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IN THE WHITE
MOUNTAINS. IT was early in June when I set out for my third visit to the White Mountains, and the ticket-seller and the baggage-master in turn assured me that the Crawford House, which I named as my destination, was not yet open. They spoke, too, in the tone which men use when they mention something which, but for uncommon stupidity, you would have known beforehand. The kindly sarcasm missed its mark, however. I was aware that the hotel was not yet ready for the “general public.” But I said to myself that, for once at least, I was not to be included in that unfashionably promiscuous company. The vulgar crowd must wait, of course. For the present the mountains, in reporters’ language, were “on private view;” and despite the ignorance of railway officials, I was one of the elect. In plainer phrase, I had in my pocket a letter from the manager of the famous inn before mentioned, in which he promised to do what he could for my entertainment, even though he was not yet, as he said, keeping a hotel. Possibly I
made too
much of a small matter; but it pleased me to feel that this visit of
mine was
to be of a peculiarly intimate character, — almost, indeed, as if Mount
Washington himself had bidden me to private audience. Compelled
to wait
three or four hours in North Conway, I improved the opportunity to
stroll once
more down into the lovely Saco meadows, whose “green felicity” was just
now at
its height. Here, perched upon a fence-rail, in the shadow of an elm, I
gazed
at the snow-crowned Mount Washington range, while the bobolinks and
savanna
sparrows made music on every side. The song of the bobolinks dropped
from
above, and the microphonic tune of the sparrows came up from the grass,
— sky and
earth keeping holiday together. Almost I could have believed myself in
Eden.
But, alas, even the birds themselves were long since shut out of that
garden of
innocence, and as I started back toward the village a crow went
hurrying past
me, with a kingbird in hot pursuit. The latter was more fortunate than
usual,
or more plucky; actually alighting on the crow’s back and riding for
some
distance. I could not distinguish his motions, — he was too far away
for that,
— but I wished him joy of his victory, and grace to improve it to the
full. For
it is scandalous that a bird of the crow’s cloth should be a thief; and
so,
although I reckon him among my friends, — in truth, because I do so, —
I am
always able to take it patiently when I see him chastised for his
fault.
Imperfect as we all know each other to be, it is a comfort to feel that
few of
us are so altogether bad as not to take more or less pleasure in seeing
a
neighbor’s character improved under a course of moderately painful
discipline. At
Bartlett word came
that the passenger car would go no further, but that a freight train
would soon
start, on which, if I chose, I could continue my journey. Accordingly,
I rode
up through the Notch on a platform car, — a mode of conveyance which I
can
heartily and in all good conscience recommend. There is no crowd of
exclaiming
tourists, the train of necessity moves slowly, and the open platform
offers no
obstruction to the view. For a time I had a seat, which after a little
two
strangers ventured to occupy with me; for “it’s an ill wind that blows
nobody
good,” and there happened to be on the car one piece of baggage, — a
coffin,
inclosed in a pine box. Our sitting upon it could not harm either it or
us; nor
did we mean any disrespect to the man, whoever he might be, whose body
was to
be buried in it. Judging
the dead
charitably, as in duty bound, I had no doubt he would have been glad if
he
could have seen his “narrow house” put to such a use. So we made
ourselves
comfortable with it, until, at an invisible station, it was taken off.
Then we
were obliged to stand, or to retreat into a miserable small box-car
behind us.
The platform would lurch a little now and then, and I, for one, was not
experienced as a “train hand;” but we all kept our places till the
Frankenstein
trestle was reached. Here, where for five hundred feet we could look
down upon
the jagged rocks eighty feet below us, one of the trio suddenly had an
errand
into the box-car aforesaid, leaving the platform to the other stranger
and me.
