Walks, and the melody of birds."
Milton.
There were six of us, and we had the entire hotel, I may almost say the entire valley, to ourselves. If the verdict of the villagers could have been taken, we should, perhaps, have been voted a queer set, familiar as dwellers2 in Franconia are with the sight of idle tourists,—
"Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted."
We were neither "rapid" nor "gay," and it was still only the first week of June; if we were summer boarders, therefore, we must be of some unusual early-blooming variety.
[Pg 2]
First came a lady, in excellent repute among the savants of Europe and America as an entomologist, but better known to the general public as a writer of stories. With her, as companion and assistant, was a doctor of laws, who is also a newspaper proprietor3, a voluminous author, an art connoisseur4, and many things beside. They had turned their backs thus unseasonably upon the metropolis5, and in this pleasant out-of-the-way corner were devoting themselves to one absorbing pursuit,—the pursuit of moths6. On their daily drives, two or three insect nets dangled7 conspicuously8 from the carriage,—the footman, thrifty9 soul, was never backward to take a hand,—and evening after evening the hotel piazza10 was illuminated11 till midnight with lamps and lanterns, while these enthusiasts12 waved the same white nets about, gathering14 in geometries, noctuids, sphinges, and Heaven knows what else, all of them to perish painlessly in numerous "cyanide bottles," which bestrewed the piazza by night, and (happy thought!) the closed piano by day. In this noble occupation I sometimes played at helping15; but with only meagre success, my most [Pg 3] brilliant catch being nothing more important than a "beautiful Io." The kind-hearted lepidopterist lingered with gracious emphasis upon the adjective, and assured me that the specimen16 would be all the more valuable because of a finger-mark which my awkwardness had left upon one of its wings. So—to the credit of human nature be it spoken—so does amiability17 sometimes get the better of the feminine scientific spirit. To the credit of human nature, I say; for, though her practice of the romancer's art may doubtless have given to this good lady some peculiar18 flexibility19 of mind, some special, individual facility in subordinating a lower truth to a higher, it surely may be affirmed, also, of humanity in general, that few things become it better than its inconsistencies.
Of the four remaining members of the company, two were botanists20, and two—for the time—ornithologists. But the botanists were lovers of birds, also, and went nowhere without opera-glasses; while the ornithologists, in turn, did not hold themselves above some elementary [Pg 4] knowledge of plants, and amused themselves with now and then pointing out some rarity—sedges and willows24 were the special desiderata—which the professional collectors seemed in danger of passing without notice. All in all, we were a queer set. How the Latin and Greek polysyllables flew about the dining-room, as we recounted our forenoon's or afternoon's discoveries! Somebody remarked once that the waiters' heads appeared to be more or less in danger; but if the waiters trembled at all, it was probably not for their own heads, but for ours. [1]
Our first excursion—I speak of the four who traveled on foot—was to the Franconia Notch27. It could not well have been otherwise; at all events, there was one of the four [Pg 5] whose feet would not willingly have carried him in any other direction. The mountains drew us, and there was no thought of resisting their attraction.
Love and curiosity are different, if not incompatible28, sentiments; and the birds that are dearest to the man are, for that very reason, not most interesting to the ornithologist22. When on a journey, I am almost without eyes or ears for bluebirds and robins30, song sparrows and chickadees. Now is my opportunity for extending my acquaintance, and such every-day favorites must get along for the time as best they can without my attention. So it was here in Franconia. The vesper sparrow, the veery, and a host of other friends were singing about the hotel and along the roadside, but we heeded31 them not. Our case was like the boy's who declined gingerbread, when on a visit: he had plenty of that at home.
When we were nearly at the edge of the mountain woods, however, we heard across the field a few notes that brought all four of us to an instant standstill. What warbler could that be? Nobody could tell. In fact, nobody could guess. But, before [Pg 6] the youngest of us could surmount32 the wall, the singer took wing, flew over our heads far into the woods, and all was silent. It was too bad; but there would be another day to-morrow. Meantime, we kept on up the hill, and soon were in the old forest, listening to bay-breasted warblers, Blackburnians, black-polls, and so on, while the noise of the mountain brook33 on our right, a better singer than any of them, was never out of our ears. "You are going up," it said. "I wish you joy. But you see how it is; you will soon have to come down again."
