Outings At Odd Times

A Midsummer Outing

The gentle breeze that keeps the forest roof a-tremble whispers the promise of a cool day, but breaks it long before noontide. It is wise, therefore, to trust only to past experience, and, if you ramble at all during the dog-days, consider yourself in the tropics and act accordingly. Seek the shady nooks, and rest content to contemplate that which is nearest at hand. He has traveled much who spends an hour in the woods. The glamour of mystery rests as a veil over every tree and shrub, and who has yet shown why the wayside weeds are all so brilliant and beautiful? Where, except the damp shades of night, no cooling shadows ever fall, even the well-traveled highway is now resplendent with St. – John’s-wort, or white as with a snow-drift, where the blooming yarrow clusters; but the pitiless sun threatens the rambler here, and I turn to the little forest of sumach and locust which now nearly obliterates the boundaries of a long-neglected pasture. Everywhere is outspread the luxuriance of the tropics. Acres of lilies, ruddy and golden, set in a cloud of tall meadow-rue; and this wealth of gorgeous bloom upon which the eyes might feast the summer long, is hedged by a glossy thicket of smilax, broken here and there only to give place to a no less rank growth of pink roses. My neighbors hold the place a disgrace to its owner, but I have long since cut the word “weed” from my vocabulary.

In midsummer, it is too much like cataloguing to scan over-closely one’s surroundings. General impressions are all that one should aim at, and not fret if many a flower or bird should escape notice. When it is ninety in the shade, it is well to carry even a light load of thoughts. Lilies and yarrow, for instance, are enough for a hot July morning, and I am quite content to have further details go to those botanists, fearful bores, who

Probably there was waving lizard-tail; I know there was purple milkweed; but if there were a host of lesser growths, it availed nothing. I was seated in a bit of shade, and from my cozy nook looked out, at my leisure, upon acres of lilies; and when their fiery tints proved too bright for such a day, I refreshed my sight by turning to the yarrow, on my left, or that daintiest of blooming shrubs, tall meadow-rue. Is this too objectless a way to spend the summer? Should an outing have higher aims? Various comments that reach me imply that view, but I enter a plea for such laziness. Whoso contemplates a flower logically, and sees not only it, but all that it represents, has given his brain but little rest, though he may never have moved a finger. A fig for the loud-mouthed chatter of non-productive busy-bodies!

It was not long before the fact became evident that this sea of lilies was the pathless highway of a busy world. Bees, wasps, and many a creature akin to them hurried by, tarrying but for a moment here and there, ever buzzing their displeasure or humming sweet satisfaction as on they rush. As in the human world, success and want of it were the essence of the steady ramble of that insect metropolis.

Though long I waited, not a bird came near. The kingbirds, that are held to be such foes of the honey-bees, were not to be seen, nor any fly-catchers came in view. Afar off in the shady copse I could hear the wood-pee-wee lisp its languid notes, and nearer a field-sparrow trilled its winsome lay, but neither dared venture to the open meadow. It was the insects’ paradise for the time, and I must confess soon became monotonous. But I struggled against tiring of the wild bees’ hum, and hoped, if nothing more tasteful offered, I might gather a bit of patience. If dished up daintily, perhaps it can be swallowed with a smiling countenance, but the bare drug, in fly-time, rouses a rebellion.

I singled out the nearest lily, and armed with my field-glass became statistician. The novelty wore off directly: it was too like work. The procession of bees and bee-like flies that visited that one flower was not to be counted like city street parades. The bees marched in every direction, and the lily was simply the hub of a wheel with innumerable spokes. Soon, however, the monotony was broken and my languishing interest revived. There was a commotion in this particular nook of lilydom. I cautiously drew near, and found a noisy humming-bird; then nearer, and found it no bird at all, but a clear-winged sphinx, and was not ashamed to find I had made so great a mistake at the outset. There is no great harm done in jumping at a conclusion, if we follow it up and verify or correct the original impression. Certainly at a little distance the resemblance is very marked. On its appearance every near-by insect seemed to take umbrage at the presence of the “clear-wing,” and the volume of sound was largely increased. There was a change from a contented hum to an angry buzz. This change was readily brought about I found by agitating the lilies with a switch, and so I realized, more clearly than ever before, how by the increased velocity of the wings’ movements an insect would express its emotions. For a time I forgot the heat and the glare of the noontide sun, and, walking to and fro, I roused at will an angry roar from thousands of disturbed bees, or, by remaining quiet, allowed it to settle into the drowsy hum of contentment.

