THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 LAND OF THE LINGERING 
 SNOW 
 
 CHRONICLES OF A STROLLER 
 
 NEW ENGLAND 
 FROM JANUARY TO JUNE 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK BOLLES 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 }3n:ss, Cam Image 
 1893
 
 Copyright, 1891, 
 BY FRANK BOLLES. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mats., V. S. A, 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Uougbton & Co.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 
 
 NATURE IN ARMOR . . 
 
 12 
 A TEMPEST 
 
 THE SEA IN A SNOWSTORM 
 
 18 
 
 TWO VIEWS THROUGH WlNTER SUNSHINE ... 25 
 
 WAVERLEY OAKS AND BUSSEY HEMLOCKS . 
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRDS ....... 38 
 
 THE MINUTE-MAN IN A SNOWDRIFT .... 
 
 THE COMING OF THE BIRDS ...... 
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES .... 59 
 
 70 
 THE RENAISSANCE ....... 
 
 THE VESPER SONG OF THE WOODCOCK 
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT ...... 83 
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQUID ..... 
 
 A BIT OF COLOR ......... ] 
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PEGAN HILL ..... 
 
 WOOD DUCKS AND BLOODROOT ...... 122 
 
 A VOYAGE TO HEARD'S ISLAND ..... 13 
 
 A FOREST ANTHEM ..... ] 
 
 THE BITTERN'S LOVE SONG ...... 159 
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY ........ ] 
 
 ROCK MEADOW AT NIGHT ...... 
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW ..... 181 
 
 WACHUSETT 
 
 190 
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD .198 
 
 CHOCORUA . 
 
 208 
 
 535001 
 
 UBRARl
 
 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW. 
 
 SUNDAY, the eleventh day of the new year, 
 was what most people would call a good day to 
 stay in the house. The face of New England 
 winter was set. No smiling sky relieved its 
 grimness, no soft breeze promised a season of 
 relenting. The notes of the college bell were 
 muffled and the great quadrangle was deep with 
 snow, as I left Old Cambridge behind me and 
 sought the hills of Arlington three miles or 
 more to the north. Slowly climbing the 
 heights, after my car ride, I looked back at the., 
 world I had left. The sky was a mass of dull 
 gray clouds, with a copper -colored spot where 
 the sun was hiding. Boston and Cambridge lay 
 under a pall of smoke and dun-colored vapor. 
 The broken ridges from Belmont to the Middle- 
 sex Fells were buried deep in snow, the soft 
 whiteness of which was interrupted by patches 
 of dark pines, dotted with stiff cedars, or shaded
 
 2 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 by the delicate etching of birches and elms. 
 The air was in that condition which favors the 
 carriage of distant sounds. I heard the rumble 
 of trains on the Fitchburg, Massachusetts Cen- 
 tral and Albany railways on the one hand and 
 of those on the Northern roads on the other. 
 Now and then the tooting whistle of a train 
 sounded like the hooting of a mammoth owl. 
 
 Entering the woods, I found written upon the 
 snow the records of those who had travelled 
 there before me. A boy with his sled had been 
 across to a pond in the hollow. A dog had fol- 
 lowed him, running first to one side, then to the 
 other. Further on I struck another track. The 
 prints were smaller than the dog's, round, and 
 in a single line, spaced quite evenly, like those 
 of a fox. Somebody's cat had been hunting on 
 her own account. In an open space, bunches 
 of golden rod and asters had been pulled to 
 pieces, and all around their stalks the footprints 
 of small birds, perhaps goldfinches or redpolls, 
 were thick. Not far away the snow on an open 
 hillside was pencilled by the rising stems of 
 barberry bushes. From the pine woods to these 
 bushes numerous tiny paths led. The most 
 dainty feet had printed their story there. The 
 journeys seemed to have been made in dark- 
 ness, for the paths made queer curves, loops, 
 false starts into the open pasture and quick re-
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW. 3 
 
 turns to the woods. The barberry bushes had 
 been found, however, and were thoroughly en- 
 snared in the tracks. The mice which formed 
 them had made holes in the snow near the stems 
 of the bushes, and these holes led through long 
 tunnels down to the ground and possibly into it. 
 Among the pitch pines, old orchards, and chest- 
 nut trees squirrel tracks were countless. Most 
 of them were those of the red squirrel, but in 
 deeper woods I found records of gray squirrels 
 as well. Along frozen brooks, where alders, 
 willows, privet, and rosebushes were thick, the 
 small brown rabbits had been feeding and pay- 
 ing moonlight visits to each other. In an or- 
 chard I found a place where a crow had alighted 
 and marched about with long strides. Most in- 
 teresting of all were the hurried tracks of a 
 flock of birds which had been feeding on bar- 
 berries, juniper and privet berries. They had 
 been disturbed by a dog and had skurried 
 through the thicket, their sharp toes printing 
 innumerable " crow's feet " in the snow. What 
 were they ? I pushed on to see, and soon started 
 a flock of fifteen quail from a dark grove of 
 pines. Later I found one cuddled up in a hol- 
 low in the snow under a juniper, eating the ber- 
 ries over her head. I nearly stepped upon the 
 bush before she flew. 
 
 Descending into a ravine filled with ruddy
 
 4 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 willows, privet, and rose bushes gay with their 
 red hips, I heard a note which made me halt 
 and listen. Yes, a robin. The sides of the 
 ravine were clothed with savins, the ridges were 
 crowned by tall pines. Rose hips and sumac 
 seeds, barberries, privet and juniper berries 
 furnished food, and the sun is always warm 
 when it shines. A soft rain began to fall, and 
 it loosed the tongues of the birds. Chickadees 
 called from tree to hedge. Golden-crested king- 
 lets lisped to each other in the cedars. A dozen 
 crows circled over the high pines, cawing discon- 
 tentedly, and the robin's note sounded from 
 three or four quarters at once. I gained the top 
 of the ridge and looked across a pasture. In a 
 branching oak were several birds. As I drew 
 near, others flew in from neighboring savins and 
 bunches of barberry bushes. They were robins. 
 In all, thirty-six flew into the oak and then went 
 off in a noisy flock as I reached the tree. Their 
 plumage was much lighter than in summer. The 
 rain fell faster and I left the pasture, homeward 
 bound. The last I saw of the pasture hillside it 
 was sprinkled with robins running back and 
 forth on the snow, picking up privet berries. 
 They were as jolly as in cherry time. 
 
 While recrossing pasture and field, swamp 
 and thicket, I noticed countless black specks 
 upon the snow. They moved. They were
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW. 5 
 
 alive. Wherever a footprint, a sharp edge of 
 drift, or a stone wall broke the monotony of the 
 snow surface, these black specks accumulated, 
 and heaped themselves against the barrier. For 
 miles every inch of snow had from one to a 
 dozen of these specks upon it. What were 
 they? Snowfleas or springtails (achoreutes nim- 
 co/a), one of the mysteries of winter, one of the 
 extravagances of animal life. Fortunately they 
 prefer the cold face of the snow to a life of para- 
 sitic persecution. 
 
 As I caught a homeward-bound electric car, 
 I looked back at the ridges of Arlington with 
 gratitude and admiration. They made a land- 
 scape of ermine, a soft blending of light and 
 dark. The falling rain, snowbound farms, savin- 
 dotted hillsides, bluish belts of woodland, deli- 
 cate tracery of elm branches ; all mingled to 
 form a background for reverie, a gentle good-by 
 to a day of rest.
 
 NATURE IN ARMOR. 
 
 NATURE does not always drop her cloak of 
 ermine when she buckles on her armor. She 
 often covers her soft snow garments with icy mail 
 and meets the dawn with every hillside a shield 
 and every branch of oak a sword. She was thus 
 girded and armed on Sunday, January 18, 1891, 
 as I sought the Arlington hills at the hour when 
 the air of Suffolk and Middlesex was throbbing 
 with the music of church bells. A gentle east 
 wind for even Massachusetts east winds can 
 be gentle when they try carried in slanting 
 lines against the hills and trees a steady fall of 
 cold rain. It had been falling so for over twelve 
 hours, till level snow, fences, walls, weeds by the 
 wayside, shrubs, orchards, elms in the meadows, 
 savins on the hillsides, and belts of woods on the 
 ridge-crests were all sheathed in clear ice, which 
 measured, on an average, a quarter of an inch 
 in thickness. 
 
 As I mounted through the open fields toward 
 the heights, I wondered what the birds were do- 
 ing in the cold rain, with every twig ice-coated, 
 and every berry shut up in thick crystal. Where
 
 NATURE IN ARMOR. 1 
 
 were the crows, the chickadees, and above all, 
 the adventurous robins ? " Here I am," a robin 
 seemed to say from the roadside, and at the 
 same instant I saw a bird fly from a dense tangle 
 of briers, bushes, cedars and tall maples, to the 
 highest branch of a tree, shake himself thor- 
 oughly, and then give the familiar robin signal of 
 alarm and inquiry. He was answered by a sec- 
 ond bird, and presently three of them flew over 
 my head and down the hill towards a grove of 
 pines. I had a clear view of them through my 
 opera-glass. 
 
 A few steps further on I came to a white birch- 
 tree, bent by the ice till its head rested in a 
 snowbank on the opposite side of the road from 
 its but. It formed an ice-screen thirty feet 
 long and nine feet high, directly across the road. 
 The tree measured nearly three feet in circum- 
 ference at its base. Near by a grove of white 
 birches had become a shapeless tangle of ice-wires 
 and cables. The eye could not separate any one 
 tree from the mass, and the tops of all were rest- 
 ing upon the snow. The road was lined with 
 bleached asters and goldenrod. Not only were 
 their stems ice-hung, but their pale, flower-like 
 involucres were embedded in nodding balls of 
 ice, half an inch in diameter. So delicate were 
 these mock flowers and so erect and perfect their 
 form within the crystal, that it seemed certain
 
 8 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 they must have been first embraced by a freez- 
 ing mist as gentle and caressing as a ray of sun- 
 shine. The same ice-kiss had rested upon the 
 bunches of red barberries, the dark berries of 
 the privet, and the sticky, red, cone-shaped 
 masses of the sumac fruit. Even the dead, rus- 
 set leaves hanging from the oaks had a sheet of 
 ice clinging to them which, when slipped off, 
 showed their form and veinings. 
 
 Entering the pine woods where I had previ- 
 ously seen quail, I found the trees in trouble. 
 The great pines were loaded down with ice, and 
 many a branch had broken and fallen under its 
 weight. The surface of the snow was strewn 
 with twigs and branches of every size. A strange 
 roar of falling ice and twigs filled the woods, 
 now and then emphasized by the crash of some 
 greater fall. I found the tracks of one quail 
 and of a rabbit, made doubtless Saturday 
 evening while the snow was still soft ; but other- 
 wise the face of the snow told no tales. It was 
 smooth and shining, as though no dainty feet of 
 mice and squirrels had ever pressed upon it. 
 There were squirrels at work, however. Under 
 one pitch-pine I found a pint of cone chips 
 freshly strewn. Half a mile distant I surprised 
 a red squirrel busy in an old chestnut-tree which 
 had succumbed to its awful burden of ice and 
 fallen mangled in the snow. He fled from me
 
 NATURE IN ARMOR. 9 
 
 and bounded up the trunk of an oak, but he 
 reckoned without the ice, and when part way up 
 lost his grip and fell back upon the crust below, 
 a very much mortified squirrel. 
 
 In dense growths of pitch-pines and savins I 
 came across six flocks of chickadees, in all per- 
 haps twenty of the merry little birds. They 
 seemed to keep dry, and by working on the 
 under and westerly sides of the branches found 
 food not covered by ice. In one of the flocks 
 were two little brown creepers who were unable 
 to make spirals or zigzags round the tree-trunks, 
 as is their frequent practice, but who seemed 
 happy in hitching straight up the trunks of the 
 pines and the oaks. The chickadees, creepers 
 and crows, as well as the robins, were very talk- 
 ative. The only other bird seen was a small 
 hawk, which sailed silently over the snow in a 
 secluded pasture. 
 
 About two o'clock I gained the crest of a high 
 ridge from which I could see many miles of 
 snow-covered country. The sky was a cold gray- 
 ish white ; the pines and cedars looked almost 
 black. Against the sky the ice-covered, leafless 
 trees were a darker gray than the clouds, but 
 against the evergreens or in masses by them- 
 selves they were ashes-of -roses color and wonder- 
 fully soft in tone. Looking across a sloping 
 pasture at a swamp filled with elms and willows,
 
 10 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 they seemed to be a mass of dark stems with 
 their tops shrouded in pale smoke through which 
 the faintest possible fire-glow permeated. I 
 suppose the color came from the reddish bark 
 of the twigs. Just then the sun found a rift 
 in the rushing clouds, and for a single minute 
 poured his glory upon the crystal world below. 
 Every tint changed. Every atom of ice re- 
 sponded, flashing to the touch of light, but the 
 east wind hurried forward fresh mists from the 
 ocean and the sunlight vanished. Below me 
 hundreds of small trees ti'ailed their tops upon 
 the snow. It seemed as though some muezzin 
 of the ice-world had called them to their prayers. 
 Farther away were acres of scattered pitch-pines, 
 every bunch of whose needles was a drooping 
 pompon of heavy ice. As I looked at them 
 through the thickly falling sleet they seemed to 
 march in ranks across the fields of snow, their 
 heads bent from the wintry storm, despair in 
 their attitude. " The retreat from Moscow," I 
 said, and hoped that the day of judgment against 
 the weak among the trees would not be followed 
 by a night of tempestuous wrath against the 
 whole ice-bound forest. 
 
 The wind, gentle as it seemed, was too strong 
 for some trees. Once I heard a report like a 
 cannon, and turned to see an old willow forty 
 feet high plunge into the snow. At another
 
 NATURE IN ARMOR. 11 
 
 time a long branch of an elm at which I was 
 looking slowly bent lower and lower, and then 
 broke midway with a crack and swung toward 
 the ground. I raised a prostrate cedar bush, 
 whose height was about seven feet, and found 
 that its load of ice seemed to weigh thirty pounds. 
 If this were so, what must the burden of the great 
 trees have been ? Tons, perhaps. .Yet the oaks 
 did not seem to bend an inch. Their stiff heads 
 were raised straight toward the sky, and their 
 immovable arms bristled with icicles. 
 
 About an hour before sunset I pointed my 
 course downward, sighting for the tower of Me- 
 morial Hall rising black against the distant sky. 
 Much ice had fallen from the trees since the 
 forenoon, and there was a ceaseless roar of fall- 
 ing fragments as I passed through the strips of 
 woodland. The temperature had risen enough 
 to loosen the ice armor, and everything from 
 asters to elm-tops was casting it off.
 
 A TEMPEST. 
 
 ON the afternoon of Saturday, January 24, 
 while roaming over the hills between Arlington 
 and Medford, I made up my mind not to spend 
 the next day in the woods. Nature seemed to 
 have become prosaic, almost dull. I saw one 
 crow, no other tenant of the woods. The snow 
 had been washed away and the ice which re- 
 mained was stained. The air was heavy with 
 the breath of long-forgotten cabbage-leaves. 
 Farmers were at work in their plowed lands, 
 stirring up other odors equally obnoxious. Even 
 the fields were unpleasant to walk over on ac- 
 count of their alternate patches of ice and pasty 
 mud. But Sunday morning before sunrise the 
 wind shifted to the northeast and changed a 
 drizzling rain into a furious snowstorm, and by 
 noon, when I reached the first hill -top above 
 Arlington, the storm was at its height. The air 
 was in a fury. Laden with great masses of 
 flakes it bore them in horizontal lines over fields 
 and pastures, hurling them against every obsta- 
 cle, and whitening even the window panes of 
 houses facing eastward. The blast was as unin-
 
 A TEMPEST. 13 
 
 termittent in its pressure as natural forces can 
 be ; yet it seemed to excite vibration and rhythm 
 in all it touched. The tops of the pines fell and 
 rose, the branches moved forward and back, the 
 roar of the wind pulsated and the soft surface 
 of the snow was not even, but broken into tiny 
 waves. In the pine woods the wind was less 
 violent, but the passing snow seemed like vibrat- 
 ing white lines rather than flakes. As I stood 
 in the pines and looked northeast, every tree was 
 black against a distance of on-coming white 
 rage. As I looked southwest every tree was 
 white, finely outlined in black, against a retreat- 
 ing mass of colorless motion. If I looked south- 
 east the trees were black and white, and if north- 
 west they were white and black, and whichever 
 way I looked the air was surging on, laden with 
 the bewildered and bewildering snow. 
 
 Pushing on I entered a deep and rocky gorge. 
 Possibly Verestchagin's brush could indicate the 
 absolute whiteness overlaid upon the less abso- 
 lute white of that mysteriously beautiful spot. 
 Certainly nothing else could. Every rock, bush, 
 trunk, limb, branchlet, twig and leaf -bud was 
 covered with the clinging snow. Beyond was an 
 oak wood. The inelastic ice of last Sunday failed 
 to bend these stubborn trees, but the wet, sticky 
 snow had overcome them. Dozens of slender 
 young oaks, thirty feet in height, were bent to
 
 14 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 the ground. This gave a hint of what the con- 
 dition of the pitch-pines and cedars would be, 
 in spots sheltered from the wind, and I hurried 
 on to see them. The walking was heavy. Early 
 in the afternoon, when the storm abated, just 
 nine inches of snow had fallen on a level. Pass- 
 ing through the woods, where I had seen quail 
 two weeks ago, but where now no sign of them 
 was to be found, I came out into the old pasture, 
 thickly overgrown with savin, pitch-pine and 
 barberries. Here and there something which 
 resembled a tree remained, but the greater part 
 of the growth had been suppressed. There were 
 rounded masses which looked like sheep in the 
 snow, and there were arched stems from which 
 depended balls and branches of snow resembling 
 boxing-gloves, cauliflowers, toy rabbits and lambs 
 and other unpoetical objects. In most cases the 
 top of the pine or savin could not be distin- 
 guished from its base. 
 
 At the foot of the hill was a cedar swamp. 
 Entering, I could readily imagine myself in the 
 Luray Caverns. A floor of pure white sup- 
 ported an endless series of white columns, beyond 
 which were botryoidal masses of white rising to 
 i roof of white. Mingled with the more regular 
 forms were snarls and tangles of snow serpents, 
 and shafts and pinnacles as varied in form as the 
 stalagmites of the limestone caves. Later I was
 
 A TEMPEST. 15 
 
 in one of these enchanting places when the sun 
 came out and the zenith was left free from clouds. 
 The effects were so beautiful and striking that, 
 although words give but a hint of them, they 
 are ineffaceable in memory. Through the swamp 
 runs a small stream. As the day was compara- 
 tively warm no ice encumbered the clear water. 
 At one point it spread out over a broad bed of 
 mud, from which rose a thick growth of grass, 
 watercress and ranunculus. All three plants 
 were vivid green and offered a strange contrast 
 to the arabesque of snow which framed the 
 brook. 
 
 Wild as was the storm and stimulating as 
 were its direct buffeting and indirect effect of 
 form and color, the day was as remarkable on 
 another account as it was for the tempest. I 
 saw eighty- five birds, representing nine species. 
 
 Several times I heard crows, flying through 
 the driving snow, calling to each other in its con- 
 fusion. In the pines at the summit of the first 
 high hill were two little brown creepers flying 
 from trunk to trunk and exploring busily the 
 bark on the sheltered side of the trees. When 
 they left a tree the storm whirled them away like 
 dry leaves, but they promptly headed toward 
 the wind and sped back under the lee of some 
 sheltering tree to its but, the point where their 
 explorations always begin. They kept track
 
 16 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 of each other by frequent attenuated squeaks. 
 Chickadees were everywhere, and very noisy. 
 They worked quite as much on snow-covered 
 twigs as on the sheltered side of branches. In 
 the cedar swamp they popped in and out of snow 
 caverns among the branches, often tipping over 
 great piles of snow and dodging them with a 
 jolly " chick-a-dee-dee-dee." In this swamp a 
 single tree-sparrow appeared among the branches 
 of a big cedar and looked with evident amaze- 
 ment upon my snow-covered form. Here, too, I 
 saw and heard the first robins of the day flying 
 and signalling among the tops of some of the 
 larger cedars, and near by in a bunch of pines, 
 just above the swamp, three golden-crested king- 
 lets made merry in the sunlight which succeeded 
 the storm. A solitary goldfinch undulated over 
 me in an open pasture, singing the first note or 
 two of his summer song, and a nuthatch passed 
 close by me on my homeward walk. 
 
 But the great display of birds came in the 
 middle of the afternoon, at the time that the 
 clouds were breaking and the wind was working 
 out of the east. I was crossing a high sloping 
 pasture with a cedar swamp at its base and a 
 fringe of large cedars round its edge, when, strik- 
 ing a patch of concealed ice, my feet flew from 
 under me, and I found myself on my back in 
 the snow. Looking into the sky, I saw a flock
 
 A TEMPEST. 17 
 
 of at least twenty robins flying overhead. They 
 came from the swamp and stopped in the fringe 
 of cedars to frolic and feed. Suddenly a flock 
 of smaller birds joined them, and by the aid of 
 my glass I discovered that they were cedar-birds. 
 For twenty minutes or more this company of 
 fully fifty birds romped in the savin tops, as 
 they do in cherry-trees in summer, the screams 
 of the robins being incessant. Many of the 
 robins came near enough for me to scrutinize 
 their plumage closely. I saw none but male 
 birds among them. The two flocks vanished as 
 suddenly as they came, and I could find no trace 
 of either, although I searched and waited for 
 them more than an hour. These birds were 
 seen on precisely the same spot as the large flock 
 of robins observed January 11. 
 
 Although I did not leave the woods and pas- 
 tures until sunset with its exquisite tints had 
 come, I saw no footprints of any kind in the 
 snow. I wished that I could linger until even- 
 ing and follow the soft tread of rabbits and 
 mice, the moon meanwhile pouring her light 
 into the enchantment of those groves of snow- 
 encumbered trees.
 
 THE SEA IN A SNOWSTORM. 
 
 FEBRUARY came in under the guise of May. 
 The sky of Sunday, the first, was wonderfully 
 blue ; its 'air mild, often more than mild ; its 
 clouds were like the pictures in my old physical 
 geography. I could almost see the mystic words 
 cirrus, cumulus, stratus, written in the heavens. 
 Tempted by the mock spring I extended my 
 walk beyond its usual limits, infringed on Lex- 
 ington, and from the heights of Waverley sur- 
 veyed miles of glistening hillsides to the north 
 and west, and crowded cities to the south and 
 east. Every hollow was a pool, and every gla- 
 cial furrow in the hills a brook. The cabbages 
 were reasserting their rights to the farmlands 
 and the air appurtenant thereto. 
 
 The birds revelled in the warm sunshine, fly- 
 Ing for the love of flying, and calling loudly to 
 each other for the sake of calling. The crows 
 spoke loudest and the chickadees most often. On 
 a sunny bank a large flock of goldfinches were 
 feeding among the weeds and grasses. I counted 
 fifty of them, and several flew away before the 
 census was finished. They were singing enough
 
 THE SEA LV A SXOWSTORM. 19 
 
 of their sweet song to suggest the summer. 
 Once during the day I heard the " phoebe note " 
 of the chickadee, and twice I had the satisfaction 
 of hearing crows " gobble." They do not often 
 make this sound. It suggests somewhat the 
 gobbling of a turkey-cock. So warm, thawing, 
 and genial was this day that one had to be pes- 
 simistic to realize that it was only a mocking 
 grin on the mask of winter and not a smile on 
 the lips of spring. 
 
 But Sunday, February 8, showed winter in 
 his true colors again. The day was, as regards 
 snow-laden trees and drifted roads, a duplicate 
 of the last Sunday in January. Instead of en- 
 joying the snow pictures in the woods and pas- 
 tures of Arlington, I traversed Crab Alley, 
 Bread and Milk Streets, and that meandering 
 marvel of old Boston, Batterymarch Street, and 
 gained the harbor front at Rowe's Wharf. 
 Some of these snow-covered haunts of trade 
 were as free from footprints as the savin 
 swamps of Arlington. In Crab Alley I came 
 to tracks in the snow which made me wonder 
 whether some of the quail from the Parker 
 House toast had not escaped alive. Dainty 
 little steps crossed and recrossed the narrow 
 lane, and formed a dense network of converging 
 paths at the back door of a small chop-house. 
 As I approached, two tame doves flew noisily
 
 20 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 from behind the barrel which graced the door- 
 step, and several English sparrows swung from 
 a telephone wire overhead. 
 
 I looked up into the iron caps of the electric 
 light lamps to see whether the sparrows had 
 built in them. They had. In Boston and sev- 
 eral adjoining cities the major part of these 
 iron witch-caps contain sparrows' nests. Even 
 the lamps which are suspended over the streets 
 and drawn in daily by the linemen are not dis- 
 dained by the birds. 
 
 From the deck of the Janus-natured ferry- 
 boat, which was pausing for the time between 
 trips to the Revere Beach cars, I looked out 
 upon a chilly sky and sea. The waters were 
 restless, the wind fierce and cold, the snow- 
 flakes stinging. At anchor lay a large steamer, 
 black and thin. The odd gearing at her stern 
 showed that she was an ocean cable steamer. 
 Beyond her was a four-masted schooner. I 
 wondered what her sailors called her fourth 
 mast. Suddenly my wandering eyes were fixed 
 in astonishment upon a jaunty form floating on 
 the water within less than fifty feet of the ferry- 
 boat. It had emerged from the cold and tossing 
 waters with a bounce, shaken itself, and begun 
 a bobbing career in the daylight and snow- 
 flakes. Pop ! Down went its head, up went its 
 tail and feet and it was gone again. During
 
 TEE SEA IN A SNOWSTORM. 21 
 
 fifteen minutes it bobbed up six times in the 
 same spot, staying afloat each time from fifteen 
 to thirty seconds, and below about two minutes. 
 It was black above, snowy white below, and 
 formed in the likeness of a duck. It was a 
 whistler, a duck common in the harbor and 
 along our coast in winter. While diving, it was 
 probably breakfasting upon small shell-fish 
 found on the bottom. 
 
 On the way across to East Boston I saw 
 seven or eight more whistlers and over fifty 
 herring-gulls, many of them in the dark plum- 
 age peculiar to the immature birds. Twenty 
 minutes later I stood on the narrow strip of 
 sand left between the poplar walk in front of 
 the Point of Pines Hotel and the angry ocean. 
 The wind was northeast, and blowing a gale. 
 The tide had turned half an hour before, but it 
 was still unusually high. Behind me the Sau- 
 gus marshes were wholly submerged. A few 
 haystacks alone broke the monotony of gray 
 water, foam and scudding snow. To the north 
 ought to have been seen distant Lynn, but the 
 eye was met only by stinging snowflakes and 
 cold wind. My train, before it had gone an 
 eighth of a mile, had been swallowed up in steam 
 and hurrying masses of snow. Where was Na- 
 hant ? There was not a trace of it. The hun- 
 gry waves broke ten ranks deep upon the flat
 
 22 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 sands across which they roared ; but beyond 
 them was no land, only the fury of gray and 
 white hanging above a hissing, greenish gray 
 and white below. The sand was brown, not a 
 warm brown, but a cold, shining, grayish brown 
 with no kindness in it. 
 
 There was nothing in the whole world which 
 my eye could reach to suggest warmth or happi- 
 ness. True, there were the empty buildings 
 with padlocked doors among the snow-covered 
 trees, but they were more desolate and soul-chill- 
 ing than anything in nature. I walked among 
 them until wearied by the mockery of their 
 signs and broken paraphernalia. Hideous ki- 
 osks, whose blue and yellow paint was partly 
 covered by the white pity of the storm, told in 
 glaring letters of " Ice Water," " Red Hot Pop 
 Corn," " Sunshades and Fans," and " Clam 
 Chowder." The wind shrieked through their 
 cracks and pelted wet snow against their win- 
 dows. In>the amphitheatre where spectacular 
 plays are given on summer evenings the tide 
 dabbled with the rusty wheels of a sheet-iron 
 car marked " Apache." Beyond it, canvas 
 mountains and canons were swaying and creak- 
 ing in the storm, their ragged edges humming 
 in the wind. A sign offered " Seats for 50 
 cents, children 25." The seats were softly 
 cushioned by six inches of snow, but the idle
 
 THE SEA IN A SNOWSTORM. 23 
 
 summer crowd had been blown away by the 
 winter's breath. Only a flock of a dozen crows 
 lent life to the arena. 
 
 A train emerged from the storm. I could see 
 its dark outlines ; its torn column of steam ; 
 the swift motion of its many wheels, then it 
 was gone, engulfed in the dizzy vibration of the 
 snow, its voice unheard amid the greater voices 
 of the sky and sea. The tide was going down 
 as I started towards home on the hard shining 
 sand of Crescent Beach. I think at least two 
 hundred herring-gulls passed by me, flying 
 slowly against the gale and keeping over the 
 water, but parallel to the beach and about a 
 hundred yards from it. They were silent. 
 Their strong wings beat against the storm. 
 Now and then one plunged into the foam of a 
 breaking wave, or glided for a second along the 
 trough of the sea. They did not seem like 
 true birds, beings of the same race as humming- 
 birds, sweet - voiced thrushes, . or keen - witted 
 chickadees. They were rather creations of the 
 salt waves and ocean tempests ; cold-blooded, 
 scaly things, incapable of those loves and fears, 
 songs and quaint nesting ways of the birds of 
 field and forest. Near Oak Island a flock of 
 four snow buntings, which had been feeding 
 among the bunches of seaweed, rose at my ap- 
 proach and flew toward and past me up the
 
 24 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 beach. They are among the most beautiful of 
 our winter visitors, their white and brown plum- 
 age being a sight always welcome to the eyes of 
 those who love the birds. At intervals flocks of 
 English sparrows rose from the seaweed and 
 shunned me. There seems to be no form of 
 vegetable food-supply upon which our native 
 birds depend, that this ravenous, non-migratory 
 pest does not devour. 
 
 From Point of Pines to Crescent Beach sta- 
 tion the thunder of the breakers and the rush of 
 the wind and snow were ceaseless. The storm 
 hurried me along in its strong embrace and drove 
 its chill through me. The tide had left the 
 marshes, and the snow had claimed them. As 
 the waves retreated from the beach the snow 
 stuck to the gleaming pebbles, the snaky bits of 
 kelp and the purple shells. Where two hours 
 before, at high tide, the waves had dashed foam 
 fifty feet into the air, now the breakwaters and 
 the heaps of shingle and seaweed were covered 
 with white from the drippings of the great roof 
 of sky. 
 
 The whistlers were still in the harbor at three 
 o'clock, but most of the gulls had gone. Snow 
 clung to decks, masts, yards, furled sails and 
 rigging. It whitened the water-front of the 
 city, purified the docks, and made even Crab 
 Alley seem picturesque as I ploughed through it 
 homeward bound.
 
 TWO VIEWS THROUGH WINTER SUN- 
 SHINE. 
 
 SATURDAY and Sunday, the middle days 
 of February, were filled to the brim with spar- 
 kling winter sunshine. The heavens were swept 
 clean of clouds by a rush of cold dry air from 
 the birthplace of the Great Glacier. The 
 ground was like granite, and was well covered 
 with the snow that crunches under foot like pul- 
 verized quartz. 
 
 I spent Saturday afternoon on the highest 
 part of the Belmont-Arlington ridge, and the 
 world, seen from those wind-swept heights, 
 seemed made of cleaner, brighter stuff than 
 when touched on the flats below. There are 
 clear days in summer, but they are not so abso- 
 lutely clear as the clearest days in winter. I 
 never saw a more perfectly transparent air than 
 that which raced across New England on that 
 Saturday. The vision was not checked by dis- 
 tance or by vapor ; only by the curve of Mother 
 Earth's cheek. 
 
 Looking eastward from the heights, the eye 
 passed over the Fell country of Medford and
 
 26 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 Stoneham and the marshes of the Saugus to the 
 irregular line of Massachusetts Bay. Long 
 Beach, running out from Lynn to Nahaut, was 
 dazzlingly white against the pure blue of the sea. 
 Little Nahant, Egg Rock, Nahant and Winthrop 
 Head, all snow-covered, stood out in bold relief 
 against the even-tinted water. Between them 
 several schooners appeared now and then work- 
 ing up the coast, the sunlight striking full 
 against their sails. High intervening land cut 
 off a view of the wooded and rocky Beverly 
 shore ; but the Danvers Asylum could be 
 plainly seen, like a great feudal castle, crowning 
 one of the highest ridges. 
 
 Southward a nest of cities rested on the fork 
 of the Charles and the Mystic. The chilled 
 breath of half a million people hung over them 
 and their crowded homes, but it did not obscure 
 the picture of the harbor with its forts, islands, 
 and moving sails, nor the more distant pano- 
 rama of the Neponset Valley and Hull, Hing- 
 ham, and the Scituate shore. This view of 
 Boston and its densely populated neighbors has 
 a strange fascination about it. There is little 
 beauty in its blending of roofs, chimneys, tele- 
 graph poles, church spires, flashing window- 
 panes and bits of white steam or darker smoke, 
 yet in spite of its distance and silence it has the 
 mystery of life about it. From a mountain-top
 
 TWO VIEWS THROUGH WINTER SUNSHINE. 27 
 
 the eye may roatn over granite peaks, serried 
 ranks of spruce forest, undulating groves of 
 pines and birches, green intervales and snug 
 farmhouses, finding in them a restful charm, 
 a song of sweet New England calm. In this 
 mass of distant houses, factories, grain ele- 
 vators, stores, wharves, churches, marked here 
 and there by historic outlines like Bunker Hill 
 Monument, the golden dome of the State 
 House, Memorial Hall and Mount Auburn 
 Tower, there is something which stirs and stim- 
 ulates rather than soothes, something which re- 
 calls the toil, sorrow, self-sacrifice and eternal 
 restlessness of society, and the ever-present duty 
 of the individual toward it. The mountain 
 view lulls one's conscience ; ' the sight of this 
 nest of cities arouses it to action. 
 
 Westward the view from the heights was 
 monotonous. Low ridges succeeded each other 
 for many miles, holding in their hollows towns, 
 snow-covered farming lands, broken bits of oak 
 or pine forest, and patches of ice on pond or 
 meandering river. But northward the eye found 
 much to rest upon. Along the limits of Middle- 
 sex could be seen the valley of the Merrimac. 
 Then came the border towns of New Hampshire, 
 and beyond them the peaks and rounded sum- 
 mits which are the pride of Jaffrey, Dublin. 
 Peterborough, Temple, and Lyndeborough.
 
 28 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 From Wachusett on the left to the Uncanoo- 
 nucs on the right the horizon was roughened 
 by the mountains of the Monadnock group, 
 snow-crusted and flashing in the sunshine. They 
 recalled boyhood days and adventures. A race 
 from a bull on Monadnock, a moonlight climb 
 on Lyndeborough, a thunder-storm on Pinnacle, 
 a July picnic on Joe English hill. 
 
 On the way home I saw a flock of about 
 twenty cedar-birds in the same pasture where I 
 saw them on January 25. They were cold and 
 listless, allowing me to approach them closely 
 enough to see the scarlet wax on their wing- 
 feathers. Two of them were eating barberries 
 which they picked one by one while clinging 
 head-downwards on the bending stems. The 
 robins, I learned from a fellow-observer, had 
 been seen not only that day, but every day for a 
 month, on their favorite feeding-ground. The 
 flock varies in size, he said, from twenty to fifty. 
 As I hurried along over the snow in a very 
 windy field a mouse scampered away from one 
 bunch of grasses to another and plunged into 
 his hole. His doorway was well protected by a 
 large bunch of dried grass. 
 
 Sunday I took an early train for Readville, 
 crossed the pretty triple-arch bridge over the 
 Neponset, and climbed to the snowy crest of 
 Blue Hill. Although the hill is nearly three
 
 TWO VIEWS THROUGH WINTER SUNSHINE. 29 
 
 hundred feet higher than Arlington Heights, 
 its view seemed to me less attractive. It is 
 three miles farther from the cities ; fifteen miles 
 farther from the New Hampshire line, and in 
 the centre of a country less picturesque in 
 formation than that of the Middlesex Fells. 
 Moreover, a northwest wind, which is the one 
 most likely to accompany clear winter weather, 
 carries the smoke of Boston in such a direction 
 as to injure the Blue Hill view, while it im- 
 proves that from Arlington. 
 
 As I looked down upon the Neponset 
 meadows, Ponkapog Pond and Great Pond, I 
 saw moving black specks which reminded me 
 of the amusing little snow-fleas. They were 
 skaters, enjoying the ideal weather for their 
 graceful exercise. Passing Governor's Island 
 and heading for Broad Sound was a four- 
 inasted schooner under full sail. Not a bird 
 was to be seen on the hill. The top is covered 
 with scrub-oak, which is replaced on the slopes 
 by small nut-trees, oak saplings, a few pines, 
 birches and maples. There seemed to be no 
 food for any kind of winter bird. In the estates 
 below, near the triple-arch bridge, I saw crows, 
 chickadees, two tree - sparrows and a downy 
 woodpecker. 
 
 As I came back to and through the city by 
 an afternoon train I wondered which was less
 
 30 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 wholesome for the eye of man, the dingy 
 monotony of dirty white houses which one 
 used to see in suburban streets, or the nause- 
 ating combinations of yellows, greens, cheap 
 reds and discouraged blues which are now the 
 fashion.
 
 WAVERLEY OAKS AND BUSSEY HEM- 
 LOCKS. 
 