All in all, the ride through the Notch had never before been so
enjoyable, I
thought; and late in the evening I found myself once again at the
Crawford
House, and in one of the best rooms, — as well enough I might be, being
the
only guest in the house. The next
morning,
before it was really light, I was lying awake looking at Mount Webster,
while
through the open window came the loud, cheery song of the
white-throated
sparrows. The hospitable creatures seemed to be inviting me to come at
once
into their woods; but I knew only too well that, if the invitation were
accepted, they would every one of them take to hiding like bashful
children. The
white-throat is
one of the birds for whom I cherish a special liking. On my first trip
to the
mountains I jumped off the train for a moment at Bartlett, and had
hardly
touched the ground before I heard his familiar call. Here, then, was
Mr.
Peabody at home. Season after season he had camped near me in
Massachusetts,
and many a time I had been gladdened by his lively serenade; now he
greeted me
from his own native woods. So far as my observations have gone, he is
common
throughout the mountain region; and that in spite of the standard
guide-book,
which puts him down as patronizing the Glen House almost exclusively.
He knows
the routes too well to need any guide, however, and may be excused for
his
ignorance of the official programme. It is wonderful how shy he is, —
the more
wonderful, because, during his migrations, his manner is so very
different.
Then, even in a city park you may watch him at your leisure, while his
loud,
clear whistle is often to be heard rising above a din of horse-cars and
heavy
wagons. But here, in his summer quarters, you will listen to his song a
hundred
times before you once catch a glimpse of the singer. At first thought
it seems
strange that a bird should be most at home when he is away from home;
but in
the one case he has nothing but his own safety to consult, while in the
other
he is thinking of those whose lives are more to him than his own, and
whose
hiding-place he is every moment on the alert to conceal. In
Massachusetts we
do not expect to find sparrows in deep woods. They belong in fields and
pastures, in roadside thickets, or by fence-rows and old stone-walls
bordered
with barberry bushes and alders. But these white-throats are children
of the
wilderness. It is one charm of their music that it always comes, or
seems to
come, from such a distance, — from far up the mountain-side, or from
the
inaccessible depths of some ravine. I shall not soon forget its wild
beauty as
it rose out of the spruce forests below me, while I was enjoying an
evening
promenade, all by myself, over the long, flat summit of Moosilauke.
From his
habit of singing late at night this sparrow is in some places known as
the
nightingale. His more common name is the Peabody bird; while a
Jefferson man,
who was driving me over the Cherry Mountain road, called him the
Peverly bird,
and told me the following story: A farmer named Peverly was walking about his
fields one spring morning, trying to make up his mind whether the time
had come
to put in his wheat. The question was important, and he was still in a
deep
quandary, when a bird spoke up out of the wood and said, “Sow wheat,
Peverly,
Peverly, Peverly! — Sow wheat, Peverly, Peverly, Peverly!” That settled
the
matter. The wheat was sown, and in the fall a most abundant harvest was
gathered; and ever since then this little feathered oracle has been
known as
the Peverly bird. We have improved on the custom of the ancients: they examined a bird’s entrails; we listen to his song. Who says the Yankee is not wiser than the Greek? But I was
lying
abed in the Crawford House when the voice of Zonotrichia albicollis sent
my thoughts thus
astray, from Moosilauke to Delphi. That day and the two following were
passed
in roaming about the woods near the hotel. The pretty painted trillium
was in
blossom, as was also the dark purple species, and the hobble-bush
showed its
broad white cymes in all directions. Here and there was the modest
little
spring beauty (Claytonia
Caroliniana),
and not far from the Elephant’s Head I discovered my first and only
patch of
dicentra, with its delicate dissected leaves and its oddly shaped
petals of
white and pale yellow. The false mitrewort (Tiarella
cordifolia) was in flower likewise, and the spur which is
cut off
Mount Willard by the railroad was all aglow with rhodora, — a perfect
flower-garden, on the monochromatic plan now so much in vogue. Along
the edge
of the rocks on the summit of Mount Willard a great profusion of the
common
saxifrage was waving in the fresh breeze: “Ten thousand saw I
at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.” On the
lower parts
of the mountains, the foliage was already well out, while the upper
parts were
of a fine purplish tint, which at first I was unable to account for,
but which
I soon discovered to be due to the fact that the trees at that height
were
still only in bud. A notable
feature
of the White Mountain forests is the absence of oaks and hickories.