But the unprotected tropic of that field of lilies proved too great a strain, and I was glad to seek the shelter of the woods. And what a change is wrought by a few degrees of temperature! Here I found the humming-birds in propriæ personæ, but they would not hum or buzz as I drew near or retreated, and proved to be veritable commonplaces, although I am sure their nest was very near. Disgusted with their unsuggestiveness, I went home, and there followed up the subject, so far as these birds are concerned. Covering one side of a porch is a thrifty trumpet creeper, now in full bloom. Here come the humming-birds continually, morning, noon, and night, and here I heard their angry buzz, and could see it, too, I think, in the motion of their wings. It needed only a little irritation to make them buzz angrily; but this is not their only means of making themselves heard. They can squeak quite loudly, and very generally do, if the flower they alight upon or actually enter, is not quite to their satisfaction. I used to think that the wrens were the quickest tempered of all our birds, but probably the humming-birds are their equals in this respect. This I learned from a pair of nesting birds, but to-day, this terrible, tropical July day, I had the other fact impressed upon me, that not alone do insects express their feelings by the movements of the wings; it is true also of the humming-bird.

A Word about Knowledge

Half a loaf may be better than no bread, but such a rule will not apply to all matters. Half a fact is not better than ignorance.

Recently, not very far from New York, the Boston idea of naming the trees in the public grounds – painting upon narrow boards both the botanical and common names – was adopted by the city authorities.

Acer rubrum, | Quercus alba,

Red maple, | White oak,

and so on, were nailed to the various trees, and each, as is not always the case, in its proper place. While the work was in progress the following conversation took place: “What a deal of money is spent in advertising patent medicines and such stuff nowadays!” remarked Blank to his friend. “See there!” and he pointed to a maple properly labeled, adding, “That’s some new bitters or a salve for corns, I suppose.” “No, it isn’t,” replied Double Blank, with an air of infinite wisdom; “these boards are the names of the different kinds of trees, nailed up for the benefit of the ignorant in such matters. Here’s another one, and, don’t you see, it gives the scientific and common names both? Quercus, white; alba, an oak. I remember that much Latin, anyhow.” Is it true that life is too short to acquire decent knowledge of natural history, along with arithmetic and geography? And what profiteth it to study Latin if such a display of ignorance as the above is the ultimate outcome? Botany and zoölogy are in the curriculum of many lesser institutions than colleges; but, from the manner in which these subjects are taught in some places, they would better be omitted. These two worthy citizens whose conversation was overheard – and the report thereof is not “doctored” – had both been through a course of botany, and one of them had struggled through a Latin reader. There is undoubtedly still a considerable amount of prejudice against science, or “organized common sense,” as Kingdon Clifford has happily called it, though why I do not pretend to know. If it is a fact that birds fly and fishes swim, can any harm come of knowing it, and of how and why they fly and swim? And, a step further, if some birds swim instead of fly, and certain fishes climb trees, as is true, is knowledge of the fact likely to prove dangerous? Yet again, if ten thousand facts have been discovered, as they have, which upset the ideas of our grandfathers, need we tremble? I trow not. And this leads me to a word also about “newspaper science,” of which more anon. What wonderful statements creep into the local papers! Impossible snakes, no less impossible birds, and creatures too strange for even the nightmare of a zoölogist, figure now and then as captured in the neighborhood of an inland town, yet no one contradicts the reporter or sees the absurdity of it all. The mythical hoop-snake bespatters the “patent outsides” of many a village weekly. Better, by far, absolute ignorance than half the truth. Quercus, white; alba, an oak, indeed!

