“The grace of God made manifest in curves,”
it follows the edge of the hammock, having the river on one side, and the forest on the other. It was afternoon when I first saw it. Then it is shaded from the sun, while the river and its opposite bank have on them a ? 69 ? light more beautiful than can be described or imagined; a light—with reverence2 for the poet of nature be it spoken—a light that never was except on sea or land. The poet’s dream was never equal to it.
In a flat country stretches of water are doubly welcome. They take the place of hills, and give the eye what it craves,—distance; which softens4 angles, conceals5 details, and heightens colors,—in short, transfigures the world with its romancer’s touch, and blesses us with illusion. So, as I loitered along the south road, I never tired of looking across the river to the long, wooded island, and over that to the line of sand-hills that marked the eastern rim6 of the East Peninsula, beyond which was the Atlantic. The white crests8 of the hills made the sharper points of the horizon line. Elsewhere clumps9 of nearer pine-trees intervened, while here and there a tall palmetto stood, or seemed to stand, on the highest and farthest ridge10 looking seaward. But particulars mattered little. The blue water, the pale, changeable grayish-green of the low island woods, the deeper green of the pines, the unnameable hues11 of the sky, the sunshine ? 70 ? that flooded it all, these were beauty enough;—beauty all the more keenly enjoyed because for much of the way it was seen only by glimpses, through vistas12 of palmetto and live-oak. Sometimes the road came quite out of the woods, as it rounded a turn of the hammock. Then I stopped to gaze long at the scene. Elsewhere I pushed through the hedge at favorable points, and sat, or stood, looking up and down the river. A favorite seat was the prow13 of an old rowboat, which lay, falling to pieces, high and dry upon the sand. It had made its last cruise, but I found it still useful.
The river is shallow. At low tide sand-bars and oyster14-beds occupy much of its breadth; and even when it looked full, a great blue heron would very likely be wading15 in the middle of it. That was a sight to which I had grown accustomed in Florida, where this bird, familiarly known as “the major,” is apparently16 ubiquitous. Too big to be easily hidden, it is also, as a general thing, too wary17 to be approached within gunshot. I am not sure that I ever came within sight of one, no matter how suddenly or how far away, that it did not give evidence ? 71 ? of having seen me first. Long legs, long wings, a long bill—and long sight and long patience: such is the tall bird’s dowry. Good and useful qualities, all of them. Long may they avail to put off the day of their owner’s extermination18.
The major is scarcely a bird of which you can make a pet in your mind, as you may of the chickadee, for instance, or the bluebird, or the hermit19 thrush. He does not lend himself naturally to such imaginary endearments20. But it is pleasant to have him on one’s daily beat. I should count it one compensation for having to live in Florida instead of in Massachusetts (but I might require a good many others) that I should see him a hundred times as often. In walking down the river road I seldom saw less than half a dozen; not together (the major, like fishermen in general, is of an unsocial turn), but here one and there one,—on a sand-bar far out in the river, or in some shallow bay, or on the submerged edge of an oyster-flat. Wherever he was, he always looked as if he might be going to do something presently; even now, perhaps, the matter was on his mind; but at this moment—well, ? 72 ? there are times when a heron’s strength is to stand still. Certainly he seemed in no danger of overeating. A cracker21 told me that the major made an excellent dish if killed on the full of the moon. I wondered at that qualification, but my informant explained himself. The bird, he said, feeds mostly at night, and fares best with the moon to help him. If the reader would dine off roast blue heron, therefore, as I hope I never shall, let him mind the lunar phases. But think of the gastronomic22 ups and downs of a bird that is fat and lean by turns twelve times a year! Possibly my informant overstated the case; but in any event I would trust the major to bear himself like a philosopher. If there is any one of God’s creatures that can wait for what he wants, it must be the great blue heron.
