In New England Fields and Woods

Part 1

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By Rowland E. Robinson

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IN NEW ENGLAND FIELDS AND WOODS. 16mo, $1.25.

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VERMONT: A Study of Independence. In American Commonwealths Series. With Map. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, BOSTON AND NEW YORK.

In New England Fields and Woods

By Rowland E. Robinson

Boston and New York Houghton, Mifflin and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge

Copyright, 1896, BY ROWLAND E. ROBINSON.

All rights reserved.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

The weather and the changes of the seasons are such common and convenient topics that one need not apologize for talking about them, though he says nothing new.

Still less need one make an apology if he becomes garrulous in relation to scenes which are now hidden from him by a curtain of darkness, or concerning some humble acquaintances with whom he was once on familiar terms, but who now and hereafter can only be memories, though they are yet near him and he may still hear their voices.

So without excuse I offer this collection of sketches, which with a few exceptions were first published in the columns of "Forest and Stream." R. E. R.

CONTENTS

I. THE NAMELESS SEASON II. MARCH DAYS III. THE HOME FIRESIDE IV. THE CROW V. THE MINK VI. APRIL DAYS VII. THE WOODCHUCK VIII. THE CHIPMUNK IX. SPRING SHOOTING X. THE GARTER-SNAKE XI. THE TOAD XII. MAY DAYS XIII. THE BOBOLINK XIV. THE GOLDEN-WINGED WOODPECKER XV. JUNE DAYS XVI. THE BULLFROG XVII. THE ANGLER XVIII. FARMERS AND FIELD SPORTS XIX. TO A TRESPASS SIGN XX. A GENTLE SPORTSMAN XXI. JULY DAYS XXII. CAMPING OUT XXIII. THE CAMP-FIRE XXIV. A RAINY DAY IN CAMP XXV. AUGUST DAYS XXVI. A VOYAGE IN THE DARK XXVII. THE SUMMER CAMP-FIRE XXVIII. THE RACCOON XXIX. THE RELUCTANT CAMP-FIRE XXX. SEPTEMBER DAYS XXXI. A PLEA FOR THE UNPROTECTED XXXII. THE SKUNK XXXIII. A CAMP-FIRE RUN WILD XXXIV. THE DEAD CAMP-FIRE XXXV. OCTOBER DAYS XXXVI. A COMMON EXPERIENCE XXXVII. THE RED SQUIRREL XXXVIII. THE RUFFED GROUSE XXXIX. TWO SHOTS XL. NOVEMBER DAYS XLI. THE MUSKRAT XLII. NOVEMBER VOICES XLIII. THANKSGIVING XLIV. DECEMBER DAYS XLV. WINTER VOICES XLVI. THE VARYING HARE XLVII. THE WINTER CAMP-FIRE XLVIII. JANUARY DAYS XLIX. A NEW ENGLAND WOODPILE L. A CENTURY OF EXTERMINATION LI. THE PERSISTENCY OF PESTS LII. THE WEASEL LIII. FEBRUARY DAYS LIV. THE FOX LV. AN ICE-STORM LVI. SPARE THE TREES LVII. THE CHICKADEE

IN NEW ENGLAND FIELDS AND WOODS

THE NAMELESS SEASON

In the March page of our almanac, opposite the 20th of the month we find the bold assertion, "Now spring begins;" but in the northern part of New England, for which this almanac was especially compiled, the weather does not bear out the statement.

The snow may be gone from the fields except in grimy drifts, in hollows and along fences and woodsides; but there is scarcely a sign of spring in the nakedness of pasture, meadow, and ploughed land, now more dreary in the dun desolation of lifeless grass, debris of stacks, and black furrows than when the first snow covered the lingering greenness of December.

It is quite as likely that the open lands are still under the worn and dusty blanket of snow, smirched with all the litter cast upon it by cross-lot-faring teams, and wintry winds blowing for months from every quarter. The same untidiness pervades all outdoors. We could never believe that so many odds and ends could have been thrown out of doors helter-skelter, in three months of ordinary life, till the proof confronts us on the surface of the subsiding snow or lies stranded on the bare earth. The wind comes with an icier breath from the wintrier north, and yet blows untempered from the south, over fields by turns frozen and sodden, through which the swollen brooks rush in yellow torrents with sullen monotonous complaint.