I took leave of my companions at Profile Lake, they having planned an all-day excursion beyond, and started homeward by myself. Slowly, and with many stops, I sauntered down the long hill, through the forest (the stops, I need not say, are commonly the major part of a naturalist's ramble,—the golden beads34, as it were, the walk itself being only the string), till I reached the spot where we had been serenaded in the morning by our mysterious stranger. Yes, he was again singing, this time not far from the road, in a moderately thick growth of small trees, under which the ground was [Pg 7] carpeted with club-mosses, dog-tooth violets, clintonia, linn?a, and similar plants. He continued to sing, and I continued to edge my way nearer and nearer, till finally I was near enough, and went down on my knees. Then I saw him, facing me, showing white under parts. A Tennessee warbler! Here was good luck indeed. I ogled36 him for a long time ("Shoot it," says Mr. Burroughs, authoritatively37, "not ogle35 it with a glass;" but a man must follow his own method), impatient to see his back, and especially the top of his head. What a precious frenzy38 we fall into at such moments! My knees were fairly upon nettles39. He flew, and I followed. Once more he was under the glass, but still facing me. How like a vireo he looked! For one instant I thought, Can it be the Philadelphia vireo? But, though I had never seen that bird, I knew its song to be as different as possible from the notes to which I was listening. After a long time the fellow turned to feeding, and now I obtained a look at his upper parts,—the back olive, the head ashy, like the Nashville warbler. That was enough. It was indeed the Tennessee (Helminthophila peregrina), [Pg 8] a bird for which I had been ten years on the watch.
The song, which has not often been described, is more suggestive of the Nashville's than of any other, but so decidedly different as never for a moment to be confounded with it. "When you hear it," a friend had said to me several years before, "you will know it for something new." It is long (I speak comparatively, of course), very sprightly40, and peculiarly staccato, and is made up of two parts, the second quicker in movement and higher in pitch than the first. I speak of it as in two parts, though when my companions came to hear it, as they did the next day, they reported it as in three. We visited the place together afterwards, and the discrepancy41 was readily explained. As to pitch, the song is in three parts, but as to rhythm and character, it is in two; the first half being composed of double notes, the second of single notes. The resemblance to the Nashville's song lies entirely42 in the first part; the notes of the concluding portion are not run together or jumbled43, after the Nashville's manner, but are quite as distinct as those of the opening measure.
[Pg 9]
As there were at least two pairs of the birds, and they were unmistakably at home, we naturally had hope of finding one of the nests. We made several random44 attempts, and one day I devoted45 an hour or more to a really methodical search; but the wily singer gave me not the slightest clue, behaving as if there were no such thing as a bird's nest within a thousand miles, and all my endeavors went for nothing.
As might have been foreseen, Franconia proved to be an excellent place in which to study the difficult family of flycatchers. All our common eastern Massachusetts species were present,—the kingbird, the ph?be, the wood pewee, and the least flycatcher,—and with them the crested47 flycatcher (not common), the olive-sided, the traill, and the yellow-bellied. The ph?be-like cry of the traill was to be heard constantly from the hotel piazza. The yellow-bellied seemed to be confined to deep and rather swampy48 woods in the valley, and to the mountain-side forests; being most numerous on Mount Lafayette, where it ran well up toward the limit of trees. In his notes, the yellow-belly may be said to take [Pg 10] after both the least flycatcher and the wood pewee. His killic (so written in the books, and I do not know how to improve upon it) resembles the chebec of the least flycatcher, though much less emphatic49, as well as much less frequently uttered, while his twee, or tuwee, is quite in the voice and manner of the wood pewee's clear, plaintive50 whistle; usually a monosyllable, but at other times almost or quite dissyllabic. The olive-sided, on the other hand, imitates nobody; or, if he does, it must be some bird with which I have yet to make acquaintance. Que-qúe-o he vociferates, with a strong emphasis and drawl upon the middle syllable25. This is his song, or what answers to a song, but I have seen him when he would do nothing but repeat incessantly51 a quick trisyllabic call, whit13, whit, whit; corresponding, I suppose, to the well-known whit with which the ph?be sometimes busies himself in a similar manner.