I have spoken of his caution. If he was patrolling a shallow on one side of an oyster-bar,—at the rate, let us say, of two steps a minute,—and took it into his head (an inappropriate phrase, as conveying an idea of something like suddenness) to try the water on the other side, he did not ? 73 ? spread his wings, as a matter of course, and fly over. First he put up his head—an operation that makes another bird of him—and looked in all directions. How could he tell what enemy might be lying in wait? And having alighted on the other side (his manner of alighting is one of his prettiest characteristics), he did not at once draw in his neck till his bill protruded23 on a level with his body, and resume his labors24, but first he looked once more all about him. It was a good habit to do that, anyhow, and he meant to run no risks. If “the race of birds was created out of innocent, light-minded men, whose thoughts were directed toward heaven,” according to the word of Plato, then Ardea herodias must long ago have fallen from grace. I imagine his state of mind to be always like that of our pilgrim fathers in times of Indian massacres25. When they went after the cows or to hoe the corn, they took their guns with them, and turned no corner without a sharp lookout26 against ambush27. No doubt such a condition of affairs has this advantage, that it makes ennui28 impossible. There is always something to live for, if it be only to avoid getting killed.
? 74 ?
After this manner did the Hillsborough River majors all behave themselves until my very last walk beside it. Then I found the exception,—the exception that is as good as inevitable29 in the case of any bird, if the observation be carried far enough. He (or she; there was no telling which it was) stood on the sandy beach, a splendid creature in full nuptial30 garb31, two black plumes32 nodding jauntily33 from its crown, and masses of soft elongated35 feathers draping its back and lower neck. Nearer and nearer I approached, till I must have been within a hundred feet; but it stood as if on dress parade, exulting36 to be looked at. Let us hope it never carried itself thus gayly when the wrong man came along.
Near the major—not keeping him company, but feeding in the same shallows and along the same oyster-bars—were constantly to be seen two smaller relatives of his, the little blue heron and the Louisiana. The former is what is called a dichromatic species; some of the birds are blue, and others white. On the Hillsborough, it seemed to me that white specimens37 predominated; but possibly that was because ? 75 ? they were so much more conspicuous38. Sunlight favors the white feather; no other color shows so quickly or so far. If you are on the beach and catch sight of a bird far out at sea,—a gull39 or a tern, a gannet or a loon,—it is invariably the white parts that are seen first. And so the little white heron might stand never so closely against the grass or the bushes on the further shore of the river, and the eye could not miss him. If he had been a blue one, art that distance, ten to one he would have escaped me. Besides, I was more on the alert for white ones, because I was always hoping to find one of them with black legs. In other words, I was looking for the little white egret, a bird concerning which, thanks to the murderous work of plume-hunters,—thanks, also, to those good women who pay for having the work done,—I must confess that I went to Florida and came home again without certainly seeing it.
The heron with which I found myself especially taken was the Louisiana; a bird of about the same size as the little blue, but with an air of daintiness and lightness that is quite its own, and quite indescribable. ? 76 ? When it rose upon the wing, indeed, it seemed almost too light, almost unsteady, as if it lacked ballast, like a butterfly. It was the most numerous bird of its tribe along the river, I think, and, with one exception, the most approachable. That exception was the green heron, which frequented the flats along the village front, and might well have been mistaken for a domesticated41 bird; letting you walk across a plank42 directly over its head while it squatted43 upon the mud, and when disturbed flying into a fig-tree before the hotel piazza44, just as the dear little ground doves were in the habit of doing. To me, who had hitherto seen the green heron in the wildest of places, this tameness was an astonishing sight. It would be hard to say which surprised me more, the New Smyrna green herons or the St. Augustine sparrow-hawks45,—which latter treated me very much as I am accustomed to being treated by village-bred robins47 in Massachusetts.
The Louisiana heron was my favorite, as I say, but incomparably the handsomest member of the family (I speak of such as I saw) was the great white egret. In truth, the epithet48 “handsome” seems almost a ? 77 ? vulgarism as applied49 to a creature so superb, so utterly50 and transcendently splendid. I saw it—in a way to be sure of it—only once. Then, on an island in the Hillsborough, two birds stood in the dead tops of low shrubby51 trees, fully52 exposed in the most favorable of lights, their long dorsal53 trains drooping54 behind them and swaying gently in the wind. I had never seen anything so magnificent. And when I returned, two or three hours afterward55, from a jaunt34 up the beach to Mosquito Inlet, there they still were, as if they had not stirred in all that time. The reader should understand that this egret is between four and five feet in length, and measures nearly five feet from wing tip to wing tip, and that its plumage throughout is of spotless white. It is pitiful to think how constantly a bird of that size and color must be in danger of its life.