One may get more comfort in the woods, though the snow still lies deep in their shelter; for here may be found the sugar-maker's camp, with its mixed odors of pungent smoke and saccharine steam, its wide environment of dripping spouts and tinkling tin buckets, signs that at last the pulse of the trees is stirred by a subtle promise of returning spring.

Part 2

The coarse-grained snow is strewn thickly with shards of bark that the trees have sloughed in their long hibernation, with shreds and tatters of their tempest-torn branches. But all this litter does not offend the eye nor look out of place, like that which is scattered in fields and about homesteads. When this three months' downfall of fragments sinks to the carpet of flattened leaves, it will be at one with it, an inwoven pattern, as comely as the shifting mesh of browner shadows that trunks and branches weave between the splashes of sunshine. Among these is a garnishment of green moss patches and fronds of perennial ferns which tell of life that the stress of winter could not overcome. One may discover, amid the purple lobes of the squirrelcup leaves, downy buds that promise blossoms, and others, callower, but of like promise, under the rusty links of the arbutus chain.

One hears the resonant call of a woodpecker rattled out on a seasoned branch or hollow stub, and may catch the muffled beat of the partridge's drum, silent since the dreamy days of Indian summer, now throbbing again in slow and accelerated pulsations of evasive sound through the unroofed arches of the woodlands. And one may hear, wondering where the poor vagrants find food and water, the wild clangor of the geese trumpeting their aerial northward march, and the quick whistle of the wild duck's pinions,--hear the carol of an untimely bluebird and the disconsolate yelp of a robin; but yet it is not spring.

Presently comes a great downfall of snow, making the earth beautiful again with a whiteness outshining that of the winter that is past. The damp flakes cling to every surface, and clothe wall, fence and tree, field and forest, with a more radiant mantle than the dusty snow and slanted sunshine of winter gave them.

There is nothing hopeful of spring but a few meagre signs, and the tradition that spring has always come heretofore.

It is not winter, it is not spring, but a season with an individuality as marked as either, yet without a name.

MARCH DAYS

Back and forth across the land, in swift and sudden alternation, the March winds toss days of bitter cold and days of genial warmth, now out of the eternal winter of the north, now from the endless summer of the tropics.

Repeated thawing and freezing has given the snow a coarse grain. It is like a mass of fine hailstones and with no hint of the soft and feathery flakes that wavered down like white blossoms shed from the unseen bloom of some far-off upper world and that silently transformed the unseemliness of the black and tawny earth into the beauty of immaculate purity.

One day, when the wind breathes from the south a continuous breath of warmth, your feet sink into this later coarseness come of its base earthly association, with a grinding slump, as in loose wet sand, so deep, perhaps, that your tracks are gray puddles, marking your toilsome way.

As you wallow on, or perch for a moment's rest on a naked fence-top among the smirched drifts, you envy the crows faring so easily along their aerial paths above you. How pleasant are the voices of these returning exiles, not enemies now, but friendly messengers, bringing tidings of spring. You do not begrudge them the meagre feasts they find, the frozen apple still hanging, brown and wrinkled, in the bare orchard, or the winter-killed youngling of flock or herd, cast forth upon a dunghill, and which discovered, one generous vagabond calls all his black comrades to partake of.

Watching them as they lag across the sky, yet swifter than the white clouds drift above them, you presently note that these stand still, as you may verify by their blue shadows on the snow, lying motionless, with the palpitating shadows of the crows plunging into them on this side, then, lost for an instant in the blue obscurity, then, emerging on that side with the same untiring beat of shadowy wings. A puff of wind comes out of the north, followed by an angry gust, and then a howling wintry blast that the crows stagger against in labored flight as they make for the shelter of the woods.

You, too, toil to shelter and fireside warmth, and are thankful to be out of the biting wind and the treacherous footing. The change has come so suddenly that the moist, grainy snow is frozen before it has time to leach, and in a little while gives you a surface most delightful to walk upon, and shortens distances to half what they were. It has lost its first pure whiteness wherewith no other whiteness can compare, but it is yet beyond all things else, and in the sunlight dazzles you with a broad glare and innumerable scintillating points of light, as intense as the sun itself.

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