These
tough, hard woods would seem to have been created on purpose to stand
against
wind and cold. But no; the hills are covered with the fragile poplars
and
birches and spruces, with never an oak or hickory among them. I
suspect,
indeed, that it is the very softness of the former which gives them
their
advantage. For this, as I suppose, is correlated with rapid growth; and
where
the summer is very short, speed may count for more than firmness of
texture,
especially during the first one or two years of the plant’s life.
Trees, like men,
lose in one way what they gain in another; or, in other words, they
“have the
defects of their qualities.” Probably Paul’s confession, “When I am
weak, then
am I strong,” is after all only the personal statement of a general
law, as
true of a poplar as of a Christian. For we all believe (do we not?)
that the
world is a universe, governed throughout by one Mind, so that whatever
holds in
one part is good everywhere. But it was
June,
and the birds, who were singing from daylight till dark, would have the
most of
my attention. It was pleasant to find here two comparatively rare
warblers, of
whom I had before had only casual glimpses, — the mourning warbler and
the
bay-breasted. The former was singing his loud but commonplace ditty
within a
few rods of the piazza on one side of the house, while his congener,
the
Maryland yellow-throat, was to be heard on the other side, along with
the
black-sap (Dendrœca striata),
the
black-and-yellow, and the Canadian flycatcher. The mourning warbler’s
song, as
I heard it, was like this: Whit
whit whit,
wit wit. The first three notes were deliberate and loud, on
one key,
and without accent. The last two were pitched a little lower, and were
shorter,
with the accent on the first of the pair; they were thinner in tone
than the opening
triplet, as is meant to be indicated by the difference of spelling.1
Others of the family were the golden-crowned thrush the small-billed
water-thr zillup, zillup, zillup
ush, the
yellow-rumped, the Blackburnian (with his characteristic), the
black-throated
green, the black-throated blue (the last with his loud, coarse kree, kree, kree), the
redstart, and the
elegant blue yellow-back. Altogether, they were a gorgeous company. But the
chief
singers were the olive-backed thrushes and the winter wrens. I should
be glad
to know on just what principle the olive-backs and their near
relatives, the
hermits, distribute themselves throughout the mountain region. Each
species
seems to have its own sections, to which it returns year after year,
.and the
olive-backed, being, as is well known, the more northern species of the
two,
naturally prefers the more elevated situations. I have found the latter
abundant near the Profile House, and for three seasons it has had
exclusive
possession of the White Mountain Notch, — so far, at least, as I have
been able
to discover.2 The hermits, on the other hand, frequent such
places
as North Conway, Gorham, Jefferson, Bethlehem, and the vicinity of the
Flume. Only once
have I
found the two species in the same neighborhood. That was near the
Breezy Point
House, on the side of Mount Moosilauke; but this place is so peculiarly
romantic, with its noble amphitheatre of hills, that I could not wonder
neither
species was willing to yield the ground entirely to the other; and even
here it
was to be noticed that the hermits were in or near the sugar-grove,
while the
Swainsons were in the forest, far off in an opposite direction.3
It is these birds, if any, whose music reaches the ears of the ordinary mountain tourist. Every man who is known among his acquaintances to have a little knowledge of such things is approached now and then with the question, “What bird was it, Mr. So-and-So, that I heard singing up in the mountains? I didn’t see him; he was always ever so far off; but his voice was wonderful, so sweet and clear and loud!” As a rule it may safely be taken for granted that such interrogatories refer either to the Swainson thrush or to the hermit. The inquirer is very likely disposed to be incredulous when he is told that there are birds in his own woods whose voice is so like that of his admired New Hampshire songster that, if he were to hear the two together, he would not at first be able to tell the one from the other. He has never heard them, he protests; which is true enough, for he never goes into the woods of his own town, or, if by chance he does, he leaves his ears behind him in the shop. His case is not peculiar. Men and women gaze enraptured at New Hampshire sunsets. How glorious they are, to be sure! What a pity the sun does not sometimes set in Massachusetts! As a
musician the