Happily, the lawmakers of the State have done something of recent years for the protection of such defenseless beauties. Happily, too, shooting from the river boats is no longer permitted,—on the regular lines, that is. I myself saw a young gentleman stand on the deck of an excursion steamer, ? 78 ? with a rifle, and do his worst to kill or maim56 every living thing that came in sight, from a spotted57 sandpiper to a turkey buzzard! I call him a “gentleman;” he was in gentle company, and the fact that he chewed gum industriously58 would, I fear, hardly invalidate his claim to that title. The narrow river wound in and out between low, densely59 wooded banks, and the beauty of the shifting scene was enough almost to take one’s breath away; but the crack of the rifle was not the less frequent on that account. Perhaps the sportsman was a Southerner, to whom river scenery of that enchanting60 kind was an old story. More likely he was a Northerner, one of the men who thank Heaven they are “not sentimental61.”
In my rambles62 up and down the river road I saw few water birds beside the herons. Two or three solitary63 cormorants64 would be shooting back and forth65 at a furious rate, or swimming in midstream; and sometimes a few spotted sandpipers and killdeer plovers66 were feeding along the shore. Once in a great while a single gull or tern made its appearance,—just often enough to keep me wondering why they were not there ? 79 ? oftener,—and one day a water-turkey went suddenly over my head and dropped into the river on the farther side of the island, I was glad to see this interesting creature for once in salt water; for the Hillsborough, like the Halifax and the Indian rivers, is a river in name only,—a river by brevet, —being, in fact, a salt-water lagoon67 or sound between the mainland and the eastern peninsula.
Fish-hawks were always in sight, and bald eagles were seldom absent altogether. Sometimes an eagle stood perched on a dead tree on an island. Oftener I heard a scream, and looked up to see one sailing far overhead, or chasing an osprey. On one such occasion, when the hawk46 seemed to be making a losing fight, a third bird suddenly intervened, and the eagle, as I thought, was driven away. “Good for the brotherhood68 of fish-hawks!” I exclaimed. But at that moment I put my glass on the new-comer; and behold69, he was not a hawk, but another eagle. Meanwhile the hawk had disappeared with his fish, and I was left to ponder the mystery.
As for the wood, the edge of the hammock, ? 80 ? through which the road passes, there were no birds in it. It was one of those places (I fancy every bird-gazer must have had experience of such) where it is a waste of time to seek them. I could walk down the road for two miles and back again, and then sit in my room at the hotel for fifteen minutes, and see more wood birds, and more kinds of them, in one small live-oak before the window than I had seen in the whole four miles; and that not once and by accident, but again and again. In affairs of this kind it is useless to contend. The spot looks favorable, you say, and nobody can deny it; there must be birds there, plenty of them; your missing them to-day was a matter of chance; you will try again. And you try again—and again—and yet again. But in the end you have to acknowledge that, for some reason unknown to you, the birds have agreed to give that place the go-by.
One bird, it is true, I found in this hammock, and not elsewhere: a single oven-bird, which, with one Northern water thrush and one Louisiana water thrush, completed my set of Florida Seiuri. Besides him I recall one hermit thrush, a few cedar70-birds, a ? 81 ? house wren71, chattering72 at a great rate among the “bootjacks” (leaf-stalks) of an overturned palmetto-tree, with an occasional mocking-bird, cardinal73 grosbeak, prairie warbler, yellow redpoll, myrtle bird, ruby-crowned kinglet, ph?be, and flicker74. In short, there were no birds at all, except now and then an accidental straggler of a kind that could be found almost anywhere else in indefinite numbers.