Of more interest than any flycatcher—of more interest even than the Tennessee warbler—was a bird found by the roadside in the village, after we had been for several days in the place. Three of us were [Pg 11] walking together, talking by the way, when all at once we halted, as by a common impulse, at the sound of a vireo song; a red-eye's song, as it seemed, with the faintest touch of something unfamiliar52 about it. The singer was in a small butternut-tree close upon the sidewalk, and at once afforded us perfectly53 satisfactory observations, perching on a low limb within fifteen feet of our eyes, and singing again and again, while we scrutinized55 every feather through our glasses. As one of my companions said, it was like having the bird in your hand. There was no room for a question as to its identity. At last we had before us the rare and long-desired Philadelphia greenlet. As its song is little known, I here transcribe56 my notes about it, made at two different times, between which there appears to have been some discussion among us as to just how it should be characterized:—
"The song is very pretty, and is curiously57 compounded of the red-eye's and the solitary58's, both as to phrase and quality. The measures are all brief; with fewer syllables26, that is to say, than the red-eye commonly uses. Some of them are exactly like the[Pg 12] red-eye's, while others have the peculiar sweet upward inflection of the solitary's. To hear some of the measures, you would pass the bird for a red-eye; to hear others of them, you might pass him for a solitary. At the same time, he has not the most highly characteristic of the solitary's phrases. His voice is less sharp and his accent less emphatic than the red-eye's, and, so far as we heard, he observes decidedly longer rests between the measures."
This is under date of June 16th. On the following day I made another entry:—
"The song is, I think, less varied59 than either the solitary's or the red-eye's, but it grows more distinct from both as it is longer heard. Acquaintance will probably make it as characteristic and unmistakable as any of our four other vireo songs. But I do not withdraw what I said yesterday about its resemblance to the red-eye's and the solitary's. The bird seems quite fearless, and keeps much of the time in the lower branches. In this latter respect his habit is in contrast with that of the warbling vireo."
On the whole, then, the song of the Philadelphia vireo comes nearest to the red-eye's,[Pg 13] differing from it mainly in tone and inflection rather than in form. In these two respects it suggests the solitary vireo, though it never reproduces the indescribably sweet cadence60, the real "dying fall," of that most delightful61 songster. At the risk of a seeming contradiction, however, I must mention one curious circumstance. On going again to Franconia, a year afterwards, and, naturally, keeping my ears open for Vireo philadelphicus, I discovered that I was never for a moment in doubt when I heard a red-eye; but once, on listening to a distant solitary,—catching only part of the strain,—I was for a little quite uncertain whether he might not be the bird for which I was looking. How this fact is to be explained I am unable to say; it will be least surprising to those who know most of such matters, and at all events I think it worth recording62 as affording a possible clue to some future observer. The experience, inconsistent as the assertion may sound, does not in the least alter my opinion that the Philadelphia's song is practically certain to be confused with the red-eye's rather than with the solitary's. Upon that point my companions [Pg 14] and I were perfectly agreed while we had the bird before us, and Mr. Brewster's testimony63 is abundantly conclusive64 to the same effect. He was in the Umbagog forests on a special hunt for Philadelphia vireos (he had collected specimens65 there on two previous occasions), and after some days of fruitless search discovered, almost by accident, that the birds had all the while been singing close about him, but in every instance had passed for "nothing but red-eyes." [2]
For the benefit of the lay reader, I ought, perhaps, to have explained before this that the Philadelphia vireo is in coloration an exact copy of the warbling vireo. There is a slight difference in size between the two, but the most practiced eye could not be depended upon to tell them apart in a tree. Vireo philadelphicus is in a peculiar case: it looks like one common bird, and sings like another. It might have been invented on purpose to circumvent66 collectors, as the Almighty67 has been supposed by some to have created fossils on purpose to deceive ungodly geologists68. It is not surprising, therefore, that the bird escaped the notice [Pg 15] of the older ornithologists. In fact, it was first described,—by Mr. Cassin,—in 1851, from a specimen taken, nine years before, near Philadelphia; and its nest remained unknown for more than thirty years longer, the first one having been discovered, apparently69 in Canada, in 1884. [3]