olive-back is certainly inferior to the hermit, and, according to my
taste, he
is surpassed also by the wood thrush and the Wilson but he is a
magnificent
singer, for all that, and when he is heard in the absence of the others
it is
often hard to believe that any one of them could do better. A good idea
of the
rhythm and length of his song may be gained by pronouncing somewhat
rapidly the
words, “I love, I love, I love you,” or, as it sometimes runs, “I love,
I love,
I love you truly.” How literal this translation is I am not scholar
enough to
determine, but without question it gives the sense substantially. The winter
wrens
were less numerous than the thrushes, I think, but, like them, they
sang at all
hours of the day, and seemed to be well distributed throughout the
woods. We
can hardly help asking how it is that two birds so very closely related
as the
house wren and the winter wren should have chosen haunts so extremely
diverse,
— the one preferring door-yards in thickly settled villages, the other
keeping
strictly to the wildest of all wild places. But whatever the
explanation, we
need not wish the fact itself different. Comparatively few ever hear
the winter
wren’s song, to be sure (for you will hardly get it from a hotel
piazza), but
it is not the less enjoyed on that account. There is such a thing as a
bird’s
making himself too common; and probably it is true even of the great prima donna
that it is not those who live in the house with her who find most
pleasure in
her music. Moreover, there is much in time and circumstance. You hear a
song in
the village street, and pass along unmoved; but stand in the silence of
the
forest, with your feet in a bed of creeping snowberry and oxalis, and
the same
song goes to your very soul. The great
distinction of the winter wren’s melody is its marked rhythm and
accent, which
give it a martial, fife-like character. Note tumbles over note in the
true wren
manner, and the strain comes to an end so suddenly that for the first
few times
you are likely to think that the bird has been interrupted. In the
middle is a
long in-drawn note, much like one of the canary’s. The odd little
creature does
not get far away from the ground. I have never seen him sing from a
living tree
or bush, but always from a stump or a log, or from the root or branch
of an
overturned tree, — from something, at least, of nearly his own color.4
The song is intrinsically one of the most beautiful, and in my ears it
has the
further merit of being forever associated with reminiscences of
ramblings among
the White Hills. How well I remember an early morning hour at Profile
Lake,
when it came again and again across the water from the woods on Mount
Cannon,
under the Great Stone Face! Whichever
way I walked,
I was sure of the society of the snow-birds. They hopped familiarly
across the
railroad track in front of the Crawford House, and on the summit of
Mount
Washington were scurrying about among the rocks, opening and shutting
their
pretty white-bordered fans. Half-way up Mount Willard I sat down to
rest on a
stone, and after a minute or two out dropped a snow-bird at my feet,
and ran
across the road, trailing her wings. I looked under the bank for her
nest, but,
to my surprise, could find nothing of it. So I made sure of knowing the
place
again, and continued my tramp. Returning two hours later, I sat down
upon the
same bowlder, and watched for the bird to appear as before; but she had
gathered courage from my former failure, — or so it seemed, — and I
waited in
vain till I rapped upon the ground over her head. Then she scrambled
out and
limped away, repeating her innocent but hackneyed ruse. This time I was
resolved not to be baffled. The nest was there, and I would find it. So
down on
my knees I got, and scrutinized the whole place most carefully. But
though I
had marked the precise spot, there was no sign of a nest. I was about
giving
over the search ignominiously, when I descried a slight opening between
the
overhanging roof of the bank and a layer of earth which some roots held
in
place close under it. Into this slit I inserted my fingers, and there,
entirely
out of sight, was the nest full of eggs. No man could ever have found
it, had
the bird been brave and wise enough to keep her seat. However, I had
before
this noticed that the snowbird, while often extremely clever in
choosing a
building site, is seldom very skillful in keeping a secret. I saw him
one day
standing on the side of the same Mount Willard road,5
gesticulating
and scolding with all his might, as much as to say, “Please don’t stop
here! Go
straight along, I beg of you! Our nest is right under this bank!” And
one
glance under the bank showed that I had not misinterpreted his
demonstrations.
