Riverby

Part 1

+---------------------------------------------------------------+ | Books by John Burroughs. | | | | WORKS. Each volume, 16mo, gilt top, $1.25; the set, 11 vols., | | uniform, $13.75; half calf, gilt top, $27.50; half polished | | morocco, $30.25. | | | | WAKE-ROBIN. | | WINTER SUNSHINE. | | LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY. | | FRESH FIELDS. | | INDOOR STUDIES. | | BIRDS AND POETS, with Other Papers. | | PEPACTON, and Other Sketches. | | SIGNS AND SEASONS. | | RIVERBY. | | WHITMAN: A STUDY. | | THE LIGHT OF DAY: Religious Discussions and | | Criticisms from the Standpoint of a Naturalist. | | | | A YEAR IN THE FIELDS. Selections appropriate to each season | | of the year, from the writings of John Burroughs. Illustrated | | from Photographs by CLIFTON JOHNSON. Uniform with | | the Riverside Edition of Burroughs's works. 12mo, $1.50. | | | | WHITMAN: A Study. Riverside Edition. 12mo, $1.50, net. | | | | THE LIGHT OF DAY: Religious Discussions and Criticisms from | | the Standpoint of a Naturalist. Riverside Edition. 12mo, | | $1.50, net. | | | | WINTER SUNSHINE. Cambridge Classics Series. Crown 8vo, | | $1.00. | | | | WAKE-ROBIN. Riverside Aldine Series. 16mo, $1.00. | | | | SQUIRRELS AND OTHER FUR-BEARERS. Illustrated. Square 12mo, | | $1.00. | | | | HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. | +---------------------------------------------------------------+

RIVERBY

JOHN BURROUGHS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge

Copyright, 1894, 1895, BY JOHN BURROUGHS.

All rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.

PREFATORY NOTE

I have often said to myself, "Why should not one name his books as he names his children, arbitrarily, and let the name come to mean much or little, as the case may be?" In the case of the present volume—probably my last collection of Out-of-door Papers—I have taken this course, and have given to the book the name of my place here on the Hudson, "Riverby," by the river, where the sketches were written, and where for so many years I have been an interested spectator of the life of nature, as, with the changing seasons, it has ebbed and flowed past my door.

J. B.

CONTENTS

PAGE I. AMONG THE WILD-FLOWERS 1

II. THE HEART OF THE SOUTHERN CATSKILLS 33

III. BIRDS' EGGS 61

IV. BIRD COURTSHIP 77

V. NOTES FROM THE PRAIRIE 87

VI. EYE-BEAMS 111

VII. A YOUNG MARSH HAWK 133

VIII. THE CHIPMUNK 145

IX. SPRING JOTTINGS 155

X. GLIMPSES OF WILD LIFE 171

XI. A LIFE OF FEAR 193

XII. LOVERS OF NATURE 203

XIII. A TASTE OF KENTUCKY BLUE-GRASS 221

XIV. IN MAMMOTH CAVE 241

XV. HASTY OBSERVATION 251

XVI. BIRD LIFE IN AN OLD APPLE-TREE 271

XVII. THE WAYS OF SPORTSMEN 277

Part 2

XVIII. TALKS WITH YOUNG OBSERVERS 283

INDEX 317

RIVERBY

AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS

Nearly every season I make the acquaintance of one or more new flowers. It takes years to exhaust the botanical treasures of any one considerable neighborhood, unless one makes a dead set at it, like an herbalist. One likes to have his floral acquaintances come to him easily and naturally, like his other friends. Some pleasant occasion should bring you together. You meet in a walk, or touch elbows on a picnic under a tree, or get acquainted on a fishing or camping-out expedition. What comes to you in the way of birds or flowers, while wooing only the large spirit of open-air nature, seems like special good fortune. At any rate, one does not want to bolt his botany, but rather to prolong the course. One likes to have something in reserve, something to be on the lookout for on his walks. I have never yet found the orchid called calypso, a large, variegated purple and yellow flower, Gray says, which grows in cold, wet woods and bogs,—very beautiful and very rare. Calypso, you know, was the nymph who fell in love with Ulysses and detained him seven years upon her island, and died of a broken heart after he left her. I have a keen desire to see her in her floral guise, reigning over some silent bog, or rising above the moss of some dark glen in the woods, and would gladly be the Ulysses to be detained at least a few hours by her.