And as it was not the presence of birds that made the river road attractive, so neither was it any unwonted display of blossoms. Beside a similar road along the bank of the Halifax, in Daytona, grew multitudes of violets, and goodly patches of purple verbena (garden plants gone wild, perhaps), and a fine profusion75 of spiderwort,—a pretty flower, the bluest of the blue, thrice welcome to me as having been one of the treasures of the very first garden of which I have any remembrance. “Indigo plant,” we called it then. Here, however, on the way from New Smyrna to Hawks Park, I recall no violets, nor any verbena or spiderwort. Yellow wood-sorrel (oxalis) was here, of course, as it was everywhere. ? 82 ? It dotted the grass in Florida very much as five-fingers do in Massachusetts, I sometimes thought. And the creeping, round-leaved houstonia was here, with a superfluity of a weedy blue sage76 (Salvia lyrata). Here, also, as in Daytona, I found a strikingly handsome tufted plant, a highly varnished77 evergreen78, which I persisted in taking for a fern—the sterile79 fronds—in spite of repeated failures to find it described by Dr. Chapman under that head, until at last an excellent woman came to my help with the information that it was “coontie” (Zamia integrifolia), famous as a plant out of which the Southern people made bread in war time. This confession80 of botanical amateurishness81 and incompetency82 will be taken, I hope, as rather to my credit than otherwise; but it would be morally worthless if I did not add the story of another plant, which, in this same New Smyrna hammock, I frequently noticed hanging in loose bunches, like blades of flaccid deep green grass, from the trunks of cabbage palmettos. The tufts were always out of reach, and I gave them no particular thought; and it was not until I got home ? 83 ? to Massachusetts, and then almost by accident, that I learned what they were. They, it turned out, were ferns (Vittaria lineata—grass fern), and my discomfiture83 was complete.
This comparative dearth84 of birds and flowers was not in all respects a disadvantage. On the contrary, to a naturalist85 blessed now and then with a supernaturalistic mood, it made the place, on occasion, a welcome retreat. Thus, one afternoon, as I remember, I had been reading Keats, the only book I had brought with me,—not counting manuals, of course, which come under another head,—and by and by started once more for the pine lands by the way of the cotton-shed hammock, “to see what I could see.” But poetry had spoiled me just then for anything like scientific research, and as I waded86 through the ankle-deep sand I said to myself all at once, “No, no! What do I care for another new bird? I want to see the beauty of the world.” With that I faced about, and, taking a side track, made as directly as possible for the river road. There I should have a mind at ease, with no unfamiliar87, tantalizing88 bird note to set my ? 84 ? curiosity on edge, nor any sand through which to be picking my steps.
The river road is paved with oyster-shells. If any reader thinks that statement prosaic89 or unimportant, then he has never lived in southern Florida. In that part of the world all new-comers have to take walking-lessons; unless, indeed, they have already served an apprenticeship90 on Cape40 Cod91, or in some other place equally arenarious. My own lesson I got at second hand, and on a Sunday. It was at New Smyrna, in the village. Two women were behind me, on their way home from church, and one of them was complaining of the sand, to which she was not yet used. “Yes,” said the other, “I found it pretty hard walking at first, but I learned after a while that the best way is to set the heel down hard, as hard as you can; then the sand doesn’t give under you so much, and you get along more comfortably.” I wonder whether she noticed, just in front of her, a man who began forthwith to bury his boot heel at every step?
In such a country (the soil is said to be good for orange-trees, but they do not have to walk) roads of powdered shell are veritable ? 85 ? luxuries, and land agents are quite right in laying all stress upon them as inducements to possible settlers. If the author of the Apocalypse had been raised in Florida, we should never have had the streets of the New Jerusalem paved with gold. His idea of heaven would have been different from that; more personal and home-felt, we may be certain.
The river road, then, as I have said, and am glad to say again, was shell-paved. And well it might be; for the hammock, along the edge of which it meandered92, seemed, in some places at least, to be little more than a pile of oyster-shells, on which soil had somehow been deposited, and over which a forest was growing. Florida Indians have left an evil memory. I heard a philanthropic visitor lamenting93 that she had talked with many of the people about them, and had yet to hear a single word said in their favor. Somebody might have been good enough to say that, with all their faults, they had given to eastern Florida a few hills, such as they are, and at present are supplying it, indirectly94, with comfortable highways. How they must have feasted, to leave such heaps of shells ? 86 ? behind them! They came to the coast on purpose, we may suppose. Well, the red-men are gone, but the oyster-beds remain; and if winter refugees continue to pour in this direction, as doubtless they will, they too will eat a “heap” of oysters95 (it is easy to see how the vulgar Southern use of that word may have originated), and in the course of time, probably, the shores of the Halifax and the Hillsborough will be a fine mountainous country! And then, if this ancient, nineteenth-century prediction is remembered, the highest peak of the range will perhaps be named in a way which the innate96 modesty97 of the prophet restrains him from specifying98 with greater particularity.