For all that, I do not feel like taking a lofty tone in passing
judgment upon
Junco. He is not the only one whose wisdom is mixed with foolishness.
There is
at least one other person of whom the same is true, — a person of whom
I have
nevertheless a very good opinion, and with whom I am, or ought to be,
better
acquainted than I am with any animal that wears feathers. The
prettiest
snow-bird’s nest I ever saw was built beside the Crawford bridle path,
on Mount
Clinton, just before the path comes out of the woods at the top. It was
lined
with hair-moss (a species of Polytrichum)
of a bright orange color, and with its four or five white,
lilac-spotted eggs
made so attractive a picture that I was constrained to pause a moment
to look
at it, even though I had three miles of a steep, rough footpath to
descend,
with a shower threatening to overtake me before I could reach the
bottom. I
wondered whether the architects really possessed an eye for color, or
had only
stumbled upon this elegant bit of decoration. On the whole, it seemed
more
charitable to conclude the former; and not only more charitable, but
more
scientific as well. For, if I understand the matter aright, Mr. Darwin
and his
followers have settled upon the opinion that birds do display an
unmistakable
fondness for bright tints; that, indeed, the males of many species wear
brilliant plumage for no other reason than that their mates prefer them
in that
dress. Moreover, if a bird in New South Wales adorns her bower with
shells and
other ornaments, why may not our little Northern darling beautify her
nest with
such humbler materials as her surroundings offer? On reflection, I am
more and
more convinced that the birds knew what they were doing; probably the
female,
the moment she discovered the moss, called to her mate, “Oh, look, how
lovely!
Do, my dear, let’s line our nest with it.” This
artistic
structure was found on the anniversary of the battle of Bunker Hill, a
day
which I had been celebrating, as best I could, by climbing the highest
hill in
New England. Plunging into the woods within fifty yards of the Crawford
House,
I had gone up and up, and on and on, through a magnificent forest, and
then
over more magnificent rocky heights, until I stood at last on the
platform of
the hotel at the summit. True, the path, which I had never traveled
before, was
wet and slippery, with stretches of ice and snow here and there; but
the
shifting view was so grand, the atmosphere so bracing, and the solitude
so
impressive that I enjoyed every step, till it came to clambering up the
Mount
Washington cone over the bowlders. At this point, to speak frankly, I
began to
hope that the ninth mile would prove to be a short one. The guide-books
are
agreed in warning the visitor against making this ascent without a
companion,
and no doubt they are right in so doing. A crippling accident would
almost
inevitably be fatal, while for several miles the trail is so indistinct
that it
would be difficult, if not impossible, to follow it in a fog. And yet,
if one
is willing to take the risk (and is not so unfortunate as never to have
learned
how to keep himself company), he will find a very considerable
compensation in
the peculiar pleasure to be experienced in being absolutely alone above
the
world. For myself, I was shut up to going in this way or not going at
all; and
a Bostonian must do something patriotic on the Seventeenth of June. But
for all
that, if the storm which chased me down the mountains in the afternoon,
clouding first Mount Washington and then Mount Pleasant behind me, and
shutting
me indoors all the next day, had started an hour sooner, or if I had
been
detained an hour later, it is not impossible that I might now be
writing in a
different strain. My
reception at the
top was none of the heartiest. The hotel was tightly closed, while a
large
snow-bank stood guard before the door. However, I invited myself into
the
Signal Service Station, and made my wants known to one of the officers,
who
very kindly spread a table with such things as he and his companions
had just
been eating. It would be out of place to say much about the luncheon:
the bread
and butter were good, and the pudding was interesting. I had the cook’s
word
for it that the latter was made of corn-starch, but he volunteered no
explanation of its color, which was nearly that of chocolate. As a
working
hypothesis I adopted the molasses or brown-sugar theory, but a brief
