of the slippers. This is the first instance of such spots of crimson on the exterior observed by me. Near this group stands also a larger colony of Cypripedium hirsutum seedling plants. Several had bloomed this season. One slipper had been destroyed by what appeared to be a snail. Nothing of the flower remained but the column, with the adhering anthers and stigmatic lobes. The sepals and petals, including the labellum, were eaten away. The snail was still clinging to the column, and must have found some delicate food in the juices of such golden petals to cause him to tear the flower apart. He may, however, have fertilized the species in the act; yet the destruction of its parts would have weakened the possible chances of the seed-capsule maturing properly.

“There’s a haunt I would lead you to, Home of the gossamer and the dew. Where, from out of the murky loam, Springs the sacred flower of the gnome.”

CLINTON SCOLLARD.]

In the bend of Ball Brook, amid the ferns, the Tall Northern Green Orchis (Habenaria hyperborea) blooms, its seeds having floated down here from the seed-capsules ripening on plants bordering the stream above.

Wild Ginger-Root (Asarum Canadense) grows abundantly along the sphagnous edges of the Swamp of Oracles. This plant produces bell-shaped blossoms, which invariably turn downward, hiding in the soft soil beneath the leaves. Its creeping roots are of a spicy, ginger-like flavor. The leaves—kidney-shaped—appear as small burdocks at a distance. The generic name is very obscure, although the plant was known to the early Greeks, and later known in Latin as Asarum, Nardus rustica, and Perpensa. Macer called it Vulgago, while it was known in England and Germany in 1578 as Asarabacca, Folefoot, and Hazlewort. It was used by the ancients as an antidote for venomous serpent bites, sciatica, difficult respiration, and various other diseases.

On June 15th I made my farewell journey to Etchowog. Turning into the thicket, east of the Barber Mill, I followed a path as far as possible, and then waded through sphagnum into a meadow-like clearing of three acres or more, concealed in the deepest of solitude. It was closed in on all sides by low alders, willows, and beautiful green spires of tamarack-trees. The sphagnum was many feet deep, spangled with flowers; and rising above the swamp grasses were iris blades and buckbean leaves. It was a little world whose limitations were the infinite blues above, the depths of moss below, and the circling green-fringed forest trees. The sunshine knew the field, and poured in upon it. I was obliged to wade slowly over the quaking sphagnum, assisted by pine-slabs, strewn about as stepping blocks.

The oblong green leaves of the rare Buckbeans (Menyanthes trifoliata)—found also in the Cranberry Bogs, north of Pownal Pond—were here thickly entangled over the greater area of the meadow. A few spikes still were in blossom, although the greater portion were adorned with the bullet-like glossy, smooth seed-pods. Later in the season they would slowly ripen, and throw thousands of seeds broadcast over the sphagnous field. It is evident that this plant—so infrequent in its general distribution—is most productive of its own seeds in its chosen haunts. This species is a sister genus of the Blue-Fringed Gentians, abundant along the edges of these bogs during October. Gentians derived their generic name from King Gentius of Illyria, who first used them in medicine.

The Floating-Heart (Limnanthemum lacunosum), closely allied to the Buckbeans, grows also in our marshy pools, the leaves being heart-shaped, instead of oblong as those of Menyanthes.

In the middle of this swamp an island arose, over which grew willow bushes and tamarack spires, interspersed by grape-vines. I crawled through the bushes without finding a flower worthy of description. Surrounding the edges of this island, tall spikes of the Fragrant Northern Orchis (Habenaria dilatata) rose above the water-soaked sphagnum. I was able to reach a few of them, then sought the terra firma of the tangled swamp beyond. I ran great risk, since I was forced to wade the soaking bogs where the cat-tail flags were dense. I managed to jump from hummock to hummock, not waiting for the grass to grow beneath my feet. Beyond I struggled through the low tangled trees covered with the Wild Frost Grape-Vines or Possum-Grape (Vitis cordifolia), amid tamaracks, swamp-maples, poison-sumach and ivy-vines. I observed many enormous colonies of Pitcher Plants, still in bloom in the shades. Finally I reached the muddy bank of Ball Brook, ragged, dirty, and tired. I found the stream impassable because of the mud. Even old Major had sense enough not to go too near the stream. I was forced to make my way, as well as possible, back to the mill, among piles of old tinware that had been accumulating since the early Revolutionary days of 1777.

Once out of this place, it was a pleasure to enter the open Pitcher Plant Meadow, where I searched for Pogonias and Limodorums without success. I circled about the swamp and turned away from it at the north, climbing over the hill above the Washon Bridge, toward Cranberry Swamp. Blue jays were screaming loudly, and catbirds were mewing in the bushes near the pools. I found the path near the pond, which led through luxuriant ferns to the shades of pines beyond. Here the ground was carpeted with fragrant needles and cones. Bull-frogs croaked hoarsely in the swamp beneath the lily-pads, and over the hillside crept yards of the evergreens known as Ground-Pine (Lycopodium obscurum) and Club-Moss (Lycopodium Selago), known to the Greeks as Wolf’s-Claw. This moss takes hold of the earth with its small roots, like the claws of a wolf.

This corner of Etchowog was the home of the mosquito, and I was obliged to use a bough of sweet-fern to keep the pests from devouring me.

“Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing, Does murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about, ... Thou’rt welcome to the town—but why come here?”

White Oaks and Gregor Rocks

I can recall to mind the stillest summer hours, in which the grasshopper sings over the mulleins, and there is a valor in that time the bare memory of which is armor that can laugh at any blow of fortune.—THOREAU, Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers.

I had been on the trail for white Moccasin-Flowers for years; and on June 16th a lad of White Oaks Valley promised to guide me to the Forks of Broad Brook, and show me a colony of absolutely White Lady’s Slippers. We arrived at the junction of the Field Brook—where it crosses the White Oaks Road near Richmond’s Farm—and turned our horse’s head through the fields eastward along the rude loggers’ path travelled in winter. We were obliged to cross fields of oats and potato vines in order to arrive on the summit of these rounded hills. Here, amid the white birches and sweet-fern bushes, we fastened our horse. Among these ferns and briars I discovered five enormous orange-yellow mushrooms, which, apparently, were of recent growth. They were gorgeous to behold, and smelled like new-made bread, yet they were extremely poisonous. They were, upon examination, found to spring from a socket, above which a ring encircled the stalk. This is characteristic of genus Amanita of this form of fungus. This poisonous species with some susceptible people produces serious results if only handled, or if its fragrance is inhaled. I collected three specimens, however, and put them in my vasculum.

We now descended the slopes eastward leading to the Wilsey Lot, where we found a road leading up through Broad Brook Valley to the Forks. The path was bordered with tall, luxuriant brakes at least four feet high. They were covered with dew, and brushing against them, we became wet through. My guide was an alert observer, and darting off here and there into the ravine, he brought forth gay blossoms of the Showy Queen of the Moccasin-Flowers. As we proceeded, we came to a bend of the brook and followed along high ledges of rock, where we crossed to the right over the boulder-filled stream. A quarter of a mile more brought us to another bend in the brook, and here we re-crossed, and at the left hand abruptly climbed the hillside in the sphagnous bed of a rivulet. Here, my guide said, were the Pure White Moccasin-Flowers. They proved to be pale pink blossoms of the Showy Reginæ, however, and not, as I had hoped, the rarer Cypripedium candidum, or even the albinos of Cypripedium reginæ.

It is said that in a swamp near the Forks both of the Yellow Moccasin-Flowers bloom. American Mountain Laurel, the beautiful Calico-bush, was in full bloom hereabout, so the day was not without some new treasure found.