Meanwhile it is long to wait, and tourists and residents alike must find what comfort they can in the lesser99 hills which, thanks to the good appetite of their predecessors100, are already theirs. For my own part, there is one such eminence101 of which I cherish the most grateful recollections. It stands (or stood; the road-makers had begun carting it away) at a bend in the road just south of one of the Turnbull canals. I climbed it often (it can hardly be less than fifteen or ? 87 ? twenty feet above the level of the sea), and spent more than one pleasant hour upon its grassy102 summit. Northward103 was New Smyrna, a village in the woods, and farther away towered the lighthouse of Mosquito Inlet. Along the eastern sky stretched the long line of the peninsula sand-hills, between the white crests of which could be seen the rude cottages of Coronado beach. To the south and west was the forest, and in front, at my feet, lay the river with its woody islands. Many times have I climbed a mountain and felt myself abundantly repaid by an off-look less beautiful. This was the spot to which I turned when I had been reading Keats, and wanted to see the beauty of the world. Here were a grassy seat, the shadow of orange-trees, and a wide prospect104. In Florida, I found no better place in which a man who wished to be both a naturalist and a nature-lover, who felt himself heir to a double inheritance,
could for the time sit still and be happy.
The orange-trees yielded other things beside shadow, though perhaps nothing better ? 88 ? than that. They were resplendent with fruit, and on my earlier visits were also in bloom. One did not need to climb the hill to learn the fact. For an out-of-door sweetness it would be hard, I think, to improve upon the scent106 of orange blossoms. As for the oranges themselves, they seemed to be in little demand, large and handsome as they were. Southern people in general, I fancy, look upon wild fruit of this kind as not exactly edible107. I remember asking two colored men in Tallahassee whether the oranges still hanging conspicuously108 from a tree just over the wall (a sight not so very common in that part of the State) were sweet or sour. I have forgotten just what they said, but I remember how they looked. I meant the inquiry109 as a mild bit of humor, but to them it was a thousandfold better than that: it was wit ineffable110. What Shakespeare said about the prosperity of a jest was never more strikingly exemplified. In New Smyrna, with orange groves112 on every hand, the wild fruit went begging with natives and tourists alike; so that I feel a little hesitancy about confessing my own relish113 for it, lest I should be accused of affectation. Not that I devoured114 ? 89 ? wild oranges by the dozen, or in place of sweet ones; one sour orange goes a good way, as the common saying is; but I ate them, nevertheless, or rather drank them, and found them, in a thirsty hour, decidedly refreshing115.
The unusual coldness of the past season (Florida winters, from what I heard about them, must have fallen of late into a queer habit of being regularly exceptional) had made it difficult to buy sweet oranges that were not dry and “punky”[4] toward the stem; but the hardier116 wild fruit had weathered the frost, and was so juicy that, as I say, you did not so much eat one as drink it. As for the taste, it was a wholesome117 bitter-sour, as if a lemon had been flavored with quinine; not quite so sour as a lemon, perhaps, nor quite so bitter as Peruvian bark, but, as it were, an agreeable compromise between the two. When I drank one, I not only quenched118 my thirst, but felt that I had taken an infallible prophylactic119 against the malarial120 fever. Better still, I had surprised myself. For one who had felt a lifelong ? 90 ? distaste, unsocial and almost unmanly, for the bitter drinks which humanity in general esteems121 so essential to its health and comfort, I was developing new and unexpected capabilities122; than which few things can be more encouraging as years increase upon a man’s head, and the world seems to be closing in about him.
[4] I have heard this useful word all my life, and now am surprised to find it wanting in the dictionaries.