 A FEW rods beyond the railway station in 
 Waverley the tracks of the Fitchburg and Mas- 
 sachusetts Central roads cross a meadow through 
 which Beaver Brook flows on its way to the 
 Charles. In this meadow the towns of Belmont, 
 Watertown and Waltham find a common cor- 
 ner, and here stand the Waverley oaks. Some 
 of these ancient trees grow on the level land 
 through which the brook has cut its channel, 
 but most of them rise from the narrow glacial 
 ridges which project into or border the meadow. 
 There are few places near Boston which welcome 
 spring earlier than this moist and sunny corner. 
 Here early spring birds are found, and many of 
 the choicest flowers flourish. Saturday, Febru- 
 ary 21, was a misty, moisty day with gray skies, 
 wet snow and rain-laden air. Beaver Brook 
 meadow was as wet as a meadow can be without 
 changing its name, and the brook itself was 
 more than knee-deep. 
 
 The meadow, that afternoon, yielded to me 
 the first flower of spring. It is true I had seen
 
 32 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 a golden crocus bud before leaving the city, but 
 it was under the shelter of a well-warmed, south- 
 facing house, and had been covered with a 
 straw blanket all winter. This flower of the 
 swamp had taken care of itself on the edge of a 
 cold spring filled with bright green watercress. 
 It had no warm wall to shelter it, no blanket 
 save the black mud. It was as large as a tulip, 
 and its spots and stripes of purple and greenish 
 yellow made it quite conspicuous in its meadow 
 bed. Pulling open the fleshy lips of its highly 
 scented spathe, its yellow pollen was scattered 
 in all directions. The name of this odoriferous 
 flower of early spring is symplocctrpus fcetidus. 
 Passing through the ancient oaks I heard birds 
 singing in a stubble field beyond. The oaks are 
 the finest trees I have ever seen "outside of the 
 primeval forests of the North. One of them 
 not the largest or oldest measured twenty feet 
 around its trunk at a height of three feet from 
 the turf. There are in all nearly thirty of these 
 magnificent trees, whose age, if John Evelyn is 
 a good authority for the age of oaks, is prob- 
 ably to be reckoned by centuries. The glacial 
 kame from which these trees spring, old as it is, 
 bears on its face the record of change and of 
 the woes of nature ; but the oaks, having out- 
 lived generations of other trees, seem like moun- 
 tain-crests, stable and enduring. The birds in
 
 WAVERLEY OAKS AND BUSSEY HEMLOCKS. 33 
 
 the stubble field proved to be tree-sparrows. 
 They were feeding on the seeds of weeds found 
 on patches of moist earth left bare by the wast- 
 ing snow. Each bird was saying something in 
 a joyous recitative which he maintained continu- 
 ously, regardless of the rippling mirth of his 
 companions. I crept close to them and watched 
 them through the embrasures of an old stone 
 wall. Their chestnut caps, white wing-bars and 
 long slender tails make them easy birds to re- 
 cognize. As I rose they flew, nearly thirty 
 strong, and vanished in the mist. 
 
 Recrossing Beaver Brook I kept along the 
 Belmont ridge for a mile or more, seeing crows, 
 chickadees, a flock of six cedar-birds, a brown 
 creeper, several kinglets and two grouse, seven 
 species all told. 
 
 As sunset drew near the mist became denser. 
 The few springtails which I saw along the stone 
 walls seemed sluggish. While watching them 
 I noticed a tunnel under the snow, made, I sup- 
 pose, by a field mouse (arvicolapennsylvanicus), 
 and running from the wall to a pile of brush in 
 the pasture. It twisted and wound in and out 
 in strange figures. Here and there its maker 
 seemed to have poked his head through the 
 snow to get his bearings. From the length of 
 these tunnels I inferred that their little engineer 
 works either very fast or very long in making
 
 34 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 them. The snow fell Friday, the tunnels were 
 made before Saturday afternoon, yet one of 
 them was fully three hundred feet long. 
 
 At the sunset hour a strange glow permeated 
 the mist, but it soon vanished. I left the hills 
 and crossed the Belmont meadows. The twi- 
 light was weird. The mud of the Concord turn- 
 pike seemed unnaturally yellow ; the pollard 
 willows assumed horrid shapes ; head-lights on 
 distant engines made menacing gleams on the 
 wet rails ; the great excavations in clay beds 
 near the brickyards were filled with black shad- 
 ows from which rose vapors ; brooks once clear, 
 now polluted by slaughter-houses, gave out foul 
 clouds of mist, and as electric lamps along the 
 road suddenly grew into glowing yellow balls in 
 the fog, they showed, rising above them, cruci- 
 fixes of this nineteenth century on which are 
 stretched the electric wires whose messages of 
 good or evil keep the nerves of society forever 
 uneasy. 
 
 Sunday was a cheerful contrast to Saturday 
 night. With a young friend who was heart-full 
 of love for birds, flowers, the quiet of the woods 
 and the music of the brooks, I tramped from 
 Bussey Woods westward through the quiet lanes, 
 snow-covered pastures and secluded swamps 
 which fill the sparsely settled region in this cor- 
 ner of Brookline and West Roxbury. It is a
 
 WAVERLEY OAKS AND BUSSEY HEMLOCKS. 35 
 
 charming bit of country crowded with hills, deep 
 valleys, groves of many kinds of trees, roaring 
 brooks, fern-hung ledges of pudding-stone, and 
 sunny orchards. Birds were numerous. We 
 began with a golden-winged woodpecker in the 
 great trees of the Arboretum ; then a robin ap- 
 peared and snapped his tail at us from the top 
 of an elm. The voice of a blue jay came from 
 the evergreens, and chickadees were everywhere. 
 From the first bare hill we gained a broad view 
 of Boston, the harbor and the country from Blue 
 Hill to Arlington Heights. A fresh west wind 
 and a bright blue sky made everything seem 
 full of readiness for spring and a new period of 
 blossoming growth. Passing Allandale Spring 
 and gaining a ridge beyond, we heard the mew- 
 ing of a large hawk, and presently saw a pair 
 of fine red-shouldered hawks quartering over a 
 meadow, probably in search of mice. They rose 
 and perched for a moment in the top of a tall 
 dead tree. In Walnut Hills Cemetery we found 
 quail tracks under barberry bushes, and pres- 
 ently flushed a bird. We also saw a kinglet 
 in the swamp. Red squirrels, mice, rabbits, and 
 another quadruped evidently very abundant in 
 the region, had made multitudes of tracks in the 
 soft wet snow. Just what this other quadruped 
 was I cannot surely say, but if it was what I sus- 
 pect it to have been, I should prefer not to travel
 
 36 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 much by night in its company. A chipmunk, 
 finding the mouth of his hole free from snow, 
 had come out from it into the driveway and 
 made a few scampering circles where the snow 
 was shallowest. 
 
 As we n eared the edge of Newton, we saw a 
 downy woodpecker with his red cap on. In the 
 swamp beyond were grouse tracks, and foot- 
 prints of a man and dog. Both the latter had 
 been running, and I fancied the dog had started 
 a rabbit which the man had hurried to head off 
 at a point where a wood-road rounded the corner 
 of the hill. Soon after crossing the Newton line 
 we turned toward the southeast and walked 
 rapidly back to the top of Bellevue Hill. Wa- 
 chusett and Monadnock greeted us from the far 
 horizon, and a marvelous blending of bay, city, 
 park, suburban settlement, and untouched na- 
 ture surrounded us on every side. Fortunate 
 Boston, to be girdled by such diversified and 
 picturesque country ! The view from this hill is 
 readily gained by walking from Highland Sta- 
 tion, and it seemed to me more charming than 
 that from Blue Hill. 
 
 The last pleasure of the day was in exploring 
 the hemlock woods at the Arnold Arboretum. 
 Thanks to an arrangement with Harvard Uni- 
 versity, the people of Boston have the use of 
 this beautiful estate for all time. While its
 
 WAVERLEY OAKS AND BUSSEY HEMLOCKS. 37 
 
 systematic collections are as yet young and in- 
 complete, its natural beauties are many. Just 
 north of Bussey Street an abrupt rocky hill, 
 crowned with tall and singularly straight hem- 
 locks, rises above the surrounding fields and roll- 
 ing pastures. From its deeply shaded top look- 
 ing down its precipitous ledges upon the roaring 
 waters of the Bussey brook, I seemed to feel my- 
 self removed from the neighborhood of a great 
 city to one of those wild White Mountain ravines 
 where trout are hidden in the' torrents, where 
 the harsh scream of the pileated woodpecker 
 breaks the silence of the forest, and where the 
 hoof-print of the deer is of tener found than the 
 footstep of a man.
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRDS. 
 
 SOME of the wildest, roughest, and most heav- 
 ily timbered country within sight of Boston lies 
 in the western end of Winchester and along the 
 northern edge of Arlington. I reached it on 
 the afternoon of the last day of winter, by walk- 
 ing along the western shore of Mystic Pond until 
 near the Winchester line, then bearing to the 
 left until I gained the high wooded ledges which 
 command Winchester village from the west. It 
 was a blustering day : the air was filled alter- 
 nately with golden sunlight and flurries of large 
 snowflakes. Dry snow covered the ground. 
 Along the stone walls it had drifted heavily, 
 reaching in many places a depth of two feet. 
 Walking in the ploughed fields was uncertain, 
 the furrows being filled with snow and the ridges 
 blown free from it. The brooks were noisy, but 
 their music was muffled by decks of thin ice 
 which partially covered them. Great white air- 
 bubbles rolled along under these ice decks. 
 Here and there watercress, buttercup leaves 
 and long blades of grass could be seen pressed 
 upward against the transparent ice by the pulsat-
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRDS. 39 
 
 ing current. In one pool in the pine woods the 
 floor of the little basin was studded with scarlet 
 partridge berries, surrounded by their rich 
 green leaves. 
 
 The view from the crest of the ledges was well 
 worth a harder climb. Mystic Pond is beautiful 
 in itself, but it is made more so by the Fell coun- 
 try, rugged and snow-laden, rising above it. 
 Winchester, with its many-colored cottages 
 sprinkled over the snow, made a pleasing pic- 
 ture. Beyond pond, village, and the Fells, 
 loomed the distant heights upon which the Dan- 
 vers Asylum showed its gloomy walls. The 
 snow flurries which blurred the distance made 
 the nest of cities along the Charles softer and 
 more picturesque than usual. The ledges are 
 well wooded. Pitch-pines, cedars and a sprin- 
 kling of hardwood cover them. Among these 
 trees were crows, a small hawk, a blue jay, two 
 kinglets, two little brown creepers, and nearly a 
 dozen chickadees. The creepers and two of the 
 chickadees were working together. Both pairs 
 of birds signalled each other constantly. If a 
 creeper flew it told its mate, who soon followed, 
 usually flying to the same tree. The chickadees 
 sometimes went to the same tree also, and seemed 
 to be always within forty or fifty feet of the 
 creepers. 
 
 From this hill, which used to be called Mt.
 
 40 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 Pisgah, I made a bee line for Turkey or One 
 Pine Hill, in Arlington. Much of the interme- 
 diate region is filled with white pines. In one 
 grove of many hundred large pines, the effects of 
 the dark green roof, pure white floor and straight 
 brown columns forming radiating vistas were 
 impressive, none the less so from the silence and 
 the cold. From a brier thicket on the edge of 
 this wood a grouse flew noisily. Near Turkey 
 Hill was an odd meeting of paths in the snow. 
 A horse and sled, a man, a large dog, two quail, 
 a rabbit, and a mouse had all left their prints on 
 a square rod of snow. 
 
 It was the last calendar day of winter. The 
 sun was going down in wrath. The wind blew 
 across the top of One Pine Hill impatiently. 
 One Pine, with its sixty stubs of dead and 
 broken branches, trembled, and told by its fee- 
 bleness of the approaching day when One Pine 
 Hill, successor of Three Pine Hill, shall become 
 No Pine Hill. 
 
 March came in at midnight smiling. The big 
 yellow moon looked down upon the soft snow 
 which had fallen since sunset, wrapping the earth 
 in ermine. I chose Lincoln for my objective 
 point, and reached it by rail early in the fore- 
 noon. The air was keen, very keen, the sky 
 faintly blue through thin clouds, the sun only a 
 yellow spot in the south. Leaving the railway
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRDS. 41 
 
 I wound my way back towards Stony Brook, 
 passing through groves of small oaks, meadows 
 full of treacherous pools covered with brittle ice, 
 belts of whispering white-pines, apple orchards 
 and wood-roads leading up hill and down, end- 
 ing nowhere. Four miles of this wandering 
 brought me to Kendal Green station in Weston, 
 with a record of twenty crows, eighteen chicka- 
 dees, sixteen tree-sparrows and three blue jays. 
 Every farmhouse seemed to have its two or 
 three large elms, and its one, two or three noisy 
 chickadees. No English sparrows were to be 
 seen. The sleighing throughout the region 
 appeared to be good and the snow in the fields 
 was more than six inches deep on a level. The 
 aspect of the country was much more wintry 
 than it was nearer the coast, yet Lincoln is only 
 thirteen miles northwest of the State House. 
 For two weeks past the pussy willows had 
 been increasing in size and beauty. Some of 
 them had now reached their most attractive 
 state, for when they begin to push out their 
 yellow stamens they lose much of their peculiar 
 charm. Near Kendal Green I found a noble 
 family of these little Quakers. They were large, 
 and closely set on their stems. Within a foot 
 of the tip of one wand were thirty pussies, each 
 measuring from a half to three quarters of an 
 inch in length. Lincoln, judging by the tracks
 
 42 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 in the snow, is well stocked with rabbits, field 
 mice and skunks. It showed me the first fox 
 track I have seen in Massachusetts this winter. 
 A fox's track resembles closely that of the dog, 
 but it has some marked distinctions. The fox 
 often clips the snow with his toes, thus prolong- 
 ing his footprint slightly ; he also has a longer 
 stride than a dog of the same size, and sets his 
 feet more nearly in a single line. The footprints 
 of the skunk are grouped in fours, and the four 
 prints in each group are very nearly in line ; the 
 first and third being a little to one side, and the 
 second and fourth to the other side, of an imagi- 
 nary middle line. 
 
 Just above Kendal Green station the railway 
 builders have taken a large bite out of a gravelly 
 hillside. The bitten spot faces southeast and is 
 as warm a nook on a windy winter day as could 
 well be found. It is stocked with dried weed 
 stalks, sumacs with their prince's feather-like 
 spikes, and red cedars covered with fruit. As I 
 rounded the corner of the bitten bank, Spring 
 herself stepped out to meet me, for twelve blue- 
 birds rose in a flock and flew into the cedars and 
 apple-trees which surmounted the cutting. It 
 was 1.30 P. M., and as every cloud had vanished 
 from the sky the sunlight brought out the color- 
 ing of these beautiful birds with marvelous in- 
 tensity. It is hard to say which is loveliest, the
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRDS. 43 
 
 cerulean flash from their backs, or the chestnut 
 warmth of their round breasts. I watched and 
 listened to these birds for more than an hour. 
 They were joyously happy. They flew, they 
 basked in the sunlight, they went to the orchard 
 and peered into a hole in an apple limb in which 
 many a bluebird has probably been hatched ; 
 they hovered all over the cedars, eating their 
 bluish, aromatic fruit ; they perched on the ice 
 at the brink of Stony Brook and drank from 
 the rushing water ; they pecked at the sumac 
 spikes, they sipped melting snow on the slate 
 roof of the freight house ; they swung on the tele- 
 graph wires, and they filled the air with their 
 sweet, simple notes. The station - master said 
 some of them had been seen the Wednesday pre- 
 vious. At last I left them unwillingly, and 
 walked down the track which follows Stony 
 Brook towards Waltham. In the swift current 
 between the ice which projected far out from 
 each shore a muskrat was swimming down 
 stream ; twice he dived and twice he surged 
 along with the cold flood before I passed him.
 
 THE MINUTE-MAN IN A SNOWDRIFT. 
 
 IT is not often that snow-shoes are useful in 
 this part of Massachusetts, but as about sixteen 
 inches of a recent fall remained on the hills 
 when I took my walk on Saturday, March 7, I 
 found snow-shoes not only useful but neces- 
 sary for cross-country travel. My shoes were 
 made by a neat-fingered farmer in the White 
 Mountains, and are more durable than many of 
 the fancy shoes for sale among athletic goods. 
 A fish-shaped frame of ash with two cross 
 braces is filled with a coarse mesh of rawhide. 
 The foot is secured to this light framework by a 
 leather toe-cap from which straps extend across 
 the top of the instep and around the ankle. 
 The heel is free to rise and fall in walking, while 
 the heel of the snow-shoe is loaded to make it 
 trail upon the snow, thus keeping the toe up 
 and away from snags. 
 
 I spent most of Saturday afternoon on the 
 crest of a high hill not far from the Belmont 
 mineral spring. The air was warm and clear, 
 the sunlight intensely bright, and the sky won- 
 derfully blue. Birds were few and far between,
 
 THE MINUTE-MAN IN A SNOWDRIFT. 45 
 
 and it is possible that many individuals here in 
 the winter have decamped already. Two crows, 
 two chickadees, two brown creepers, six rob- 
 ins, four quail, constituted my list for the day. 
 The robins passed overhead about three o'clock, 
 flying high, fast, and due north. They may not 
 have stopped short of the New Hampshire hills, 
 for which they seemed to be aiming. The quail 
 were feeding on barberries, and judging by their 
 tracks there seemed to have been eight or ten of 
 them at work. A quail's footprint looks like 
 the barb and part of the shaft of an arrow 
 pointing in the direction from which the bird 
 has come. When they hurry, their tracks are 
 run together, forming a continuous line of per- 
 petuated panic. The quail were quite noisy on 
 Saturday, making a harsh call unlike their " bob, 
 bob-white." During the coming week or fort- 
 night the number of kinds of birds near Boston 
 is likely to increase. I have long been hoping 
 to see crossbills, redpoll linnets, siskins, red 
 bellied nuthatches and others of the winter 
 birds, but this is an off year for them. Now 
 I am looking for redwing blackbirds, purple 
 grackles and rusty grackles, song sparrows, 
 swamp sparrows, fox sparrows, purple finches, 
 pewees and other early migrants. 
 
 About sunset on Saturday I was in a grove of 
 venerable red cedars. The lower half of the
 
 46 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 trees was in shadow, the upper half in sun- 
 light. Below, all seemed cold and dreary : the 
 unbroken snow, the rough trunks of the trees, 
 their sombre foliage. Above, all seemed warm 
 and cheerful : the bright blue sky, the passing 
 bits of white cloud, the upper branches of the 
 cedars glowing with golden olive-green. I 
 sought an open ledge where I could see from 
 Blue Hill to Monadnock, and watched the sun 
 sink into a bed of clouds. The after effects of 
 color were pronounced. Overhead the sky was 
 cobalt ; low in the east it was pale Prussian 
 blue ; in the north it was deep orange, and in the 
 west silvery, with a few dark ragged clouds 
 shredded over it. After sunset and just before 
 darkness comes, colors, irrespective of the out- 
 lines of the objects to which they belong, stand 
 out more forcibly than at any other time. This 
 was noticeable Saturday evening. The red of a 
 distant steeple was aggressive ; so was the yellow 
 of some tufts of dead grass waving in the wind, 
 and so was the russet of the dried leaves on a 
 grove of oaks or beeches two miles distant. 
 The sky at that hour was a matchless back- 
 ground for the copper-colored stems of the 
 willow trees, the bewildering network of descend- 
 ing lines in an elm's branches and twigs ; and 
 the distant rows of maples marching along an 
 opposing hilltop with the orange light of the
 
 THE MINUTE-MAN IN A SNOWDRIFT. 47 
 
 northern sky burning through them. Mist 
 effects, and glimpses of distances through driv- 
 ing snowflakes are fascinating, because they 
 leave much to the imagination. Views of clear 
 sunset skies, radiant with color, ranks of leafless 
 trees showing black against the snow, peaks 
 of snow growing bluer as night draws on 
 these also are fascinating, because the eye 
 seems to gain the truth about whatever it rests 
 upon. Everything is clean-cut, sharply out- 
 lined against sky or snow, sincere, real, satis- 
 fying. 
 
 Sunday, the 8th, was as warm and still a 
 day as the month of March is capable of pro- 
 ducing. From early morning until late in the 
 afternoon there was not breeze enough to rustle 
 a leaf, much less to cool cheek and eye smarting 
 under the direct and reflected rays of the sun. 
 I took an early train to Bedford and began my 
 walk there, not because of the charms of Bed- 
 ford, but because the train went no further. 
 Bedford is a pleasant, old-fashioned village, in 
 the midst of a comparatively flat country. 
 Walking through the village I noticed its high- 
 shouldered and many windowed meeting-house, 
 its haughty elms, and its air of ancient respecta- 
 bility. Five miles away, said a weather-worn 
 guide board, is Concord town ; so I turned west- 
 ward, feeling sure that early spring birds must
 
 48 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 haunt the home of Thoreau. Just outside of 
 Bedford streets I sat down on a stone wall to 
 bask in the warm sunshine. The mercury stood 
 at 68 in the shade, yet a snowdrift close by was 
 four and a half feet in depth. The bell of the 
 old meeting-house was tolling, and distance 
 made its voice sweet. It sometimes seems as 
 though church bells attract the birds. In the 
 perfect stillness of the air I could hear many 
 bird notes. A yellowhammer was calling per- 
 sistently from a distant maple ; a bluebird sang 
 in the nearest orchard, and six noisy crows were 
 flying to and fro in a ploughed field examining 
 spots of earth left bare by the receding snow. 
 Presently a flock of three blue jays entered the 
 orchard and seemed to find satisfactory food in 
 the apples left on the ground last autumn. 
 
 Between Bedford and Concord I saw eleven 
 more blue jays, a dozen more crows, thirteen 
 chickadees, five tree-sparrows and the tracks 
 of a flock of ten quail. There were also many 
 crow tracks in the snow. They are larger 
 than those of quail and the print of the long 
 hind toe is very marked. The feature of the 
 day was the repeated occurrence of blue jays. 
 The birds were noisy and restless, and most of 
 them were moving northward. The country 
 through which I passed was* level and uninter- 
 esting. Little timber was in sight, and most of
 
 THE MINUTE-MAN IN A SNOWDRIFT. 49 
 
 the farms had an air of being mortgaged. Dirty 
 cows and heifers sunned themselves in the barn- 
 yards, multitudes of hens roamed over bare 
 spots around the buildings, and mongrel curs 
 barked from back door-steps. 
 
 Before taking an afternoon train back from 
 Concord, I wandered about the town for an 
 hour, admiring its aged shade trees and com- 
 fortable homesteads. In front of one of these 
 homesteads a red squirrel was eating buds from 
 the upper branches of the elm. If the British 
 soldier had tried to reach the bridge over Con- 
 cord River he would have had hard work to 
 get at the " embattled farmer," for snow vary- 
 ing from ten inches to more than two feet 
 in depth blocked the lane leading to the Minute- 
 Man. Only the foot of a crow had trodden 
 the white covering of historic ground, and the 
 silence and loneliness but added to the charm 
 and suggestiveness of the scene. The Old 
 Manse could be seen through the leafless elms, 
 the snow drifted high against its walls. The 
 eager river hurried along under the bridge, 
 bearing away many a raft of ice. The alert 
 figure in bronze stood above the stream gazing 
 through the elm vista at the snow-covered dis- 
 tance. He is emblematic of something more 
 than our national vigilance against political
 
 50 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 injustice. Our nation was not formed when his 
 musket was loaded. He was simply an Anglo- 
 Saxon standing for his rights. That is what he 
 is to-day, the spirit of the race.
 
 THE COMING OF THE BIRDS. 
 
 THE week between March 8th and 14th was 
 one filled with early spring messages. The air 
 whispered them, and the stems of the willows 
 blushed with joy at what it said. The sun 
 stripped the snow from the earth and found 
 beneath it green grass, buttercup and five- 
 finger leaves and the sage-green velvet of the 
 mullein. Ice moved in the streams and partially 
 melted on the marshes, and its going was hailed 
 with merry music by song-sparrows, bluebirds, 
 and redwing blackbirds. 
 
 Not long after sunrise on Thursday, the 12th, 
 I was in the tangle of rose bushes, willows and 
 rushes, which surrounds the West Cambridge 
 brickyards and clay pits. It was a still, warm 
 morning. Birds were singing on every side. 
 They were not chirping pretty fragments of 
 song, but pouring out in all the plenitude of 
 fearless happiness their greeting to home and a 
 new day. Before 8.30 I saw nearly a dozen 
 song sparrows, a bluebird, a tree sparrow, a 
 flock of twenty-six cedar birds, large numbers 
 of crows, and an Acadian owl. My meeting
 
 52 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 with the little "saw-whet" within the limits 
 of Cambridge, and in sight of dozens of passers 
 on Concord turnpike, was a piece of unusual 
 luck. He was perched in a large willow about 
 thirty feet distant from the sidewalk, and ten 
 feet from the ground. As I jumped the fence 
 and approached him he stiffened himself, drew 
 his feathers close to his body, more than half 
 closed his eyes and pretended to be a speckled 
 brown and white stump of a limb. As I raised 
 a broken branch before his face, his big yellow 
 eyes opened wide, his wings quickly spread and 
 he fell forward upon them and flapped noiselessly 
 to a distant tree. 
 
 Late on Friday afternoon, while traversing 
 the marshes between Spy Pond in Arlington 
 and Fresh Pond in Cambridge, I saw a flock 
 of seven blackbirds. They seemed to be follow- 
 ing up Alewife Brook towards the marshes 
 between Cambridge and Belmont. They were 
 beating against a high wind and flying too 
 high for me to be sure whether they were red- 
 winged blackbirds or rusty grackles. Early 
 Saturday morning I set out to find them, and 
 not long after sunrise I heard the familiar 
 " cong-ka-ree " of the redwings coming from 
 a swamp north of Fresh Pond. I saw three, 
 the one nearest me being a male, whose scarlet 
 and buff epaulets fairly blazed in the sunlight.
 
 THE COMING OF THE BIRDS. 53 
 
 Prolonging my morning walk for some distance 
 I saw five song sparrows, three bluebirds, two 
 herring gulls, four robins, a meadow lark, a 
 pigeon woodpecker, and a pair of sparrow 
 hawks. The latter showed unmistakably by 
 their love-making that they were paired for the 
 season. They were in a grove of lofty hard- 
 wood trees, in the hollow of one of which they 
 have nested for several years. 
 
 For my Saturday afternoon walk I chose the 
 belt of rough country north of the Lexington 
 Branch Railway, between Arlington village and 
 Great Meadow in Lexington. Leaving the 
 train at East Lexington, I crossed the lower end 
 of Great Meadow and aimed for the pine-crested 
 ledges to the north and east. On these low- 
 lands I saw two song sparrows and six tree 
 sparrows in company. A blustering and cold 
 wind was blowing, and the birds kept close to 
 cover. The tree sparrows allowed me to come 
 within six or eight feet of them, in preference 
 to flying. In the midst of ploughed and ditched 
 meadow land was a cup-shaped hollow filled 
 with a frozen bog. Red maples grew in it 
 thickly, and under them a group of alders. As 
 i passed this spot, the roaring wind almost led 
 me to ignore a sharp squeak of alarm from a bird 
 which was scratching in the leaves on the edge 
 of the hollow. Fortunately I heard it, and fol-
 
 54 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 lowed the bird and its companion until they flew 
 from bush to bush into a maple. They were 
 bright iron-rust color on their tails, rumps, and 
 wings, and their white breasts were thickly 
 marked with arrowheads of the same pronounced 
 shade. In size, they outranked an English 
 sparrow by about one fifth. They were fox 
 sparrows. In plumage, song, and character, 
 these sparrows are among the most favored of 
 American birds. 
 
 Leaving the lowlands, I ascended the heavily 
 wooded ledges, of which Turkey or One Pine 
 Hill is the best known. Concealed within 
 them is a deep yet sunny ravine where hepatica 
 grows, and over which in the tops of lofty pines 
 crows, hawks, and gray squirrels make their 
 nests. I was welcomed to this sylvan glen by 
 a brown rabbit, who permitted me to come 
 within a yard of him before displaying his cotton 
 tail in flight. Hepatica was not in bloom, but, 
 rising between its trilobate leaves of last year's 
 growth, nearly an inch of new sprout promised 
 early flowers. From the middle of the dancing 
 brook at the bottom of the ravine to the stems 
 of the great pines at its summit, the melting- 
 snow had exposed to view old vegetation, hold- 
 ing new-born life in its protecting arms. In the 
 brook, hundreds of heads of skunk-cabbage 
 could be counted. From the overhanging rocks,
 
 THE COMING OF THE BIRDS. 55 
 
 the evergreen fronds of four species of ferns 
 (including asplenium ebeneum) nodded in the 
 breeze. Upon the sunny banks partridge ber- 
 ries and the clustered jewels of the false 
 solomon's-seal gleamed among green leaves and 
 brown pine needles. Three kinds of pyrola, 
 rattlesnake-plantain, pipsissewa, buttercup, and 
 three club mosses decorated the steep slopes. 
 On a warm gray face of ledge above, a generous 
 growth of bearberry spread its lustrous green 
 and russet leaves to the sky, and close by the 
 pale corydalis grew in abundance. The recent 
 growth in some of these plants was marked, par- 
 ticularly in the buttercup (/2. bulbosus') and 
 bearberry. Walking back to Arlington, I saw 
 a downy woodpecker, a grouse, two golden- 
 crested kinglets, four chickadees, a dozen 
 crows, two flocks of blackbirds, including 
 fully forty birds, three more tree sparrows, a 
 fat spider, two black and orange caterpillars, 
 two snow-squalls, and a beautiful golden sunset. 
 Saturday night was clear and cold, more like a 
 winter night than one with some claims to the 
 name of spring. 
 
 Sunday, the middle day of March, was bright 
 and blustering, a sharp contrast to the Sunday 
 previous, with its heat and strange stillness. I 
 began my walk at Waverley, and went by way of 
 Quince Street and Beaver Street to the easterly
 
 56 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 slope of Prospect Hill, in Waltham. The roads 
 were frozen, and the meadows stiff with ice. 
 Here and there roaring brooks passed under the 
 road and danced away towards the Charles. 
 The spaces between them were in some instances 
 filled by ledgy hills capped and sprinkled with 
 red cedars, some of which were sturdy old 
 trees with foliage full of golden-olive light. 
 From one of the hills came a gay troop of 
 robins flying in wide circles over the fields. 
 One of them sang in a timid way the song of 
 robin's love. It was the first attempt at the 
 complete song that I had heard this season. 
 From another ledge, covered with hardwood 
 trees, eight chickadees deployed across an or- 
 chard. Every one of them was saying some- 
 thing merry. On the edge of a meadow seven 
 bluebirds sat in the low branches of maple- 
 trees, and dropped one by one to the ground 
 to pick up food seen by their quick eyes in 
 the grass. I saw three more bluebirds later 
 in the day. Near the foot of Prospect Hill, a 
 flock of nearly a dozen birds, feeding in a yard 
 among spruces and maples, was found to include 
 chickadees, brown creepers, and a kinglet. I 
 saw four brown creepers during the day, one 
 of which in flying described curves and spirals 
 in the air which would have made a tumbler 
 pigeon green with envy. In a sheltered nook
 
 THE COMING OF THE BIRDS. 57 
 
 by a spring, a thicket of evergreens, and a brush 
 fence, two fox sparrows popped into view for 
 a moment. Near them a grouse was found in 
 a pine grove. 
 
 The eastern side of Prospect Hill holds in its 
 curve a spot of singular beauty. Behind a 
 veil of pine woods lies hidden a rocky amphi- 
 theatre, through which flows a sparkling stream 
 of spring water. Dozens of its tiny cascades 
 were framed in moss and ferns. Its worn 
 boulders were partially sheathed in ice, and in 
 many places beds of snow still rested upon its 
 banks and overhung the water. The background 
 of this picture was a steep wall of rock and earth 
 nearly fifty feet in height, overhung by tall 
 oaks, walnut and ash trees, and covered with 
 remnants of snow drifts, mossy boulders and 
 patches of last year's ferns nodding in the wind. 
 
 Scrambling up this cliff, I found myself at 
 the summit of a iiill justly noted for its wide 
 and varied view. A vast and irregular city 
 seemed to reach from its southeastern foot to 
 the waters of Massachusetts Bay. Far away 
 to the southwest, two large towns could be seen 
 rearing their spires against the sky. They were 
 about in the direction of Westboro' and Milford. 
 The New Hampshire mountains showed to much 
 better advantage than from Arlington Heights, 
 and I could clearly identify the different sum-
 
 58 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 mits of the Monadnock range. But this was not 
 all. Just to the left of the twin Uncanoonucs 
 was what appeared to be the southern Kearsarge, 
 in Andover, New Hampshire. This peak is 
 seventy-five miles distant, and has an elevation 
 of 2,943 feet. I am less confident that I could 
 distinguish Agamenticus in York, Maine, but a 
 faint blue summit broke the monotonous sky 
 line near the point at which this hill might be 
 seen were it high enough.
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 
 
 THE dunes of Ipswich in Massachusetts lie in 
 a somewhat secluded and peculiar spot. Facing 
 the open ocean between Plum Island and Coffin's 
 Beach, the Ipswich shore presents a strange 
 aspect to the passing world, seaward, skyward, 
 or landward. It is a rough bit of desert, made 
 into odd shapes by wind, tide, and river. From 
 no point of view is it commonplace. 
 
 An early morning train from Boston landed 
 me on March 21 at Ipswich station. Rain 
 fell in a determined way upon the earth, 
 the snowdrifts, and the rushing Ipswich River. 
 In a rickety buggy drawn by a lean horse I 
 started for the dunes. It was a five-mile drive 
 over a rolling glacial plain and wind-swept 
 marsh land. As the sea was neared, the wind 
 became stronger and stronger. The buggy 
 swayed from side to side ; the lean horse, stung 
 by rain in front and whip behind, staggered 
 feebly on against the storm ; and birds, waves, 
 sand, trees, marsh grass, the face of the water, 
 everything, in fact, which could move,
 
 60 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 either fled before the gale or writhed under its 
 blows. At nine o'clock I reached a lonely, storm- 
 battered house, half concealed among the sand- 
 hills. The Equinoctial was at its height. It 
 was an hour when prudence bade one stay in the 
 house, but when that which makes a man happy 
 amid the rough revelry of Nature said, Go, 
 give yourself to the storm. The sea could not 
 be seen from the house, for the dunes stood in 
 the way, but the wind, the breath of the sea, 
 told where it lay. The wind was charged with 
 rain, hail, cutting bits of sand, the odor of brine, 
 and the roar of the billowy battle beyond the 
 dunes. 
 
 What are the dunes ? They are the waves of 
 the sea perpetuated in sand. They were changing 
 and growing at that moment, as they are at every 
 moment when the winds blow. A ridge forty feet 
 high, eastward of the house, was hurling yellow- 
 ish sand into the dooryard and against the build- 
 ings. From its top could be seen a hollow be- 
 yond and then another ridge, from the crest 
 of which a sand banner waved in the wind. 
 That ridge surmounted, a broader hollow was 
 seen beyond, containing lagoons of gleaming 
 water and thickets of richly colored shrubs and 
 a few stunted pines. To right, left, and ahead, 
 other ridges rose like mimic mountains. Some 
 of them had been cut straight through by
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 61 
 
 storms, and showed plainly wind stratification 
 on their cut surfaces. Wading through the 
 pools, from which a few black ducks rose and 
 flew swiftly out to sea, I gained the third ridge, 
 which was the highest of the dunes. Beyond 
 was another hollow, then a fourth dune, then a 
 beach strewn with seaweed, shells, and wreck- 
 age, and finally half a mile of snowy breakers, 
 boiling and hissing on their rhythmic journey 
 shoreward. At times the eye seemed to reach 
 further out to sea, but at once the rain, foam, 
 and driving cloud-masses closed in on the waves, 
 and sky and ocean were combined in an attempt 
 to overwhelm the dunes. Walking upon the 
 beach was like wrestling with a strong man. 
 Looking through the stinging rain was almost 
 impossible. Not far up the beach was the wreck 
 of a small schooner. It was half buried in the 
 sand and just within reach of the waves. Stream- 
 ing with rain, my face smarting from the flying 
 sand, and my breath exhausted, I gained the 
 wreck and sought a refuge in its interior. 
 
 The wreck's ribs rose high into the air, and a 
 part of her sheathing had not yet been beaten off 
 by gales. The waves struck this wall of plank and 
 sent shiver after shiver through the broken hulk. 
 Inside, the wind had little effect, and the water 
 that came in was that flowing downward from 
 the beach, as great waves broke upon the sand
 
 62 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 and then swept round over the wreck's buried 
 side. Peering through the gaps between the tim- 
 bers, I looked down into and across a raging 
 mass of water. It was equal to a shipwreck 
 without the fear of death. Dozens of herring 
 gulls, now and then a black-backed gull, and 
 every few minutes small flocks of black ducks, 
 flew past athwart the gale. Sometimes a gull 
 would face the wind and fly against it steadily, 
 vigorously, yet never advance an inch. The 
 ducks looked as though they were flying back- 
 ward, so oddly balanced were they. After 
 nearly an hour of watching I waded ashore, fol- 
 lowed my tracks back across the sand-hills, and 
 gained a comfortable " stove-side " in the weather- 
 beaten house. The noonday meal of fat pork, 
 boiled corned beef, cabbage, clams, soda bis- 
 cuit, doughnuts, mince pie, and coffee seemed 
 in some degree a reasonable complement to the 
 gale. 
 