experiment
(as brief as politeness permitted) indicated a total absence of any
saccharine
principle. But then, what do we climb mountains for, if not to see
something
out of the common course? On the whole, if this department of our
national
government is ever on trial for extravagance in the matter of high
living, I
shall be moved to offer myself as a competent witness for the defense. A company
of
chimney-swifts were flying criss-cross over the summit, and one of the
men said
that he presumed they lived there. I took the liberty to doubt his
opinion,
however. To me it seemed nothing but a blunder that they should be
there even
for an hour. There could hardly be many insects at that height, I
thought, and
I had abundant cause to know that the woods below were full of them. I
knew,
also, that the swifts knew it; for while I had been prowling about
between
Crawford’s and Fabyan’s, they had several times shot by my head so
closely that
I had instinctively fallen to calculating the probable consequences of
a
collision. But, after all, the swift is no doubt a far better
entomologist than
I am, though lie has never heard of Packard’s Guide. Possibly there are
certain
species of insects, and those of a peculiarly delicate savor, which are
to be
obtained only at about this altitude. The most
enjoyable
part of the Crawford path is the five miles from the top of Mount
Clinton to
the foot of the Mount Washington cone. Along this ridge I was delighted
to find
in blossom two beautiful Alpine plants, which I had missed in previous
(July)
visits, — the diapensia (Diapensia
Lapponica)
and the Lapland rosebay (Rhododendron
Lapponicum), — and to get also a single forward specimen of Potentilla frigida. Here and
there was a
humblebee, gathering honey from the small purple catkins of the
prostrate
willows, now in full bloom. (Rather high-minded humblebees, they
seemed, more
than five thousand feet above the sea!) Professional. entomologists
(the
chimney-swift, perhaps, included) may smile at my simplicity, but I was
surprised to find this “animated torrid zone,” this “insect lover of
the sun,”
in such a Greenland climate. Did he not know that his own poet had
described
him as “hot midsummer’s petted crone”? But possibly he was equally
surprised at
my appearance. He might even have taken his turn at quoting Emerson: — “Pants up hither
the spruce clerk
From South Cove and City Wharf”? 6 Of the two, he was unquestionably the more at home, for he was living where in forty-eight hours I should have found my death. So much is Bombus better than a man. In a little pool of water, which seemed to be nothing but a transient puddle caused by the melting snow, was a tiny fish. I asked him by what miracle he got there, but he could give no explanation. He, too, might well enough have joined the noble company of Emersonians: —
Almost at
the very
top of Mount Clinton I was saluted by the familiar ditty of the
Nashville
warbler. I could hardly believe my ears; but there was no mistake, for
the bird
soon appeared in plain sight. Had it been one of the hardier-seeming
species,
the yellow-rumped for example, I should not have thought it very
strange; but
this dainty Helminthophaga,
so
common in the vicinity of Boston, did appear to be out of his latitude,
summering here on Alpine heights. With a good pair of wings, and the
whole
continent to choose from, he surely might have found some more
congenial spot
than this in which to bring up his little family. I took his presence
to be
only an individual freak, but a subsequent visitor, who made the ascent
from
the Glen, reported the same species on that side also, and at about the
same
height. These signs of life on bleak mountain ridges are highly interesting and suggestive. The fish, the bumblebees, the birds, and a mouse which scampered away to its hole amid the rocks, — all these might have found better living elsewhere. But Nature will have her world full. Stunted life is better than none, she thinks. So she plants her forests of spruces, and keeps them growing, where, with all their efforts, they cannot get above the height of a man’s knee. There is no beauty about them, no grace. They sacrifice symmetry and everything else for the sake of bare existence, reminding one of Satan’s remark, “All that a man hath will he give for his life.” Very
admirable are
the devices by which vegetation maintains itself against odds.