I will describe her by the aid of Gray, so that if any of my readers come across her they may know what a rarity they have found. She may be looked for in cold, mossy, boggy places in our northern woods. You will see a low flower, somewhat like a lady's-slipper, that is, with an inflated sac-shaped lip; the petals and sepals much alike, rising and spreading; the color mingled purple and yellow; the stem, or scape, from three to five inches high, with but one leaf,—that one thin and slightly heart-shaped, with a stem which starts from a solid bulb. That is the nymph of our boggy solitudes, waiting to break her heart for any adventurous hero who may penetrate her domain.

Several of our harmless little wild flowers have been absurdly named out of the old mythologies: thus, Indian cucumber root, one of Thoreau's favorite flowers, is named after the sorceress Medea, and is called "medeola," because it was at one time thought to possess rare medicinal properties; and medicine and sorcery have always been more or less confounded in the opinion of mankind. It is a pretty and decorative sort of plant, with, when perfect, two stages or platforms of leaves, one above the other. You see a whorl of five or six leaves, a foot or more from the ground, which seems to bear a standard with another whorl of three leaves at the top of it. The small, colorless, recurved flowers shoot out from above this top whorl. The whole expression of the plant is singularly slender and graceful. Sometimes, probably the first year, it only attains to the first circle of leaves. This is the platform from which it will rear its flower column the next year. Its white, tuberous root is crisp and tender, and leaves in the mouth distinctly the taste of cucumber. Whether or not the Indians used it as a relish as we do the cucumber, I do not know.

Still another pretty flower that perpetuates the name of a Grecian nymph, a flower that was a new find to me a few summers ago, is the arethusa. Arethusa was one of the nymphs who attended Diana, and was by that goddess turned into a fountain, that she might escape the god of the river, Alpheus, who became desperately in love with her on seeing her at her bath. Our Arethusa is one of the prettiest of the orchids, and has been pursued through many a marsh and quaking bog by her lovers. She is a bright pink-purple flower an inch or more long, with the odor of sweet violets. The sepals and petals rise up and arch over the column, which we may call the heart of the flower, as if shielding it. In Plymouth County, Massachusetts, where the arethusa seems common, I have heard it called Indian pink.

But I was going to recount my new finds. One sprang up in the footsteps of that destroying angel, Dynamite. A new railroad cut across my tramping-ground, with its hordes of Italian laborers and its mountains of giant-powder, etc., was enough to banish all the gentler deities forever from the place. But it did not.

Scarcely had the earthquake passed when, walking at the base of a rocky cliff that had been partly blown away in the search for stone for two huge abutments that stood near by, I beheld the débris at the base of the cliff draped and festooned by one of our most beautiful foliage plants, and one I had long been on the lookout for, namely, the climbing fumitory. It was growing everywhere in the greatest profusion, affording, by its tenderness, delicacy, and grace, the most striking contrast to the destruction the black giant had wrought. The power that had smote the rock seemed to have called it into being. Probably the seeds had lain dormant in cracks and crevices for years, and when the catastrophe came, and they found themselves in new soil amid the wreck of the old order of things, they sprang into new life, and grew as if the world had been created anew for them, as in a sense it had. Certainly, they grew most luxuriantly, and never was the ruin wrought by powder veiled by more delicate, lace-like foliage.[5:1] The panicles of drooping, pale flesh-colored flowers heightened the effect of the whole. This plant is a regular climber; it has no extra appendages for that purpose, and does not wind, but climbs by means of its young leafstalks, which lay hold like tiny hands or hooks. The end of every branch is armed with a multitude of these baby hands. The flowers are pendent, and swing like ear jewels. They are slightly heart-shaped, and when examined closely look like little pockets made of crumpled silk, nearly white on the inside or under side, and pale purple on the side toward the light, and shirred up at the bottom. And pockets they are in quite a literal sense, for, though they fade, they do not fall, but become pockets full of seeds. The fumitory is a perpetual bloomer from July till killed by the autumn frosts.

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