 Early in the afternoon, in company with two 
 friends, a bird-watcher and a mouse-hunter, 
 I faced the storm again. We walked north- 
 ward rather than eastward, keeping within the 
 hollows of the dunes and not climbing to their 
 windy crests. Rain fell in torrents and in larger 
 drops than in the morning. It whipped into 
 foam the pale blue and green pools between the 
 sand-hills. Gusts of air struck these pools from
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 63 
 
 ever-varying angles, the cliffs and passes of the 
 mimic mountains making all manner of currents 
 and eddies in the wind. Kuffled by these gusts 
 the pools changed color from moment to mo- 
 ment, sometimes being white with foam and 
 reflected light from the sky, then varying 
 through every shade of blue and sea-green to 
 ultramarine. The coloring in these miniature 
 valleys was exquisitely beautiful. In some, the 
 yellow sand, over which lines and ripples of pur- 
 ple sand were laid, curved from every side with 
 the most graceful lines downward from the 
 ridges to a single tinted mirror at the centre. 
 In others, where the valley was broader, lagoons 
 filled with tiny islands were fringed with vegeta- 
 tion of striking shades. The clumps of sturdy 
 " poverty grass " (hudsonia tomentosa) cov- 
 ered much of the ground, its coloring, while it 
 was wet by the rain, varying from burnt umber 
 to madder brown. Over it strayed scalp locks 
 of pale yellow grasses, restless in the wind. 
 Next to the pools and under them grew a dense 
 carpet of cranberry vines, yielding shades of 
 dark crimson, maroon, and wine color. Lines 
 of floating cranberries edged these tiny lakes, 
 or shone like precious stones at their bottom. 
 Between the lagoons and 011 their islands dense 
 thickets of meadow-sweet and leafless wild-rose 
 bushes formed masses of intense color, the
 
 64 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 shades running from rich reds through orange 
 to gleaming yellow. The rain glistening on 
 these warmly tinted stems made them unnatu- 
 rally brilliant. 
 
 On the shores of some of the lagoons, or form- 
 ing small conical islands in their midst, were 
 white heaps of broken clam-shells. The shells 
 when disturbed seemed to be embedded in fine 
 black soil, like that left by long-extinguished 
 fires. When these shell-heaps were first ex- 
 plored they contained bones of many kinds of fish 
 and birds, including fragments of that extinct 
 bird, the great auk. They also yielded broken 
 pieces of roughly ornamented pottery, bits of 
 copper, and stone implements of the Indians 
 who had made the Ipswich River and its sand- 
 hills one of their principal camping-grounds. 
 This region has given to relic-hunters bushels 
 of arrow-heads, stone knives, and hatchets. 
 
 As we approached the largest of the lagoons, 
 which covered several acres, black ducks began 
 to appear, flying in all directions. They rose 
 not only from the large lagoon, but from many 
 smaller pools hidden among the network of 
 dunes. Over a hundred were in the air at 
 once. Crows, too, and gulls joined in the 
 winged stampede caused by our coming. One 
 flock of crows flying towards Cape Ann later in 
 the afternoon numbered eighty-three birds. Our
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 65 
 
 walk ended at Ipswich Light, a small beacon 
 placed on the edge of the dunes as a warning 
 against their treacherous sands. A bit of land 
 near it had been reclaimed from the desert 
 and gave promise of being a garden in a few 
 weeks. The rain was at its fiercest here, and beat 
 upon the lighthouse as though it would wash it 
 from the face of the earth. As the wind blew 
 the sand grass, its long blades whirled around, 
 cutting circles in the sand with their tough tips 
 and edges. These circles could be seen from a 
 long distance, so deeply and clearly were they 
 cut. Sometimes a long blade and a short one 
 whirled on the same root and made concentric 
 circles. The geometrical correctness of these 
 figures made them striking elements in a land- 
 scape so chaotic as the dunes in the Equinoctial. 
 
 Scattered about over the sand were small 
 star-shaped objects about the size of a silver 
 dollar, and brown in color. They looked at 
 first glance as though they might have been 
 stamped out of thick leather. Whether they 
 were fish, flesh, or plant, was a question not 
 readily answered by a novice. They proved to 
 be a kind of puff-ball, common in such regions as 
 the dunes, and singularly well adapted to life on 
 shifting sands. 
 
 Through the long night of the 21st the wind 
 wailed around the house, and the sound of the
 
 66 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 waves came up from the sea. Long before sun- 
 rise I was awakened by the quacking of domes- 
 tic ducks in the inlet just in front of my 
 windows. Fog and a gentle east wind ruled the 
 morning, and the fog made queer work with 
 outlines and perspective among the sand-hills. 
 Not far from the house there once stood a fine 
 orchard, many of the trees in which had attained 
 a generous size considering their exposed situa- 
 tion. But the dunes marked them for destruc- 
 tion. The greedy sand piled itself around 
 their roots, rose higher and higher on their 
 trunks, caught the tips of their lower branches, 
 dragged them under its cold and deadly 
 weight, reached up to those higher, and, as the 
 trees began to pine, hurled itself against their 
 dry leaves, twigs, and branches, then set to work 
 to wear away the trunks themselves. Rising 
 through the fog, these remains seemed like tor- 
 tured victims reaching out distorted arms for 
 pity. Only a few of the trees retained branches 
 having green wood and pliable twigs, and these 
 were half buried by recent inroads of sand. 
 They reminded me of the fate of men caught in 
 quicksands, and drawn down inch by inch to 
 their death. 
 
 Tracks in sand are almost as telling records 
 as tracks in snow. Skunks had wandered about 
 over these ridges in force. They do not find
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 67 
 
 their food among the hills, but on the shore 
 where the carrion of the sea is left by the tide. 
 The ocean edge is usually strewn with dead fish, 
 sea birds, and shell-fish. Around these rem- 
 nants are to be seen the tracks of gulls and 
 crows, or the birds themselves. That morning 
 the upper air was noisy with crows coming back 
 from their night roost. They soon scattered 
 along the beach, feeding. For some reason the 
 ducks had disappeared from the lagoons. A 
 few flew past up the coast, but the greater part 
 seemed to have already moved northward. It 
 was upon these sand-hills that the Ipswich spar- 
 row was first shot in December, 1868. The bird 
 is much like the grass finch in contour, and in 
 behavior when approached by man. Its coloring 
 is that of the Savannah sparrow, only several 
 shades lighter. During the March migration 
 the Ipswich sparrow is readily to be found 
 among the dunes. Startled by my coming, three 
 of them stopped feeding on the edge of a small, 
 clear lagoon and flew up the steep side of the 
 sand-hill above it. This sand-hill was dotted 
 with clumps of coarse, yellowish grass, the sand 
 itself was a shade paler than the grass, and the 
 sparrows' plumage toned in with both so per- 
 fectly that when the birds alighted it was almost 
 impossible to see them. One dropped down 
 behind a bunch of grass, and ran along swiftly
 
 68 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 with his head pointing forward until he gained 
 the cover of a larger growth of grass, then 
 stopped and raised his head slowly above it, and 
 remained motionless, vigilant. 
 
 Crouched among the grass in a hollow I 
 watched him, my glass levelled at his head. 
 Five minutes may have passed before he gave a 
 sharp " chip," ran at full speed down the bank, 
 and flew back to his feeding-ground. Near an- 
 other pool a dozen or more horned larks were 
 feeding on the wet ground. This bird is one 
 of the most beautiful I know. In the pool, cad- 
 dis-worms were crawling about in cases made, 
 not of grains of gravel, but of sections of scour- 
 ing-rush, which they had found to answer all 
 practical purposes. This is an instance of the 
 use of ready-made clothing to oppose to Nature's 
 usual demand for custom-made garments. These 
 caddis-worms were the first water-life which I 
 had seen stirring this spring. Later in the day 
 I saw " Torn Coddies " or " mummichogs " 
 swimming in a ditch, but they are active all 
 winter. Another sign of spring was the track 
 of a white-footed mouse (hespcromys leuco- 
 pus) found by the mouse-hunter on his morn- 
 ing round. 
 
 Standing on the crest of one of the dunes 
 next the sea, and looking through the fog across 
 lagoons filled with islands to other dunes of
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 69 
 
 many outlines, varying from pointed peak or 
 bold bluff to long graceful ridge, it was impos- 
 sible to retain true ideas of size and distance. 
 The proportions of pools, islets, bushes, and 
 cliffs corresponded so closely to those which 
 would have marked lakes, islands, groves, and 
 mountain peaks that, for all the eye could tell, 
 Winnepesaukee and the Franconia Mountains 
 were there in all their beauty. During the 
 forenoon the fog crept back to the sea, the sun 
 came out, and the landscape appeared in new 
 colors and proportions. Lakes shrank to pools, 
 mountains dwindled to sand ridges. The sand 
 itself grew pale, and many of its most brightly 
 colored plants lost their brilliancy as they dried. 
 This was strikingly noticeable in the hudsonia 
 tomentosa, which changed from rich brown 
 tones to sage green and gray. Ducks were re- 
 placed by numbers of redwing blackbirds, and 
 all day long the " flick, flick, flick, flick, flick " 
 of a pigeon woodpecker rang from a tree on Hog 
 Island. 
 
 In the afternoon we rowed across the shallow 
 inlet to the island, which is what geologists call a 
 drumlin, and sailors or farmers a " hog back." 
 It is a gently sloping hill of gravel, whose longer 
 axis is supposed to indicate the direction of the 
 glacier's advance at that point. The length of 
 the island from northwest to southeast is a little
 
 70 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 over half a mile, and its height along its backbone 
 is one hundred and forty feet. A sunny old 
 farm-house on the low land at the end of the 
 island nearest Coffin's Beach was pointed out 
 as the birthplace of Rufus Choate. Beyond it 
 was a fair view of Essex River, with its gleaming 
 flats dotted with clam-diggers, Coffin's Beach, 
 Annisquam Harbor, and the shores of Cape 
 Ann, made dim and mysterious by the east wind's 
 veil of haze, a pledge of returning storm. The 
 view northward across Castle Neck and the 
 mouths of Ipswich and Rowley rivers to Plum 
 Island was not only beautiful, but interesting by 
 reason of the distinctness with which it mapped 
 the dunes. As line upon line of white-edged 
 breakers rolled in upon the shore, they seemed to 
 turn to sand and continue their undulations 
 across Castle Neck to our inlet. Bits of blue 
 shone between these sand waves. They were 
 the mimic lakes of the caddis- worms and the 
 Ipswich sparrows. Bits of white were on the 
 sands of the beach and the flats along the 
 inlet. They were flocks of gulls feeding. So 
 still was the air that now and then the uncanny 
 whining of one of these birds came up to us. 
 Inland the sun made the haze golden instead 
 of gray, and we could not see many miles. 
 In Ipswich, Hamilton, and Essex many drum- 
 lins could be seen, one of which, Heartbreak
 
 THE EQUINOCTIAL ON THE DUNES. 71 
 
 Hill, was especially conspicuous. The outlines 
 of these hills seemed restful and placid. The 
 marshes between them were straw-colored, and 
 cut into arabesques by meandering tide rivers 
 of blue. 
 
 The stone walls on Hog Island were apparently 
 being swallowed up by the earth. The boul- 
 ders also seemed to be sinking below the surface. 
 One stone wall had sunk so that its top was 
 almost level with the ground. In the fields at 
 the base of the hill, tunnels of the common field- 
 mice (arvicola pennsylvanicus') ran in every 
 direction. The mouse-hunter, in order to prove 
 beyond a doubt that these sturdy mice, and 
 not moles, were responsible for the tunnels, dug 
 one of them out of his cave and produced him, 
 struggling. 
 
 At sunset, after our row back to the sand- 
 hills, I climbed the highest dune and took a 
 last look at the singular panorama of blue 
 lagoons, pale yellow ridges, wind-cut bluffs, bur- 
 ied trees, and foaming breakers. It certainly 
 was a unique landscape, and one fascinating for 
 many reasons, but it had something sinister in 
 it. The ocean was covered by a thin fog, the 
 east wind coming from the waves was chilling, 
 and it brought confused sounds of roaring water 
 and shrill-voiced gulls. The sands, forever shift- 
 ing, seemed treacherous, the sea restless, and the
 
 72 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 wind which stirred them full of discontent. 
 There are many who might find rest in the* rest- 
 lessness of the sea, the dunes, and the winds. 
 Perhaps my lack of sympathy is hereditary. 
 Rather more than two hundred and fifty years 
 ago a father and son were fishermen upon these 
 treacherous coasts. In the great storm of Dt - 
 cember 15, 1636, the father was claimed by tlio 
 ocean as its own. The son gave up the sea and 
 grew corn by the ponds of Chebacco. Before 
 he died he moved out of sight and hearing of 
 the ocean, and for many generations none of 
 his descendants lived within tide-water limits.
 
 THE RENAISSANCE. 
 
 THE twenty-fifth of March was the first 
 day of the year which could, without any 
 mental reservation, be called a spring day. 
 I was awakened early by the clamor of 
 English sparrows, the shrill calling of robins, 
 the "creaking" of purple grackles, and the 
 cawing of crows. By eight o'clock, with one 
 who, like myself, had arranged to gauge the 
 season on this bright and beautiful morning, I 
 was on my way behind a willing horse, speeding 
 by Mount Auburn, through the walled fields of 
 Belmont, past Waverley Oaks, and on towards 
 Concord, with Rock Meadow and Beaver Brook 
 on the left, and Arlington Heights and their 
 cedar-crowned ridges on the right. Every 
 breath of fresh, sweet, sparkling air seemed full 
 of new, tingling life. Near Payson Park Lodge 
 a song sparrow was singing. We stopped and 
 listened to it. Every note was well and fully 
 rendered. The bird was, like the day, one of 
 Nature's successes. Just beyond the Oaks, near 
 Beaver Brook Cascade, a flock of a dozen quail 
 flew over us, and on, northward, at a rate of
 
 74 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 speed which was marvellous. They were flying 
 high enough to clear the tops of the trees. The 
 rush of their wings was like a squall passing 
 through a pine grove. 
 
 As we drove slowly between the even rows of 
 willows which make Rock Meadow on the Con- 
 cord turnpike one of the most charming spots 
 near Cambridge, song sparrows by threes and 
 fours were seen and heard at every lull in the 
 west wind's blowing. Two rusty grackles flew 
 over, alighted in an elm, sounded their quaint 
 notes, and then dropped down into the meadow. 
 A redwing blackbird " ka-reed " from a treetop, 
 and more than a dozen crows revelled in loud 
 cawing, sturdy flying, or rapid walking over the 
 lowlands. Over the hills and far away we drove 
 in the bright sunshine, until, reaching at last the 
 secluded spot we had chosen for our goal, we 
 3et out through a narrow, walled lane for the 
 woods. 
 
 A muskrat, sunning himself on a stone, see- 
 ing us, hurled himself across the lane into and 
 through a puddle, showering spray in every 
 direction, and out of sight under a stone wall 
 beyond. A single junco, the first I had seen 
 this year, rose from a ploughed field, flashed his 
 white tail feathers, and turned his cowled head 
 to watch us. High over a pine-crowned hill a 
 red-shouldered hawk was sailing in small circles,
 
 THE RENAISSANCE. 75 
 
 and with rather nervous flight. Now and then 
 its discordant mewing came to our ears on the 
 wings of the wind. 
 
 In the orchards bluebirds were singing. We 
 heard at least ten. They seemed to say, "Cher- 
 u-it, cher-u-it" 'and to mean by it something 
 very pure and endearing. The lane led into 
 a wooded meadow, crossed by several brooks, 
 which we examined with intei'est for signs of 
 water life. Within half a mile we found one 
 painted turtle (chrysemys picta) and eighteen 
 speckled tortoises (nanemys guttatus). Some 
 seemed rather feeble, though full of enjoyment 
 of the warm sunshine. One of the number 
 had come to an early, sad, and to us mysterious 
 end. We found his empty shell picked clean 
 of all soft portions except the tail and a bit of 
 skin which adhered to it. The shell was un- 
 scarred. Neither of us could imagine what 
 beast or bird could have slain him. The 
 crime had been committed only a few hours 
 before, for the shell was still moist. In the 
 mud on the side of the brook we found an 
 unfamiliar track. Two five-clawed feet, making 
 a track as broad as the length of the first joint 
 of a man's thumb, had been planted side by 
 side, while several inches in front of them two 
 smaller feet had made two prints, one of which 
 was exactly in front of the other. My friend
 
 76 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 thought the prints might be those of a young 
 otter. We also found where a muskrat had 
 stepped upon the mud, placing his hind feet 
 so closely together as to make one broad print, 
 dragging meanwhile his tail in such a way as 
 to leave an odd groove in the mud. Flying 
 about in this meadow and the higher woods 
 adjoining it were two kinds of butterflies and 
 a beautiful moth. I also found a partially de- 
 veloped locust. 
 
 While watching and admiring these gay sur- 
 vivors of the winter, we heard a brown creeper 
 sing. It was a rare treat. The song is singu- 
 larly strong, full of meaning and charm, espe- 
 cially when the size of its tiny performer is 
 remembered. A grouse, two tree sparrows, and a 
 downy woodpecker were added to our list towards 
 the middle of the day, and early in the after- 
 noon two chickadees, seemingly mated, were 
 greatly exercised over my friend's excellent 
 mimicry of the " phoebe note " of the male chick- 
 adee. The male answered with much vigor, and 
 within less than three feet of the mimic's face. 
 In making this sweet ventriloqual note, the bird 
 throws its head back and opens its beak, quite in 
 the manner of a Christmas-card bird. The only 
 other bird song which we heard was that of the 
 flicker calling energetically to his mate. 
 
 The event of the day was the sight of a barred
 
 THE RENAISSANCE. 77 
 
 owl, which we startled into flight in the depths 
 of a pine grove where snowdrifts still lingered. 
 Although close watch was kept for frogs or pip- 
 ing hylas, none were seen or heard. Our sur- 
 prise was great, however, to see a large wood- 
 chuck run clumsily through an oak grove, and 
 turn to watch us from the mouth of his hole. 
 He was very thin, and probably correspondingly 
 hungry after his long winter nap. We saw two 
 gray squirrels, but no red squirrels or chipmunks. 
 At the base of a boulder, in a moist wood, lay 
 a garter snake. I caught him, and found his 
 forked tongue, bright, defiant eyes, and tightly 
 entwining folds all in the best possible working 
 order. Near the end of our walk we found a 
 grass-grown ants' nest, formed of light soil piled 
 into a conical heap a foot and a half high. Not 
 thinking it possible that the hill was tenanted, I 
 knocked away part of its top. Instantly, en- 
 raged red ants came from the hidden chambers 
 of their fortress, and in a sluggish way sought 
 the intruder. I replaced the earth and mentally 
 begged the ants' pardon. 
 
 It was evening when we reentered Cambridge 
 streets, well pleased with having seen eighteen 
 kinds of birds, three kinds of mammals, two 
 species of turtles, one snake, three species of 
 butterflies or moths, and at least five other kinds 
 of insects.
 
 THE VESPER SONG OF THE WOODCOCK. 
 
 EASTER Ipunday fell this year on March 29th, 
 and the joyous voices of white-robed choir boys 
 made for the cities almost as sweet and praisef ul 
 music as the children of the woods were making 
 in Nature's own sanctuaries. On the afternoon 
 of the day before Easter, I went to the ravine 
 between Arlington and Lexington where hepa- 
 tica grows. Walking from Arlington over the 
 ridges near One Pine Hill, I heard frogs for the 
 first time this year. Two kinds were singing, 
 the shrill-voiced piping hylas (hyla Piclcer- 
 ingii) and the wood frogs (rana sylvaticcf). 
 The latter at this season make a sound which 
 recalls the thrumming of loosely strung banjo 
 strings. The combined notes formed an effect- 
 ive background of sound to the rollicsome sing- 
 ing of song sparrows, tree sparrows, and red- 
 winged blackbirds, and the love-music of the 
 mated bluebirds. 
 
 Wishing to capture a wood frog and make 
 sure of his identit} r , I remained for many min- 
 utes motionless on a stone in the middle of a 
 shallow pool in the swamp. On my approach
 
 THE VESPER SONG OF THE WOODCOCK. 79 
 
 every frog had gone to the bottom and hidden 
 in the leaves and mud. The pool was lined 
 with many layers of brown leaves, most of which 
 preserved their outlines and told their names. 
 Across them twigs and branches had fallen, and 
 bits of lichen and moss had sunk there, too. 
 Many specks were floating in the water. They 
 seemed to move, some one way, some another. 
 They were alive. Bending closer over the 
 water, I watched them attentively. Some moved 
 quite evenly, others hitched across the pool by a 
 series of jerky advances. There were lively red 
 ones among them, contrasting with the darker, 
 duller ones. Some were so minute that they 
 could be seen only as a ray 'of light pierced the 
 pool. As minutes passed and no frog moved, I 
 grew weary and rose. Instantly a frog kicked 
 among the leaves and mud, betraying by motion 
 what his color had protected. A second later I 
 had him, feebly squirming in my pocket. 
 
 North of One Pine Hill a flock of thirty or 
 more birds were feeding in a stubble field. 
 They were j uncos and tree sparrows, in about 
 equal numbers. The juncos did not say where 
 they had been all winter. Only just out of my 
 sight, perhaps, all the time. At five o'clock the 
 ravine was reached. It was full of shadows, 
 and the raw east wind had piled masses of cloud 
 across the sky, making the sun's light pale and
 
 80 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 uncertain. At the masthead of a leafless red 
 maple sat a gray squirrel, " budding." Foolish 
 thing, he sat still, thinking himself safe, while 
 he was really the most conspicuous object in the 
 ravine. Pounding upon the tree had no effect 
 on him. Search for hepaticas revealed no 
 flowers, and I did not find any until a trip to 
 the Middlesex Fells on April 5th. The skunk- 
 cabbage flowers were losing their beauty, yet the 
 snow was still abundant in dark corners in the 
 woods. Ten minutes in the chilly ravine was 
 enough. A grouse startled me with her noisy 
 flight as I left the gloom. From every hilltop 
 crows were calling lustily. They were restless, 
 and seemed moved by a common impulse. 
 Reaching a high ledge, I watched them. About 
 thirty were in sight in the tops of tall pines. 
 Gradually they drew together on the next ridge 
 to the north, about half a mile from me. One 
 by one they dropped down into the woods out 
 of sight. At last but two remained, still cawing. 
 Then they became silent, and finally they also 
 sank beneath the surface of the woods, and 
 nothing more was heard of them. They were 
 like sparks in the ashes, going out one by one. 
 At this moment the sun, which had been sinking 
 behind stormy-looking rags of clouds, disap- 
 peared behind the rounded shoulder of Wachu- 
 sett. Then the sky dressed itself in gay colors,
 
 THE VESPER SOXU OF THE WOODCOCK. 81 
 
 and the farewell to the day was full of splendor. 
 Wachusett, distant and pale blue, was flanked 
 by two of the Lexington ridges heavily grown 
 with pines. The mountain and its two dark 
 guardians stood out sharply against a background 
 of the richest orange, deepening at the horizon 
 to red. Above the mountain the sky was clear 
 yellow until it reached a bank of slaty -blue 
 cloud. The sunlight piercing this cloud bank 
 flecked it with rose color, while drifting bits of 
 cloud falling against the orange became bright 
 like gold. Thanks to this gorgeous sunset, I 
 lingered on the hill until darkness pervaded the 
 woods. Then I ran down through a grove of 
 oaks and came out in a damp meadow com- 
 pletely surrounded by tall trees. The last song 
 sparrow was singing good night. Across the 
 west only a single band of orange light remained. 
 In the zenith stars were beginning to shine. A 
 strange cry came from the meadow grass. It 
 recalled the night hawk's squawk, softened by 
 distance. Again and again it came : " N'yah," 
 then a pause, then " n'yah " again, and so on, 
 until this had been uttered a dozen times. I 
 drew nearer the spot from which this odd call 
 came. Perhaps it was a frog of some kind ; per- 
 haps a bird of the swarnp. The sound ceased, 
 but the next moment there seemed to be a musi- 
 cal ringing in my ears which rapidly grew more
 
 82 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 distinct, and then came clearly from the upper 
 air, but from a point swiftly changing, appar- 
 ently revolving. I fixed my mind intently 
 upon the sound. It was a series of single musi- 
 cal notes uttered rapidly by some creature fly- 
 ing swiftly in an immense circle high over the 
 meadow. It seemed as though the sky were a 
 vast vaulted whispering gallery under whose 
 dark blue dome a singing reed was being whirled 
 round and round, dropping sweet bits of sound 
 as it sped through the air. As I listened breath- 
 lessly, this sound was smoothly changed into 
 another. The creature was descending : its 
 notes fell more slowly but more distinctly ; they 
 were sweeter, rounder, more liquid. They came 
 down, down, and then ceased, quenched in the 
 damp grass. Almost at once, however, the 
 " n'yah " began again at the same point in the 
 meadow where it had been made before. This 
 entire performance was repeated several times. 
 The last time the nasal call was given twenty- 
 four times and the aerial part was omitted. 
 The performer was satisfied for the night. As 
 he closed, the bells in Arlington struck seven. 
 
 Those who know the plump and meditative 
 woodcock, gazing by the hour together down the 
 line of his bill into black mud, will wonder with 
 me that his courtship can arouse him to such 
 airy fairy efforts, and at so romantic an hour.
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 
 
 THE morning of the first of April dawned 
 like an Easter Sunday. The sky was clear, the 
 sun warm, the air soft and full of the smell 
 of spring. Taking the nine o'clock train from 
 the Old Colony Station we rolled swiftly over 
 the Quincy-Braintree levels with their wander- 
 ing brooks and flooded swamps, down towards 
 the sandy Cape country. At Bridgewater the 
 train turned toward the east, and by eleven we 
 passed the head of Buzzard's Bay, where the 
 Cape Cod Canal is some day to be cut through, 
 and entered upon the territory of the real Cape. 
 The railway follows the inner curve of the 
 Cape, the rounded cheek of Cape Cod Bay. At 
 Sandwich, where we saw the melancholy and 
 deserted buildings of the once prosperous glass 
 works, we began to gain glimpses of dark blue 
 water, with pale sand hills lining its shores. 
 
 As we passed Barnstable and Yarmouth these 
 momentary off-looks to the bay became more 
 frequent. Between them, as we hurried through 
 patches of low woods, we surprised anglers mak- 
 ing the first cast of the newly opened season in
 
 84 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 the sluggish brooks or small ponds which make 
 this region famous for its trout. Brewster, 
 Orleans, Eastham, and Wellfleet were traversed 
 one by one, the train hitching to the left mile by 
 mile until from pointing southeast it pointed east, 
 then northeast, and finally north. We passed 
 cranberry bogs by dozens ; stunted pine forests 
 scorched by the railway fires ; windmills 
 some old and full of Dutch dignity, many new 
 and bristling with Yankee ingenuity ; flocks of 
 blackbirds on the flat hay-fields ; clouds of dry 
 sand rising from the track ; views across the 
 blue bay of blue skies and bluer shores reaching 
 up to the mainland westward and northward. 
 
 By a little after midday our eyes had spanned 
 the placid inner waters of the bay and seen the 
 long curving shore of Truro and Provincetown, 
 its white hills and low cliffs flashing almost like 
 chalk in the strong sunlight. Passing Well- 
 fleet, a large and busy-looking village, we 
 soon gained a narrower part of the Cape and 
 began to point northwest instead of north, 
 seeing sand-hills first on one side, then on 
 the other. Truro is a long township, a block 
 set on end in this pile of Cape republics. 
 First came South Truro, then Truro, then a 
 mile or two of bluffs along the bay shore with 
 swift visions of feeding herring gulls on the flats, 
 and forests of poles rising from the blue water,
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 85 
 
 marking the fish traps of the deluded fishermen 
 whose mackerel fleet has been swept from the 
 sea by this sunken fleet of seine poles. Finally, 
 North Truro was gained, four hours from Boston, 
 and 114 miles by schedule. The bay was at our 
 feet, with Barnstable, Plymouth, and Norfolk 
 shores for its setting. There was the train run- 
 ning away to Provincetown between white sand 
 walls, pointing toward Boston, yet increasing its 
 sand trail from it. Eastward there was a straight 
 white road leading over low sand ridges and broad 
 sand levels up to a tall white lighthouse a mile 
 and a half away. It was Highland Light, hold- 
 ing its great lenses high above the Atlantic, 
 and casting its message of warning or welcome 
 over many a wide league of restless water. The 
 process of hauling a well-loaded carryall through 
 even a short mile and a half of deep sand is 
 painful for horse and trying to half-starved 
 traveller. Both rejoice when such a ride is over. 
 At three o'clock we were standing at the foot 
 of Highland Light, gazing on the novel land- 
 scape which surrounds it. Toward the east the 
 limitless ocean filled the eye. Half a dozen 
 sails were in sight, but no covey of mackerel- 
 men dotted the sea as in the days of Thoreau. 
 The spot where we were standing was the storm- 
 eaten margin of a cliff about 150 feet in height. 
 The cliff is not rock, but sand and clay sur-
 
 86 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 mounted by a tough layer of sod. As years 
 roll by the cliff is eroded, a little by the sea, 
 more by the ceaseless winds and frequent falling 
 rains. The ruins of the cliffs lie at their feet. 
 First masses of clay formed into mimic mountain 
 spurs and buttress ridges, then heaps of white 
 sand covered with coarse grass, finally, next the 
 sea, the broad steep beach which looks as hard 
 as marble, but when tested offers only soft and 
 uncertain support to the foot. The clay debris 
 is full of odd effects of color. White, gray, yel- 
 low, orange, lead color, and black, burning in 
 sunlight or crossed by heavy shadows, blend into 
 combinations worthy of the Yellowstone region. 
 On the upper edge of the cliffs close to the light- 
 house a colony of bank swallows have lived 
 through many generations of both men and birds. 
 Their burrows aid the work of erosion. Look- 
 ing either up or down the Atlantic shore the 
 cliffs could be seen extending in uneven array 
 above the beach. Southward they were broken 
 in places where narrow valleys ran inland, 
 reaching sometimes nearly across the Cape. 
 Almost the whole of Truro south of the light- 
 house is composed of sandhills well sodded or 
 grown with stunted pitch-pines or oaks. The 
 intervening valleys or interrupted hollows some- 
 times contain tide rivers, but are more fre- 
 quently dry. The hills are low, but as their
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 87 
 
 pigmy forests have the general effect of large 
 trees, the observer is constantly deceived as to 
 proportions and distances. Many times during 
 my stay I was startled to see an apparently 
 gigantic man or colossal quadruped come into 
 view upon the brow of a hill which my eyes had 
 told me was a mile or two distant. In driving 
 or walking, spaces were covered so much more 
 quickly than sight alone led me to expect, that I 
 felt as though my legs must be the owners of 
 the seven-league boots of old. Looking west- 
 ward from the lighthouse, the charm of the 
 view was not in the foreground of undulating 
 pasture thickly grown with reindeer moss and 
 tussocks of brown hudsonia, but in the dis- 
 tance. Cape Cod Bay has that lovely con- 
 tour, that great curve of sand enclosing a mass 
 of placid blue water, which makes a small bay 
 a singularly attractive part of a sea picture. 
 From Highland Light that day the bay seemed 
 full of repose, ignorant of storm. 
 
 Northward the shores of ocean and bay curved 
 away from the east as though the storm winds had 
 bent the end of the Cape round into the bay. 
 Inside of this bent end lay Provincetown, its 
 many windows flashing back the sunlight, and 
 its several spires standing out clearly against the 
 blue background. Between Provincetown and 
 the ocean are dunes, not grass and lichen-grown
 
 88 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 hills, but dunes like those at Ipswich beach, 
 shifting, treacherous, menacing. The sunlight 
 lay upon them as upon snow banks. 
 
 Taking a sturdy Cape horse, unterrified by 
 sandy roads or cross-country jaunts, we set out 
 by a trail back of the cliffs for the picturesque 
 country between Highland Light and Province- 
 town. In a hollow behind the cliffs lay a life- 
 saving station with its chain of telephone poles 
 running from it both up and down the coast, and 
 its sentry box perched upon the crest of the 
 sandhill. From a dry field near it an Ipswich 
 sparrow rose, flew a couple of rods, dropped 
 beside a bunch of hudsonia, and then ran 
 swiftly away behind its cover. Presently its 
 whitish head appeared amid the grass at a dis- 
 tance and remained motionless but watchful. 
 Our trail ascended a slope and led into a forest 
 of pigmy pitch-pines. They were about six 
 feet high on an average, yet were said to be 
 twenty years old. A flock of forty or fifty gold- 
 finches sang and fed among them. Descending 
 into a broad, level meadow lying just inside the 
 cliffs, which, by this time, were becoming more 
 dunes than cliffs, we found that a fire started 
 intentionally among the coarse grass of the 
 meadow had spread to the low pines and bushes 
 011 the sides of the hills. As the wind was 
 east the smoke blew into and across the meadow,
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 89 
 
 obscuring the view of the dunes in front of us. No 
 effort of mind or eyesight could make those dunes 
 appear like anything smaller than mountains two 
 thousand feet or more in height, and seven or eight 
 miles distant. Even when some men appeared 
 upon the nearer ridges and fought the fire, it 
 was easier to imagine them giants than to reduce 
 the dunes to their proper proportions. 
 
 This meadow was alive with birds. Meadow 
 larks, which are not larks but starlings, sang 
 their sweet lament from every acre. With them 
 were handsome redwing blackbirds, more noisy 
 but less shy. The starlings rose at long dis- 
 tances and, spreading their tails into white-edged 
 fans, let their wings quiver and then sailed 
 away, often over a ridge and out of sight. In 
 giving his plaintive song the starling stops feed- 
 ing, raises his head above the grass and shows 
 to perfection his yellow breast and its bold 
 black crescent. Song sparrows were on every 
 side, and crows and gulls rose and fell behind 
 the sandhills, where they were probably in sole 
 possession of the ocean's edge with its wealth of 
 seaweed and sea offal. 
 
 After winding through more than a mile of 
 meadow the road bent sharply to the left and 
 passed through a crooked gap in the hills into 
 a sandy amphitheatre several acres in extent. 
 Here, surrounded by high grass-clad slopes, was
 
 90 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 a picture of rural security and comfort. An old- 
 fashioiied farmhouse, in the midst of drooping 
 willows, barns, sheds, cattle-yards, and fruit trees, 
 stood near the sunny end of the hollow. At the 
 eastern end was a large pool, thickly grown with 
 stiff, interlacing bushes which rose from the water 
 in the manner of the button-ball bushes. Around 
 the farm buildings were cows, a bull with a large 
 ring in his nose, hens, ducks, and turkeys. 
 Around the pool were song sparrows, tree spar- 
 rows, yellow-rumped warblers, crow blackbirds, 
 and redwings. The air was lull of their music 
 and the clamor of the barnyard. The spot 
 gave one the feeling that it must have a history. 
 Indians, smugglers, pirates, patriot conspirators, 
 exiled regicides, might one or all have made this 
 nook a place of refuge. The oasis in the desert 
 is seen from afar ; this spot of life was hidden 
 in the bosom of the sandhills. 
 
 While I was thinking thus the heavens sud- 
 denly gave out an unearthly sound ; a drove of 
 celestial jackasses, all braying at once, seemed 
 coming afar from the sun's pastures. Shading 
 my eyes, I discovered a multitude of dark specks 
 connected like a chain, and advancing across the 
 sky with a swaying, undulatory motion. They 
 were wild geese flying a little north of east, and 
 within three hundred feet of the ground. The 
 farmer's dog barked vehemently at them. A
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 91 
 
 shot rang out from behind the sandhills. The 
 line of honking migrants wavered, but none 
 fell. Just as they disappeared a second flock 
 came within view and hearing in the west, and 
 passed over us in the invisible wake left by the 
 first. They seemed to be searching for a place 
 to rest. The two flocks contained at least 
 ninety-five birds. Walking round the little 
 bush-grown pond we listened entranced to the 
 medley music of the tree sparrows and their 
 companions. The yellow-rumped warblers were 
 probably birds which had wintered on the Cape, 
 just as some others have spent this winter in 
 Arlington, not far from Mystic Ponds. 
 
 The farmer asked us to enter his cottage and 
 see his collection of Indian stone relics picked 
 up by him on the slopes and fields above the 
 pool. We did so and found that he had gathered 
 several hundred arrow and spear heads, cutting 
 tools, hammers, bits of wampum and what he 
 called fish-net sinkers. He took us to the field 
 west of the pond and home acre, and bade us 
 search with him for more relics. At the end 
 of twenty minutes he had aided us in finding 
 two or three arrowheads, several fragments show- 
 ing clear indications of having been chipped, 
 and one sinker. In this field a flock of thirty or 
 forty horned larks were feeding ; they rose and 
 flew, circled and came down again within fifty
 
 92 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 yards of us. I, having failed to find even a 
 broken arrowhead, felt inclined to suspect the 
 larks of hiding them from me, as they tripped 
 about over the ploughed land. 
 
 Resuming our places in the carryall, we drove 
 to the edge of a sand slope overlooking the broad 
 meadow between us and Provincetown Harbor. 
 
 The sunset hour was near and the bay flashed 
 fire from a million waves. Provincetown, only 
 a few miles away, looked warm and cosy on its 
 neutral ground between pale dunes and blue 
 waters. It would seem less snug in an easterly 
 gale in mid-winter. A broad placid sheet of 
 fresh water lay between the sandhills and the 
 bay shore. It is called the Eel-pond. It made a 
 fair mirror for sunset lights. 
 
 We drove home over the moors, as I felt like 
 calling the wastes of undulating lichen-grown sand 
 which formed the middle of the Cape at this point. 
 The horse sped along regardless of roads, but 
 keeping a sharp watch for the numerous holes 
 dug in the sand by recent generations of hunters, 
 who half bury themselves on this plateau at 
 the fortunate times when the golden plover are 
 passing on their hemispherical migration. The 
 horse's feet crunched the reindeer moss, and 
 knocked dust from the hudsonia or poverty 
 grass, and pollen from the flowers of the corema. 
 Presently we found in the tableland two deep
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 93 
 
 bowl-shape J hollows where twin icebergs had 
 grounded side by side in the great ice age and 
 met their melting death. Upon the narrovy ridge 
 between these " sink-holes " was a grave. Years 
 ago a fisherman died of smallpox, and his body 
 was placed there. A stranger burial spot one 
 seldom sees. A mile further on we passed a 
 lonely poplar tree which marks not a man's 
 grave, but the grave of a home. All trace of 
 the house has gone, but mossgrown roads, a few 
 broken bricks and the sentinel tree bear passing 
 witness to a forgotten fireside ; a spot from which 
 a fisherman went out day by day, and where an 
 anxious heart beat for him in storms and per- 
 haps mourned for him at last when his boat went 
 down in the black waters off Race Point. Not 
 far from this forsaken acre is a sink-hole of un- 
 usual depth. The local name for it is full of 
 color, it is " Hell's Bottom." In spite of this 
 name the pines which line the slopes of the hol- 
 low flourish and are tall, and the pool of sweet 
 water at its centre is a favorite resort for birds, 
 the holy crossbill included. Passing it, we saw 
 above pygmy pines the pallid gleam of the High- 
 land Light, struggling with the glow of sunset. 
 A wide valley seemed to separate us from, the 
 light, and the white tower seemed three hun- 
 dred feet or more in height, but our Pegasus 
 drew us over the valley in five minutes, and the 
 light shrank to its proper size as we drew near.
 