Later in the season, on this same shell mound123, I might have regaled myself with fresh figs125. Here, at any rate, was a thrifty-looking fig-tree, though its crop, if it bore one, would perhaps not have waited my coming so patiently as the oranges had done. Here, too, was a red cedar; and to me, who, in my ignorance, had always thought of this tough little evergreen as especially at home on my own bleak126 and stony127 hillsides, it seemed an incongruous trio,—fig-tree, orange-tree, and savin. In truth, the cedars128 of Florida were one of my liveliest surprises. At first I refused to believe that they were red cedars, so strangely exuberant129 were they, so disdainful of the set, cone-shaped, toy-tree pattern on which I had been used to seeing red cedars built. And when at last a study of the flora130 compelled me to admit their ? 91 ? identity,[5] I turned about and protested that I had never seen red cedars before. One, in St. Augustine, near San Marco Avenue, I had the curiosity to measure. The girth of the trunk at the smallest place was six feet five inches, and the spread of the branches was not less than fifty feet.
[5] I speak as if I had accepted my own study of the manual as conclusive131. I did for the time being, but while writing this paragraph I bethought myself that I might be in error, after all. I referred the question, therefore, to a friend, a botanist132 of authority. “No wonder the red cedars of Florida puzzled you,” he replied. “No one would suppose at first that they were of the same species as our New England savins. The habit is entirely133 different; but botanists134 have found no characters by which to separate them, and you are safe in considering them as Juniperus Virginiana.”
The stroller in this road suffered few distractions135. The houses, two or three to the mile, stood well back in the woods, with little or no cleared land about them. Picnic establishments they seemed to a Northern eye, rather than permanent dwellings137. At one point in the hammock, a rude camp was occupied by a group of rough-looking men and several small children, who seemed to be getting on as best they could—none too well, to judge from appearances—without ? 92 ? feminine ministrations. What they were there for I never made out. They fished, I think, but whether by way of amusement or as a serious occupation I did not learn. Perhaps, like the Indians of old, they had come to the river for the oyster season. They might have done worse. They never paid the slightest attention to me, nor once gave me any decent excuse for engaging them in talk. The best thing I remember about them was a tableau138 caught in passing. A “norther” had descended139 upon us unexpectedly (Florida is not a whit7 behind the rest of the world in sudden changes of temperature), and while hastening homeward, toward nightfall, hugging myself to keep warm, I saw, in the woods, this group of campers disposed about a lively blaze.
Let us be thankful, say I, that memory is so little the servant of the will. Chance impressions of this kind, unforeseen, involuntary, and inexplicable140, make one of the chief delights of traveling, or rather of having traveled. In the present case, indeed, the permanence of the impression is perhaps not altogether beyond the reach of a plausible141 conjecture142. We have not always lived ? 93 ? in houses; and if we love the sight of a fire out-of-doors,—a camp-fire, that is to say,—as we all do, so that the burning of a brush-heap in a neighbor’s yard will draw us to the window, the feeling is but part of an ancestral inheritance. We have come by it honestly, as the phrase is. And so I need not scruple143 to set down another reminiscence of the same kind,—an early morning street scene, of no importance in itself, in the village of New Smyrna. It may have been on the morning next after the “norther” just mentioned. I cannot say. We had two or three such touches of winter in early March; none of them at all distressing144, be it understood, to persons in ordinary health. One night water froze,—“as thick as a silver dollar,”—and orange growers were alarmed for the next season’s crop, the trees being just ready to blossom. Some men kept fires burning in their orchards145 overnight; a pretty spectacle, I should think, especially where the fruit was still ungathered. On one of these frosty mornings, then, I saw a solitary horseman, not “wending his way,” but warming his hands over a fire that he had built for that purpose in ? 94 ? the village street. One might live and die in a New England village without seeing such a sight. A Yankee would have betaken himself to the corner grocery. But here, though that “adjunct of civilization” was directly across the way, most likely it had never had a stove in it. The sun would give warmth enough in an hour,—by nine o’clock one would probably be glad of a sunshade; but the man was chilly146 after his ride; it was still a bit early to go about the business that had brought him into town: what more natural than to hitch147 his horse, get together a few sticks, and kindle148 a blaze? What an insane idea it would have seemed to him that a passing stranger might remember him and his fire three months afterward, and think them worth talking about in print! But then, as was long ago said, it is the fate of some men to have greatness thrust upon them.