While the aforesaid intellectual status causes us to pity our fellows and at times to laugh at their expense, brazen assumption of knowledge, which is far more common, is often positively exasperating.

What a sad spectacle, yet very common one, to find, even in our larger towns, thousands led blindly by a half-dozen who, by reason of brazen assumption, have stepped forth as leaders, and been meekly accepted as such! The intellectual status of many a village is sometimes ludicrous. In Smalltown there live a lawyer, a doctor, and a clergyman, who are great cronies, past sixty, and puffed up with pride. As a matter of course, they rule the little community with a rod of iron. Not a great question of the day but is referred to some one of the three or to all, and nothing concerning the past comes up but their opinion is sought and relied upon. No one ever reaches an independent conclusion, nor thinks for a moment that error may have crept in when the past is discussed. The noble three were never known to admit their ignorance; and never, during their joint reign, have their decisions been disputed. Of course, the inhabitants of Smalltown see as through a glass, darkly; for who such disseminators of untruth as those who lay claim to universal knowledge? May a recent ray of light that recently penetrated their darkness tend toward their awakening! It happened not long since that the blacksmith fell ill, and a stranger took his place at the forge. This newcomer had been taught his trade, and rightfully prided himself that he thoroughly understood it. Such independence nettled the village clergyman, and, when that worthy came to have his horse shod, there was not a paring of the hoof, driving of a nail, or stroke of the hammer, but under his explicit direction. The smith was patient, silent, and obedient, but all the while there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes. The horse went lame directly, and “That fellow is an ignorant bungler,” was the minister’s outspoken decision.

That was Monday, and Smalltown moved with the monotony of the old hall clock’s pendulum until Sunday morning. Then the quiet blacksmith took his seat in church near the door and sat through the service. In due course the sermon of the past half-century, with variations, was preached, and ended with the usual peroration, “Brethren, is this not true?” With the asking of that question Smalltown was shaken to its foundations, for the blacksmith quickly shouted, “No!” and straightway retired. That minister had no faith in the skill of the blacksmith; the latter placed no confidence in the preacher’s logic. I do not defend the blacksmith, but, somehow, when I heard the story, I was otherwise than shocked. There is a bit of harshness in it, perhaps, but the remark must needs be made: Pin not too much faith upon defective memory; and it may be rightfully added, there is nothing but reasonableness in the suggestion that he who presumes to know all things is no safe authority upon any.

The Night-Side of Nature

Not long since I checked the flow of a diminutive brook that barely trickled over a most tortuous course, and during midsummer was often a thing forgotten. By building a dam I raised a shallow pond about two hundred feet square, and nowhere more than eighteen inches deep, save at its outlet. Here are now growing beautiful water-lilies – pink, yellow, blue, and white – the stately lotus, and many a pretty aquatic plant from foreign lands. Of these I have nothing now to say, except incidentally, but a good deal concerning the remarkable zoölogical features of this artificial pond in the corner of an exposed upland field.

I am quite sure that the most skillful hunter would have found no game had he scoured this and the adjoining fields, even with trained dogs; no trapper would have deigned to set a snare anywhere about the place, and the naturalist would have considered the outlook most unpromising. As in every farming district, here were acres of corn-fields, wheat-fields, truck-patch, and pasture, and nothing but grass or growing crops to relieve the monotony of the landscape. Every vestige of wildness has long since been improved off the face of this region, and grasshoppers, mice, and field-sparrows constitute the fauna. That is, apparently so; and how readily we underrate the merits of the so-called commonplace in nature! The truth is, every inch of these unsuggestive fields has ever been and is familiar ground to hosts of cunning creatures, or how else could the pond that was formed in a few days have become tenanted as it now is? The remarkable promptness with which every nook and corner was occupied by some water-loving animal almost the very day the pond was formed shows how much is overlooked if we familiarize ourselves only with the events of the day, and ignore, as young naturalists are all too apt to do, the night-side of nature.