 94 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 About eight o'clock I was seated on the iron 
 steps at the foot of the great kerosene torch 
 which, stands inside the crumpled lenses of the 
 Highland light. The lamp roared in its giant 
 chimney. Prismatic colors swam through the 
 lenses. The keepers told strange stories of 
 storms, freaks of lightning, the trembling of their 
 white tower in the gales, and the fate of birds 
 which hurled themselves against the heavy glass 
 of the outer windows of the tower. The base of 
 the lantern and many parts of the interior and 
 exterior of the lighthouse are scarred by light- 
 ning. Once three ducks struck and shivered 
 into splinters one of the thick panes of glass in 
 the tower and fell dead and mangled at the foot 
 of the lantern. The keeper said the sound of 
 their striking was like the report of a gun. Out- 
 side those windows, flashing with light, all seemed 
 intense darkness, a gloom filled perhaps with 
 fluttering birds or the mingled thoughts of those 
 upon the ocean who watched from afar the great 
 white light of the Truro sands. 
 
 At sunrise on the morning of the second of 
 April, I stood shivering in the chilly air, under 
 the lee of a wrecked windmill not far from the 
 lighthouse. The windmill has lost its wings, 
 and storms have beaten holes in its sides. Half 
 buried in the sand and sod lies one of its grooved 
 mill-stones. Half of the other forms the front
 
 A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 95 
 
 doorstep of a house near by. The mill was a 
 kind giant in its time, but being too big to be 
 set up in a bric-a-brac shop in town like its fussy, 
 fairy neighbor the farmer's flax wheel, it is 
 doomed to mingle with the shifting sand and be 
 whirled away by the winds it once made labor. 
 
 The sun had come up clear from the ocean. 
 The east wind had an edge both keen and cold. 
 Provincetown lay white and sparkling in the 
 barb of the Cape. Song sparrows, robins, and 
 meadow larks sang joyously. A wicked shrike 
 sat on a stone on the hillside and poured out a 
 jangling mixture of bluebird and brown thrush 
 notes while it watched for victims from among 
 the song sparrows. He never will sing his siren 
 song to another sunrise. Through the pine woods, 
 where skunk tracks dotted the sand patches, 
 and down through a hollow to the beach we 
 strolled before breakfast. Although the hollow 
 was a deep one, we had to slide down fifty feet. 
 of soft cliff face before reaching the grassy 
 upper beach, which in turn was several feet 
 above the tide-washed sands. The beach is very 
 soft, and walking upon it is laborious. The 
 cliffs are not as picturesque from below as from 
 above, and they reflect the sunlight disagreeably 
 in early morning. A dead skate, the half feath- 
 ered skeleton of a kittiwake gull, and a ripe ba- 
 nana constituted nearly the whole of the objects
 
 96 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 of interest on the shore. The banana had a re- 
 markably rich flavor, thanks perhaps to its sea 
 bath. Twenty crows retreated down the beach 
 ahead of us. They live well and grow fat on the 
 harvest of death cast up by the waves. We left 
 the shore at the life-saving station where mortar 
 drill had just been performed. A man on a 
 mast set in the sand has the life line fired to 
 him, he hauls out the breeches-buoy, and an im- 
 aginary shipwrecked crew is sent ashore across 
 imaginary breakers. The station was as neat, 
 clean and shining as a flagship, and more com- 
 fortable by far than most New England farm- 
 houses. 
 
 Later in the forenoon we drove for three 
 hours through Truro and South Truro, seeing 
 many quaint cottages ; dwarf apple orchards re- 
 minding me of Thoreau's description of them ; 
 a tide river in which a man was prodding at 
 random for eels and occasionally bringing one 
 out squirming on his trident ; thousands of pitch- 
 pine trees planted by hand in rows ; a sunny 
 hillside covered with oaks, checkerberry plants 
 and arbutus, the latter bearing the first flowers 
 of the year ; and a black snake dozing in the 
 sand by the wayside. He, being heavy with 
 winter slumber, was caught, measured, and found 
 to lie four feet four inches without stretching. 
 His teeth were long and sharp. Being given
 
 A TfiJP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 97 
 
 his freedom unhurt he rewarded us by some 
 brilliant tree climbing, during which he glided 
 up a trunk, in and out among branches, and 
 along limbs from tree to tree. I hope he will 
 do no harm during the new term of life which 
 we gave him. 
 
 A little after two o' clock we said adieu to 
 North Truro, the fair lighthouse, the cliffs, the 
 heaving Atlantic, and the plaintive starlings. 
 As we rolled homeward along the bay shore 
 hundreds of wild ducks flew, swam, or sat 
 motionless upon the quiet water. Gulls by scores 
 fed on the bars or frolicked in the sky. Clouds 
 gathered, the air grew colder, and by midnight 
 Massachusetts was in the midst of one of the 
 fiercest storms of the year.
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQUID. 
 
 MONDAY, the 6th of April, found me, with a 
 friend who lives close to nature's heart, floating 
 down the current of Musketaquid. We launched 
 a light Rushton boat at the feet of the Mmute- 
 Man, and were swept past him, by the battle- 
 ground, in the tide and through the eddies which 
 Thoreau knew so well and has made immortal. 
 On that morning bright with sunshine yet cold 
 with the breath of snowbanks on Wachusett, it 
 was Thoreau's spirit more than that of the fight- 
 ing farmers or fanciful Hawthorne which seemed 
 to rule the Old Manse ground, the ancient trees 
 along the water's edge, the swirling river, the 
 singing blackbirds, and the landscape of willows, 
 hills, and distant woods. As we were taking 
 out the boat from its house, a downy woodpecker 
 drummed for his mate's enjoyment on the sound- 
 ing branches and trunk of a dead tree at the 
 water's edge. He made three different tones on 
 his drum. A white-bellied nuthatch was going 
 from tree to tree calling loudly. His home of 
 last year had been cut down, and he seemed to
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQ.UID. 99 
 
 be searching for it. A pair of chickadees passed 
 by and exchanged greetings with the nuthatch. 
 Song sparrows in all directions were singing. 
 Now and then the wild note of a cowbird and 
 the more distant and plaintive call of a meadow 
 starling came to our ears. Robins were abun- 
 dant and noisy. 
 
 As our boat floated down the river and turned 
 a bend towards the arched stone bridge I glanced 
 back and saw a man with a gun standing on a 
 ledge above us. I opened my lips to call my 
 friend's attention to him, when a second glance 
 showed me that it was the Minute-Man, secure 
 on his pedestal and not climbing over the nearer 
 rocks, as he seemed to be. The current under 
 the bridge was very strong, and for the gentle 
 Musketaquid, very swift. It required dexterous 
 paddling to keep a straight course through the 
 central arch. Beyond the bridge the river lost 
 itself in flooded meadows. To one familiar with 
 its rightful banks, a bunch of willows, an elm 
 and a maple or two told the secret of its course. 
 But to me it seemed that we were entering a 
 beautiful lake, which promised to grow wider 
 and fairer the longer we sailed upon it. Com- 
 fortable farmhouses stood upon the higher 
 ground and looked down at the unruly stream. 
 Perhaps they recalled the days before the Lowell 
 dams, when the river was a friend and not a
 
 100 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 tyrant to their fair intervales. Along the shel- 
 tered furrows in the ploughed fields and against 
 the cold side of stone walls ribbons of white 
 snow lay in hiding from the sun. Even in the 
 streets of Concord we had seen good-sized drifts, 
 and piles under roof angles. The storm of the 
 Friday previous, which along the coast brought 
 rain, had turned to snow here, while further in- 
 land many inches of snow had fallen, blocking 
 roads and breaking wires. The west wind blow- 
 ing across this wintry stretch of country came 
 to us well whetted. 
 
 From one sloping field it brought us the med- 
 ley music of a flock of over sixtj r redwings. As 
 we listened to the distant choir a rich undercur- 
 rent of sound came to us. " Wild geese," I ex- 
 claimed. My friend shook his head doubtfully, 
 but paddled ashore to see whether blackbirds 
 really composed the whole orchestra. We found 
 them on a patch of high meadow, some in the 
 trees singing, others on the ground feeding. All 
 rose and whirled like a puff of burnt paper in 
 the breeze. Then they settled again, and the 
 deeper notes in their medley came to us once 
 more like the far-off honking of geese. Then we 
 floated on by meadow and brier patch ; thickets 
 of birch in which the faint spring tints were be- 
 ginning to grow clearer and stronger ; ploughed 
 fields over which j uncos flashed their white V's ;
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQ.UID. 101 
 
 bunches of pitch-pines almost as rich as savins 
 in their olive-green coloring ; ancient orchards 
 in which respectable families of bluebirds still re- 
 side untroubled by the emigrant sparrow ; single 
 graceful elms on whose finger tips dangled the 
 gray purses of last year's orioles ; fringes of wil- 
 lows bearing their pussies, a few of which showed 
 their yellow stamens just projecting; and maples 
 on whose highest twigs balanced the resident red- 
 wings, running over with rippling laughter. My 
 friend spoke of a theory that all bird music is 
 imitative of the sounds best known to the spe- 
 cies, and said that the notes of the redwings 
 seemed to bear out this pretty hypothesis, hav- 
 ing the sound of water running through their 
 sweet measures. 
 
 Gliding across a placid bay in the meadow we 
 came to a wooded shore where a noble oak had 
 just been slain. We landed, and kneeling by its 
 stump counted the year rings. At first it had 
 grown slowly, its young life trembling in the 
 balance ; then it gained strength, and the rings 
 were broader and more firmly marked ; some- 
 times narrower ones suggested years of drought ; 
 then as our count rose to a hundred, the rings 
 grew closer and closer, as though life passed by 
 very fast in those" years. In all, the oak must 
 have lived one hundred and twenty-five years, and 
 have heard the echo of those musket shots which
 
 102 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 marked the dawn of Independence, the sunrise 
 guns of American Freedom. My friend looked 
 very grave when he saw that this tree was gone. 
 It had been a landmark, not only on the shore 
 of Musketaquid, but on the shore of his life, of 
 which a precious part had been spent on this 
 river of flooded meadows. Above the oak rose 
 a bold headland crowned with plumelike pines. 
 It was Ball's Hill, which Thoreau called " the 
 St. Ann's of Concord." We sought the top and 
 looked down upon the fair picture below us. 
 Great Meadows, the " broad moccasin print," 
 was one rippling lake, dotted with islands or 
 single trees. The river, from the stone arch 
 bridge, just passed, down to Carlisle bridge with 
 its wooden piers, had merged its life in this 
 blue archipelago. The distant tower of Bedford 
 church recalled my melting walk of a month ago, 
 when over the snowdrifts the sun of March had 
 nearly burned my eyes out and quite scorched 
 the skin from my lips and cheeks. Early spring 
 in Massachusetts is a crab-like thing, but it has 
 its charms. In a ploughed field behind the bluff, 
 we found fox tracks, and under a lofty pine, 
 pellets of mouse hair, which some owl (or crow 
 perhaps) had cast from its mouth undigested. 
 
 Taking boat once more we wound in and out 
 along the northern shore. Here, fox sparrows 
 scratched in the bushes and paused surprised at
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQU1D. 103 
 
 the silent monster slipping past them on the 
 lake. There, a shy grouse with ruff wide spread 
 watched us a moment from beneath a proud 
 oak's shade, and then tiptoed away cackling her 
 alarm until the shelter of the great boll gave 
 her a chance to fly. Above, a red-shouldered 
 hawk mewed, and glass in hand we saw him and 
 his mate rise hundreds of feet into the sky, until 
 one was lost in spinning motes of light, and the 
 other, setting her wings, sped down the chute of 
 sky miles away in the northeast. At last, best 
 of all, on the eastern edge of the meadows sev- 
 eral snow-white specks were seen upon the water. 
 " Sheldrakes," whispered my companion. They 
 were a quarter of a mile away, but seemed to 
 have seen or heard us, for they were restless. 
 Several times one of the males rose in the water 
 and flapped his wings. Then all took wing and 
 made four or five spirals in the air, ending by 
 disappearing behind a distant growth of birches. 
 " There is a pond in there," said my friend, 
 " with flooded meadows which lead to it." Keep- 
 ing perfect silence we paddled swiftly across the 
 dancing water to the opposite shore. There the 
 groves opened for us, and a narrow belt of shal- 
 lows led into an inner meadow. The ducks were 
 not in it. Crossing it, another opening was found 
 leading to a third lake. As we entered this 
 strait I caught an alder bough, and held the
 
 104 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 boat fast, for not more than two hundred yards 
 from us were the five ducks floating tranquilly 
 in the sheltered lagoon. So silent had been our 
 approach, that although the wind was behind us, 
 the ducks did not suspect our coming. Our 
 glasses made the beautiful creatures seem only 
 a few rods distant, and we watched them closely. 
 One of them was a black or dusky duck, the 
 most abundant species at this season. The other 
 four were mergansers, called also goosanders, 
 fish ducks, or sheldrakes. Two were males, two 
 females ; the drakes had lustrous bottle-green 
 heads, and bodies which appeared snowy white. 
 They were enjoying the sunlight, and drifting 
 along slightly with the wind. The black duck 
 kept with them, yet a little apart, a duck, yet 
 not one of the family. They preened themselves, 
 and soft white feathers floated lightly away upon 
 the ripples. When we had watched long enough, 
 a blow upon the gunwale alarmed the flock. 
 They swam a few feet, first one way, then an- 
 other. Every motion showed alertness. A sec- 
 ond sound booming across the water started 
 them. Their wings dashed the waves into foam- 
 ing furrows several feet long ; then with steady 
 flight they rose in a long diagonal and passed 
 out of sight behind the birches. But only four 
 flew. Sweeping the water with our glasses we 
 discovered the black duck still floating upon its
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQ.UW. 105 
 
 surface. We pushed the boat forward into the 
 lagoon, and the moment he located the danger 
 he rose without a splash and was gone. 
 
 Rowing back to the Carlisle side we found a 
 snug corner by a jolly little brook which danced 
 across a pasture down to a meadow, between the 
 rubble walls of an ancient sluice, through the 
 pine woods and into Great Meadows. Over the 
 brook stood an oak ; in the oak sat a bluebird ; 
 from the bluebird's inmost soul poured the 
 sweetest of bird music, and, wonderful to relate, 
 this music as it fell upon the air turned into 
 goldfinches which undulated over the pasture, 
 finally rested upon the oak and added their songs 
 to the general joy of the occasion. It may be 
 said by harsh commentators that goldfinches 
 never could have been made out of bluebirds' 
 music. Then the burden is on them to prove 
 where the goldfinches come from, for to our 
 eyes they came from the air, which had nothing 
 in it except the song of the bluebird. After 
 lunch and a wonderful concert in which the blue- 
 bird sang the solo and the goldfinches did every- 
 thing else to make it perfect, we examined the 
 ancient sluice. The stone work was rough and 
 without cement. The dam was of earth and 
 from it grew several oaks, one of which may 
 have taken root fifty years ago. As we mused 
 about the dam and its history, a broad-winged,
 
 106 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 bluish-gray bird nearly as large as an eagle 
 sailed swiftly over the meadow. Its course was 
 low, only a foot or two above the grass, and as 
 waving from side to side as the letter S. It was 
 a marsh hawk sweeping the low lands for mice 
 and frogs. As we walked across the grass he 
 had been inspecting, we found it dotted with 
 small piles of fresh earth apparently thrown up 
 by some burrowing animal working from beneath 
 the sod. There were also scores of runways or 
 grooved passages under the matted grass. In 
 places our feet sank into subterranean chambers, 
 and in fact the whole field seemed to have been 
 honeycombed by moles, or meadow mice (ar- 
 vicola pennsylvanicus). The harrier was not 
 the only bird interested in this field of mice. 
 Under almost every one of nearly a dozen old 
 apple trees growing near by we found " owl pel- 
 lets," the egg-shaped masses of undigested fur, 
 feathers, teeth and bones which owls habitually 
 eject from their mouths when well fed. 
 
 A quarter of a mile farther on we came to a 
 stubble field near the banks of Great Meadows. 
 A stubble field, with a stone wall and a fringe 
 of bushes round it, is a fine place for migrating 
 sparrows. Fully a hundred birds were feeding 
 in this field or singing in the trees which bor- 
 dered it. They were fox sparrows and juncos, 
 and it would be impossible to say which were in
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQUID. 107 
 
 the majority. We crept up to them gradually 
 until all had retreated to the trees at one corner 
 of the field. Then we merged ourselves in the 
 stone wall and its brambles and bushes, and re- 
 mained motionless. One by one the birds drew 
 nearer. I imitated the shrill singing of a canary. 
 They began to sing, and the more distant birds 
 flew boldly over us and into the weeds in the 
 field. Soon the air was full of them, passing 
 close to our heads. When they were settled, we 
 crossed the wall and crawled along behind it 
 until we were within ten feet of some of the fox 
 sparrows. These we watched through the cracks 
 in the wall, and saw them scratch with both feet 
 in the earth and dry leaves. A hen scratches 
 with one foot at a time. These birds hitch back- 
 wards on both feet, twitching their wings at the 
 same moment and moving both feet together, 
 although not often exactly side by side. A few 
 of them sang their full song close by us. It is a 
 wonderful performance, full of strength, variety 
 and brilliancy. When the hermit thrush sings 
 1 feel as though the pine forest had been trans- 
 formed into a cathedral, in which the power of an 
 organ or the rich voice of a contralto singer was 
 bringing out the essence of the mass. When 
 the fox sparrow sings, the effect is entirely dif- 
 ferent. The quality of the music seems joyous, 
 not pathetic : that of the grand piano rather than
 
 108 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 of the organ ; that of the dance and sunlight 
 rather than that of vespers. As a maker of 
 brilliant, vivacious music the fox sparrow stands 
 among the first. It deserves a place in the list 
 of the ten finest New England bird singers. In 
 voice, costume and manners the bird betrays 
 noble birth. It is a pity that it does not nest 
 within the limits of our country. 
 
 Tearing ourselves away from the sparrows, we 
 returned to our boat. On the bits of driftwood 
 lining the shore I found multitudes of little 
 creatures which I could not distinguish from snow 
 fleas. If they are not the same they must be 
 next of kin to the jolly little winter bristletails. 
 The voyage back toward the sunset was not 
 eventful. A flock of black ducks passed up- 
 stream, flying high and at wonderful speed. 
 They are far from graceful, but they give one 
 the impression of immense power of wing. Had 
 this flock been well harnessed I think they could 
 have drawn me with them out of sight in golden 
 haze much faster than would have been comfort- 
 able. Redwings sang in every tree top. Crows 
 took long flights, cawing as they flew. Chicka- 
 dees in pairs responded to the phrebe note so well 
 mimicked by my companion. Muskrats swam in 
 the eddies of the stream. We saw two swim- 
 ming fast round and round a bunch of maples 
 standing alone in the water. They paid little
 
 THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQUID. 109 
 
 attention to us as we passed. As we reached 
 the Minute-Man the chill of the western snows 
 came upon us more keenly. The coloring of 
 sky, woods and river was exquisite. The mass 
 of the heavens was deep blue. Upon it flakes of 
 cloud rested, taking from the sun the glory of 
 gold and of crimson. Low down in the east a 
 bank of very dark blue clouds made a rich back- 
 ground for the stems of the gleaming birches and 
 the burnished twigs of the willows. Just where 
 the sun sank, gold and orange and crimson min- 
 gled to form a gateway through which the day 
 was slowly withdrawing. As we stood under 
 the great elms by the Manse the river repeated 
 the story of the sky. Had Lohengrin floated 
 westward over the gilded water towards that 
 gateway I should have bent my head without 
 surprise to catch those few soul-moving notes by 
 which he says " Farewell."
 
 A BIT OF COLOR. 
 
 THURSDAY, April 16, at five o' clock in the 
 afternoon, I reached the shores of Fresh Pond 
 at the point where a branch of the Fitchburg 
 railway crosses the Concord turnpike. This part 
 of Cambridge is soon to be changed in many 
 ways, and is worth a particular description. 
 From the Cambridge Common to the northeast 
 corner of Fresh Pond, Concord Avenue runs 
 almost directly northwest. Beyond this point 
 it bends twenty-five degrees towards the west 
 and continues in that line until it reaches Bel- 
 mont. In the hollow of this bend, resting on 
 Fresh Pond, lies one of the most picturesque bits 
 of ground in Cambridge. It was formerly the 
 estate of Frederick Tudor, the ice king. A 
 beautiful lawn many acres in extent is fringed 
 with lofty hard - wood trees, many of which 
 are dying, but all of which are beautiful and 
 worthy of careful preservation, and exemp- 
 tion from all but the most necessary trim- 
 ming. On the water front at the northeastern 
 corner of the pond are two immense ice-houses, 
 now condemned and doomed to early destruc-
 
 A BIT OF COLOR. Ill 
 
 tion. Perhaps when they are gone it will be 
 remembered that they were picturesque. One, 
 with its buttressed brick walls coated with green 
 lichens and overhung by a projecting upper story 
 of gray wood, always reminds me of a gloomy 
 picture I have seen of an Algerian walled town. 
 The other, overhanging the pond, raises a tall 
 gray tower against the sky, and looks down upon 
 deep water through which broken piles emerge 
 to cast black shadows in the mist. When these 
 ice-houses are empty they are sepulchral and 
 forbidding places to enter. The least sound 
 awakes echoes in the darkness of the roof. Eng- 
 lish sparrows flit about and scream, and the air 
 is heavy with dampness and as cold as a tomb. 
 On Thursday afternoon I turned in from Con- 
 cord Avenue toward these ice-houses, following 
 the freight track, which runs directly towards 
 them, forming a barrier between Fresh Pond and 
 a foul swamp which fills, with the Tudor place, 
 the bend in the avenue. The swamp is a thicket 
 of willows, button - ball bushes, and birches. 
 The early willows were in full bloom, their 
 bright yellow staminate and green pistillate 
 flowers swaying in the wind. Late willows 
 were beautiful with their small pink-white 
 pussies and unfolding leaves crowded on slender 
 stems. Here and there a tall red maple raised 
 its branches over the swamp and displayed its
 
 112 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 gorgeous flowers in the pale sunlight. The grass, 
 only a few days ago burned over by the frugal 
 but short-sighted cify workmen, was brilliantly 
 green, and in places four or five inches long. 
 When July suns beat down upon its roots it 
 may miss its mat of protecting fibres destroyed 
 by fire. A fox sparrow was scratching among 
 the grass roots energetically. Several redwings, 
 song sparrows, and a large flock of English spar- 
 rows were at work on the ground near by. From 
 the swamp the music of song sparrows and red- 
 wings was incessant. 
 
 Passing between the ice-houses and the shan- 
 ties and hen houses which stand on the opposite 
 side of the track I gained the fringe of lofty 
 trees on the Tudor place. A flicker was guard- 
 ing her house in a hollow maple. Now, she 
 poked her head out and " flickered " for her 
 mate. Then, he answering not, she came out 
 and drummed furiously on the dead resonant 
 wood by her door post. At last his answer 
 came from a distant tree and she flew away to 
 find him. A female sparrow hawk darted from 
 her nest in the deep hollow of an inaccessible 
 limb, and flew with marvellous' grace into the 
 open, wheeled, and dropped upon the out- 
 stretched finger of one of the tallest trees of this 
 tall grove. Her mate joined her and perched 
 for a second beside her, while a queer whining
 
 A BIT OF COLOR. 113 
 
 chatter came from them. Their coloring is as 
 beautiful as that of the fox sparrow, and if they 
 cannot revive the fainting heart by song, they 
 can give the eye joy by their speed, their perfect 
 grace of flight, and the beauty of their outlines. 
 
 On the further side of the neglected lawn 
 nearly a hundred purple grackles were feeding 
 in the grass. They rose, blurring the sky in the 
 north, and darkened the tops of a dozen trees 
 where they perched and " creaked " in disgust at 
 my coming. 
 
 Looking across the pond the further shores 
 showed but dimly. A strong east wind had 
 been blowing all day, and the air was heavy with 
 the grayness of the sea. The water was metallic 
 in its lights and shadows, its points of reflected 
 fire and stripes of darkness. Distant banks of 
 birches and willows showed faint tones of green, 
 red, and yellow through the silver veil of the 
 chilly air. Mount Saint Joseph stood up dark 
 and strong in the middle of the opposing shore, 
 its hemlocks and pines yielding black reflec- 
 tions in the sullen water. A train rolled along 
 across Concord Avenue, and stopped at the Fresh 
 Pond station. Its outlines were vague and its 
 smoke seemed part of the gray air, until an open 
 furnace door sent a flood of orange light up 
 through it, and revealed its writhings and alter- 
 nations of whiteness and blackness as the train 
 puffed on towards the setting sun.
 
 114 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 I left the Tudor place and kept on round the 
 pond. First I came to an ugly wound in the 
 high bank, where gravel is being cut away to fill 
 " Black's Nook." Then I passed in order the 
 half-filled Nook, the white ice-houses of the Fresh 
 Pond Ice Company, the great gravel banks on 
 the western side of the pond, the swamp full of 
 blazing red maples, almost as gay in their blos- 
 soms as in their ripened foliage last autumn ; 
 the " geyser " where Stony Brook water, after 
 its long journey underground from the land of 
 Norumbega, bursts out in clustered jets and falls 
 foaming into Fresh Pond, and finally Mount 
 Saint Joseph itself, none the less picturesque 
 because the white caps of the Sisters are occa- 
 sionally to be seen flitting back and forth amid 
 its shrubbery. The white caps and their school 
 building are doomed to banishment under the 
 law of eminent domain, and in a few months 
 they, like the ice-palaces of the Tudors, will 
 have been made over to the past.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PEGAN HILL. 
 
 LOOKING southward from the heights above 
 Arlington, Belmont and Waltham, the distant 
 horizon is bounded at one point by a wooded 
 ridge having a bold outline and, to the explorer, 
 a most challengeful air. Contour map and com- 
 pass declared this ridge to be Pegan Hill, the 
 dominant height of the Needham - Natick re- 
 gion. Taking the 8 o'clock train on the " Woon- 
 socket division," which in my mind had previ- 
 ously been classed with the " Saugus branch " 
 as a railway snare to be avoided, I sought on 
 April 18 the unknown town of Dover. My 
 companion was a determined man who years ago 
 had registered a vow to climb Pegan Hill or 
 perish among its cliffs and forests. 
 
 The early morning of April 18 was gray and 
 somewhat chilly. My friend brought an um- 
 brella and overcoat, I wore rubber boots and an 
 overcoat. By noon the mercury had passed 80 
 and was still vigorous. 
 
 As we left the train, maps in hand, Pegan 
 Hill was reported to bear due west. We raised 
 our eyes to meet the challengeful foe, A broad
 
 116 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 meadow clad in the tender green of freshly 
 sprouting grass was encircled by comfortable 
 farms whose ploughed fields, orchards, elms and 
 scattered buildings framed it pleasantly. A pair 
 of brooks wandered across it, met, pledged eter- 
 nal friendship and passed on united, singing, 
 looking up blue-eyed towards heaven. High in 
 the air white-bellied swallows revelled in the 
 sunlight. The sweet-breathed west wind bore 
 to us the kindred songs of the purple finch and 
 the vesper sparrow, the plaint of the meadow 
 lark, the drumming of the downy woodpecker 
 and the cawing of the crow. In a pine grove 
 near by, the pine-creeping warbler and the chip- 
 ping sparrow contrasted their monotonous repe- 
 titions of a single note, the one giving a smooth, 
 well-rounded trill, the other a sharper, more 
 pointed one. Beyond the meadow and the farms 
 lay a sunny pasture hillside, crossed horizontally 
 by a stone wall, and sparsely marked by pitch- 
 pines and small savins. The sky-line of this 
 gentle slope was curved, drumlin-like. West- 
 ward there was nothing more to see save blue 
 sky and four cowbuntings flying swiftly across 
 it. Where was the tree-crowned rocky summit 
 we had come to conquer ? The redwings an- 
 swered, " Cong-ka-ree, go and see ! " So we 
 strolled onward across the meadow, through the 
 farms and up the slope of the pasture hill.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PEG AN HILL. 117 
 
 The air was filled with a silvery haze which 
 made distance mysterious, and the nearer land- 
 scape dreamy and full of suggestions of Indian 
 summer. The songs of field sparrows rippled 
 continuously across the hillside. A pigeon 
 woodpecker " flickered " persistently in a grove 
 of maples and chestnuts. While standing be- 
 hind a stone wall and half concealed by its reti- 
 nue of bushes we heard a rippling warbler-song 
 and caught a flash of gold and green in a bar- 
 berry bush close at hand. A slender bird about 
 five inches long, golden olive-brown above and 
 rich yellow beneath, paused in the barberry for 
 us to watch him. As he moved his dainty head 
 we saw that his crown was reddish chestnut, and 
 as he threw up his head to sing we saw that his 
 breast and sides were lightly pencilled with a 
 similar shade. Although I had heard the pine 
 warbler sing, this, a yellow red-poll warbler, was 
 the first of the great migrating family of Sylvi- 
 colidce which I had met this spring. As my 
 heart grew warm towards him a crow and a 
 dashing little falcon rose from behind the hill 
 and whirled together in the air. We promptly 
 forgot the tiny warbler, dropped behind the 
 wall, and fixed our glasses on the falcon, which 
 had alighted on the highest plume of a low pitch- 
 pine. Suddenly it swooped to the ground, 
 caught an insect from the grass, and came to a
 
 118 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 treetop nearer us. As it alternately caught 
 grasshoppers and perched to eat them and watch 
 for more, we crept from bush to bush nearer 
 to the circle of its hunting-ground. Several 
 times it came within gunshot, and as we saw it 
 from all points of view, its rich coloring was 
 clearly revealed. The top of its head and its 
 tail were brilliant chestnut. Its back was cinna- 
 mon, its breast light and finely barred on the 
 sides. Around its throat it seemed to wear a 
 collar formed of alternate bars of black and 
 white. Its head was small, its whole bearing 
 alert, graceful, supple. After watching it for 
 some time we perceived that its mate was hunt- 
 ing in much the same manner part way down 
 the slope of the hill. The birds were sparrow 
 hawks in the perfection of spring plumage. 
 
 One of their perches was a rude tripod made 
 of joist. This marked the summit of the hill 
 which we had reached almost without knowing 
 it. Seated at its foot we looked north, east, 
 south and west over the fair meadows, fields and 
 groves of the Charles River valley. The me- 
 andering river itself was in sight in every quar- 
 ter but the southeast, and there its tributaries 
 formed an interlacing barrier. But where was 
 Pegan Hill ? We consulted the map. 
 
 Due north of us were Lake Waban, Wellesley, 
 and Wellesley College. Across the north and
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PEG AN HILL. 119 
 
 part of the east the river, its vivid green 
 meadows, and its ruddy maples led the eye 
 along. Natick and Sherborn, the one a grow- 
 ing town, the other a tract of farms and pleasant 
 glimpses of blue water, filled the west. To the 
 south the view was limited, being cut short 
 by several rocky ridges of unattractive outlines 
 and vegetation, which our map said were Clark 
 Hill and Pine Rock Hill. The centre of all 
 this country which our eyes delighted to rest 
 upon, so full was it of beautiful tints, was 
 marked plainly Pegan Hill. A bloodless vic- 
 tory ! We had sought the enemy with mighty 
 preparations, and behold he had kissed our feet, 
 and made himself our footstool. The ridge 
 which had attracted our eyes from Prospect Hill 
 we felt sure was Pine Rock Hill, equal in height 
 with Pegan, but covered with a sparse growth 
 of small deciduous trees promising neither birds, 
 flowers, nor other inducements for a climb. 
 
 At the foot of the hill on the northern side we 
 found some charming spots on the borders of the 
 Charles. One was on the Needham side of the 
 river, where an extensive grove of stately old- 
 growth white pines overhung a sharp bend in the 
 stream, making its deep and swift current very 
 dark in contrast to a flat bit of meadow opposite, 
 which was radiant with tender green of newly 
 sprouted grass. A grouse rose from a cool brook
 
 120 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 hollow near this bend. A pewee called to us as she 
 hurried through the grove. A flock of five white- 
 bellied swallows cut swift circles against the 
 kindly sky. The voice of the west wind in the 
 ancient pines sang a song full of rest and con- 
 tentment, and for us, as for the river, it was 
 pleasant and purifying to linger there before 
 going on to the friction and the pollution of the 
 city. In all that day's wandering I saw no sign 
 of terror in any living thing that was not caused 
 by man. Nature by herself is not all peace, by 
 any means, but she is far nearer to it than when 
 man is present. 
 
 On the edge of these beautiful pines, as at 
 several other points in our walk, my friend and 
 I were angered to find the largest and finest 
 trees selected as posting places for advertise- 
 ments ; cloth, paper, wood, and metal signs telling 
 of the supposed merits of certain Boston firms 
 and daily newspapers, having been nailed to the 
 trees. It is hard to say which fact is most dis- 
 agreeable to contemplate, the boldness of the 
 advertisers in disfiguring private property, or 
 the indifference of the public to the damage 
 done. 
 
 Following up the Charles through the pines 
 we reached the Sudbury River aqueduct, and 
 from the top of its sodded embankment gained 
 a near view of Wellesley and its castles of
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PEG AN HILL. 121 
 
 learning. Looking across the meadows of 
 Dewing Brook, never greener than at that 
 moment, we were charmed by the distant pic- 
 ture of feeding cattle, boys fishing in the brook, 
 snug and well-fashioned farm buildings, lofty 
 shade trees in full bloom, and behind them the 
 clustered buildings of the college and the town. 
 It might have been a mellow fragment of old 
 England but for the bunch of very new, dirty, 
 and disorderly shanties which appeared in one 
 corner of the picture to remind us that New 
 England is also New Ireland. Entering the 
 town, we made our way to the railway station 
 with speed and directness. As it was Saturday 
 afternoon a fair share of the eight hundred 
 students (or a share of the eight hundred fair 
 students) were in the streets, walking, driving, 
 bicycling, catching trains for town, exercising 
 dogs, and otherwise disporting themselves. My 
 companion being a bachelor, still in moderate 
 years, I sighed with relief when our train started 
 and I had him safely penned in a front seat 
 next the window.
 
 WOOD DUCKS AND BLOODROOT. 
 
 THE maple swamps of Ale wife Brook are 
 places rich in birds, but they are even richer in 
 foul odors. They are not pleasant at any hour, 
 least of all at sunrise. In -order to go from 
 Cambridge in the early morning into any other 
 woods than these, it is necessary to walk quite a 
 long distance, or else to take the first train 
 which goes out from Boston over the Fitchburg 
 tracks. On April 20 I caught this train at 
 Hill's Crossing at 6.41 A. M., having walked out 
 Concord Avenue to the Tudor place, round the 
 northern edge of Fresh Pond, past the slaughter- 
 house opposite Black's Nook and over the mead- 
 ows to the little station. The walk was charm- 
 ing, for at that early hour there were more birds 
 than men in Cambridge streets, and the men 
 were laborers, with earnest faces, strong arms, 
 and brown hands, who seemed close to the soil 
 and its secrets. In the Harvard Observatory 
 grounds a ruby-crowned kinglet was singing. 
 Less than an inch longer than a humming bird, 
 this little creature has one of the most delightful
 
 WOOD DUCKS AND BLOODROOT. 123 
 
 songs known to New England woods. It is 
 very kind of it to sing here when its breeding 
 ground may be two or three hundred miles 
 north of us. 
 
 The Fresh Pond trees and fields were alive 
 with birds. Two pairs of flickers were " flick- 
 ering ; " robins ran on the ground, shouted in 
 the apple-trees, chased each other through the 
 air; meadow starlings, redwings, and purple 
 grackles could be heard and seen in all 
 parts of the Tudor place. White - bellied 
 swallows danced across the sky, and the harsh 
 rattle of the kingfisher marked the flight of that 
 vigorous bird over the waters of the pond. The 
 dry note of the chipping sparrow was incessant 
 and wearisome, but when the sparrow hawks left 
 their favorite corner and flew with their match- 
 less grace through the grove and across the field, 
 chipping sparrows were forgotten. 
 