This main street of the village, by the way, with its hotels and shops, was no other than my river road itself, in its more civilized149 estate, as I now remember with a sense of surprise. In my mind the two had never any connection. It was in this thoroughfare ? 95 ? that one saw now and then a group of cavaliers strolling about under broad-brimmed hats, with big spurs at their heels, accosting150 passers-by with hearty151 familiarity, first names and hand-shakes, while their horses stood hitched152 to the branches of roadside trees,—a typical Southern picture. Here, on a Sunday afternoon, were two young fellows who had brought to town a mother coon and three young ones, hoping to find a purchaser. The guests at the hotels manifested no eagerness for such pets, but the colored bell-boys and waiters gathered about, and after a little good-humored dickering bought the entire lot, box and all, for a dollar and a half; first having pulled the little ones out between the slats—not without some risk to both parties—to look at them and pass them round. The venders walked off with grins of ill-concealed triumph. The Fates had been kind to them, and they had three silver half-dollars in their pockets. I heard one of them say something about giving part of the money to a third man who had told them where the nest was; but his companion would listen to no such folly153. “He wouldn’t come with us,” he ? 96 ? said, “and we won’t tell him a damned thing.” I fear there was nothing distinctively154 Southern about that.
Here, too, in the heart of the town, was a magnificent cluster of live-oaks, worth coming to Florida to see; far-spreading, full of ferns and air-plants, and heavy with hanging moss155. Day after day I went out to admire them. Under them was a neglected orange grove111, and in one of the orange-trees, amid the glossy156 foliage157, appeared my first summer tanager. It was a royal setting, and the splendid vermilion-red bird was worthy158 of it. Among the oaks I walked in the evening, listening to the strange low chant of the chuck-will’s-widow,—a name which the owner himself pronounces with a rest after the first syllable159. Once, for two or three days, the trees were amazingly full of blue yellow-backed warblers. Numbers of them, a dozen at least, could be heard singing at once directly over one’s head, running up the scale not one after another, but literally160 in unison161. Here the tufted titmouse, the very soul of monotony, piped and piped and piped, as if his diapason stop were ? 97 ? pulled out and stuck, and could not be pushed in again. He is an odd genius. With plenty of notes, he wearies you almost to distraction136, harping162 on one string for half an hour together. He is the one Southern bird that I should perhaps be sorry to see common in Massachusetts; but that “perhaps” is a large word. Many yellow-throated warblers, silent as yet, were commonly in the live-oaks, and innumerable myrtle birds, also silent, with prairie warblers, black-and-white creepers, solitary vireos, an occasional chickadee, and many more. It was a birdy spot; and just across the way, on the shrubby island, were red-winged blackbirds, who piqued163 my curiosity by adding to the familiar conkaree a final syllable,—the Florida termination, I called it,—which made me wonder whether, as has been the case with so many other Florida birds, they might not turn out to be a distinct race, worthy of a name (Agelaius ph?niceus something-or-other), as well as of a local habitation. I suggest the question to those whose business it is to be learned in such matters.[6]
[6] My suggestion, I now discover,—since this paper was first printed,—was some years too late. Mr. Ridgway, in his Manual of North American Birds (1887), had already described a subspecies of Florida red-wings under the name of Agelaius ph?niceus bryanti. Whether my New Smyrna birds should come under that title cannot be told, of course, in the absence of specimens; but on the strength of the song I venture to think it highly probable.
? 98 ?
The tall grass about the borders of the island was alive with clapper rails. Before I rose in the morning I heard them crying in full chorus; and now and then during the day something would happen, and all at once they would break out with one sharp volley, and then instantly all would be silent again. Theirs is an apt name,—Rallus crepitans. Once I watched two of them in the act of crepitating, and ever after that, when the sudden uproar164 burst forth, I seemed to see the reeds full of birds, each with his bill pointing skyward, bearing his part in the salvo. So far as I could perceive, they had nothing to fear from human enemies. They ran about the mud on the edge of the grass, especially in the morning, looking like half-grown pullets. Their specialty165 was crab-fishing, at which they were highly expert, plunging166 into the water up to the depth of their ? 99 ? legs, and handling and swallowing pretty large specimens with surprising dexterity167. I was greatly pleased with them, as well as with their local name, “everybody’s chickens.”