Everybody
notices that many of the mountain species, like the diapensia, the
rose-bay,
the Greenland sandwort (called the mountain daisy by the Summit House
people,
for some inscrutable reason), and the phyllodoce, have blossoms
disproportionately large and handsome; as if they realized that, in
order to
attract their indispensable allies, the insects, to these inhospitable
regions,
they must offer them some special inducements. Their case is not unlike
that of
a certain mountain hotel which might be named, which happens to be
poorly
situated, but which keeps itself full, nevertheless, by the peculiar
excellence
of its cuisine. It does not require much imagination to believe that these hardy vegetable mountaineers love their wild, desolate dwelling-places as truly as do the human residents of the region. An old man in Bethlehem told me that sometimes, during the long, cold winter, he felt that perhaps it would be well for him, now his work was done, to sell his “place” and go down to Boston to live, near his brother. “But then,” he added, “you know it’s dangerous transplanting an old tree; you’re likely as not to kill it.” Whatever we have, in this world, we must pay for with the loss of something else. The bitter must be taken with the sweet, be we plants, animals, or men. These thoughts recurred to me a day or two later, as I lay on the summit of Mount Agassiz, in the sun and out of the wind, gazing down into the Franconia Valley, then in all its June beauty. Nestled under the lee of the mountain, but farther from the base, doubtless, than it seemed from my point of view, was a small dwelling, scarcely better than a shanty. Two or three young children were playing about the door, and near them was the man of the house splitting wood. The air was still enough for me to hear every blow, although it reached me only as the axe was again over the man’s head, ready for the next descent. It was a charming picture, — the broad, green valley full of sunshine and peace, and the solitary cottage, from whose doorstep might be seen in one direction the noble Mount Washington range, and in another the hardly less noble Franconias. How easy to live simply and well in such a grand seclusion! But soon there came a thought of Wordsworth’s sonnet, addressed to just such a mood, “Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye,” and I felt at once the truth of his admonition. What if the cottage really were mine, — mine to spend a lifetime in? How quickly the poetry would turn to prose! An hour
afterwards, on my way back to the Sinclair House, I passed a group of
men at
work on the highway. One of them was a little apart from the rest, and
out of a
social impulse I accosted him with the remark, “I suppose, in heaven,
the
streets never will need mending.” Quick as thought came the reply:
“Well, I
hope not. If I ever get
there, I
don’t want to work on the road.”
Here spoke universal human nature, which finds its strong argument for
immortality in its discontent with matters as they now are. The one
thing we
are all sure of is that we were born for something better than our
present
employment; and even those who school themselves most religiously in
the virtue
of contentment know very well how to define that grace so as not to
exclude
from it a comfortable mixture of “divine dissatisfaction.” Well for us
if we
are still able to stand in our place and do faithfully our allotted
task, like
the mountain spruces and the Bethlehemite road-mender. 1 He is said to have
another song,
beautiful and wren-like; but that I have never heard. 2 This is making no
account of the
gray-cheeked thrushes, who are found only near the tops of the
mountains. 3 I have Since found
both species at
Willoughby Lake, Vermont, and the veery with them. 4 True when written, but
now needing
to be qualified by one exception. See p. 226. 5 Beside this road (in
June, 1883) I
found a nest of the yellow-bellied flycatcher (Empidonax
jiaviventris). It was built at the base of a decayed stump,
in a
little depression between two roots, and was partially overarched with
growing
moss. It contained four eggs, — white, spotted with brown. I called
upon the
bird half a dozen times or more, and found her a model “keeper at
home.” On one
occasion she allowed my hand to come within two or three inches of her
bill. In
every case she flew off without any outcry or ruse, and once at least
she fell
immediately to fly-catching with admirable philosophy. So far as I
know, this
is the only nest of the species ever found in New England outside of
Maine. But
it is proper to add that I did not capture the bird. 6 But by this time the
clerk’s
appearance was, to say the least, not reprehensibly “spruce.” For one
thing,
what with the moisture and the sharp stones, he was already becoming
jealous of
his shoes, lest they should not hold together till he could get back to
the
Crawford House. |