 I reached Waverley Oaks as the village clock 
 struck seven. In the meadow between Beaver 
 Brook and the railway embankment quantities of 
 watercress were growing, horsetails stood four 
 inches high, and a jolly dandelion turned its 
 round face to the sun. Horsechestnut leaves 
 were open on the 19th, and here in the meadow 
 the ferns were setting free their coils, and leaves 
 on many of the early shrubs were open. Was the 
 bloodroot in bloom? that was the question of
 
 124 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 the morning. Along the wall between Beaver 
 Brook and the Oaks white buds were pointing 
 heavenward by hundreds. In a spot where the 
 sunlight fell the flowers were opening, and as 
 the warmth of the rays grew stronger, half 
 the glorious company opened their bright eyes 
 to the lovely spring morning. There are few 
 flowers with more purity in their faces than 
 bloodroot. They are made to admire and love 
 growing, not picked. If torn from their roots 
 their dark blood stains the picker's hand, and 
 soils the fair petals of the flowers themselves ; 
 even if tenderly borne to a vase they quickly 
 drop their petals, as though mourning their 
 home under the shadow of the barberry bushes. 
 Seated among these delicate children of the 
 soil, my back against an elm trunk and my 
 figure obscured by the drooping branches of a 
 bush, I watched the birds among the oaks, and 
 near the small pond at the foot of the kame on 
 which some of the oaks grow. The voices of 
 robins, song and chipping sparrows, cow birds, 
 redwings, flickers, and bluebirds filled the air. 
 At first it seemed as though from this chorus 
 single notes could not be detached, but soon the 
 rattle of a kingfisher sounded from on high. 
 Looking up I saw three of these birds flying 
 over towards Waltham and the Charles. They 
 were at a great height for them, and I could not
 
 WOOD DUCKS AND BLOODROOT. 125 
 
 recall ever before having seen more than two 
 flying together. Before they were out of sight a 
 sparrow hawk glided over, and presently a flock 
 of ten or fifteen cedar birds shot past through the 
 trees as though bound for the Mississippi. The 
 oaks seemed to be a good point of observation 
 even if the interesting strangers did not alight. 
 A rushing and rustling of wings, and a queer 
 quacking call marked the swift passage of a 
 duck. Instead of going by, this visitor dropped 
 into the reedy pool in front of me. I could see 
 a part of the pond, the rest was screened by 
 button -ball bushes. Long minutes passed. 
 Should I move, creep up to the pond, or around 
 the kame to its further slope ? Something moved 
 on the water beyond the bushes. A dark form 
 two dark forms were winding in and out 
 among the stems and coming towards me. 
 
 I raised my glass to my eyes and kept it there 
 without a motion during what followed. Two 
 ducks, one following the -other, were coming 
 slowly through the bushes which grew in the 
 water at the end of the pond. From the 
 bushes a thread of water wound in and out 
 among the grass tussocks and passed under the 
 wall within twenty short paces of me. The ducks 
 entered this little brook ; the sunlight fell directly 
 upon them. They were wood ducks, the most 
 gorgeous of our waterfowl. Every feather shone
 
 128 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 in the strong light. As they came on down 
 the stream towards me they saw me ; their bright 
 eyes were fixed upon me. If I moved ever so 
 little they would be off. I felt frozen, hypno- 
 tized, by their steady stare. The female was 
 handsome enough, but the drake was equal to a 
 Hindu maharajah in his splendor. His breast 
 was chestnut, his head lustrous green and violet, 
 his throat white, his back coppery black and 
 brown with purple and green lights playing over 
 it, his glittering eye was red. All these colors, 
 gleaming in the sunlight at once, without so much 
 as a spear of grass to hide them, were dazzling. 
 The birds did not seem real. I longed to call 
 some one to see them, to enjoy them with me. 
 They slid noiselessly through their narrow chan- 
 nel to the wall, and there the bushes hid them. 
 Two or three minutes passed ; there was no sign, 
 no sound. I rose and scanned the meadow for 
 them, but they had vanished ; and during the 
 remainder of my hour they did not reappear. 
 Twice afterwards on other days I saw them, but 
 under no such favoring circumstances. 
 
 From the Oaks I walked most of the way back 
 to Cambridge, seeing and hearing great numbers 
 of birds. Bluebirds were conspicuously com- 
 mon ; several more kingfishers flew over ; flickers 
 were so numerous that I felt sure they must be 
 migrating in force. Near Payson Park another
 
 WOOD DUCKS AND BLOOD ROOT. 127 
 
 sparrow hawk sailed by me. There are known to 
 be four pairs of these beautiful birds breeding 
 within a few miles of Cambridge this spring. 
 If the men hired by the Boston taxidermists to 
 slaughter birds to keep them supplied with at- 
 tractive material for " the trade " do not kill 
 these exquisite little falcons, the species may 
 soon become comparatively common in eastern 
 Massachusetts. It is one of the most useful 
 and friendly to man of our songless birds. 
 
 Not far from Payson Park in Belmont, and to 
 the northwest of Fresh Pond, is what is sometimes 
 called Summer House Hill. I reached this little 
 eminence, which is one hundred and twenty feet 
 above tide water, at about nine o'clock, and gained 
 from it one of those pleasing half far-away, half 
 near-by views which only small hills can give. 
 The near-by was a mingling of orchards alive 
 with birds and carpeted with new grass al- 
 ready several inches long ; the Concord turn- 
 pike and the brickyards and marshes beyond it ; 
 Fresh Pond with its graceful curving shore, 
 drives, groves, and odd old ice-houses ; Mt. 
 Auburn, the sky-roofed Westminster of New 
 England ; Payson Park with its grand old trees 
 and broad lawns ; and Belmont, the picturesque 
 town of terraces and hillside villas. The far-away 
 was Arlington and its wooded heights ; Winches- 
 ter with its church spires ; Medford and the Fells
 
 128 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 flanking the great Boston basin on its north ; 
 and the basin itself crowded with the tangled 
 streets and bristling chimneys of half a dozen 
 sister cities. The view on that morning was 
 interesting for a special reason ; it presented a 
 sudden change in the coloring of the whole face 
 of the laud. A few days earlier, grays, browns, 
 and delicate yellows had prevailed. These were 
 forgotten, swept away by a flood of green and 
 crimson. The green of the meadows, roadsides, 
 and upland hayfields was so vivid that all under- 
 lying tints were obliterated. The willows, 
 which for weeks had been the most conspicuous 
 color-spots in every view, had developed leaves 
 strong enough in color to cancel the golden and 
 coppery tones of their stems and merge them 
 in the greens of grassland and meadow. The 
 maples from gray and mist-like softness had with 
 their red blossoms come forward as the most pro- 
 nounced color-masses in the landscape. Around 
 Fresh Pond and in the maple swamps of the 
 Alewife Brook marshes this gorgeous crimson 
 coloring made the maples as conspicuous as in 
 autumn. The first few days in April the greater 
 part of Massachusetts was white with snow. 
 Such coloring as this, coming as a quick contrast 
 to winter tints, appeals most earnestly to the eye, 
 and leaves a deep impression on the memory. 
 It is one of the potent elements of spring, and
 
 WOOD DUCKS AND BLOODROOT. 129 
 
 serves to attract and impress minds which might, 
 without it, being blind to the subtler beauties 
 and wonders of the transformation, miss alto- 
 gether the glory of Nature's maidenhood.
 
 A VOYAGE TO HEARD'S ISLAND. 
 
 THE Old Manse was sound asleep. The ring- 
 ing of bells in Concord town, the rippling laugh- 
 ter of a purple finch in the apple-tree, the sharp 
 " chebec " of a least flycatcher by the barn, even 
 the noise we made in taking our canoes and 
 small traps off the express wagon, and carrying 
 them down through the orchard to the river, 
 failed to wake the old house from its slumbers. 
 Song sparrows sang in the vista of lilacs at the 
 western door, robins ran back and forth on the 
 lawn like mechanical toys on a nursery floor, 
 and redwing blackbirds and their naughty, im- 
 provident cousins the cow buntings creaked, 
 squeaked, and whistled on the willows by the 
 Minute-Man. He, at least, was awake. His eager, 
 resolute face was watching down that eastern path- 
 way for the coming of new perils or new bless- 
 ings to the children of Freedom. We left the 
 Manse to its slumbers and the statue to its eter- 
 nal vigil, and pushed our frail canoes out upon the 
 glittering surface of the stream. It was five 
 o'clock in the afternoon of Friday, April 24th.
 
 A VOYAGE TO BEARD'S ISLAND. 131 
 
 A gentle west wind swung the catkins on the 
 poplars, rippled the soft, short grass on the lawn, 
 caressed the new leaves of the horse-chestnuts, 
 maples, and willows, which were timidly unfold- 
 ing under the unusually encouraging season. The 
 Musketaquid had fallen more than a foot since 
 our last cruise, and it was still falling fast. A 
 greater change had, however, crept over the land 
 and the air. The land was now a garden full 
 of beauty. There was the beauty of miles of 
 velvety grass and sprouting grain ; there was the 
 beauty of shrubs thickly clad in half-unfolded 
 leaves ; and there was the beauty of tall trees, 
 whose foliage seemed to be growing as the 
 eye rested upon it, and whose outlines of 
 limb and trunk were being disguised by gauzy 
 draperies of green, sure to become denser and 
 fuller day by day as the eager sun looked more 
 ardently upon the earth. There was als the 
 beauty of spring blossoms, the red of the maples, 
 the white of the willows ; the yellow of dande- 
 lions, early buttercups, and potentilla; the white 
 of saxifrage, everlasting, houstonia, and anemone. 
 The change in the air was twofold. On our 
 other voyage it had brought the chill of snow 
 from the central parts of the state ; now it 
 brought the comforting warmth of a summer- 
 like day. Before, the song of a bird or of a flock 
 of birds had been an item by itself ; now, the air
 
 132 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 was as full of musical undulations as it was of 
 heat waves and light waves. An effort was re- 
 quired, not so much to hear a particular song, as 
 to separate it from the sound ripples which broke 
 unceasingly upon the ear. In the midst of the 
 splendor of the sunset colors, gold and red upon 
 the sky, gold and red upon the river, we urged 
 our dainty craft against the current, bound for 
 Fairhaven Bay. 
 
 My canoe was a Rob Roy, my friend's a 
 longer, more slender one, without a deck. As 
 we paddled, we faced forward, and each regu- 
 lated his course by a lever, which he pressed 
 with his feet, and which was connected with the 
 rudder by chains running under the gunwales of 
 the canoe. Thanks to this device, which is my 
 friend's, we were enabled to use light, single- 
 bladed paddles and to give little thought to the 
 method of our strokes. 
 
 It is pleasant to look forward rather than 
 backward as one travels on a river. There is 
 more of hope in it, and consequently more of 
 joy. lu rowing, one sees only departing, waning 
 beauty ; in paddling, the whole world is before, 
 with its good and evil inviting choice, its prom- 
 ises of wonders beyond distant shores, its ever 
 enlarging beauties, its swiftly realized dreams. 
 
 As our paddles rose and fell, scattering bright 
 globules of water on the river, which at first
 
 A VOYAGE TO BEARD'S ISLAND. 133 
 
 refused to receive them back into itself, we left 
 Concord behind us on the one side, and on the 
 other many a meadow and sloping hillside, 
 crowned with farmhouse or summer cottage. 
 The town did not let us abandon it suddenly. 
 More than once, when I thought it left far away 
 across a meadow, the river would sweep back 
 to it, and show us more green lawns and terraces, 
 gay boats lying on the grass, elms fruited with 
 purple grackles and cowbirds, children at their 
 games, purple martins soaring near their bird 
 boxes, and wagons rolling up dust in the roads. 
 Before we were free from the town our river 
 changed its name ; for at a place where a ledge 
 crowned with great trees is washed by the cur- 
 rent, the north branch blends its waters with 
 the Sudbury to form the Concord. The Sud- 
 bury was our stream, and but for one brief 
 glance up the dai'k Assabet I should not have 
 known that Musketaquid had lost a part of 
 its strength. 
 
 About seven o'clock our cockleshells came to 
 a long reach of river looking a little east of 
 south. Meadow-grasses rustled over many acres 
 on each side of us, and the breeze favored us at 
 last. So we raised our tiny masts and spread 
 our white sails. That which followed was to 
 physical action what falling asleep is to mental 
 effort. It was not rude motion gained by
 
 134 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 thumping oars against resisting water. It was 
 more like becoming a part of the air and glid- 
 ing on in its embrace, silently, swiftly, without 
 friction. Side by side our boats slipped on past 
 whispering grasses, over the black water, under 
 the violet sky in which the high stars were now 
 appearing. Behind us the dark water was 
 broken into ripples. They held quivering, 
 bending bits of color, deep red, orange, yellow, 
 and silver, scattered over the inky blackness of 
 the stream. In front of us was a hill. It 
 seemed very high in the gathering gloom. 
 Nearer and on our right was a grove of lofty 
 white pines. There are few such trees in this 
 part of New England ; they are a fragment of 
 the primeval woods, full of wind voices and 
 memories of a lost race of men, and a vanishing 
 race of birds and mammals. As we neared this 
 grove a mysterious greeting came to us from its 
 depths. A voice at once sad, deep, soft, and 
 full of suppressed power seemed to question us. 
 My friend responded in the stranger's language, 
 and a few moments after a dark form floated 
 over us, its great wings making no sound as 
 they beat against the night air. Then from the 
 foot of Fairhaven Hill the voice called to us 
 again ; and soon the form passed back over the 
 river to the tops of the pines. Behind Fairhaven 
 Hill the eastern clouds reflected a slowly iucreas-
 
 A VOYAGE TO HEARTS ISLAND. 135 
 
 ing flood of yellow light. Over the rest of the 
 sky night had settled. Bird voices were hushed, 
 but. from the river banks, as far as the ear could 
 hear, the song of frogs rose and fell in irregular 
 rhythm. The air was chilly, and a thin layer of 
 white mist hurried over the surface of the water. 
 Southward, up the river between Fairhaven Hill 
 and the pine woods, the water gleamed with 
 silvery whiteness, reflecting the sky. Its sur- 
 face narrowed in the distance between looming, 
 wooded headlands, and was finally swallowed up 
 in the shadow of great trees whose tops made a 
 serrated border to the brightening sky. At last 
 the moon's rim showed through the trees on 
 Fairhaven Hill, and the high pines close by us 
 on the western shore were bathed in uncertain 
 light. From their tops the mysterious voice 
 still questioned us at intervals. 
 
 This pine grove was our chosen camping 
 ground, and the light of the moon enabled us to 
 select a landing place and to draw our canoes 
 ashore. Soon the two boats were resting upon 
 hollows in the pine needles, ready to serve as 
 our cocoons when we felt the need of sleep ; a 
 bright fire was blazing near the edge of the 
 water at a point where it offered no menace to 
 the safety of the grove, and we were resting our 
 weary muscles and busying our several senses 
 with the moon, cold chicken and marmalade,
 
 136 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 the warmth of the fire, the aroma of the pines, 
 and the low, shivery remarks of the ghostly owner 
 of the grove. Instead of being alarmed by our 
 landing, the light of our fire, and the sound of 
 our voices, the dark phantom of the pines seemed 
 to be attracted by these unusual interruptions. 
 The voice grew louder and more distinct. Its 
 winged source came nearer from tree top to tree 
 top, until it settled in the tallest, darkest pine 
 in the grove, almost immediately over our 
 heads. It was unlike any other voice I had ever 
 heard. It possessed a contralto quality ; it was 
 laden with intense emotion, yet it was calm and 
 singularly regular both in its sounds and in its 
 silences. In spite of its softness and the slight 
 trembling in its tones, it suggested power, a 
 power sufficient to raise a trumpet note audible 
 a mile away. 
 
 Ten o'clock came and went, and we sought our 
 cocoons. Over the opening in my Rob Roy a 
 rubber blanket was arranged to button tightly, 
 leaving space only for my face. Over the entire 
 canoe, supported by a cord run from a short niast 
 aft to the short mast near the bows, was drawn 
 a waterproof tont having two little netting- 
 covered windows in its gable ends. Wrapped in 
 my wool blanket, tightly buttoned under the 
 rubber blanket, I sighed, thought how sleepy I 
 was, how well the canoe sustained my weary
 
 A VOYAGE TO HEARD' S ISLAND. 137 
 
 limbs, how comfortable I was to be, and in fact, 
 I was on the eve of sweet slumber when, " Whoo, 
 hoo-hoo-hoo, whooo, whooo ! " came from the tree 
 just over me. The voice restored me to con- 
 sciousness. I seemed to see through my tent 
 and the darkness of the pine foliage to the 
 top of the tree, where in the moonlight sat a 
 great bird with staring yellow eyes and feathery 
 horns, looking now at the moon on her voyage 
 from Fairhaven westward, and then at our smoul- 
 dering fire, or at me, supine in my mummy case. 
 " Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, whooo, whooo ! " came 
 again, and its melancholy vibrations set my nerves 
 to its rhythm, so that after it ceased it seemed 
 to continue to echo in my mind's ear. Wide 
 awake, I found myself measuring the time until 
 it should come again. " Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, 
 whooo, whooo ! " The thrill which the last two 
 prolonged sighing notes sent through me was 
 wonderful. They seemed to penetrate every 
 fibre of my brain and quiver there as heated air 
 quivers before the eye at midsummer midday. 
 I thought of the theory that birds' notes are but 
 imitations of sounds which they hear most fre- 
 quently, and this song of the great horned owl 
 above me seemed akin to the moaning of night 
 winds in the hollows of dead trees. 
 
 After a sleepless hour or more had passed, I 
 sat up and peered out of the little window at the
 
 138 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 head of my coffin. There were the great pine 
 trunks rising like roughly carved columns to 
 support the dark roof above. The moon's rays 
 came between them and fell full in my face. I 
 could see up the river, whose ripples were full of 
 bits of moonlight and black shadows, over which 
 hurried shreds of mist. Quiet as was the night, 
 nothing seemed asleep. Nature, shamming re- 
 pose, was moving silently about on mysterious 
 errands of which slumbering man was not to 
 know. The moon sailed on with her convoy of 
 stars westward, the clouds sailed eastward. The 
 river flowed northward, the mists were moving 
 southward. Thousands of frogs mingled their 
 songs on the river banks. The woods were full 
 of slight rustlings of leaves, creakings or snap- 
 pings of twigs, squeaks which seemed vocal, and 
 an undercurrent of sound which was like the 
 hushed breathing of the earth. Then, as though 
 guiding all, came the weird voice of the owl in 
 its strange rhythm and its stranger intonation. 
 
 Midnight passed and went on its long way, 
 but still I did not sleep. Each time the owl 
 spoke I was listening for it. Then a drumming 
 partridge and the frogs gained a share of my 
 hearing and thinking. The latter were leopard 
 frogs, and their chorus was pitched on a low 
 key. One of my friends compares their music 
 to an army snoring in unison ; another to a
 
 A VOYAGE TO HEARTS ISLAND. 139 
 
 giant gritting his teeth. I could make my ears 
 assent to either comparison. Suddenly my vi- 
 brating nerves told me that the song of the 
 owl had changed. I listened, excited. " Whoo, 
 hoo-hoo-hoo, whooo, whooo ! " No, it was the 
 same. But hark ! from another tree comes back 
 a response, " Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, 
 whooo ! " The male had returned from a hunt- 
 ing trip, and the pair were talking it over. 
 
 Whether it was the change and alternation in 
 the owl's metre, or simple exhaustion on my part, 
 which at last gave me sleep I cannot say, but 
 after hearing a distant deep-toned bell strike 
 twice I lost myself in needed slumber. 
 
 My awakening was sudden. I found myself 
 leaning on my elbow listening to one of the most 
 joyous songs which New England birds produce. 
 "Cherokee, cherokee, bo-peep, bo-peep, chrit, 
 chrit, chrit, perucru, perucru, cru, cru, cru, cru ! " 
 
 Pushing aside tent and mummy cloths I un- 
 snarled myself and gained my feet. The moon 
 was nearing her western harbor, but upon the 
 rim of Fairhaven Hill rested the morning star. 
 There are few moments in life so full of happi- 
 ness and exultation as those in which man, 
 brushing sleep from his eyes, rises with the first 
 bird song and welcomes into his soul the beauty 
 of the dawn. Some minutes in a life seem 
 doubly charged with the essence both of self-
 
 140 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 consciousness and of perception. That moment 
 of awakening was one of them to me. In this 
 world or the next I shall ever be able to recall 
 the clarion of that brown thrush, the pure 
 beauty of that star, and the contour of hill and 
 forest, river and tented boats. I aroused my 
 friend, and we sought a high, open pasture be- 
 hind the pines, where we noted the order in 
 which bird songs or calls reached us. The song 
 sparrow, the whip-poor-will, the robin, the crow, 
 the chickadee, the ruby-crowned kinglet, the field 
 sparrow, came in quick succession, the last reach- 
 ing us at twenty minutes past four. The partridge 
 had drummed all night. If the owls had been 
 silent at all it was for little more than an hour. 
 
 Not long after the sun swung clear of Fair- 
 haven Hill our voyage upstream was resumed. 
 The wind came from a bank of cold gray clouds, 
 which rose rapidly from the north and soon ob- 
 scured sun, moon, and pale blue sky. A spring 
 flowing from a rugged ledge filled our jug with 
 ice-cold water. On the ledge, columbine was in 
 full bloom, a fact not often recorded for the 25th 
 of April. Beyond, lay Fairhaven Bay, a beauti- 
 ful widening of the river framed in wooded hills. 
 Upon the crest of one of these hills stood three 
 pines, and into the middle one a hawk descended 
 upon its nest. Beyond the bay came a belt of 
 meadow shore where the wind had a wide sweep.
 
 A VOYAGE TO BEARD'S ISLAND. 141 
 
 Here we came upon a wounded sheldrake, whose 
 quick and clever diving and desperate beatings 
 along the tops of the waves enabled him to es- 
 cape us. In the river's wandering across this 
 meadow it led us close to a charming home spot. 
 A high hill, broken on the river side into many 
 gray ledges, overhung a narrow, bright green 
 field. This was the home acre. A house sur- 
 rounded by shrubbery, a barn blessed with 
 calves, hens, broods of young chickens, a kitchen 
 garden newly planted, an orchard with swelling 
 flower buds, a bridge with many piers and a 
 bright red boat moored near it, all these things 
 lay cosily under the ledges. Swallows flew 
 merrily back and forth between meadow and 
 barnyard, and a bluebird sang sweet music in an 
 apple-tree. We paused under the bridge and 
 took account of the weather. The wind was 
 rough and came in gusts ; the sky was now com- 
 pletely overcast, and in the north ugly clouds 
 seemed pressing forward up the river. Oilskin 
 coats and rubber covers for the tops of the ca- 
 noes were brought into play, and then away we 
 sped under reefed sails across the next mile of 
 river. Rain, hail, and snow all pelted us, and 
 helped the wind lash the river into foam. 
 
 An hour before noon we landed at a hillside 
 covered with pines and cedars, and sought shel- 
 ter in the woods for dinner and a fire. The hill
 
 142 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 sloped towards the south and commanded a view 
 of a wide bend in the river, and beyond it the 
 beginning of the great Sudbury meadows, now 
 under water and more like a shallow lake than a 
 stream. Kept dry by the pines and in a glow by 
 a fire of dry twigs and pine needles, we watched 
 the strange mingling of seasons before us. An 
 angry sky blotched with luminous white and 
 leaden gray ; a river flowing against the storm, 
 covered with white caps, foam, and the paths of 
 sudden " flaws ; " beyond, flat grass land and a 
 birch wood forming a background for the sway- 
 ing columns of snowflakes, which were whirled up 
 the stream, across the drenched fields and out of 
 sight over the meadows, such was the wintry 
 side of the picture. Nearer, was a grassy slope 
 of the tenderest green flecked with everlasting, 
 saxifrage, anemones, small purple violets of at 
 least two kinds, white violets, innocents, as I love 
 to call houstonia, early buttercups, potentilla, and 
 dandelions. In the pines or within earshot were 
 robins, hermit thrushes, pine warblers, a parula 
 warbler, chipping sparrows, song sparrows, and 
 field sparrows. Such was the spring-like side of 
 the picture. Squall after squall passed, but the 
 warblers sang on, and the swallows skimmed the 
 river and seemed as gay among snowflakes as 
 among sunbeams. 
 
 As the water on the Sudbury meadows was so
 
 A VOYAGE TO BEARD'S ISLAND. 143 
 
 shallow that more was to be feared from ground- 
 ing than from tipping over, we hoisted sail and 
 let the storm winds do their wildest with us. 
 The canoes careened, the sheets tugged until our 
 hands ached holding them, and off we flew like 
 parts of the driving scud, up the long miles of 
 meadow. Here and there bushes, or tussocks 
 of swamp grass, reared their heads above the 
 water and warned us from the shallows, but in 
 the main the course was clear, and we passed 
 over it as swiftly as the storm itself. 
 
 About three o'clock the sun came out, and we 
 found ourselves near Wayland village. Shel- 
 tered from the wind by a railway embank- 
 ment, we clung to the edge of a half -submerge:! 
 meadow, to watch the flight of swallows after 
 the storm. Perhaps we saw a thousand swal- 
 lows that day, or perhaps my friend's usually 
 conservative mind was too excited to estimate 
 fairly. There were enough at all events to 
 cover every rod of meadow with the poetry of 
 geometry, drawn again and again in living lines 
 of lustrous blue and black, warm chestnut, and 
 gleaming white. The white-bellied swallows out- 
 numbered all others ten to one, but in the maze 
 could be seen barn swallows, bank swallows, 
 eaves swallows, and now and then a purple mar- 
 tin or a chimney swift. Away to the west was 
 Nobscot Hill. Eastward, not more than a mile
 
 144 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 distant, was Way land village, and just ahead 
 was the sunny slope of Heard's Island, our ulti- 
 ma Thule. Nothing short of another snow-squall 
 could have made us leave the dancing swallows, 
 but the squall came, and we sought Heard's Is- 
 land and friendly firesides. 
 
 After resting a bit we put on all the warm 
 clothes we could muster, and took a brisk walk 
 to Heard's pond, which bounds the island on the 
 southwest, and to the Wayland elm, the noblest 
 tree in Massachusetts. The cold appealed to us 
 as strongly as though February had come again, 
 and we feared that the birds, buds, and flowers 
 would suffer during the night. Heard's pond 
 is a charming sheet of water, soon doubtless to 
 become the centre of a circle of cheery summer 
 cottages. As for the Wayland elm, it is a won- 
 derful triumph of nature. As we paced under 
 it from north to south, its ancient branches 
 seemed to extend over one hundred and twenty- 
 five feet from one side of its lawn to the other. 
 Two very large elms which stand near it are 
 dwarfed by its royal size. Its symmetry, the per- 
 fect condition of its many branches and myriad 
 twigs, the healthy state of its unscarred bark, 
 and the simple dignity of its position, all make it 
 an ideal tree, one which a savage might adore 
 as the abiding place of a spirit. That night the 
 canoes slept alone on the edge of the cold mead-
 
 A VOYAGE TO BEARD'S ISLAND. 145 
 
 ow, and my slumbers were presided over, not by 
 great horned owls, but by time-honored pictures 
 of Dante, Petrarch, Tasso, Louis Agassiz, and 
 Benjamin Peirce, and of Rome, Tivoli, Venice, 
 Florence, and fair Harvard. 
 
 Sunday dawned cool, clear and windy. There 
 had been no frost. Nature had been true to 
 herself, as she generally is. From nine till six 
 we fought our way homewards against impetuous 
 winds. No sail could aid us, no current do more 
 than mitigate the force of the air. The battle 
 against the waves developed a marked difference 
 in our canoes. The moment we rounded a curve 
 into a stretch of wind-swept water my canoe 
 shot ahead of the other without extra effort on 
 my part. In still water, and especially towards 
 evening, when the wind died out, my friend was 
 the one who played with his paddle, and I the 
 one who toiled. At two o'clock we landed at 
 the foot of a bold ledge rising abruptly sixty or 
 seventy feet from the stream. We climbed part 
 way to the summit and lunched, surrounded by 
 columbine, violets, saxifrage and dozens of birds. 
 A pewee complained of us, and turning we saw 
 her nest on the face of the ledge, hidden under a 
 projecting shoulder of rock. It was just com- 
 pleted, and its delicate moss trimming made it 
 seem part of the lichen-grown ledge itself. From 
 the pines came the thin voice of a black-throated
 
 146 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 green warbler saying, " one, two, three-a, four," 
 and not far away the strong, brave phrases of 
 the solitary vireo were audible. A real treat 
 was the song of the ruby-crowned kinglet. It 
 reminds me of a favorite mountain cascade of 
 mine deep in hemlock woods, which has spar- 
 kling jets, quick twists in its descending current, 
 unbroken rushes over polished rock, and then 
 three or four plunges, ending in a dark pool 
 where trout linger under the foam. As we 
 looked over the water a pair of wood ducks flew 
 by, and at another time a small flock of black 
 ducks. A kingfisher passed and repassed, sound- 
 ing his harsh rattle, and a great blue-gray and 
 white marsh hawk sailed down stream along the 
 meadow. 
 
 We camped that night eighteen miles from 
 Heard's Island and three miles below the Min- 
 ute-Man. Ball's Hill rose above us, and Great 
 Meadow, now half above water, extended before 
 us like a wide lagoon. The curving shore was 
 thickly strewn with pieces of dry wood of curi- 
 ous shapes. When my friend stated that there 
 was a wooden pail factory on the Assabet I un- 
 derstood the origin of our fuel supply. During 
 the last mile of the voyage, and while we were eat- 
 ing our supper, we heard a bittern " pumping " 
 on the meadow. At sunrise next morning two 
 could be heard from the top of the hill, one
 
 A VOYAGE TO HEARD' S ISLAND. 147 
 
 up stream and another down towards Carlisle 
 bridge. The syllables " pung-chuck " repeated 
 three or four times give an idea of this sound 
 when it is made at a distance. After dark, as 
 we lingered by our fire, we heard the " quauk " 
 of a night heron flying down stream. I slept as 
 well that night in my narrow mummy case as I 
 should have on my broad spring bed at home. 
 
 To see a sunrise from the top of Ball's Hill on 
 a warm still day in April is worth an eighteen- 
 mile paddle. There were bitterns pumping, 
 crows cawing, mourning doves cooing, grouse 
 and woodpeckers drumming, blackbirds creaking, 
 kingfishers rattling, and a throng of thrushes, 
 warblers, and finches singing in that early mass 
 at St. Ann's. The sun came up behind Bedford 
 towers, cast golden rays upon Great Meadow 
 and passed into gray clouds. Although we ex- 
 pected rain we spent half the forenoon coasting 
 along Carlisle shore and wandering through the 
 pine woods. I found a snug little screech owl 
 in a hole in an apple-tree and tried to induce 
 him to come out. No pounding on the tree nor 
 gentle poking of him produced any effect. He 
 was as placid as though made of the dead leaves 
 and decayed wood which his coloring most sug- 
 gested. A towhee bunting and his mate were 
 scratching in the dry leaves by the river side. 
 They, like the fox sparrows, seem to work both 
 feet at once in scratching. It was a proud sight
 
 148 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 when a high-flying osprey plunged downward 
 through many a foot of air to the river, and scat- 
 tered myriad drops as he struck the water in a 
 vain effort to grasp a wary fish. A pair of red- 
 shouldered hawks screamed angrily at us as we 
 paddled past their chosen grove. A bittern flew 
 up stream and settled in a snarl of rushes. We 
 marked the spot and my friend paddled to it. 
 The bird allowed the bow of the canoe to come 
 within six or seven feet of him before his confi- 
 dence in his protective coloring failed sufficiently 
 to make him fly. A spotted sandpiper flew from 
 shore to shore ahead of us, giving his character- 
 istic whistle as he sped low over the water. 
 When he remained for a moment on the shore 
 his " teetering " seemed to make his outlines 
 blend in the river ripples. The water thrush, 
 a warbler next of kin to the ovenbird, has the 
 teetering habit to a less marked degree, and is 
 also a bird whose life is passed near the edge of 
 waves. 
 
 Not long after midday we sighted the Minute- 
 Man, passed under his wooden bridge and 
 grounded our boats on the Old Manse shore. A 
 happy voyage was over. We had met fifty-seven 
 kinds of birds and seen eighteen or more kinds 
 of flowers in bloom. We had killed nothing, 
 not even time, for those sixty-seven hours will 
 live as long as our memory of pleasant things 
 serves us.
 
 A FOREST ANTHEM. 
 
 THE 30th of April was a hot day. I left 
 Boston at 12.30 p. M., in a car marked for the 
 White Mountains via Conway Junction. The 
 country was beautifully green, and some early 
 fruit trees were white with flowers. In the brook 
 meadows the marsh marigolds were gleaming 
 like gold coin, and now and then we passed a 
 pasture whitened by houstonia. As we rolled 
 over the Ipswich and Rowley marshes the dunes 
 showed their ragged ranges against the eastern 
 sky, and the sunlight brought out the beauty 
 of their coloring. I was struck by the indiffer- 
 ence to the cars of many of the wild creatures 
 we passed. A woodchuck trundled his fat body 
 slowly over a sandy field and scarcely looked at 
 the train. Crows often walked up and down a 
 stubble field within fifty feet of the track and 
 merely kept one eye on the rushing, dust-raising 
 cars. Near Kittery an eagle drew nearer and 
 nearer to the train as though interested by it. 
 On the other hand, sheep and dozens of awk- 
 ward spring lambs fled from us, and horses kicked 
 up their heels and galloped away in their pas-
 
 150 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 tures, or shied in harness, to the terror of nervous 
 women. After passing Wolfborough Junction 
 I watched for traces of winter, but Wakefield 
 and Ossipee were as green as Concord and Cam- 
 bridge. Marigolds shone by the brooks, arbu- 
 tus smiled from the shady banks along the cut- 
 tings, maples glowed red in the descending rays 
 of the sun. The leaves on birches and poplars 
 were well out and brilliant in color. Swallows 
 were skimming over Bearcamp water, and smoke 
 hung over the mountains so that even Cho- 
 corua's peak was not in view until I reached 
 West Ossipee and left the train. 
 
 Half of the country between the Ossipee Moun- 
 tains and Chocorua is a sandy level covered 
 with pitch-pines and scrub-oaks. It is a fine 
 place for blueberries, fires, and pine warblers in 
 summer, for crows, golden rod, and asters in 
 autumn, and for snowdrifts in winter. Now 
 and then one gets a glimpse of a deer among 
 the scrub, and in winter fox tracks are always 
 thick upon the snow which lies heavy upon 
 these plains. As the sun sank low in the west 
 the air became chilly and the snow wrinkles on 
 Chocorua's brow seemed more real. Towards 
 the east a tower of smoke rose into the sky, and 
 at one point I caught a glimpse of the flames 
 not more than a mile away. By seven I was 
 supping at a cosy fireside in Tamworth Iron
 
 A FOREST ANTHEM. 151 
 
 Works village, listening to tales of winter hard- 
 ships and spring sickness, for the grip had been 
 making hearts weary even in these fastnesses of 
 the north. Then under the light of the stars I 
 walked on up the Chocorua River valley towards 
 the lakes and the mountain, at whose feet my 
 haven nestled. Lights gleamed and were lost 
 in the valley behind me. Dull masses of fire- 
 light shone upon the smoky sky in three places 
 on the horizon. A torch flashed, went down, 
 and flashed again, marking a spot where a fish- 
 erman was watching, spear in hand, for suckers 
 in a meadow brook. Then, as I reached the 
 crest of the hill, I saw below me the white water 
 of the lakes, and beyond, above, dimly present 
 in the smoky heaven as conscience is present in 
 the mind of man Chocorua. 
 
 The stars burned near it like altar candles. 
 The smoke of fires rose around it like incense, 
 the song of myriad frogs floated softly from the 
 lakes below like the distant chanting of a choir, 
 and the whispering of the wind in the pines 
 was like the moving of many lips in prayer. 
 
 Early the next morning I was out under the 
 cloudless sky listening to the voices of May day. 
 Sparrows were in the majority. Song, field, 
 chipping, vesper, white-throats, and juncos were 
 all there, the white-throats being the most 
 numerous. White-bellied and barn swallows
 
 152 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 circled around the cottage, and chimney-swifts 
 dotted the sky with their short, sharp notes. 
 Loons were making wild clamor on the lake, the 
 phoebe note of the chickadee came like a cool 
 breeze from the orchard, and up in the sugar- 
 maple grove a pigeon woodpecker was calling 
 " flick-flick-flick-flick-flick-flick " a great many 
 times in succession. The air was superlatively 
 pure, sparkling, full of that which makes deep 
 breathing a pleasure. The great mountain 
 peak stood out sharply against the northern sky, 
 and the morning sunbeams came back dancing 
 from its snowdrifts. Peace pervaded every- 
 thing, yet a thrill of life was trembling in earth 
 and air and water. Spring, real spring was 
 present in that land, with no threat of east wind 
 to chill it. In the woods, beside the roads, 
 the arbutus grew in masses. Its leaves were 
 flattened to earth, just as the snow had left 
 them. To find the blossoms one had to run a 
 finger down the stems and lift up the shy 
 flowers to the light of day. Their perfume made 
 the air precious. The straw-colored bells of the 
 uvularia swung in the breeze. In the woods 
 by the brookside the painted and the dark red 
 trilliums hid their beauty, but in every grove, 
 upon the sides of the mountains, and along the 
 shores of the lakes, the blossoms of the maples 
 glowed red in the sunlight.
 
 A FOREST ANTHEM. 153 
 
 All through the day the white-throated spar- 
 rows scratched in the leaves which the melting 
 snows had left pressed to the surface of the 
 ground. I estimated that I saw over a hundred 
 of these busy birds. A few were singing, and 
 their " pe-pe-pe-pe-peabody, peabody, peabody " 
 went straight to the heart just as it always 
 does, whether in spring, summer or autumn. I 
 caught one beautiful male who had flown through 
 an open doorway and was beating himself 
 against the window pane. Holding him gently 
 but firmly in my closed hand, so that his won- 
 derfully marked head alone was free to move, 
 I stroked his black, white, and yellow feathers 
 with the tip of my right forefinger. After 
 repeated pressure of the gentlest kind on the 
 back of his beautiful head and the nape of his 
 neck, I slowly opened my hand and left him 
 perched on my middle finger. He looked around 
 him but did not offer to fly. Again and 
 again I brought my hand up slowly to his head 
 and caressed him. His clear, bright eyes 
 watched me fearlessly. I moved him gently, 
 but the little feet only clung the more closely to 
 my finger. For nearly five minutes he perched 
 there contentedly, and then, recovering some 
 suppressed faculty, he rejoined his friends 
 among the dry leaves. 
 