Once I feared we had heard the last of them. On a day following a sudden fall of the mercury, a gale124 from the north set in at noon, with thunder and lightning, hail, and torrents168 of rain. The river was quickly lashed169 into foam170, and the gale drove the ocean into it through the inlet, till the shrubbery of the rails' island barely showed above the breakers. The street was deep under water, and fears were entertained for the new bridge and the road to the beach. All night the gale continued, and all the next day till late in the afternoon; and when the river should have been at low tide, the island was still flooded. Gravitation was overmatched for the time being. And where were the rails, I asked myself. They could swim, no doubt, when put to it, but it seemed impossible that they could survive so fierce an inundation171. Well, the wind ceased, the tide went out at last; and behold, the rails were in full ? 100 ? cry, not a voice missing! How they had managed it was beyond my ken3.
Another island, farther out than that of the rails (but the rails, like the long-billed marsh172 wrens173, appeared to be present in force all up and down the river, in suitable places), was occupied nightly as a crow-roost. Judged by the morning clamor, which, like that of the rails, I heard from my bed, its population must have been enormous. One evening I happened to come up the street just in time to see the hinder part of the procession—some hundreds of birds—flying across the river. They came from the direction of the pine lands in larger and smaller squads174, and with but a moderate amount of noise moved straight to their destination. All but one of them so moved, that is to say. The performance of that one exception was a mystery. He rose high in the air, over the river, and remained soaring all by himself, acting175 sometimes as if he were catching176 insects, till the flight had passed, even to the last scattering177 detachments. What could be the meaning of his eccentric behavior? Some momentary178 caprice had taken him, ? 101 ? perhaps. Or was he, as I could not help asking, some duly appointed officer of the day,—grand marshal, if you please,—with a commission to see all hands in before retiring himself? He waited, at any rate, till the final stragglers had passed; then he came down out of the air and followed them. I meant to watch the ingathering a second time, to see whether this feature of it would be repeated, but I was never there at the right moment. One cannot do everything.
Now, alas179, Florida seems very far off. I am never likely to walk again under those New Smyrna live-oaks, nor to see again all that beauty of the Hillsborough. And yet, in a truer and better sense of the word, I do see it, and shall. What a heavenly light falls at this moment on the river and the island woods! Perhaps we must come back to Wordsworth, after all,—
“The light that never was, on sea or land.”
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1
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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2
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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3
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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12
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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13
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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16
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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17
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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18
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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21
cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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23
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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25
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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30
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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31
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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33
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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34
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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35
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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37
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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38
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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39
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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40
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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41
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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43
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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44
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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45
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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46
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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47
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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48
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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49
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
shrubby
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| adj.灌木的，灌木一般的，灌木繁茂著的 | |
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52
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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53
dorsal
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| adj.背部的，背脊的 | |
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54
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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55
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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56
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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57
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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58
industriously
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59
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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60
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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61
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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62
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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63
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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64
cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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67
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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68
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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69
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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70
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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71
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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72
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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73
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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74
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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75
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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76
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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77
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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78
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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79
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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80
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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81
amateurishness
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| n.amateurish（业余的）的变形 | |
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82
incompetency
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| n.无能力，不适当 | |
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83
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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84
dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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85
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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86
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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88
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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89
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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90
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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91
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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92
meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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94
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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95
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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96
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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97
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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98
specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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99
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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100
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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101
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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102
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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103
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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104
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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105
moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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106
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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107
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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108
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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109
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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110
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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111
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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112
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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113
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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114
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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115
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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116
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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117
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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118
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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119
prophylactic
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| adj.预防疾病的；n.预防疾病 | |
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120
malarial
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| 患疟疾的，毒气的 | |
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121
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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122
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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123
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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124
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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125
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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126
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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127
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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128
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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129
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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130
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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131
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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132
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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133
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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134
botanists
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| n.植物学家，研究植物的人( botanist的名词复数 ) | |
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135
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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136
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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137
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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138
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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139
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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140
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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141
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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142
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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143
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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144
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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145
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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146
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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147
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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148
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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149
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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150
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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151
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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152
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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153
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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154
distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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155
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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156
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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157
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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158
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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159
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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160
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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161
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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162
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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163
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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164
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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165
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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166
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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167
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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168
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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169
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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170
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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171
inundation
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| n.the act or fact of overflowing | |
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172
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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173
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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174
squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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175
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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176
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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177
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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178
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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179
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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