If the reader were to stand on the bank of the little pond early in the morning, his attention would doubtless be drawn exclusively to the lilies, and the skimming barn-swallows or fiery dragon-flies that outspeed them would not be seen. Here and there the waters would be rippled, but only the broad leaves of the lotus trembling in the breeze would catch his eye, yet that ripple marks the progress of a monstrous water-snake. Charmed by the beauty of a trailing vine that rests like an emerald serpent on the pond’s placid surface, the deep tones of enormous frogs will be unheard, yet here are giants of their race that quickly found the spot, many of them larger and more musical than their brethren in the meadows. By the side of a miniature lily from Siberia, scarcely an inch in width, may pop up the rugged head of the ferocious snapping-turtle, but the onlooker will see only a bit of wood floating in the water, so absorbed is he in the wonderful display of aquatic bloom.

Now, this is not an imaginary case, but the record of more than one actual occurrence, and I lay stress upon the particulars because it shows how readily we overlook so much that is well worth seeing. These few square rods of shallow water go not so much to make a lily-pond, although this was my sole intention, as to form a zoölogical garden on a quite extensive scale.

Let us consider now some of these unbidden and unwelcome occupants of the pond. Of the mammalian life, first in bulk as well as destructiveness is the musk-rat. It is not so much of a wonder that these animals so soon appeared. They are given to nocturnal wanderings. This is the night-side of their nature that we must keep in mind. In this case they had but to follow the windings of the brook for a thousand yards from a creek, where they have always been, to reach the pond. The curious feature of their coming was, that in so short a time they had securely established themselves. They seem to have said to themselves, “This is to our liking,” and without delay dug their underground retreats. They considered the pond their own, and in one night the smooth and sodded bank was marred by a line of treacherous hills and hollows. Then broad leaves and thick stems of lilies began to float about, cleanly cut from the parent plant. The culprits were well known, yet days and weeks passed without one being seen. But a single moonlit night sufficed to tell me what I had guessed: their hours of activity are when men are supposed to be asleep.

The wary mink, too, came nightly to the pond, and, if it fished in the waters, it was for the many frogs that abounded, but I found no mangled remains of the old fellows that out-croaked the myriads in the meadows.

Then rabbits, mice, and squirrels came trooping to the water’s edge, stood there, and wondered at the novelty of a bit of the meadows being brought from the lowlands to this dry and dusty field; and when a prowling dog came by, how with one wild shriek they vanished, and left the pond to the bewildered dog and myself, and then to myself only, for the dog soon turned to follow the trail of the fleeing rabbits; and here I tarried long, gazing in rapture upon the lotus by moonlight.

It is Gordon Cumming who has described with wonderful vividness how herds of antelopes and elephants, and even many lions, came to drink at night from pools near which he lay concealed. What a boon to a naturalist to see these mighty beasts under such circumstances!

It may seem very absurd to think of one when speaking of the other, and ludicrous to compare them; but when I sat concealed by the little lily-pond and saw these little animals, musk-rats, rabbits, and even smaller fry, come to the water’s edge, I did think of the great lion-hunter of South Africa, and honestly believe I could realize, even more vividly than when I read his thrilling pages, what he had seen.

Probably no feature of wild life is so characteristic of water-scenes as the tall wading birds, herons, snipe, and sand-pipers. I did not anticipate the coming of any of these, unless it might be the little teetering sand-piper that is practically a land bird; but it has kept aloof, so far as I know, while stately herons have come and trod the grassy shores and fished in the shallow depths. These birds are not a feature of the day, however, and unless you are abroad after sunset you would not suspect their presence. And then do not expect too much. Probably some of the wonderful stories concerning herons, bitterns, cranes, and storks, have come to your notice, but it is quite certain that our North American species are very prosy, and set off by their size the waterscape far more than they embellish it by wonderful habits. It is true they are expert in catching frogs, cray-fish, and even mice; but, however bright the moonlight, you can see next to nothing of all this. The facts have been reached from dissection more than observation. And what of the “powder-down patches” upon a heron’s breast? The fable that these emit light and illuminate the water sufficiently to enable the bird to see a fish in the water is still repeated, and a greater error never found utterance. It is a pretty fancy, so the more dangerous, as it crops out every now and then, to the deceiving of the unsuspecting reader.