 About noon I visited a red maple which I
 
 154 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 knew had been a favorite sap-drinking resort of 
 the yellow-bellied woodpeckers and their attend- 
 ant friends, the humming birds. The woodpeck- 
 ers were at the tree, but unaccompanied as yet 
 by hummers. There was evidence in the large 
 number of new holes already cut in the bark of 
 the tree that the woodpeckers had been back 
 from the south since about April 20. They 
 were busy excavating a new house in a sound 
 poplar tree near their maple fountain, and that 
 also showed a week or more of thought and labor 
 expended. Black and white creeping warblers 
 and Nashville warblers were abundant in the 
 woods near by, and I suspected a downy wood- 
 pecker of having selected a house-lot near the 
 sapsuckers, from the close watch which he kept 
 on me while I was in the neighborhood. Dur- 
 ing the half hour which I spent watching the 
 yellow-bellied woodpeckers drinking the flowing 
 sap on the maple and digging diligently at their 
 hole in the poplar, I heard an unbroken cawing 
 of crows at a distance. At last the uproar was 
 so great that I went to seek an explanation of it. 
 Well hidden on the crest of a kame, I looked 
 across a narrow ravine into the edge of a hang- 
 ing wood of old beeches and yellow birches. 
 Sixteen crows were in these trees, gathered with- 
 in a few yards of each other. They were all caw- 
 ing at once, and shaking their heads, flapping
 
 A FOREST ANTHEM. 155 
 
 their wings and hopping back and forth from 
 branch to branch. The centre of attraction 
 seemed to be an idea, not carrion or an owl. I 
 tested this by hooting like a barred owl. In- 
 stantly sixteen pairs of wings brought sixteen 
 excited birds across the ravine in search of hated 
 Strix, but I lay low under a hemlock and the 
 crows returned to their rendezvous and their 
 clamorous debate. Several times during the 
 afternoon faint echoes of their oratory reached 
 me at my house half a mile away. 
 
 At sunset I walked to the rustic bridge be- 
 tween the lakes and let the wonderful beauty of 
 the scene flow in and fill every corner of my be- 
 ing. Against the northern sky rose Chocorua, 
 Paugus, Passaconaway and Whiteface, four con- 
 nected mountains, each beautiful, but all differ- 
 ing one from another. Chocorua 011 the east, 
 and due north of the lakes, sustains a horn of 
 naked rock upon shoulders of converging wooded 
 ridges. Paugus, heavily wooded, yet with many 
 ledge faces and scars showing light among its 
 hemlocks, is a mountain of curves and wrinkles, 
 having no one definite summit, but many fire 
 and wind swept domes. Passaconaway is an im- 
 mense spruce-covered pyramid, pathless and for- 
 bidding. Whiteface, at the west, is a shoulder 
 of rock 4,000 feet high, draped in forest except 
 where an avalanche has rent its covering" and
 
 156 LAND OF THE LINGERING KNOW. 
 
 left bare its substance. All of these peaks 
 rested upon a sky of gold flecked with crimson. 
 All of them were repeated in the placid lake, 
 which also copied the glory of the sky and of 
 the descending sun. To the east of the lake a 
 forest of ancient pines extends from the shore 
 part way up a ridge. Above the pines the 
 ridge is covered with young birches, poplars 
 and maples. The tender foliage of these trees, 
 bathed in the last rays of the sun, formed a 
 glowing veil of color. The most delicate greens 
 showed where young leaves were unrolling on 
 poplars and birches, soft reds covered the maples, 
 and the silvery white perpendicular lines of the 
 birch stems formed a thousand graceful columns 
 for the support of the light masses of color which 
 clung to them. That the sky behind this gay 
 fresco of the spring was pure pale blue only 
 added to its loveliness. Lake, mountains, woods, 
 sky gave joy to the eye and peace to the heart. 
 Watching them I said : " Had they but a voice, 
 how eloquent it would be of praise, how full of 
 courage and hope. The lake is pure and deep, 
 the mountains strong and high, the woods hope- 
 ful and kind, the sky infinite and full of mys- 
 tery." Then there came from the midst of the 
 dark pines nearest the shore a vojce, and it 
 seemed to me that no other voice in all that wild 
 New Hampshire valley could have come so near
 
 A FOREST ANTHEM. 157 
 
 expressing the praise, hope, and beauty of that 
 spot as the song which floated softly out from 
 the shadows. Those who from childhood have 
 known the song of the hermit thrush, and had it 
 woven into the very fibres of their hearts, will 
 know how I was thrilled by the voice of that 
 hermit thrush, singing on May-day evening at 
 the foot of Chocorua, while snow still gleamed 
 on the mountain summits. 
 
 Strolling up the road south of the lakes I sud- 
 denly heard the nasal call of a woodcock coming 
 from a dry and sloping field facing the sunset. 
 Soon lie rose, and the sound, like that of a sing- 
 ing reed, came through the air. I looked up and 
 presently saw the bird circling irregularly in 
 the upper air, his wings beating rapidly. Jump- 
 ing the wall I hurried to the spot from which he 
 had risen. No sooner had I crouched among 
 the bushes than the water-whistle notes came 
 nearer and nearer, and then there was a great 
 rushing of swift wings and the bird alit within 
 a few paces of me. He immediately began mak- 
 ing a soft and odd note as a substitute for his 
 " 'n-yah ! " I had heard it described by the syl- 
 lables " puttie," but as it reached me, it lacked 
 the definiteness and disjunctive quality of those 
 sounds. That the bird saw me I did not doubt 
 for a moment. He faced me, and in the dim 
 light I seemed to feel his close set eyes fixed
 
 158 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 upon me. I could not see that he moved head 
 or wings in making his inquiring note. After 
 a shorter rest than usual he rose westward in a 
 long diagonal over the bushes and began his cir- 
 cling. The next time he came down he was a 
 hundred feet distant, and began at once the 
 nasal call. In all he made ten or eleven as- 
 cents, and in coming down avoided me, although 
 I changed my ground each time he rose and 
 tried hard to get near him again. He finally 
 moved to another field, where he was circling at 
 half past seven, when I left the hill. 
 
 Early next morning when I returned to the 
 city my eyes were full of visions of beautiful 
 mountain scenery, and my ears rang with the 
 mocking laughter of loons and the sweet song 
 of the hermit thrush.
 
 THE BITTERN'S LOVE SONG. 
 
 ON Saturday, May 9, spring had the sulks. 
 In the afternoon a bitterly cold east wind de- 
 pressed birds, discouraged flowers, turned the 
 sky gray, and left the sun looking like a red 
 wafer. So dim was it that at four o'clock I 
 turned my opera glass on it and scanned it as 
 though it were only the moon. If a May east 
 wind has this chilling effect upon the sun, what 
 wonder that its blast makes poor mortals miser- 
 able! 
 
 The sun had a black spot on his face. It 
 looked large enough to be Mercury or Venus 
 taking a transit on the sly. 
 
 I went by an afternoon train to Waverley and 
 walked thence to Rock Meadow on Beaver Brook. 
 Maps of recent date call this brook " Clematis 
 Brook," a pretty name, no doubt, but one never 
 approved by the General Court. It was at the 
 foot of Rock Meadow that the beavers made their 
 dam, lived, died, and passed into history. Surely 
 the branch of the brook where the beavers lived 
 should .be called Beaver Brook, rather than the 
 branch where beavers never lived and never could
 
 160 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 have lived, owing to the lack of a good place for 
 their dam. Moreover, the " Clematis Brook " of 
 the railway guide and the real estate office is the 
 Beaver Brook sung of by a writer whose know- 
 ledge of Cambridge and its surroundings has 
 never been challenged. Here is his description 
 of the old mill which once stood at the cascade 
 just above the Waverley oaks : 
 
 Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems 
 The road along the mill pond's brink, 
 
 From 'neath the arching barberry stems, 
 My footstep scares the shy chewink. 
 
 Beneath the bony buttonwood 
 
 The mill's red door lets forth the din ; 
 
 The whitened miller, dust-imbued, 
 Flits past the square of dark within. 
 
 No mountain torrent's strength is here ; 
 
 Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, 
 Heaps its small pitcher to the ear 
 
 And gently waits the miller's will. 
 
 In a note written June 16, 1891, Mr. Lowell 
 says : " You are right. The brook which was 
 down by the great oaks was certainly called 
 ' Beaver ' when I first knew it more than fifty 
 years ago. The scene of my poem was the little 
 millpond, somewhat higher up towards the north, 
 below which was a waterfall in whose company 
 I often passed the day." 
 
 The old mill and its miller have long since
 
 THE BITTERN'S LOVE SONG. 161 
 
 been swept away by the currents of Beaver 
 Brook and of that greater stream called Life. 
 The millstone lies below the dam, with moss, not 
 flour, on its cheek. Clematis twines itself over 
 the ruin and seeks even to twine its name over 
 the name hallowed by time and song. 
 
 The willows along Concord turnpike where 
 that venerable causeway crosses Rock Meadow 
 are wonderful places for birds. Even on this 
 bleak, discouraged afternoon I saw over thirty 
 species, including eight kinds of warblers. One 
 of them was the black-throated blue warbler, 
 dark, dignified and exclusive. Above he is 
 slaty-blue ; below, white. His throat, chin and 
 face are jet black. On each wing he carries a 
 triangular white spot, which marks him as far 
 as the eye can distinguish his dainty form. His 
 wife dresses in green and is one of the " wonder 
 birds" to young collectors, but she may be iden- 
 tified by the white spot on her wing. Another 
 warbler met for the first time this season was 
 the chestnut-sided. His head 'is yellow on top, 
 his back is dark, his under parts white. His eye 
 is in a black patch, and running from it down 
 his side is a chestnut streak, or series of streaks, 
 often very distinct. I once found a nest of a 
 chestnut-sided warbler, in which young birds 
 were nearly ready to fly, placed in the crotch of 
 a brake, and having no other support. Th
 
 162 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 brakes grew thickly over more than an acre of 
 sparse woodland, and this nest bore the same 
 relation to the miniature forest that an osprey's 
 ponderous structure does to stunted woods by 
 the seashore. 
 
 Another bird which I was pleased to see was 
 the kingbird. Three chilly individuals of this 
 pugnacious species sat close together on a willow 
 limb, now and then one of them flying up with 
 a harsh chatter to catch an insect on the wing. 
 While watching these kingbirds I fancied that 
 I heard the sound of a bittern " pumping." It 
 was just six o'clock, and the sound seemed far 
 away, but I scanned the meadow carefully 
 through a gap in the willows. About a hun- 
 dred yards from the road was a pile of weathered 
 meadow hay, containing perhaps two or three 
 pitchforks-full. On this stood a bittern. His 
 coloring harmonized with it so well that at first 
 I mistook him for a bundle of it poked up 
 against a stake. I watched him for nearly ten 
 minutes, part o the time from the road, later 
 from behind a bunch of bushes fifty feet nearer 
 to him. Four times during this period he made 
 his singular call. His body seemed to be carried 
 about at the angle of a turkey's. His neck was 
 much curved. Suddenly the lower part of the 
 curve was agitated in a way to suggest retch- 
 ing, and a hint of the sound to come later be-
 
 THE BITTERN'S LOVE SONG. 163 
 
 came faintly audible. Then the agitation, which 
 became much more violent, affected the upper 
 throat, neck and head, the head being thrown 
 violently upward and the white upon the throat 
 showing like a flash of light every time the spas- 
 modic fling of the neck was repeated. The 
 sound at that short interval was different in 
 quality from the bittern's note carried to a dis- 
 tance. I fancied that it suggested the choking 
 and gurgling of a bottle from which liquid is be- 
 ing poured, the bottle during the process being 
 held inside an empty hogshead. In trying to 
 approach the bird more closely I alarmed him, 
 and he slunk off into the high meadow grass 
 beyond the haycock. At a distance the sound 
 seemed like two words, " pung chuck," but near 
 by there seemed to be a third syllable ; and sev- 
 eral minor sounds, inaudible at a distance, were 
 made while the bird was getting up steam. It 
 seemed to me at the time, knowing nothing of 
 the nature of the process, that the bird produced 
 the sound by a mechanical use of a column of 
 air extending from its open mouth to its stom- 
 ach. Perhaps whooping cough is perennial in 
 the bittern family. 
 
 In this meadow the marsh marigolds were 
 abundant, but on seeking to gather a bunch I 
 felt the first sorrow of the year. The flowers 
 were faded, their golden petals were stained and
 
 164 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 partly fallen, their beauty had departed. So 
 soon ! Spring, scarcely sure of its standing 
 as a season, is marked with the first scars of 
 death. Not far away I saw a dandelion gone to 
 seed. Truly if the winter is tempered by many 
 a suggestion of the renewal of life, the spring is 
 branded with many a reminder of the coming of 
 death. Life and death ; what are they but the 
 swinging of a pendulum, the one as sure to 
 succeed the other as the other is certain to give 
 place to the one. Each, while it lasts, contains 
 an ever increasing germ of the other. Neither 
 can be final so long as law exists.
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY. 
 
 I FULLY intended to climb Nobscot Hill on 
 Sunday, May 10th, but when I reached the 
 Massachusetts Central Railway Station in North 
 Cambridge, I found that there were no Sunday 
 trains, my apparently straightforward time-table 
 to the contrary notwithstanding. Blessing that 
 railway, as I had frequently blessed it before, I 
 hurried back to Porter's Station and took a 
 train on the Fitchburg. Just where I was to 
 leave that train I was uncertain. It was my hope 
 that the conductor, or the brakeman, could tell 
 me which station was nearest to Nobscot Hill. 
 So I went to South Acton and changed to a 
 train for Marlborough. Neither conductor nor 
 brakeman had ever heard of Nobscot Hill, and 
 said there were so many hills I could get out 
 almost anywhere and find what I wanted. As 
 no impressive hill could be seen from the car 
 windows, I finally left the train at a place called 
 Rockbottom. A merciless red sun beat down 
 upon the little village. Scarcely a breath of air 
 was stirring. The loiterers around the station 
 were Irish mill operatives who knew nothing
 
 166 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 and seemed to care nothing about the natural 
 surroundings of their home. The only one who 
 showed even kindly curiosity felt sure that 
 Honeypot Hill was what I meant, and pointed 
 out a shadeless gravel bubble just across the 
 Assabet. Finding an old resident I learned 
 that Nobscot Hill was six or seven miles away 
 in Sudbury. ' Could I hire a horse ? No, it 
 would be impossible to secure one. 
 
 Left to the treeless fields of Rockbottom, the 
 meadows of the listless Assabet and the allure- 
 ments of Honeypot Hill, I felt something akin 
 to despair gnawing at my temper. I could not 
 even go home, for the next train did not start 
 for the city until six P. M. The heat was worthy 
 of July, but in spite of it I chose the railway 
 embankment as a short cut across the Assabet 
 and its meadows to the only piece of woods in 
 sight. Dressed as warmly as on my January 
 walks, for the wind had been east and the sky 
 cold when I left Cambridge, I strolled down the 
 half-mile of track, enjoying Nature as an Esqui- 
 maux might enjoy the Sahara. The sun's light 
 caught in the ripples of the Assabet, and each 
 reflection seemed a flame. An oriole sang from 
 the midst of a snowy pinnacle of pear blossoms, 
 and his plumage seemed to burn in its midst. 
 Two tiny redstarts chased each other in irregu- 
 lar circles above the bushes, and as I glanced at
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY. 167 
 
 them fire seemed devouring their expanded tails 
 and wings. Down in the alders by the river- 
 side a blackbird called out, " Cong-ka-ree 
 for I see thee," and then he hovered over the 
 marsh grass till red - hot spots appeared on 
 his shoulders. Fortunately for eyes and brain 
 the pine woods were gained at last, and I 
 squirmed under a barbed wire fence and took 
 refuge in their soothing shade. 
 
 Lying there I reflected, and my conclusion 
 was that it was a better day to keep quiet under 
 the pines by Assabet water than to climb the 
 slopes of Nobscot Hill. The hot air trembled 
 with the songs of birds, and wandering songsters 
 passed under or over the pines, sometimes paus- 
 ing in their branches. The noisy calls and only 
 half -musical notes of the robin rang out again 
 and again. A veery or Wilson's thrush com- 
 plained of my intrusion. He reminded me that 
 his cousins, the hermits, had gone north before 
 this, and were even then singing their hymns 
 in the cloisters of the hemlock forests. Over the 
 river a brown thrush was pouring out his rol- 
 licking song, and in a ditch by the railway track 
 a catbird sat among briers and flung out alter- 
 nating bits of music and spiteful complaint. 
 One bluebird sat on the telegraph wire, and 
 another on an apple-tree at the foot of Honeypot 
 Hill. First one and then the other murmured
 
 168 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 a comment or a word of love. If it was a com- 
 ment it was full of happy content ; if a word of 
 love it must have sounded very sweet to its mate. 
 Back and forth over the Assabet and its mead, 
 ows passed the white-bellied swallows. The 
 sunlight found favor in the blue lustre of their 
 backs, and as they rose and fell, turned left or 
 turned right, the immaculate whiteness of their 
 under plumage also responded, flashing to the 
 touch of light. They are my favorites among 
 the swallows. The martins are dark and 
 strong, the bank swallows small and lacking in 
 individuality ; the eaves swallows irregularly 
 distributed and petulant, the barn swallows less 
 graceful in flight and less perfect in form. As 
 for the swifts they are not swallows, and if they 
 were, they seem to be only animated forms of 
 soot possessed of the power of flying through 
 space with incredible speed, and of steering them- 
 selves without tails. 
 
 The bushes and grasses in and upon the 
 banks of the As"sabet were alive with red- 
 wing blackbirds. The males, gay in plumage, 
 noisy and restless, seemed to pervade the 
 meadows. The females, smaller, sober in 
 dress and more chary of speech, flitted back 
 and forth in everlasting bustle. I saw no bobo- 
 links. Occasionally the plaintive call of a 
 meadow starling blended with the blackbird
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY. . 169 
 
 clamor, and at brief intervals the cheerful dis- 
 cord of the Baltimore oriole joined the din. 
 Within the grove there was a lesser circle of 
 motion and noise. The harsh voice or the 
 passing shadow of a crow made the warblers in 
 that inner circle seem more like fractions of 
 bird life than separate, animated beings. In all, 
 I count upon seeing nineteen species of warblers 
 during the migration. It is possible to see 
 several more kinds, but I refer to my regular 
 friends. The outrunners of the migrating 
 horde are the pine warblers, yellow - rumps, 
 yellow red-polls, black-and-white creepers, sum- 
 mer yellow - birds, and black - throated green 
 warblers. These are followed by the redstarts, 
 black - throated blues, parulas, chestnut - sided 
 warblers, blackburnians, bay - breasteds, Nash- 
 villes, ovenbirds and accentors, and at varying 
 times by the Maryland yellow-throats, Wilson's 
 black-caps, Canadian flycatchers and black-polls, 
 the last-named sounding the knell of the migra- 
 tion with their irritating z-z-z-ing. This hot day 
 by the Assabet was evidently just to the liking 
 of the warblers. Their thin voices sounded in 
 every direction. A female redstart pursued her 
 mate round and round and round the grove, 
 only stopping for a second's rest, in which her 
 sharp little voice filled the chinks in her circle 
 of perpetual motion. A succession of yellow-
 
 170 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 rumped warblers passed through the trees catch- 
 ing insects on the wing. They wore a gold spot 
 on each breast, on their rumps, and on their 
 crowns. Their white throats reminded me of 
 the contour of a swallow's throat. The redstarts 
 were thinking of housekeeping. The yellow- 
 rumps were rangers, foraging on their line of 
 march. In a few days the redstarts will have 
 built the softest little cup in the crotch of a 
 maple in that very grove ; the yellow-rumps will 
 perhaps be north of the Basin of Minas. 
 
 Along the edges of the meadow, in alders and 
 other low thick growth, bits of pure gold 
 shot hither and thither in the sunlight. They 
 were summer yellow-birds. " Sweety, sweety, 
 sweet, sweet, sweet," is a free translation of their 
 song. They, too, were love-making, and will 
 soon be treasuring little spotted eggs in dainty 
 fleece- lined, cup-shaped nests, built in those iden- 
 tical bushes. The Assabet will see their nests 
 begun, but the leaves will grow large and keep 
 the secret. Pine-creeping warblers and black- 
 and-white creeping warblers are appropriately 
 named. Both were abundant by the Assabet, 
 and willing to be watched. They are inspectors 
 of leaves and twigs, as the downy woodpeck- 
 ers and little brown creepers are inspectors of 
 trunks and limbs. All day long the trilling of 
 the pine warblers sounded in the hot air. Seeing
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY. 171 
 
 a handsome golden-olive male motionless on the 
 lower limb of a pine, I crept close to him and lay 
 on the fragrant needles watching him. For ten 
 minutes neither he nor a chickadee in the next 
 tree moved a feather. Then I whistled a gentle 
 trill. The pine warbler stirred and listened. 
 Then he tipped back his head, slightly opened 
 his tiny beak and his throat trembled as the 
 notes rolled evenly out. His notes roll : those 
 of a chipping sparrow, which to the unpracticed 
 ear are indistinguishable, are better indicated by 
 a line of zigzags. 
 
 About one o'clock I crossed the Assabet and 
 climbed a hill overlooking it and Boon Pond 
 which empties into it. A strong breeze came like 
 a benediction to make my lunch refreshing. 
 Beyond the pond and the nearer hills I saw 
 Nobscot Hill as many miles to the southeast of 
 me in Stow, as it had been west of me in Way- 
 land. Southward on a ridge was Marlborough. 
 Northward in a hollow was Maynard, with its 
 factory chimneys. There seemed, to be some 
 comfortable farming land in Stow, and that 
 nearest us, and adjoining Honeypot Hill, 
 which, by the way, looked very insignificant 
 from my nameless hill, which I liked because no 
 one had advised me to climb it was well 
 ploughed, harrowed, and sown, and flanked by 
 orchards and nurseries. On this cool hill-top
 
 172 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 white - throated sparrows were scratching in 
 the leaves. There has been a great migration 
 of these birds this year, or else the usual migra- 
 tion has seemed greater, because the birds have 
 tarried during a week of cool, dry weather 
 when they might have travelled quickly under 
 different circumstances. Several of the apple- 
 trees on the south side of this hill were in bloom, 
 and the hum of bees came from them. It 
 is a soothing sound, akin to the singing of a 
 tea-kettle in some snug farmhouse kitchen. The 
 orioles were in the orchard, but I watched in vain 
 for humming birds. There were orioles in Cam- 
 bridge on Saturday, but they were quiet ; this 
 day is their first of demonstration in numbers. 
 It is also the first day of open lilac blossoms. 
 
 On the north shore of Boon Pond I found a 
 large and beautiful grove of pines. A majority 
 of the trees were pitch-pines, favorite resorts of 
 birds at any season and in any weather. Lying 
 on a bank deeply cushioned with pine needles I 
 spent most of the afternoon fanned by a breeze 
 which swept across the pond, listening to the 
 music of the ripples, the warblers, and the field 
 sparrows in the pasture beyond the grove, and 
 gazing at the blue water, and the deep green of 
 the foliage above me. In winter white-pines 
 are very dark in color, while pitch-pines are 
 golden-green. At this season, by mutual con-
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY. 173 
 
 cessions, their coloring comes so nearly together 
 that the eye finds difficulty in tracing their 
 outlines. The pines were alive with warblers. 
 Black-and-white creepers and pine warblers 
 were most numerous, but black-throated greens, 
 yellow-rumps, and yellow red-polls were almost 
 always within sight or hearing. The trick of 
 the yellow red-poll of wiggling his tail reminds 
 me of the water thrush and the spotted sand- 
 piper, but this bird certainly does not do it 
 because he frequents the edges of waves or 
 brooks. Between Boon Pond and the Assabet 
 are some damp woods, a meadow and a line of 
 willows. In the damp woods I found redstarts, 
 black-throated blue warblers and an ovenbird. 
 In the meadow a chewink was scratching among 
 the grass and innocents, and in the willows sum- 
 mer yellow-birds, yellow-rumps, chestnut-sided 
 warblers and black-throated greens caught flies 
 on the wing and frolicked with each other 
 among the falling blossoms. The blossoms as 
 they fell upon the pond looked like yellow cater- 
 pillars in danger of drowning, but as the wind 
 caught them they sailed away merrily to distant 
 shores. They made a brave fleet standing east- 
 ward with all sails set. The ovenbird differs 
 greatly from most of the other warblers. In 
 fact, his character and dress both proclaim him 
 a thrush. His back is olive-green, but it is not
 
 174 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 far removed from the upper coloring of the 
 olive-backed thrush. Below he is white with 
 dusky spots on his breast and sides ; and so is 
 the olive-backed thrush. His eyes are large and 
 earnest like a thrush's, and his nest is placed 
 upon the ground like that of the hermit thrush. 
 His dark orange crown set in black is his one 
 family emblem which a thrush would repudiate. 
 The ovenbird by the Assabet dropped to the 
 ground when he saw me and stole away as 
 slowly and silently as though he had been a 
 bittern, expert in the art of gliding. 
 
 At six o'clock, I stood on a low bridge over 
 the Assabet at Whitman's Crossing. The air 
 was full of swallows, the bushes and weeds were 
 rich in blackbirds, snowy and rose-tinted blossoms 
 decked the orchards, a fair pale sunset presided 
 over the sky and looked at itself in the river. 
 A snake with his head reared above the ripples 
 swam swiftly across from one weedy shore to the 
 other. The whistle of the train echoed a mile 
 away, and its growing thunder was in my ears. 
 Looking down the stream I could see a distant 
 hill ; nearer were two wooded points, one on the 
 east, one on the west ; nearer still a meadow full of 
 rank grass, and at my feet a mirror of blue 
 water. The coloring of that farewell glimpse of 
 Assabet was exquisite. The hill, covered prob- 
 ably with scrub oak, was rosy purple ; of the
 
 WARBLER SUNDAY. 175 
 
 two wooded points, one was a mingling of the 
 dark green of pines in shadow, the pale tender 
 green of young beeches and birches, and the 
 delicate reds of maples bearing their keys ; the 
 other, densely grown with alders, was rich with 
 olive-browns and greens. The meadow grass was 
 bluish green in shadow, and golden green in 
 the sunlight. The intensity of the coloring 
 seemed to be increased by looking at it with my 
 head on one side. The effect of looking at any 
 landscape in this way is to make it much like 
 the image in a Claude Lorraine glass.
 
 ROCK MEADOW AT NIGHT. 
 
 AT a quarter past six on Monday, May 11, I 
 caught a train at Porter's Station and went to 
 Belmont. A brisk walk along the Concord 
 turnpike, past blooming horse-chestnuts, and 
 through air heavy with the perfume of lilacs, over 
 Wellington Hill and down into Rock Meadow, 
 brought me just at sunset to the willows and the 
 home of the bittern. Turning into the marsh, I 
 crossed it on an old cart track to a wooded island 
 in its midst. I concealed myself among the 
 small trees on the edge of the island and swept 
 the meadow with my glass. Hundreds of frogs, 
 piping hylas, redwing blackbirds, crows, cat- 
 birds, and small birds mingled their voices in an 
 indescribable vesper chorus. Nature was alone. 
 Man's presence was unsuspected. I felt like an 
 intruder, but remembered that I had no evil in- 
 tent against anything in that great meadow. 
 While still searching with my glass for the bit- 
 tern I heard his call, and at once discovered him. 
 He was a hundred yards from me in the grass. 
 He was facing northwest, and I was nearly
 
 ROCK MEADOW AT NIGHT. 177 
 
 due north of him. His head, neck and shoul- 
 ders were plainly visible. I settled myself into 
 a comfortable position and watched him closely 
 through my glass. Except when pumping or 
 preparing to pump he was perfectly motionless, 
 his beak pointing well upward. I knew when 
 he was about to begin his music by the slow 
 lowering of his beak. This was followed by the 
 agitation of his breast and the first sounds from 
 his throat. Then came his spasm, his neck and 
 head being thrown up and snapped forward so 
 violently that it seemed that the head must suf- 
 fer dislocation. With these contortions came 
 the noises which are so difficult to explain or 
 describe. In this instance it seemed as though 
 water was being shaken violently in a skin bot- 
 tle. Listening intently, the sounds seemed best 
 expressed by the syllables " kung-ka-unk," re- 
 peated three, four or five times. To the demor- 
 alization of my throat I repeated these syllables 
 loudly, making them as nearly as possible as the 
 bird did. He replied promptly and betrayed 
 interest by more rapid and longer performances. 
 This continued until it was so dark that I could 
 only just discern him with my glass, when sud- 
 denly my attention was distracted by the sound 
 of snipe flying overhead. Their performance 
 is similar to that of the woodcock, but less elab- 
 orate. Rising to a considerable height above
 
 178 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 the meadow, they fly with rapid wing-beats .round 
 and round over it, making from time to time a 
 series of short notes, similar to those produced 
 by a person blowing in a rapidly intermittent 
 way across the mouth of a small shallow bottle. 
 Whether this noise is vocal or mechanical in 
 character, the bird controls it, and stops it with- 
 out stopping its flight. This evening the bird 
 as a rule seemed satisfied with twenty-five or 
 thirty successive notes in a series. 
 
 My interest in the bittern was revived by 
 hearing him once more at a distance. Nothing 
 broke the level of the grass where his head had 
 been in sight so long. He seemed to have 
 moved quite rapidly over a space of a hundred 
 yards or more, and to be retreating westward 
 toward the woods and the brook. It was now 
 quite dark, save for the stars and a feeble young 
 moon in the western sky. The snipe were still 
 flying as I left the meadow and picked my way 
 carefully back to the turnpike. Their voices 
 and those of frogs and piping hylas alone dis- 
 turbed the restful stillness of the night. I 
 looked up the road and down. It seemed like a 
 great conduit with light gleaming from both ends 
 along its white and level floor. Should I walk 
 to Belmont and wait for a ten o'clock train, or 
 traverse pastures and an unknown swamp in 
 order to reach Arlington Heights and later the
 
 ROCK MEADOW AT NIGHT. 179 
 
 electric cars ? There was novelty in the latter 
 alternative, and I chose it. 
 
 Leaving Rock Meadow I crossed a field, then 
 the road leading to the Belmont mineral spring, 
 and entered a pasture. A number of cows were 
 feeding by the light of the puny moon. They 
 watched me suspiciously until the cedars con- 
 cealed my hurrying form. Then I struck Marsh 
 Street, and followed it uphill, until afar the tall 
 electric light on the Heights flashed a message 
 over intervening gloom. It was a mile distant. 
 The first half of that mile was over land, or 
 water, unknown to me. The second half was 
 across the cedar-dotted pastures so often visited 
 by me last winter. I left the road and struck 
 into the unknown pasture, keeping the moon on 
 my left and somewhat behind me. Cedars, 
 pines, birches, well-armed barberry and black- 
 berry bushes opposed my passage. Soon the 
 land began to decline, the Arlington beacon was 
 hidden, the air grew chilly, and the soil moist 
 and soft. Then patches of water gleamed on 
 my left, and the voices of frogs greeted me. A 
 shaky stone wall was crossed, and the dry land 
 turned to mud and tussocks of grass. Then 
 came a ditch. This proved the crisis in the 
 walk, for beyond it the land rose and soon I 
 reached familiar ground. I recognized cedars 
 which had suffered in the ice and snow storms
 
 180 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 of January. Their backs were still bent. On 
 my right were the dark woods in which I had 
 found the most beautiful snow caverns, and near 
 by was the ground frequented during long cold 
 weeks by the flock of winter robins. The soft 
 May night, with its frog music, was unlike those 
 days of hyperborean delights. It was more com- 
 fortable and more commonplace. The next 
 stone wall was the one where snow fleas had 
 swarmed by millions. I recalled in one of its 
 angles the white snow bearing the footprints of 
 quail and field mice. So I went on, picking 
 my way cautiously over the dark ground until 
 I came out into Park Avenue, close by the 
 Heights. 
 
 The view from the Heights at night is be- 
 witching. Myriads of stars people the blue 
 heavens, and myriads of baser stars people those 
 depths below. The stars above differ one from 
 another in glory ; the stars below differ one from 
 another in evil. Those above tell of eternity 
 and rest. Those below tell of toil, vanity, self- 
 indulgence, crime, sickness, the unrest of hu- 
 man life. Still, being a man, I looked down 
 into that sea of light, and seemed to find one star 
 gleaming in the distance which was a part of the 
 glory above, and related only by propinquity to 
 the evil of the city. Towards that light I took 
 my way, and finding it, put it out and went to 
 bed.
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW. 
 
 THERE are days in May when the northwest 
 wind sweeps through the trees with the bluster- 
 ing rush of September air. It seems to be test- 
 ing the young foliage and warning the soft, 
 glossy, newly unfolded leaves of the fate which 
 attends them only a few weeks later in the year. 
 It is rough with the apple blossoms piled high 
 upon the orchard's open arms, and it waves to 
 and fro the " Christmas candles " of the horse- 
 chestnut trees. On its breath is wafted the per- 
 fume of lilacs, or the pungent message of pine 
 woods burning, in spots left too long dry by the 
 fickle spring rains. There is a chill in this 
 turbulent air, not the damp chill of the east 
 wind, but the chill which has in it a faint sug- 
 gestion of autumnal frosts. Even after the wind 
 goes to sleep at sunset the air remains cold, and 
 farmers wonder if there is to be a late frost. 
 
 Sunday, May 17, was such a day, and, as 
 the woods were too full of noise and waving 
 leaves for birds to be either heard or seen, my 
 friend and I went to Rock Meadow to visit my 
 bittern. We reached the willows at four in the
 
 182 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 afternoon, feeling sure he would be present, be- 
 cause his mate is undoubtedly somewhere in that 
 quiet land of waving marsh grass, keeping warm 
 her four or five drab eggs in her cunningly con- 
 cealed nest. Between the wind gusts we listened 
 intently to hear his now familiar note. He was 
 not in the place where I had seen him before, 
 but at half past four, as we reached the northern 
 part of the meadow, I distinctly heard his boom- 
 ing near at hand. We crept cautiously along the 
 line of wall and bushes bounding the meadow on 
 the north. Suddenly my friend gripped me by 
 the shoulder and dragged me to the ground. A 
 pair of black ducks flew by, scudding low over 
 the bushes. We next disturbed a flock of twenty 
 crows, which rose from an old cornfield where 
 they had been feeding. Rock Meadow is a re- 
 markable rendezvous for crows, summer and 
 winter. What makes it so attractive I have 
 thus far been unable to ascertain. These crows 
 kept close watch upon us the rest of the after- 
 noon. 
 
 Standing upon a knoll capped with a few bar- 
 berry bushes, we looked straight down the whole 
 length of Rock Meadow. The rains of the past 
 two days had given a wonderful impetus to the 
 grass, which was now high enough to hide a bit- 
 tern completely, unless he chose to raise his 
 slender neck above it. With our glasses we
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW. 183 
 
 swept the wind -ruffled grass land thoroughly 
 over and over again. The bittern was not to be 
 seen. But almost at once my friend whispered 
 excitedly, " I see him," and by a common im- 
 pulse we merged our outlines in those of the 
 barberries behind us. The wary bird was in the 
 edge of the meadow, at the foot of the slight 
 slope on which we stood. His head and neck 
 were raised above the grass, and resembled in 
 size and color a cat-tail, which the wind and 
 weather had reduced to a mass of flaxen seed- 
 vessels loosely attached to their stalks. For 
 several minutes he did not move, and with our 
 eyes glued to the barrels of our field-glasses we 
 watched his uplifted beak and stiffened neck. 
 Slowly his head dropped, and with a premonitory 
 shake disappeared in the grass. Seven seconds 
 after it was flung up, so that the bill pointed to 
 the sky, but it fell back as quickly into the 
 grass. This was done four times, and each time 
 the " kung-ka-unk " came to our ears. After 
 this performance had been repeated several times, 
 the bittern sank slowly beneath the grass, as 
 though to begin pumping, but did not reappear. 
 Waiting for a while, we walked a few rods along 
 the edge of the meadow to a point where several 
 oak trees spread their strong arms to the breeze. 
 Concealed behind their trunks, we watched the 
 sea of grass, and soon discovered the beak and
 
 184 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 long stiffened neck of the bittern pointing 
 towards the zenith, from a spot fifteen or twenty 
 yards distant from the place which we had just 
 left. He was quite as near us as before, and 
 this time he had no suspicion of our where- 
 abouts. I climbed into the middle of one of the 
 oaks, and my friend secured a comfortable posi- 
 tion on the wall below, and with glasses and a 
 stop-watch in constant use, we reduced the bit- 
 tern's performance to its lowest terms. 
 
 The bird, when at rest between his spasms, 
 stood with his neck extended and raised, and his 
 head and beak pointing forward and upward. 
 The first indication that he was about to pump 
 was a deliberate lowering of his beak to the 
 level of his body, and the settling down into his 
 breast and feathers of his long neck. This made 
 his breast look larger and fuller than when his 
 head was raised and his neck stretched upward. 
 The slow motion of lowering the head into line 
 with the body was followed by a slight shake of 
 the head and throat, and the first of a series of 
 motions which were caused apparently by volun- 
 tary swallowing of air. The bill opened, the 
 head was raised slightly and then dropped, and 
 the bill closed with a snap. The first snap was 
 scarcely audible, the second was much louder, 
 the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth perfectly dis- 
 tinct, and a seventh, when made, was less dis-
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW. 185 
 
 tinct, partly because instantly followed by the 
 first " pump." Usually six or seven snaps were 
 succeeded by three or four pumps, but the bird 
 varied the number of snaps and pumps consider- 
 ably, and I presume different bitterns would show 
 marked individualities. By a " pump " I mean 
 the triple sound which is called " booming," 
 " stakedriving," or " pumping," according to the 
 fancy of the writer, and which to my ears sounds 
 as much like " kung-ka-unk " as anything else. 
 The head is in a line with the back when the 
 " kung " is made, but as the first syllable reaches 
 the ears of an observer, he sees the bird's head 
 flung abruptly and sharply back, so that the bill 
 points for a second to the zenith, and then sees 
 it thrown down again to its former position. 
 The " ka-unk " follows this spasm so closely that 
 it is impossible to be certain whether the "ka " is 
 made on the upward stroke or on the downward. 
 The three sounds " kung-ka-unk " occupy just 
 about a second of time, which makes it clear 
 how rapid is the motion of the head. The 
 period from the instant that the head first 
 reaches the level of the back to the instant when 
 the fourth " unk " makes the end of the song, is 
 in most cases exactly ten seconds in duration. 
 Then the head is raised, the long neck extends 
 itself, the breast grows smaller accordingly, and 
 the bird resumes his stiffness and watchfulness.
 
 186 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 My friend's stop-watch recorded thirty-seven 
 seconds as the normal interval between the last 
 pump of one performance and the first snap of 
 the succeeding one. Twice during an hour the 
 bittern sank beneath the grass and glided to a 
 new spot. Once I caught a glimpse of him 011 
 his way, and he seemed to be moving more rap- 
 idly than the duration of his concealment indi- 
 cated. From his third station he took flight, 
 and, with long, graceful wing-strokes, flew an 
 eighth of a mile down the meadow and alighted 
 on the exact spot in which I had found him the 
 Monday evening preceding. We hastened back 
 to the turnpike and sought the cover I had 
 previously used. As we listened to the bird at 
 a distance, with a grove of trees interrupting his 
 notes, the only sound which we could hear was 
 the " ka," which, under the changed conditions 
 became the true stake-driving " chuck " or 
 " tock." The nearer we came to the bird, the 
 less there remained of this acoustic metamorpho- 
 sis, and as we crawled cautiously through the 
 woods to the edge of the swamp nearest him it 
 disappeared altogether, and to our ears the 
 " kung-ka-unk " was as distinct as before. We 
 listened to and watched the strange genius of 
 the marsh until he stopped his performance at 
 twenty minutes of eight ; but our thoughts were 
 at times diverted from him.
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW. 187 
 
 A short-billed marsh wren sang his quaint, 
 nervous, and unmusical little song to us. It 
 seemed to me, never having heard it before, that 
 it was a sound well calculated not to be heard by 
 any ears but those specially attuned to it. A 
 similar thought had occurred to me earlier in the 
 afternoon, when my friend called my attention 
 to what he called the " background music " of 
 the crickets, audible probably that day for the 
 first time this year. They are sounds which go 
 to form the great undertone of the day, and the 
 ear is usually too busy with more distinctly sep- 
 arated and louder sounds to take note of them. 
 Let, however, the rest of the world's noises 
 cease, or the listener become feverish and over 
 sensitive to sound, and this " background music " 
 surges into the brain like an incoming tide and 
 thrills every nerve with its rapid rhythm. 
 
 A sound which even a deaf man could not 
 have ignored that evening was the persistent 
 quacking, or rather quaarking, of a female black 
 duck, who was exploring a small ditch between 
 us and the bittern. Her mate was near by, 
 although comparatively silent, and I hope for 
 his sake that her voice was more musical in his 
 ears than in ours. After going the length of 
 the ditch the ducks flew, the female quaarking 
 while in the air. In about ten minutes they 
 returned, the female's voice still vigorous, and 
 plumped down into a pool near by.
 
 188 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 At ten minutes of eight, as we left the meadow 
 and strolled towards our waiting carryall, the 
 upper air resounded with the strange music of 
 the flying snipe. My friend, who has heard this 
 sound scores of times, feels confident that it is 
 mechanical in character, "drumming," in fact. 
 To my ears it seems to be vocal in quality. 
 Whichever it may be, its weird sweetness makes 
 it one of the most attractive night or twilight 
 sounds in nature. One accepts rather as a 
 matter of course the sunlight singing of a light- 
 hearted little finch or vireo, but for a shy recluse 
 of the swamps to betake himself at evening to the 
 heights of the sky, and there against the stars, 
 invisible to all except the keenest eyes, to pro- 
 duce his witching serenade, is something unique, 
 and captivating to the imagination. 
 
 Early in the day Rock Meadow told us two 
 secrets which were very precious to two families 
 of birds. In the great pollard willows which 
 line the causeway are many comfortable crotches, 
 angles and curves which appeal to nest builders. 
 In one of these a robin had placed her nest and 
 laid her eggs. Her bright eye watched us 
 keenly as we drew near the tree, and the mo- 
 ment she felt the force of our gaze upon her, she 
 slipped away to reproach us from a distance. 
 Those greenish blue eggs were the first I had 
 seen this year, and they seemed like precious
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE MEADOW. 189 
 
 stones, so delicate were they in form and color. 
 The willows have also many caverns of various 
 sizes and shapes in their trunks. From one of 
 these, through which and to the depths of which 
 a man's hand could but just pass, a song sparrow 
 sprang as we sauntered past. Fortunate for her 
 that we were friends, for in the cave from which 
 she came lay her five richly decorated eggs. As 
 a rule this sparrow builds a grass nest by a 
 brook bank, flat on the pasture turf, in a low 
 evergreen in a meadow, or in a cup-shaped hol- 
 low in a decaying stump. Among all the song 
 sparrows' nests which my friend and I had seen, 
 none approached this in the security and origi- 
 nality of its location.
 
 WACHUSETT. 
 
 BY starting from Cambridge at half -past six 
 A. M., on Saturday, May 23d, I was able to leave 
 Fitchburg at nine behind an eccentric stable 
 horse, bound for the top of Wachusett Moun- 
 tain. The distance to the foot of the mountain 
 was about nine miles. For the first four miles 
 the road was far from agreeable. We encoun- 
 tered rough pavements or dust, the obtrusive 
 features of a young and: by no means beautiful 
 city, hillsides denuded of trees, and in many 
 cases turned into quarries, the Nashua River 
 defiled by mill-waste and stained by chemicals, 
 railroad embankments coated with ashes and bare 
 of verdure, and brick mill buildings, grim, noisy, 
 and forbidding. The road gradually ascended, 
 and at length crossed the river, passed under 
 the railway and sought the woods. A parting 
 glance down stream showed a mass of steeples, 
 chimneys, brick walls, quarry derricks, freight 
 cars, and dirty mill ponds flanked by wasted hill- 
 sides and overhung by a cloud of smoke. Be- 
 tween the smoke and the hurly-burly of the 
 town a distant line of hills shone out on the
 
 WACHUSETT. 191 
 
 horizon. It was a promise of something purer 
 above. 
 
 As we followed the highway southward 
 toward Princeton we passed through no forests 
 or remnants of forest, nothing but cleared land 
 or new woodland in which birch, poplar, cherry, 
 and other inferior growth predominated. The 
 undergrowth was mainly mountain laurel, which 
 a month from now will be a joy to the eye. 
 Warblers sang in every thicket the ovenbirds 
 being especially noisy. Next to them the sweet 
 but wearisome voice of the red-eyed vireo sounded 
 on all sides. Brown thrushes were noticeably 
 numerous and tame. Along the wayside, lady's 
 slipper, white and purple violets, hawthorn, 
 clintonia, blackberry vines and barberry bushes, 
 painted trillium, chokeberry and chokecherry, 
 star flower, and houstonia were abundant. The 
 great size of the dandelions attracted our notice, 
 and the violets were unusually large and beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 A little after eleven o'clock we emerged from 
 between two ridges and saw the mass of Wachusett 
 before us. A long even slope from northwest to 
 southeast terminated in a flat summit, on which 
 several wooden buildings stood out sharply and 
 disagreeably against the sky. The southeastern 
 slope was much more abrupt than the north- 
 western, but far from precipitous. There was
 
 192 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 nothing grand or impressive about the mountain 
 apart from the simple fact of its height, two 
 thousand feet. The carriage road to the sum- 
 mit proceeds part way along the eastern base, 
 then meets a road from Princeton and turns 
 abruptly northwestward, makes several great 
 serpent curves upon the northern and north- 
 western face, and finally gains the summit from 
 the east. The road is remarkably well sur- 
 veyed, and is kept in good order. The eccen- 
 tric stable horse, which up to the moment of 
 our reaching the ascent had shown a willingness 
 to go anywhere but to the mountain, started up 
 the slope with such zeal that I found it impos- 
 sible to keep up with him on foot. This made 
 our progress rather more rapid than pleasant, 
 and the charming glimpses of scenery below us 
 and at a distance were only half appreciated. 
 Most of the trees on the mountain seemed to be 
 of recent growth, but among them dozens of 
 scattered giants rose to show what lumbermen's 
 greed might have left in the way of a forest if 
 it had been restrained. Some of these large 
 trees were sugar-maples, while others were yellow 
 birches and beeches. The most striking flowers 
 along the mountain road were creamy white 
 bunches of early elder, pinkish purple rhodora, 
 and rose-colored azalea just coming into bloom. 
 Birds were few and far between on the moun-
 
 WACHUSETT. 193 
 
 tain sides, although they had been plenty below. 
 The call of the ovenbird occasionally reached 
 our ears, and at one point the scolding of a 
 superb scarlet tanager drew our eyes to the spot 
 where his plumage seemed burning among the 
 leaves. 
 
 The summit, reached just at noon, proved 
 anything but attractive. Stripped of trees and 
 bushes, it has been afflicted by a large and com- 
 monplace hotel, several barns and ugly sheds, 
 and a bowling alley, billiard room, and tintype 
 gallery. The north wind was polluted by the 
 escaping odors of a cask of gasoline, and when 
 we sought the groves below the crest, we encoun- 
 tered tin cans, broken bottles and other remains 
 of previous seasons. When one seeks gasoline, 
 electric bells, and a tintype gallery he has a 
 right to feel pleased on finding them, but when I 
 seek Nature on a mountain top and find her fet- 
 tered by civilization, I have a right to feel 
 aggrieved. However, we endeavored to forget 
 man and his gasoline in the contemplation of 
 the beautiful. 
 
 What first struck us was the number of fires 
 which were contributing columns of blue smoke 
 to an atmosphere already dimmed by its thin 
 strata. More than a dozen such fires were in 
 sight. Thanks to them, the view was soft and 
 dreamy in tone, giving the idea of distance more
 
 194 LAXD OF THE LINGERING KNOW. 
 
 by suggestion than by disclosure. Eastward 
 and southward, where the smoke lay heaviest, 
 the land seemed flat. Most of it was free from 
 forest, but every few miles a dark line or spot 
 told of a grove of pines saved thus far from the 
 destroying hand of this generation of timber 
 thieves. A few lakes caught the light of the 
 sky and flashed it back to us, and scattered 
 houses, usually white, broke the monotony of 
 green fields and pastures. Marlborough on the 
 east, Worcester on the south, Gardner on the 
 west, and Fitchburg on the north were nuclei 
 of houses, reminding me of the piles of sand 
 which form themselves on a pane of sanded glass 
 when a violin bow is drawn across its edge. 
 Far away in the smoke on the western horizon 
 rose the Berkshire Hills with proud Greylock 
 dominant over them. I thought of the fair 
 Connecticut flowing southward between them 
 and us, and of the bright Hudson rolling be- 
 yond them on its journey toward the modern 
 Babylon. Northward of the Berkshires the sky 
 line was ragged with hills and distant mountains 
 in Vermont and New Hampshire, even to the 
 point where, rising serenely from its granite 
 bed, Monadnock reared its noble head toward 
 the heavens. It alone in all that smoky land- 
 scape was majestic. All else was soft, yielding, 
 sleepy, but Monadnock rose with clear-cut out-
 
 WACHUSETT. 195 
 
 lines and sharp summit, attracting the eye, fix- 
 ing the attention, compelling admiration. On 
 its right that is, to the eastward its pack 
 strung out in perpetual pursuit of it. There 
 was Peterborough in the fore and the Unca- 
 noonucs far behind, Crotchett Mountain in the 
 north and Watatic in the south the latter 
 " out of bounds," if the laws of this great chase 
 require the pursuing hills to stay on New 
 Hampshire soil. In the dim distance, beyond 
 this group of sunny hills, hallowed in my mind 
 by a thousand loving recollections of boyhood 
 days, were other hills. What were they ? I 
 could not tell beyond the certainty that they 
 were stepping stones to that far northland 
 which I call home, Kearsarge, Cardigan, Cube, 
 Moosilauke, Stinson, Ossipee, Chocorua ! I 
 could recall the feeling of every summit under 
 my weary foot, as I had pressed upon it with the 
 satisfaction of a conqueror. Perhaps in a clear 
 day some of those sentinel peaks of New Hamp- 
 shire can be really recognized from Wachusett. 
 After absorbing the beauties of the distant 
 view we explored the stunted groves of beeches 
 and oaks, mountain ash, striped and mountain 
 maples below the summit. Here I found a robin, 
 on a nest containing three eggs. The dwarfed 
 trees, being numerous and well proportioned, 
 seemed of normal size, but the bird, her nest
 
 196 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 and I appeared to have expanded beyond our 
 proper dimensions. The carpet under this grove 
 was woven of beautiful forms. Its warp was of 
 arbutus, false Solomon seal, checkerberry, straw- 
 berry, and potentilla, its woof of clintonia, hob- 
 ble bush, sarsaparilla, skunk currant, twisted 
 stalk, and columbine. 
 
 The arbutus was heavily laden with flowers 
 which had spent their sweetness on birds and 
 breezes. They were dry, and their lovely tints 
 had changed to chestnut and russet. A great 
 bed of anemones rippled in the wind. They 
 seemed to be four weeks behind their sisters, 
 which I had found so abundant at Heard's 
 Island. In a low tree above them a junco 
 called to his mate, and I felt confident that this 
 mountain top had seemed to them a comfortable 
 nesting spot. Two thousand feet upward is 
 almost as good as two hundred miles northward. 
 The Nashville warblers which I saw on or near 
 the summit seemed also to agree to this prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 At half-past two we started down the moun- 
 tain, and although our eccentric horse was even 
 more anxious to go down than to go up, we suc- 
 ceeded in seeing more of the view than while 
 ascending. At the foot of the north slope of 
 the mountain lay Wachusett Pond, a charming 
 sheet of water, reminding me by its location and
 
 WACHUSETT. 197 
 
 size of Dublin Pond, nestling at the north of 
 Monadnock. Over it, beyond a multitude of 
 farms, groves, and hills, Monadnock cut into the 
 sky as the commanding feature of the sleepy 
 landscape. This combination of lake and moun- 
 tain was the most beautiful view Wachusett 
 gave us. Although the summit of the moun- 
 tain remained springlike, the lowlands along 
 the Nashua River were burned deeply with the 
 brand of summer. Early flowers had gone, 
 later ones were going. Migrant birds had 
 mainly gone by, and the dry z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z of the 
 blackpoll warbler wore on the edge of one's 
 temper much as the song of the harvest fly does 
 in its season. There are many pleasant views 
 from the Fitchburg train as it hurries along from 
 the valley of the Nashua across that of the 
 Assabet and Musketaquid to that of the Charles : 
 Wachusett across the vale of Leoininster, As- 
 sabet water at Concord Junction, the meadows 
 of the Sudbury above Concord, the level fields 
 which Emerson loved, Fairhaven Hill and 
 Walden Pond where Thoreau studied life and 
 its mysteries, Stony Brook, the Charles at Wal- 
 tham, Waverley Oaks ; and then, across the 
 Belmont marshes, Memorial and Mt. Auburn 
 Towers, the emblems of eager life and the rest 
 which eager life has no need to fear.
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 
 
 ONE of the fairest spots known to me in the 
 neighborhood of Cambridge is the " Wren 
 Orchard." Thither on the morning of this Sun- 
 day, May 24, I took my little covey of butter- 
 cup hunters. The orchard was set out several 
 generations ago, and not only the unknown 
 hand which planted it but the house that shel- 
 tered him and his have passed away forever. 
 The ground where the orchard stands is a hill- 
 side facing the south. Summer and winter 
 the sun watches over it and only gentle winds 
 sweep across it. North and east of this sunny 
 Eden are elms which shut it out from inquisitive 
 distance. Westward it is guarded by dark 
 cedars, and along its southern edge rise rank 
 upon rank of great oaks and chestnuts, in whose 
 midst is a small swamp overhung by an- 
 cient willows. The swamp is made by a gentle 
 brook which begins life in the elm grove north 
 of the orchard, spends all its days murmuring 
 over a pebbly bed among forget-me-nots and 
 violets, and which crosses the orchard at its 
 middle. The orchard and its borders contain
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 199 
 
 high land, low land, dry land, wet land, open 
 land, wooded land, hard wood, soft wood, ever- 
 green wood and apple wood all the elements 
 of home and shelter which a majority of land 
 birds desire. No wonder then that summer and 
 winter the wren orchard is alive with birds. 
 As I write these words merry calls and music 
 come from all its quarters in pleasing medley. 
 Many of the birds have nests near by, others are 
 building or planning where to place their nests. 
 The latest migrants are now here. In the low 
 land south of the orchard I hear a blackballed 
 cuckoo, saying "Coo-coo-coo, coo-coo-coo, coo- 
 coo-coo-coo, coo-coo-coo-coo." In the largest of 
 the elms east of the orchard an indigo bird is 
 singing his clear and joyous notes. His coloring 
 is as intense as that of a scarlet tanager which I 
 have been watching in the highest branches of a 
 great oak. Another late migrant, whose voice 
 is in my ears, is the wood pewee. His notes, 
 like most of the sounds made by the tyrant fly- 
 catchers, are querulous and unmusical. He 
 seems to be continually complaining that insects 
 will not fly into his mouth. 
 
 The thrush family inhabits this orchard in 
 numbers. Robins build in the apple-trees, 
 a nest with four eggs in it is in the tree next me, 
 catbirds and brown thrushes dwell in the 
 clumps and hedges of barberry bushes with
 
 200 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 which the orchard abounds, and the mild-eyed 
 veery lives near the swampy spot by the great 
 willows. All of these singers have been pouring 
 out their notes during the past hour. 
 
 While my little buttercup hunters have been 
 gathering great fistfuls of pure golden blossoms, 
 the turf of the orchard has not been wholly 
 theirs. Among a herd of a dozen deer-like 
 Jersey heifers six cowbirds have been walking 
 about catching flies ; chipping and song - spar- 
 rows have hopped about in the grass ; robins, 
 thrushes, and bluebirds have found worms in the 
 earth, and I suspect that a great glossy crow 
 who seems to have a nest in a high tree in the 
 swamp has found something edible while stalk- 
 ing up and down the brookside. From the 
 thick woods to the south comes every now and 
 then the clear " bob- white " of the quail, and 
 they are near enough for me to hear the low 
 " bob " which precedes the loud " bob " in their 
 three-syllabled whistle. 
 
 I brought two wicker baskets to-day, one con- 
 taining milk, sandwiches, and strawberries, and 
 the other a distinguished and important member 
 of my household. His name is Puffy, and he now 
 sits on the dead limb of an apple-tree, his great 
 dark eyes solemnly gazing at a redstart, who is 
 abusing him from a neighboring limb. His 
 brown and white feathers blend so well with the
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 201 
 
 rough bark of the apple tree that it requires 
 sharp or experienced eyes to see him. Puffy 
 is one of two barred owls which I have held in 
 happy captivity since June 1, 1888, the day on 
 which I took them from their ancestral castle in 
 a White Mountain forest. Puffy is not a favor- 
 ite with other birds. They dislike and distrust 
 him, and when I place him in a tree, from which 
 a crippled wing prevents his flying, they come to 
 him in dozens, scolding and complaining at his 
 very existence in their midst. To-day, while 
 the last petals of the apple blossoms have been 
 falling around him, most of the birds already 
 named, and in addition kingbirds, least fly- 
 catchers, redstarts, black-and-white creepers, 
 ovenbirds, black- throated green warblers, red- 
 eyed and solitary vireos, downy and golden- 
 winged woodpeckers, rose-breasted grosbeaks 
 and chickadees have perched or hovered near, 
 noisily expressing their bitter feelings towards 
 him. Sometimes I see his great round head 
 turned towards the sky, and his eyes fix them- 
 selves upon some moving bird. A chimney 
 swift or a barn swallow attracts him for a second 
 only, but if a hawk or a crow crosses his 
 heavens his eyes never leave it until it disap- 
 pears from view. He cares little or nothing 
 for the abuse of other birds, but if they actually 
 assault him, as kingbirds and flickers often do,
 
 202 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 his serenity is marred. It is still a little early 
 in the season for birds to become frantic at his 
 presence. When the robins, vireos, and chick- 
 adees have tender young dependent on them, the 
 sight of Puffy will drive them into paroxysms of 
 rage. 
 
 I have called this warm pasture flecked with 
 buttercups and fallen apple petals the "Wren 
 Orchard." It deserves the name, for it is the 
 only spot in New England that I have ever 
 visited where house wrens survive and build 
 regularly. Even now I hear the jingling notes 
 of this once common but now rare bird falling 
 like drops of water from a fountain through the 
 sunlit air. Two years ago (May 26, 1889) I 
 found one of their nests. Attracted by the 
 showery notes of the male I crept into a cor- 
 ner of the orchard, where an old apple - tree 
 grew alone in a circle of privet and barberry 
 bushes. Concealed under their branches I 
 watched the tree. Soon a wren appeared, then 
 disappeared in the substance of the tree. Its 
 tiny body seemed to melt into the bark of a 
 horizontal limb about twelve feet above the 
 ground. I examined this limb, seeking a hole 
 in it, but found none. After a second period of 
 watching I saw that the bird passed into the 
 limb by a hole on its under side. I climbed the 
 tree, measured the extent of the hole, which was
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 203 
 
 seven or eight inches, and then cut a neat door 
 into it from above. There on a mass of soft 
 shredded bark and odds and entls of forest fibre 
 lay seven tiny eggs. They were round little 
 eggs, having a salmon-white groundwork thickly 
 and uniformly covered with hundreds of minute 
 reddish brown spots. 
 
 Bluebirds also build in this orchard, and so 
 do downy woodpeckers, flickers, and chickadees ; 
 all birds which rear their families in the hollows 
 of trees. A bluebird's nest which I found here 
 was placed at the bottom of a dark dry cavity in 
 an apple trunk. The hole was large enough for 
 a somewhat slender hand to pass through, and 
 so deep that half the forearm was in the hole be- 
 fore the eggs could be touched. Once in a while 
 the bluebird lays pure white eggs, but generally 
 they are pale blue, and to an unpracticed eye 
 might suggest a reflection of the sky in a pool of 
 rain water at the bottom of the hole. Almost all 
 birds which nest in hollow trees lay unmarked 
 white eggs. 
 
 While I am writing a downy woodpecker and 
 a flicker both make their voices heard in the 
 orchard. 
 
 The barberry bushes are in bloom to-day, and 
 I have amused my buttercup hunters by show- 
 ing them how the barberry flowers set traps for 
 their insect visitors. As one turns up the yellow
 
 204 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 cup of the flower and looks into it, he sees the 
 stamens pressed against the inner curve of the 
 petals and away from the central column of the 
 pistil. If a straw be gently pressed upon the 
 base of the stamens the latter jump forward and 
 clasp it tightly enough to hold it. This pres- 
 sure covers the embraced surface with yellow 
 pollen, and in the case of an insect would make 
 it perfectly certain that in shaking himself free 
 he would not only rub some of the pollen upon 
 the pistils of the flower he was in, but that he 
 would bear away enough of it to cross-fertilize 
 the next blossom he entered. 
 
 I can hear the songs of a robin, an oriole, and 
 a rose-breasted grosbeak. They have marked 
 differences, yet I find many people are unable to 
 distinguish them unaided. A thrush, a starling, 
 and a finch should not sing alike, but in Cam- 
 bridge the three birds build in the same trees, 
 and mingle in their daily lives so constantly that 
 it is possible they have learned to speak alike. 
 The 'robin's song is animated, but rough and 
 full of harsh passages. It reminds me of a 
 farmer's boy bellowing his favorite tune as he 
 drives his oxen home through a wood road. 
 The oriole often, makes music, but his voice is 
 apt to crack and flat until his silence seems 
 golden. The grosbeak sings the robin's theme 
 with all the robin's spirit, but without the
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 205 
 
 robin's harshness. It is a stirring, bold, free 
 song, having little musical merit and no pathos, 
 but plenty of " go " and " swing." The metallic 
 squeak which the bird genei-ally makes just 
 before he begins his song is an odd and unmis' 
 takable sound, which once learned never fails to 
 identify this beautiful finch. 
 
 Back of the orchard in the evergreens I hear a 
 chickadee calling, and a moment ago a blue jay's 
 scream attracted my notice. Their voices carry 
 me back many Sundays to those winter days 
 when I began my walks. This slope now soft with 
 thick grass and splendid with golden buttercups, 
 shy violets, jolly little potentillas and pale wild 
 geraniums swaying in the breeze, was then 
 eighteen inches deep in snow. These trees now 
 arrayed in lustrous foliage were then encased in 
 ice armor or muffled in the snow which crushed 
 the cedars to the earth and wrecked yonder 
 prostrate willow, whose fall I remember seeing 
 and hearing. The blue jays, chickadees, and 
 robins which frequented this warm pasture in 
 January are probably hundreds of miles from 
 here to-day, rearing their young in the woods 
 and fields of the far north. The glistening snow 
 which then burdened the earth and trees is now 
 gleaming in this brook, flowing as life blood 
 through these tree trunks, forming the chief 
 part of these brightly tinted leaves of grass,
 
 206 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 ferns, brakes, flowers and shrubs, or floating 
 high in that warm sky, and as a pure spirit of 
 the past smiling upon the land of plenty to 
 which it never was unfriendly or unkind. Yes, 
 the winter has melted into spring and now the 
 spring has blossomed into summer. Nature, 
 once so cold and white and still, is now warm, 
 gleaming with many tints and trembling with 
 growth in every marvellous group of its restless 
 molecules. The tide of life was ebbing in 
 January. Now it is nearing the flood. Then 
 the soul of man needed courage and faith to 
 make it believe that the frozen world had un- 
 quenchable life, persistent force, locked up in it. 
 Now the soul needs the intelligence of God to 
 enable it to count the wonders of realization 
 which burning life and exuberant energy have 
 placed above, below, and on every side. 
 
 As I look at this grass and the flowers which 
 shine in its midst, at the myriad leaves upon the 
 trees, at the butterflies, caterpillars, locusts, ants, 
 and bees, and at the birds* solicitous for their 
 eggs or young, should I be sorrowful because 
 in a few days the annual tide of life will turn 
 and the grass begin to ripen, the flowers to fade, 
 the butterflies to die, and the birds to take note 
 of the sky and begin their journey southward ? 
 No. The rhythm of the universe demands just 
 this coming and going, rising and falling, ex-
 
 IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 207 
 
 panding and contracting, living and dying. 
 Without reaction there could be no action. 
 Without death we should not know what life 
 meant ; without what we call sorrow there could 
 be no joy. 
 
 I hear the song of the veery down there under 
 the willows. It is a weird, ventriloquial song. 
 The bird seems making its gypsy music to 
 itself, not to the world. In that dark corner 
 the trillium grows, keeping its face hidden un- 
 der its cloak. There, too, the jack-in-the- 
 pulpit is found masking its face. The song of 
 the veery has in it the tinkling of bells, the 
 jangle of the tamborine. It recalls to me the 
 gypsy chorus in the " Bohemian Girl," and when 
 I hear it as evening draws on, I can picture light 
 feet tripping over the damp grass, and in the 
 shadows made by moving of branches and ferns 
 I can see dark forms moving back and forth in 
 the windings of the dance.
 
 CHOCORUA. 
 
 A MAY rain after a spring drought has a 
 wonderfully reviving effect upon the landscape. 
 It washes away dust, expands tissues, intensifies 
 colors, deepens shadows and heightens contrasts ; 
 fills the brooks, and veils the horizon in white 
 mist. On May 29, just after the sun, presum- 
 ably in rubber boots and a mackintosh, had 
 crossed the meridian, a train rolled out of Bos- 
 ton, bound for the north. Its windows were 
 soon wet and covered with coal ashes. Rain- 
 drops were driven at all angles across them, dis- 
 torting the landscape and discouraging observa- 
 tion. The rain accompanied the train to the 
 end of its journey. It beat upon the Saugus 
 marshes and the sands of Revere Beach, and it 
 splashed into the rushing tide of the Merrimac 
 flowing seaward at Newburyport. The Hampton 
 marshes were strikingly picturesque in the storm. 
 Near the train the lush grass on the flats could 
 be seen bowing before the gusts. The tide- 
 rivers and channels were full to their brim, and 
 showed snowy white under the colorless sky and 
 between their verdant banks. Within their
 
 CHOCORUA. 209 
 
 meshes and reaching on to the invisible sea, were 
 thousands of acres of green marsh dotted with 
 haystacks, or the round groups of piles from 
 which the stacked hay had been removed. The 
 most distant stacks looked no larger than thim- 
 bles, and were dim in the fast falling rain. As 
 the train sped over the marshes these distant hay- 
 cocks seemed to move as little as the sun would 
 have, had it been hurrying on that far line of 
 sky, while the near ones swung swiftly past, and 
 those intermediate went with them, yet more 
 slowly. The marsh seemed like a great wheel 
 revolving beside us, its lines of haycocks being 
 the innumerable spokes forever whirling past. 
 
 The rain pelted the Piscataqua at Portsmouth, 
 and almost hid the great ship-houses at the Kit- 
 tery Navy Yard. It was beating upon Milton 
 ponds as the train rolled past them, and it was 
 swelling the flood of Bearcamp water as we 
 gained Ossipee valley. Of course no mountains 
 were to be seen. They were hidden in the roll- 
 ing masses of vapor which filled the upper air. 
 Towards them, however, and into their midst we 
 continued our journey by stage. The trees were 
 dripping with rain, patches of mist trailed west- 
 ward over the hill-tops, the bushes and flowers 
 by the roadside glistened with moisture. In 
 places the air was heavy with the spicy breath 
 of the choke-cherry, whose multitudes of finger-
 
 210 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 shaped racemes drooped under the weight of 
 rain. The perfume of this tree is, at certain dis- 
 tances, akin to that of the heliotrope. White 
 and purple violets, star-flower, chokeberry, false 
 Solomon's seal, fringed polygala, and dwarf cornel 
 blossomed by thousands on every side. Brakes 
 were just opening, many being still coiled, wait- 
 ing some elfin touch to expand, but the ferns 
 were present in force. They are one of the 
 triumphs of nature. Numerous in species, ex- 
 quisite in form, tender in color, graceful in mo- 
 tion, harmless in growth, wholesome in odor, sen- 
 sitive yet persistent, refined yet abundant. Some 
 of them perish at the first frost, as for example 
 the onoclea ; others like the Christmas-fern and 
 polypody remain green and buoyant all winter, 
 even when half buried in snow or covered by ice. 
 The coloring of the osmunda regalis as it un- 
 folds is in beautiful contrast to that of the other 
 osmundas, the former being light red, salmon 
 colored, orange, or even bright red, and the lat- 
 ter silvery green. Bird voices were not quenched 
 by the rain. The harsh squawk of the night-hawk 
 came from the mist ; hermit thrushes sang in 
 damp balsam cloisters, chimney swifts sprinkled 
 the air with their small notes, and the thin voices 
 of warblers were heard in every thicket. Here, 
 as in Cambridge, the migration seemed to be 
 over and resident species present in full force.
 
 CHOCORUA. 211 
 
 The stage turned into a narrow ribbon road 
 lined with white-stemmed birches. The road 
 pointed straight towards Chocorua, whose vast 
 base rose like a wall across the north, meeting 
 the even line of white cloud which concealed its 
 peak. To the right, glimpses of water revealed 
 the position of Chocorua Lake. The ribbon 
 road led to a red-roofed cottage in the midst of 
 an ancient orchard, and there stopped. This cot- 
 tage stands within the limits of the wilderness. 
 In winter the snow lies around it in deep drifts, 
 and for many weeks at a time no snowshoe 
 leaves its latticed imprint near. The moun- 
 tain broods over it, and when in cold nights the 
 groaning of the ice gives the lake voice, it tells 
 the cottage the story of its journey from the sky 
 and its plans for reaching the sea. From the 
 days after the civil war until five years ago, this 
 cottage was the home of the children of the 
 forest. Man left it to be shingled by lichens 
 and glazed by cobwebs. Snow lay deep in its 
 attic, pewees nested in the angles of its rooms, 
 snakes and skunks dwelt in its foundations, 
 generations of swifts were hatched in its chim- 
 ney, and chipmunks frolicked in its empty rooms. 
 To the deer, the crow, the fox, and the hedge- 
 hog, this house had no terrors. It had ceased 
 to belong to man. Although of late years it 
 has been my home, I have done what I can to
 
 212 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 maintain the belief among the creatures of the 
 forest that it belongs to them. 
 
 It was seven o'clock as the stage rolled up to 
 the cottage door, left us, turned around and 
 departed. Inside, a fire blazed on the old 
 hearth, and the bark on the birch logs sputtered 
 and crackled like burning fat. Outside, the rain 
 fell softly, making a pleasant murmur on the 
 leaves, a murmur which blended with the voices 
 of crickets, tree toads, hylas, and frogs. As 
 night fell and the fire burned low, the clock and 
 the whippoorwills began a conversation which 
 lasted long, perhaps till morning. 
 
 A rainy morning does not discourage birds. 
 They are just as hungry, and almost if not quite 
 as tuneful as on other days. The morning of 
 the 30th of May was warm and wet, but the air 
 was as full of bird notes as of rain drops. A 
 white-throated sparrow sang pea-pea-peabody, 
 peabody, peabody, under my window ; a cat- 
 bird in the grape-vine in front of the house rev- 
 elled in a medley of notes, hermit thrushes ren- 
 dered their sweet phrases from three neighboring 
 groves, and red-eyed vireos, chestnut-sided war- 
 blers, redstarts, ovenbirds, barn-swallows, and 
 swifts filled in any gaps with their joyous voices. 
 A pair of catbirds were building their nests in the 
 lilac bush at the corner of the cottage, so near a 
 window that a long arm could reach it. The
 
 CHOCORUA. 213 
 
 pewees were feeding their young in a nest at 
 the top of a pilaster under the eaves of the 
 house. The piazza rail was their perch all 
 through the day. They have occupied the nest 
 three years. The nest used in 1888 is in an angle 
 of the roof near by. The pewee has a trick 
 which it is hard to explain. It jerks its tail up- 
 ward sharply about once in two seconds. The 
 motion is petulant in character, but suggestive 
 of eternal vigilance. Both birds caught insects 
 for their young, and the feeding process seemed 
 perpetual. Over the dairy window is a wooden 
 gutter to catch the rain from the roof. This 
 being a dry spring, a foolish robin built in the 
 gutter, near its lower end. The nest was soaked 
 by the storm on the 29th and 30th, and partly 
 dissolved by the trickling water, but the robin 
 stuck to her eggs. The noisiest birds anywhere 
 near the cottage were a pair of great-crested fly- 
 catchers. They screamed or whistled all day. 
 Their voices are harsh, their tempers and man- 
 ners bad, but their nesting habits are very inter- 
 esting. They build every year in the hollow of 
 an apple tree, where a large limb broke off long 
 ago and gave the elements a chance to make a 
 deep, dark cavity. The last nest I examined 
 consisted of cow's hair, reddish fur, feathers, a 
 squirrel's tail, grasses, dry leaves, shreds of birch 
 bark, and many small pieces of snake-skin. One
 
 214 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 year nearly the whole of a discarded snake-skin 
 was placed in a circle around the eggs. I have 
 yet to find one of their nests without a piece of 
 snake-skin in it. I think the bird uses it be- 
 cause experiments tried by previous generations 
 have shown that the skin is useful in scaring 
 away squirrels, mice, and other enemies. Be- 
 tween the cottage and the lake I found a song 
 sparrow's nest. It was built in marked contrast 
 to the one in the willow tree on Concord turn- 
 pike. Flat on the ground at the edge of a ditch, 
 its only shelter was a bunch of brush, cut last 
 season and left to dry. From above, the nest 
 and its contents were perfectly concealed, but 
 by stooping down and looking in from the bank 
 of the ditch I could see the neat grass cup and 
 its four richly colored eggs. The bird in leav- 
 ing the nest showed herself expert in dodging. 
 She glided from beneath the brush and over the 
 edge of the ditch, much as a leaf might have if 
 impelled by the wind. Dropping to the bottom 
 of the trench she ran down its gravelly bottom 
 nearly to the shore of the lake before she took 
 wing for the woods. Although the chipping 
 sparrow spends most of its summer in the grass, 
 it builds its nest of coiled horse-hair in the 
 branch of an apple-tree, at least eight or ten feet 
 from the ground. One of their nests was nearly 
 finished in a tree near the dining-room window.
 
 CHOCORUA. 215 
 
 The swifts had not begun building in the 
 chimney, but the cause of their delay was discov- 
 ered when one of them was found beating against 
 the inside of an upstairs chamber window. The 
 poor frightened creature had come down the 
 chimney into the fireplace, and had probably been 
 a captive for several days. Holding it gently but 
 firmly in my left hand, I endeavored to hypno- 
 tize it, as I had the peabody bird on April 80th. 
 Its brown eyes looked at me beseechingly, and 
 it winced whenever I touched it. Its flat head, 
 tiny beak leading to a wide mouth, long slender 
 wings, insignificant feet and legs, and strange 
 little tail, with bare spikes at the tips of the 
 feathers, combined to form a creature more like 
 a living arrow than a denizen of earth. Tak- 
 ing it out-of-doors I caressed it a moment more 
 and then slowly opened my fingers. Could it 
 be that the tiny being, which I might have 
 crushed by one grip of my hand, possessed a 
 speed almost equal to a projectile, and a brain 
 powerful enough to will that speed and to direct 
 it ? Like a breath the bird was gone. Those 
 slender wings throbbing through the air bore it 
 higher and higher, round and round in widen- 
 ing circles, until it was lost in the depths of the 
 sky. I felt as though I had held a soul in my 
 hand and as though that soul had gone back to 
 the infinite.
 
 216 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 Standing in the deep woods by the side of a 
 rushing stream I watched a slender silk line 
 borne down with the current. The line straight- 
 ened. One end was restrained by the tip of 
 my fishing rod, the other end swayed from right 
 to left in a little whirlpool under a miniature 
 waterfall. On the lower end was a barbed 
 hook, on the hook was a writhing worm, and 
 presently on the writhing worm was a strug- 
 gling fish. Tossed to the shore he fell among 
 the nodding ferns and lay under them 011 his 
 side, gasping. He threw himself into the air 
 a few times by a spasmodic contraction of his 
 muscles, and then died. As he lay there among 
 the .ferns, violets, wild lilies of the valley, 
 gleaming checkerberries, and other gayly-tinted 
 groundwork of the forest, he outshone them all. 
 White, gray, yellow, orange, red, green, blue, 
 brown, and black, all shared in his brilliant 
 coloring. His beauty was not all in tints. Plis 
 outlines were graceful and suggestive of speed. 
 His fins, delicate and wonderful structures in 
 themselves, were so placed as to give him marvel- 
 lous powers of motion and control of direc- 
 tion. A moment before he had had not only 
 beauty and speed but intelligence. The cun- 
 ning and wariness of the trout are proverbial. 
 But he was dead, and I went on down the 
 stream for an hour, catching and killing more
 
 CHOCORUA. 217 
 
 marvels of color and design until I had enough 
 for dinner. 
 
 The surroundings of a good trout brook are 
 much more fascinating than the fishing. The 
 woods are lonely as regards mankind, but they 
 are full of wild life and the bustle of that life. 
 The fisherman always realizes the bustle of the 
 mosquitoes and black flies, but he is not so quick 
 to appreciate the gypsy music of the veery, the 
 rich notes of the solitary vireo or the water 
 thrush, or the gorgeous coloring of the Maryland 
 yellowthroat, blackburnian warbler, and Canada 
 flycatching warbler, which, ten chances to one, 
 are his unseen companions during the day. 
 
 In the afternoon I visited my favorite pair of 
 sap-sucking woodpeckers whose beginnings of 
 housekeeping I had noted on May 1st. Their 
 maple tree which had yielded sap all last summer, 
 and again for a time this spring, seemed to be dry. 
 Perhaps in a sunless wet day sap does not flow 
 freely. The holes cut by the birds this season 
 numbered over five hundred, and their location 
 on various parts of the trunk indicated that the 
 birds found difficulty in securing as free a flow 
 of sap as they needed. All told, there are now 
 fully fifteen hundred holes in the bark of that 
 one red maple. As I neared the tree in which 
 the male had been drilling a month ago, I 
 chanced to look at a dead poplar about twenty
 
 218 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 feet in height which stood near it. To my aston- 
 ishment I discovered the head of the male sap- 
 sucker protruding from a hole in its side. He 
 saw me and saw that I saw him. The hole was 
 fifteen feet from the ground, on the southeast 
 side of the stump. The male flew away. See- 
 ing neither bird near the hole which I had 
 planned to attack, I decided to cut down the 
 stump. It toppled against some low evergreens, 
 which broke the force of its fall. The hole 
 was less than a foot in depth, and contained two 
 chubby little white eggs, through whose shell 
 the color of the yolk was plainly visible. The 
 bottom of the hole was cushioned with fine chips. 
 Concealing myself, I waited to see what the 
 woodpeckers would do. They had watched my 
 work, and had not gone out of my sight at all. 
 Flying to the tree nearest the poplar, they aimed 
 for the spot where it had been, and flew to it, 
 hovered a second and returned. This was done 
 over and over again, but much oftener by the 
 female than by the male. Failing to find the 
 stump by flying from the nearest tree, they tried 
 to strike it by approaching it from other trees 
 standing respectively to the south, southwest, 
 west, and northeast of its former position. The 
 stump itself, prostrate among the ferns, was 
 wholly ignored. The birds showed no grief, 
 indignation, or fear, nothing but astonishment
 
 CHOCORUA. 219 
 
 at the disappearance of their focus. I think it 
 possible that one or both birds had been hatched 
 in this poplar, and had in turn reared families 
 in it, for it contained an old hole below the new 
 one. 
 
 On my way home I crossed the fresh tracks 
 of a deer, its sharp hoof prints having been made 
 since the heavy rains of the forenoon. 
 
 Neariug the barn, I was greeted by the whin- 
 ing squeals of a newly captured baby barred 
 owl. It had been found in the same hollow in 
 a giant beech from which my two favorite pets 
 were taken June 1, 1888. When first seen, 
 about May 10, it was too small to be carried 
 away. Even on May 17, the day on which its 
 capture was completed, it was only a double 
 handful of soft gray down and stomach, accent- 
 uated by claws, hooked beak and a squealing 
 voice. By May 30 it had grown into the like- 
 ness of an owl. Its stiffs wing and tail feathers 
 had begun to grow long, and much of its plum- 
 age to assume the distinctive markings of the 
 family. Its head and breast were still downy, 
 and its eyes, feeble in sight, looked milky and 
 bluish. In answer to its clamor, I gave it 
 a handful of angleworms, and a bullfrog neatly 
 jointed. Tucked up for the night in a cloth 
 and warmed by my hand, it made a series of 
 chuckles amusingly similar in character to the 
 contented peepings of a brood of chickens.
 
 220 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 About five o'clock Sunday morning (May 
 31) a deer stepped boldly out of the woods at 
 the top of a sloping field and surveyed the val- 
 ley below it. A small farmhouse from whose 
 chimney a column of pale blue smoke rose into 
 the hazy air, a big barn with cattle standing in 
 front of it, a man milking one of the cows, a 
 green meadow dotted with vivid green larches, a 
 small round pond framed in grass and weeds of 
 just the kind deer like best this was the picture 
 the deer saw and found pleasant to its eyes. 
 It walked down the hill, crossing a strip of 
 plowed land, leaped over a brush fence, and 
 paused in the highway. The cow which was 
 being milked raised her head and gazed fixedly 
 at the deer. The man felt the cow's motion, and 
 looked too. Seeing the deer he whistled shrilly. 
 The deer threw up its head, shook its stub tail, 
 crossed the road with a bound, plunged through 
 the larches and vanished in the deep dark woods 
 by the lake. 
 
 It was an hour when bird voices filled the 
 air with their messages of love and happiness. 
 The rain had ceased, the sun was shining ; no- 
 thing came between these children of the air 
 and their completest joy. If one wishes to be- 
 lieve that life may be and is happy, look at the 
 birds at the opening of summer and see how 
 seldom a shadow crosses their path. Even if
 
 CHOCORUA. 221 
 
 danger threatens for a moment, if a snake ap- 
 pears in the grass, a hawk in the air, an owl 
 in the thicket, a man near their nest, joy returns 
 the moment danger is gone. There are tragedies 
 of the nests, and many a bird falls a victim to 
 destroyers, but on the whole the life of birds is 
 joyous, not sorrowful; contented, not anxious. 
 I sought the birds that morning in their deep- 
 est solitude, their inner temple. Wading ice- 
 cold brooks in which I alarmed many a trout, 
 forcing a way through thickets of high-bush 
 blueberry, alder, and tangled vines, plunging 
 through soft spots in the bog where I sank to 
 my knees, I came finally to the cool dark shades 
 in the centre of a great swamp. Several 
 tall pines reared their heads above it. From 
 their lower limbs, long since dead and dry, 
 beards of gray moss depended and swung back 
 and forth. An under forest of water maples, 
 balsam firs, larches, and white ash trees flour- 
 ished beneath the giant pines. Below these in 
 turn a miniature forest of ferns and hobble bush 
 grew, and still lower the moist ground surround- 
 ing numerous pools of amber-colored water was 
 covered by a carpet of clintonia, veratrum, or- 
 chids, gold-thread, swamp blackberry, dalibarda, 
 and fernlike mosses. Who, if any, were the 
 dwellers in this solitude of solitudes ? Not the 
 robin or the bluebird, the song sparrow or the 
 
 '
 
 222 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 redwing blackbird ; they are birds of the farm 
 or the meadow, not of the twilight. I listened. 
 " Teacher, teacher, TEACHER," came the call of 
 the ovenbird ; then followed the bold, spar- 
 kling song of the water thrush, the tambourine 
 music of the veery, conversational cawing and 
 chortling of crows, and the familiar chick-a- 
 dee-dee-dee of the titmouse. Were these the 
 principal owners of the shades ? The ringing 
 notes of a rose-breasted grosbeak, the quank, 
 quank of a Canada nuthatch, a black-and-white 
 creeper's apology for a song, and then a thin 
 painstaking voice I did not recognize, came to 
 show that the roll of the swamp's tenants was not 
 complete. Just as I made out the last singer to 
 be a black-throated blue warbler, a winter wren 
 sang. The brilliancy of this petulant brown and 
 white atom's music is one of the wonders of the 
 northern woods. It is orchestral in nature 
 rather than vocal, and it is one of the longest 
 songs I know. It seems to me like falling drops 
 of crystal water in which the sunbeams play and 
 give out rainbow tints. If I tried to describe 
 it I should say it was like the music of tiny 
 spheres of silver, falling upon slabs of marble 
 and rebounding only to fall again and again at 
 briefer intervals, until their perfectly clear, ring- 
 ing notes had run into one high, expiring tone too 
 delicate for the ear of man to follow. The wren
 
 CHOCORUA. 223 
 
 sang over and over again, and each cooling spray 
 of notes seemed more bewitching than the last. 
 Meantime I had recognized blue yellow- 
 backed or parula warblers, and that charming 
 bird, the vivacious Canadian flycatching war- 
 bler. As I strolled on slowly through the moss- 
 hung shades a large bird flew from a maple 
 a rod or two before me and perched on a high 
 limb, so that I saw it against a patch of sky. 
 Quickly covering it with my glass I saw that 
 it was a hawk of the largest size, probably 
 the buteo lineatus or red-shouldered hawk. To 
 my surprise the great creature flew back to- 
 wards me and alit in a tree which sprang from 
 a point close by. It saw me, and was peering 
 keenly and anxiously through the leaves. A 
 wild and weird cry escaped from its open 
 throat, and it flew in a half circle and perched 
 again near by. Creeping under a balsam tree 
 I sat down and awaited developments. A rush 
 of wings, a shadow, and I saw the hawk's mate 
 sweep downwards and alight upon the edge of 
 a large nest of branches and twigs in a tall 
 maple just in front of me. It saw me as it 
 struck the nest, and instantly swooped down 
 towards me, passing within two or three feet 
 of my head. Both birds then took positions 
 commanding a good view of me and made the 
 woods echo with their fierce cries. They were
 
 224 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 within easy range of a shotgun, but I had no desire 
 to injure them. The red-shouldered hawk lives 
 mainly upon insects, small animals, and reptiles, 
 and is no menace to poultry or small birds. In 
 this instance the small birds in the swamp sang 
 their songs with no apparent interest in the 
 angry hawks above them. 
 
 A visit to the nest showed that its limited and 
 uncomfortable platform sustained three downy 
 young birds whose plump bodies were so placed 
 that the three heads faced the circumference of 
 the nest at three different points. They looked 
 as though they had been out of the shell about a 
 week. A half-eaten yellow-throated frog was 
 in the bottom of the nest. During this in- 
 spection the parent birds were flying in small 
 circles a thousand feet or more above the swamp. 
 I think their first boldness was due to my 
 stealthy approach and quick concealment, which 
 left them in doubt as to what manner of crea- 
 ture I was. As the young birds were not 
 quite large enough to make it safe to take them 
 prisoners they were left for a time to the tender 
 care of their natural protectors. 
 
 Not far from the hawk's nest I found the tree 
 from which my barred owls had been taken in 
 1888 and this year. The tree is a beech over 
 sixty feet high, having in its great trunk a 
 cavity large enough to admit a man's head and
 
 CHOCORUA. 225 
 
 arm. This chamber, which faces southwest- 
 ward, is about twenty-five feet from the ground, 
 dry within but unfurnished. The owlets have 
 no feather beds to sleep on, no nest to keep 
 them warm. Thinking that the mother of my 
 most recent captive might have laid again, I had 
 the owl castle searched, but found nothing. 
 
 The flowers of the week were the cornel, 
 fringed polygala, cow-lily, purple and white vio- 
 lets, blue-eyed grass, clintonia, and hawthorn. 
 The dark swamps were dotted with the yellow 
 moccasin flowers, and in the higher, drier woods 
 the pink lady's-slipper abounded. The varia- 
 tion in color in the pink lady's-slipper is wide 
 for a wild plant not separated into recognized 
 varieties. From normal, the color varies both 
 ways, to extremely dark carmine and to pure 
 white. In some of the white ones even the 
 veining is immaculate. I found two distorted 
 flowers of the pink species which suggested a 
 reversion to a less elaborate and morphologically 
 effective form. The flowers which were passing 
 away were the trailing arbutus, of which I 
 found only one plant still blooming and fra- 
 grant ; the apple blossoms, which were whitening 
 the grass like snow ; the trilliums, hobble bush, 
 choke cherry, rhodora, uvularia and anemone. 
 The flowers just coming forward were the lin- 
 nsea, white orchis, fleur-de-lis, and clover.
 
 226 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 From four o'clock until sunset we drove, taking 
 for our road the one leading around three sides 
 of fair Chocorua Pond, thence up the Chocorua 
 River to the eastern side of the mountain. 
 The afternoon was sultry, and over, the moun- 
 tains the outlines of thunder-heads faintly edged 
 with gold showed through a bluish white haze. 
 The mountains looked double their usual height, 
 and thin, for detail, light and shadow, were lost 
 in the haze. Parts of the lake were broken into 
 small waves, and every wave was a tongue of fire 
 borrowed from the red sun. Under the lofty 
 white pines fringing the eastern shore the shade 
 was deep and soothing, and a faint breeze made 
 the foliage breathe and sigh. From the edge of 
 the water a little bird flew up to a branch, shook 
 itself and presented apparently novel coloring. 
 Not until this interesting scrap of tropical life 
 began to dry and smooth down its feathers did 
 it become recognizable as a black-throated green 
 warbler fresh from a bath. At the northeast 
 corner of the lake a broad beach of white sand 
 extends for an eighth of a mile in crescent form. 
 The water in this bay is shallow, and under it 
 the sand is clean. Chocorua's horn was reflected 
 in the heart of this bay, while sleepy pickerel and 
 schools of minnows could be seen poised above the 
 sand. Spotted sandpipers ran along the beach, 
 kingbirds shot out from tall pines and hovered,
 
 CHOCORUA, 227 
 
 chattering, with tails wide spread, over the 
 water. In the orchard opposite, a great-crested 
 flycatcher screamed and flew from tree to tree. 
 Her nest was in the gaping hollow of an apple 
 trunk, and on its outer edge a bit of snake-skin 
 caught the light. No eggs had as yet been laid. 
 The muffled drumming of a grouse could be felt 
 by the ear as its heavy throbbing came down 
 from high woods back of the orchard. 
 
 The Chocorua Biver has three phases of life 
 above the pond, mountain torrent ; placid 
 meadow brook and mill pond ; and forest river 
 full of deep amber pools, dams of fallen trees 
 and sawmill waste, and noisy falls and rapids. 
 The road avoids the forest part and emerges on 
 the mill pond and meadow. The meadow was 
 alive with birds. At the ford a solitary tattler 
 was feeding. He was an object of no small 
 interest, for the breeding season was at hand 
 and the nest of this species has never been 
 taken and satisfactorily identified. He was so 
 tame that I walked to within twenty paces of 
 him before he flew, and then he went but a 
 short distance. The coloring of his plumage 
 suggested tiny waves breaking over a sandy 
 shore. He has not the teetering habit to the 
 extent that his cousin, the spotted sandpiper, 
 has, but he is far from steady in his walk. 
 Barn swallows by dozens skimmed the surface
 
 228 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 of the meadow. A few redwing blackbirds a 
 comparatively uncommon bird in this region 
 balanced on the grass and made more noise than 
 their slender numbers justified. A heron rose 
 from the farthest end of the meadow and flew a 
 distance of more than a mile in a semicircle, 
 heading north at first, but ending his journey 
 by a flight southward past the base of Chocorua to 
 a secluded pond under the shoulder of the moun- 
 tain. His measured and majestic flight through 
 the haze, against woods, then sky, then blue 
 mountain-side, was more like the progress of a 
 barge impelled by long, slow-moving oars than 
 the hurrying of a bird. The pond to which he 
 went is known to few. It is shallow and green, 
 swarming with tadpoles and surrounded by 
 sphagnum banks above which rise steep and 
 heavily wooded slopes. It has no outlet save 
 the air, no inlet save the springs which feed it. 
 Deer tracks are always thick about its shores, 
 and the bear, hedgehog, fox, skunk, mink, and 
 gray squirrel are its frequent f ourfooted visitors. 
 From a high hill, north of the meadow and 
 due east of Chocorua, we watched the descend- 
 ing sun mark the close of the last day of spring. 
 On every side the quiet of the forest surrounded 
 us. A house standing near was but an exclama- 
 tion mark to the wildness of the scene, for it 
 had ceased to be the home of man and had
 
 CHOCORUA. 229 
 
 become a mere monument of the decay of a 
 community. Towards Chocorua the land sloped 
 downward until it reached a narrow valley point- 
 ing north and south. Then it began to rise, at 
 first imperceptibly, then plainly, then more and 
 more abruptly, until it became precipitous and 
 climbed high against the sky. At its beginning 
 this slope, which like the one on which we stood 
 was clad in soft birches and poplars, was three 
 miles in width, its north and south limits 
 being sharply marked by rocky spurs of the 
 mountain. As it rose, these buttresses of the 
 mountain drew together and narrowed it. Fi- 
 nally, as it attained to a precipice of bald rock, the 
 source of Chocorua River, they came together 
 and united their height and strength with its 
 ascending mass. Upon the mighty shoulders 
 thus formed rested the sharp horn of Chocorua, 
 three thousand feet above the slender valley at 
 its feet. We were so near to this mountain wall 
 that it seemed to cover half the western sky. 
 The haze concealed all its details of rough forest 
 and stained precipice, leaving it a blue barrier 
 crowding its jagged outlines into a golden sky. 
 Through this sky, towards the edge of the lofty 
 horn, the red sun was drifting and sinking. It 
 did not seem far away, but so near that it might 
 strike upon that menacing ledge of rock, and 
 fall shattered, down, forever down, into an end-
 
 230 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 
 
 less abyss on the farther side. As the sun sank 
 lower and lower, nearer and nearer to Chocorua, 
 it seemed to me that it was marking a crisis in 
 the year, and that when it came again if come 
 it ever did from the abyss behind that wall 
 the tide of life would have changed and begun 
 its slow and certain ebbing. Vegetable and ani- 
 mal life seemed to have gained the point of their 
 greatest beauty and activity. The leaf could be 
 no fairer ; the flower was already falling and the 
 formation of the fruit begun ; the nest was built, 
 the egg laid, in many cases the young bird was 
 already stirring his wings for flight ; and in the 
 secret places of the mountain the young of the 
 bear, the deer, and the fox had long been afoot. 
 The sun reached the edge of rock and passed 
 behind it. In the deep Chocorua Valley the day 
 was over and the song of the hermit was yielding 
 to that of the whip-poor-will, the flight of the swal- 
 low was giving way to that of the bat. Would 
 the life of that valley be any less happy on the 
 opening of the season of ripening than it was at 
 the close of the season of growth ? Surely not, 
 for there is nothing in nature which is apprehen- 
 sive of that period of rest, which for the flower 
 is called winter, and for the butterfly, death. It 
 is man alone who dreads the downward swing of 
 the pendulum, the ebbing of the tide, the pause 
 in the endless rhythm of life.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Agamenticus, 58. 
 
 Alder, 3, 53, 103, 167, 170, 175, 221. 
 
 Alewife Brook, 52, 122, 128. 
 
 Anemones, 131. 142, 196, 225. 
 
 Ants, 77, 206. 
 
 Arlington, 1, 6, 12, 25, 29, 35, 38, 
 
 40, 52, 53, 73, 78, 91, 127, 179, 180. 
 Arnold Arboretum, 35, 36. 
 Ash, 57, 221. 
 Assabet Kiver, 133, 146, 166-174, 
 
 197. 
 
 Asters, 2, 7. 
 Azalea, 192. 
 
 Ball's Hill, 102, 146, 147. 
 Balsam fir, 210, 221,223. 
 Barberry, 2-4, 8, 28, 35, 45, 117, 124, 
 
 203. 
 
 Bat, 230. 
 Bearberry, 55. 
 Bearcainp River, 150, 209. 
 Beaver Brook, 31, 33, 73, 123, 124, 
 
 159-161. 
 
 Bedford, 47, 48, 102, 147. 
 Beech, 46, 151, 175, 192, 195, 224. 
 Bees, 172, 206. 
 Bellevue Hill, 36. 
 Belmont, 1, 25, 31, 33, 34,44,52, 73, 
 
 110, 127, 176. 
 Berkshire Hills, 194. 
 Birch, 2, 7, 29, 109, 111, 113, 150, 156, 
 
 175, 179, 191, 192, 211, 229. 
 Bittern, 146-148, 159-163, 176-178, 
 
 181-186. 
 
 Blackberry, 179, 191, 221. 
 
 Blackbird, 52, 55, 84, 147 ; cowbird, 
 99, 116, 124, 130, 133, 200; purple 
 grackle, 73, 90, 113, 123, 133 ; red- 
 wing, 52, 69, 74, 78, 89, 100, 101, 
 108, 112, 116, 123, 130, 167, 168, 
 
 176, 228 ; rusty grackle, 74. 
 Bloodroot, 123, 124. 
 Blueberry, 220. 
 
 Bluebird, 42, 43, 48, 51, 53, 56, 75, 
 78, 101, 105, 124, 126, 141. 
 
 Blue-eyed grass, 225. 
 
 Blue Hill, 28, 29, 35, 36, 46. 
 
 Blue jay, 35, 39, 41, 48, 205. 
 
 Bobolink, 168. 
 
 Boon Pond, 171, 172. 
 
 Boston, 1, 19, 26. 
 
 Brookline, 34. 
 
 Brown creeper, 9, 15, 33, 39, 45, 
 
 56,76. 
 
 Bussey Woods, 34, 37. 
 Buttercup, 15, 38, 51, 55, 131, 142, 
 
 200, 205. 
 
 Butterflies, 76, 206. 
 Buttonball, 90, 111, 125. 
 
 Caddis-worm, 68. 
 
 Cambridge, 1, 52, 74, 110, 122, 126, 
 
 165, 190. 
 
 Cape Cod, 83-95. 
 Carlisle, 102, 105, 147. 
 Catbird, 167, 176, 199, 212. 
 Caterpillar, 55, 206. 
 Cedar, 1, 4, 5, 9, 11, 14, 16, 17, 39, 
 
 43, 45, 56. 
 
 Cedar-bird, 17, 28, 33, 51, 124. 
 Charles Kiver, 26, 31, 39, 66, 118, 
 
 124, 197. 
 
 Checkerberry, 96, 196. 
 Cherry, 191, 192, 209, 225. 
 Chestnut, 3, 8, 117, 198. 
 Chewink, 147, 160, 173. 
 Chickadee, 4, 9, 16, 18, 19, 33, 35, 
 
 39, 41, 45, 48, 55, 56, 76, 99, 108, 
 
 140, 171. 
 Chimney-swift, 152, 168, 201, 210- 
 
 212, 215. 
 
 Chipmunk, 36, 77. 
 Chocorua, 150, 151, 155, 157, 211 
 
 230. 
 
 Chokeberry, 191,210. 
 Clematis, 161. 
 
 Clintonia, 191, 196, 221,225. 
 Clover, 225. 
 Club moss, 55. 
 Columbine, 140, 145, 196.
 
 232 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Concord, 34, 47-49, 52, 73, 100, 130, 
 
 133, 197. 
 
 Concord Turnpike, 74, 110, 127, 161. 
 Corema, 92. 
 Cornel, 210, 225. 
 Corydalis, 55. 
 Cow-lily, 225. 
 Cranberry, 63, 84. 
 Crescent Beach, 23, 24. 
 Cricket, 187, 212. 
 Crocus, 32. 
 Crow, 3, 4, 9, 12, 15, 18, 19, 23, 33, 
 
 39, 41, 45, 48, 51, 55, 64, 80, 89, 
 
 96, 108, 117, 140, 149, 154, 176, 182, 
 
 200,222. 
 Cuckoo, 199. 
 
 Dalibarda, 221. 
 
 Dandelion, 123, 131, 142, 164, 191. 
 
 Deer, 150, 219, 220, 228. 
 
 Dove, domestic, 19 ; mourning, 147. 
 
 Dover, 115. 
 
 Duck, 94 ; black, 61-69, 97, 104, 108, 
 146, 182, 187 ; sheldrake, 103, 104, 
 141 ; whistler, 21 ; wood, 125, 146. 
 
 Dunes, 59-72, 87-92, 149. 
 
 Eagle, 149. 
 
 Elder, 192. 
 
 Elm, 2, 11, 41, 46, 49, 101, 144, 198. 
 
 Everlasting, 131, 142. 
 
 Fairhaven Bay and Hill, 132-140, 
 
 197. 
 
 Ferns, 35, 54, 57, 123, 161, 210, 221. 
 Fitchburg, 190-194. 
 Five-finger, 51. 
 Fleur-de-lis, 225. 
 Forget-me-not, 198. 
 Fox, 2, 42, 102, 150. 
 Fresh Pond, 52, 110-114, 122, 123, 
 
 127. 
 Frog, 78, 135, 138, 151, 176, 212, 
 
 224. 
 
 Geranium, wild, 205. 
 Golden plover, 92. 
 Goldenrod, 2, 7. 
 Goldfinch, 2, 16, 18, 88, 105. 
 Goldthread, 221. 
 Goose, wild, 90, 91. 
 Great-crested flycatcher, 213, 227. 
 Great meadows (Concord), 102-106, 
 
 146. 
 
 Greylock, 194. 
 Grouse, 33, 36, 40, 55, 57, 76, 80, 
 
 103, 119, 138, 140, 147, 227. 
 Gull, black-backed, 62 ; herring, 21, 
 
 23, 53, 62, 67, 70, 84, 89; kittiwake, 
 
 95! 
 
 Harvard University, 1, 36, 122. 
 Hawk, 9, 39, 140 ; marsh, 100, 146 ; 
 
 red-shouldered, 35, 74, 103, 148, 
 
 223, 224; sparrow, 53, 112, 123, 
 
 124. T27. 
 
 Hawthorn, 191, 225. 
 Heard's Island and Pond, 144-146. 
 Hell's Bottom, 93. 
 Hemlock, 36, 37, 113, 155. 
 Hepatica, 54, 78, 80. 
 Heron, 147, 228. 
 Highland Light, 85-94. 
 Highland Station, 31. 
 Hill's Crossing, 122. 
 Hobble bush, 196, 221, 225. 
 Hog Island, 69, 71. 
 Honeypot Hill, 166, 167, 171. 
 Horned lark, 68, 91. 
 Horsechestnut, 123, 131, 176. 
 Horsetail-rushes, 123. 
 Houstonia, 131, 142, 149, 173, 191. 
 Hudsonia touieutosa, 63, 69, 87, 88, 
 
 92. 
 Humming bird, 154. 
 
 Indian relics, 64, 91. 
 Indigo bird, 199. 
 Ipswich, 59-70, 150. 
 
 Jack-in-the-pulpit, 207. 
 
 Junco, 74, 79, 100, 106, 151, 196. 
 
 Juniper, 3, 4. 
 
 Kearsarge, Mt., 58. 
 Kendal Green, 41, 42. 
 Kingbird, 162, 201, 226. 
 Kingfisher, 123, 124, 126, 146, 147. 
 Kinglet, golden-crested, 4, 16, 33, 
 
 35, 39, 55, 56 ; ruby-crowned, 122, 
 
 140, 146. 
 
 Lady's slipper, 191, 225. 
 Larch, 220, 221. 
 Laurel, 191. 
 
 Least flycatcher, 130, 201. 
 Lexington, 18, 53, 78, 81. 
 Lilac, 130, 172, 176, 212. 
 Lincoln, 40, 41. 
 Liunaea, 225. 
 Locust, 76, 118, 206. 
 Loon, 152, 158. 
 Lynn, 21, 26. 
 
 Maple, 29, 80, 111, 114, 122, 128, 131, 
 150, 153, 156, 175, 192, 195, 217. 
 
 Marsh marigold, 149, 150, 163. 
 
 Massachusetts Bay, 26, 57. 
 
 Meadow lark, 53, 89, 95, 99, 116, 123, 
 168. 
 
 Meadow-sweet, 63.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 233 
 
 Medford, 12, 25, 127. 
 Memorial Hall, 11, 27, 197. 
 Merrimac River, 27, 208. 
 Middlesex Fells, 1, 25, 29, 39, 127. 
 Minute -Man, 49, 98, 99, 109, 130, 
 
 146, 148. 
 Mole, 106. 
 Monadnock, Mt.,28, 36, 46, 57, 194, 
 
 196. 
 
 Moth,' 76. 
 
 Maimt Auburn, 27, 73, 127, 197. 
 Mjmnt Pisgah, 39,40. 
 Mountain ash, 195. 
 Mouse, 3, 28, 33, 35, 40, 42. 68, 71, 
 
 106. 
 
 Mullein, 51. 
 MuskeUquid River, 98-109, 131, 
 
 133, 197. 
 
 Muskrat, 43, 74, 76, 108. 
 Mystic Pond, 38, 39, 91. 
 
 Nashua River, 190, 196. 
 Neponset River, 26, 28, 29. 
 Night-hawk, 210. 
 Nobscot Hill, 143, 165, 166, 171. 
 Nuthatch, 16, 45, 98, 99, 222. 
 
 Oak, 8, 9, 11, 13, 29, 31, 32, 46, 86, 
 
 96, 101, 105, 124, 150, 174, 195, 198. 
 Old Mmse, 49, 98, 109, 130, 148. 
 One Pine Hill, 40, 54, 78, 79. 
 Orchard, 48, 66, 96, 101, 174,198-207. 
 Orchid, 221, 225. 
 Oriole, Baltimore, 101, 166, 169, 172, 
 
 204. 
 
 Osprey, 148. 
 Ossipee, 150, 209. 
 Otter, 76. 
 
 Ovenbird. See Warbler. 
 Owl, 102, 106; Acadian, 51, 52; 
 
 *>arred, 77, 201, 219, 224, 225; 
 
 great-horned, 134-140 ; screech. 
 
 147. 
 
 Partridgeberry, 39, 55. 
 
 Passaconaway, Mt., 155. 
 
 Paugus, Mt., 155. 
 
 Payson Park, 73, 126, 127. 
 
 Pegan Hill, 115-119. 
 
 Pewee, phoebe, 45, 120, 145, 211, 
 
 213; wood, 109. 
 Pine, 8, 9, 13, 60, 84, 102, 156, 194, 
 
 221 ; pitch, 10, 39, 88, 96, 101, 150, 
 
 172 ; white, 40, 119, 134, 138, 172, 
 
 226. 
 
 Piping hyla, 77, 78, 176, 178, 212. 
 Pipsissewa, 55. 
 Point of Pines, 21, 24. 
 Polygala, 210, 225. 
 
 Poplar, 93, 131, 150, 154, 156, 191, 
 
 217, 229. 
 
 Potentilla, 131 , 142, 196, 205. 
 Privet, 3, 4, 8, 202. 
 Prospect Hill, 55, 56, 57. 
 Provincetown, 84, 85, 87, 88, 92, 95. 
 Puffball, 65. 
 
 Purple finch, 45, 116, 130. 
 Pyrola, 55. 
 
 Quail, 3, 8, 35, 40, 45, 48, 73, 200. 
 
 Rabbit, 3, 8, 35, 36, 40, 42, 54. 
 
 Rattlesnake plantain, 55. 
 
 Readville, 28. 
 
 Redstart. See Warbler. 
 
 Revere Beach, 20, 208. 
 
 Rhodora, 192, 225. 
 
 Robin, 4, 6, 9, 16, 17, 28, 35, 45, 53, 
 
 56. 73, 95, 99, 123, 130, 140, 142, 
 
 167, 188, 195, 199, 204, 213. 
 Rockbottom, 165. 166. 
 Rock Meadow, 73, 74, 159, 161, 176, 
 
 179, 181. 
 Rose-breasted grosbeak, 201, 204, 
 
 205,222. 
 Rosebush, 3, 4, 51, 63. 
 
 Sandpiper, spotted, 148, 226; soli- 
 tary, 227. 
 
 Sandwich, 83. 
 
 Sarsaparilla, 196. 
 
 Sutgus River, 21, 26, 208. 
 
 Saxifrage, 131, 142, 145. 
 
 Scarlet tanager, 193, 199. 
 
 Seaweed, 24, 61, 89. 
 
 Shell-heaps, 64. 
 
 Shrike, 95. 
 
 Skunk, 35, 42, 66, 67, 95, 211. 
 
 Skunk-cabbage, 32, 54, 80. 
 -Skunk currant, 196. 
 
 Snake, 77, 96, 174, 211. 
 
 Snipe, 177, 178, 188. 
 
 Snow bunting, 23. 
 
 Snowfleas, 4, 33, 108. 
 
 Solomon's seal, 55, 196, 210. 
 
 Sparrow, chipping, 116, 123, 124, 
 142, 151, 171, 200, 214; English, 
 20,24,41, 73, 101, 111, 112; field, 
 117, 140, 142, 151, 172 ; fox, 45, 
 54, 57, 102, 106, 107, 108, 112; 
 grassfinch, 116, 151 ; Ipswich, 67, 
 88; song, 51, 53, 73, 78, 81, 95, 
 112,130, 140, 189, 214; swamp, 45; 
 tree, 16, 29, 33, 41, 48, 51, 63, 76, 
 78, 79, 90, 91. 
 
 Spider, 55, 79. 
 i Spruce, 56, 155. 
 | Spy Pond, 52.
 
 234 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Squirrel, 3, 8, 35, 36, 49, 54, 77, 80, 
 
 Starflower, 191, 210. 
 
 Stony Brook, 41, 43, 114, 197. 
 
 Stow, 171. 
 
 Strawberry, 196. 
 
 Sudbury River, 120, 133, 142, 197. 
 
 Sumac, 4, 8, 42, 43. 
 
 Swallow, 141, 142, 150, 174, 230; 
 bank, 143, 168 ; barn, 143, 151, 
 168, 201, 212, 227; eaves, 143, 
 168 ; martin, 133, 143, 168 ; white- 
 bellied, 116, 120, 123, 143, 151, 168. 
 
 Tamworth Iron Works, 150. 
 Thrush, brown, 139, 140, 167, 191, 
 
 199; hermit, 107, 142, 157, 210, 
 
 212, 230; veery. 167, 200, 207, 
 
 217, 222. 
 
 Tom Coddies, 68. 
 Trailing arbutus, 96, 150, 152, 196, 
 
 225. 
 
 Tree toad, 212. 
 Trillium, 152, 191, 207, 225. 
 Trout, 216, 221. 
 Truro, 84-97. 
 
 Tudor Place, 110-114, 122, 123. 
 Turkey Hill, 40, 54. 
 Turtle, 75. 
 Twisted stalk, 196. 
 
 Uncanoonucs, 28, 58, 195. 
 Uvularia, 152, 225. 
 
 Veery. See Thrush. 
 Veratrum, 221. 
 
 Violet, 142, 145, 191, 198, 210, 225. 
 Vireo, red-eyed, 191, 201, 212 ; soli- 
 tary, 146, 201, 217. 
 
 Wachusett, Mt., 28, 36, 80, 81,98, 
 190-197. 
 
 Walden Pond, 197. 
 
 Waltham, 31, 43, 55, 124, 197. 
 
 Warbler, 169 ; black -and - white 
 creeping, 154, 170, 173, 201, 222 ; 
 Blackburn's, 217 ; black-poll, 197 ; 
 black-throated blue, 161, 173, 222 ; 
 black-throated green, 146, 173, 
 201, 226 ; Canada flycatching, 217, 
 223 ; chestnut-sided, 161, 173, 212 ; 
 Maryland yellow - throat, 217 ; 
 Nashville, 154, 196 ; ovenbird, 
 173, 191, 193, 201, 212, 222; 
 parula, 142, 223 ; pine-creeping, 
 116, 142, 150, 170, 171, 173; 
 redstart, 166, 169, 170, 173, 200, 
 212; water thrush, 148,217,222; 
 yellow red-poll, 117, 173 ; yellow- 
 rumped, 90, 91, 169, 173 ; yellow, 
 170, 173. 
 
 Watercress, 15, 32, 38, 123. 
 
 Waverley, 18, 31, 55, 73, 159. 
 
 Waverley Oaks, 73, 123, 124, 126, 
 160, 197. 
 
 Wayland, 143, 144. 
 
 Wayland Elm, 144. 
 
 Wellesley, 118, 120. 
 
 West Roxbury, 34. 
 
 Whip-poor-will, 140, 212, 230. 
 
 Whiteface, Mt., 155. 
 
 Willow, 3, 4, 9, 10, 34, 41, 46, 62. 
 101, 111, 128, 161, 173, 188, 189, 
 198. 
 
 Winchester, 38, 39, 127. 
 
 Woodchuck, 77, 149. 
 
 Woodcock, 81, 82, 157. 
 
 Woodpecker, 147 ; downy, 29, 36, 
 55, 76, 98, 116, 154, 201. 203; 
 golden- winged, 35, 48, 53, 69, 76, 
 112, 117, 123, 124, 126, 152, 201, 
 203; yellow-bellied, 154, 217, 218. 
 
 Wren, house, 202; short-billed 
 marsh, 187 ; winter, 222, 223.
 
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