Day after day, the bare, sharp crest46 of Mount Lafayette silently invited my feet. Then came a bright, favorable morning, and I set out. I would go alone on this my first pilgrimage to the noble peak, at which, always from too far off, I had gazed longingly70 for ten summers. It is not inconsistent with a proper regard for one's fellows, I trust, to enjoy now and then being without their society. It is good, sometimes, for a man to be alone,—especially on a mountain-top, and more especially at a first visit. The trip to the summit was some seven or eight miles in length, and an almost continual ascent71, without a dull step in the whole distance. The Tennessee warbler was singing; but perhaps the pleasantest incident of the walk to the Profile House—in front of which the mountain footpath72 is taken—was [Pg 16] a Blackburnian warbler perched, as usual, at the very top of a tall spruce, his orange throat flashing fire as he faced the sun, and his song, as my notebook expresses it, "sliding up to high Z at the end" in his quaintest73 and most characteristic fashion. I spent nearly three hours in climbing the mountain path, and during all that time saw and heard only twelve kinds of birds: redstarts, Canada warblers (near the base), black-throated blues74, black-throated greens, Nashvilles, black-polls, red-eyed vireos, snowbirds (no white-throated sparrows!), winter wrens75, Swainson and gray-cheeked thrushes, and yellow-bellied flycatchers. Black-poll and Nashville warblers were especially numerous, as they are also upon Mount Washington, and, as far as I have seen, upon the White Mountains generally. The feeble, sharp song of the black-poll is a singular affair; short and slight as it is, it embraces a perfect crescendo76 and a perfect decrescendo. Without question I passed plenty of white-throated sparrows, but by some coincidence not one of them announced himself. The gray-cheeked thrushes, which sang freely, were not heard till I was [Pg 17] perhaps halfway77 between the Eagle Cliff Notch and the Eagle Lakes. This species, so recently added to our summer fauna78, proves to be not uncommon79 in the mountainous parts of New England, though apparently confined to the spruce forests at or near the summits. I found it abundant on Mount Mansfield, Vermont, in 1885, and in the summer of 1888 Mr. Walter Faxon surprised us all by shooting a specimen on Mount Graylock, Massachusetts. Doubtless the bird has been singing its perfectly distinctive80 song in the White Mountain woods ever since the white man first visited them. During the vernal migration81, indeed, I have more than once heard it sing in eastern Massachusetts. My latest delightful experience of this kind was on the 29th of May last (1889), while I was hastening to a railway train within the limits of Boston. Preoccupied82 as I was, and faintly as the notes came to me, I recognized them instantly; for while the gray-cheek's song bears an evident resemblance to the veery's (which I had heard within five minutes), the two are so unlike in pitch and rhythm that no reasonably nice ear ought ever to [Pg 18] confound them. The bird was just over the high, close, inhospitable fence, on the top of which I rested my chin and watched and listened. He sat with his back toward me, in full view, on a level with my eye, and sang and sang and sang, in a most deliciously soft, far-away voice, keeping his wings all the while a little raised and quivering, as in a kind of musical ecstasy83. It does seem a thing to be regretted—yes, a thing to be ashamed of—that a bird so beautiful, so musical, so romantic in its choice of a dwelling-place, and withal so characteristic of New England should be known, at a liberal estimate, to not more than one or two hundred New Englanders! But if a bird wishes general recognition, he should do as the robin29 does, and the bluebird, and the oriole,—dress like none of his neighbors, and show himself freely in the vicinity of men's houses. How can one expect to be famous unless he takes a little pains to keep himself before the public?
From the time I left my hotel until I was fairly above the dwarf84 spruces below the summit of Lafayette, I was never for many minutes together out of the hearing of thrush [Pg 19] music. Four of our five summer representatives of the genus Turdus took turns, as it were, in the serenade. The veeries—Wilson's thrushes—greeted me before I stepped off the piazza. As I neared the Profile House farm, the hermits85 were in tune86 on either hand. The moment the road entered the ancient forest, the olive-backs began to make themselves heard, and halfway up the mountain path the gray-cheeks took up the strain and carried it on to its heavenly conclusion. A noble processional! Even a lame87 man might have climbed to such music. If the wood thrush had been here, the chorus would have been complete,—a chorus not to be excelled, according to my untraveled belief, in any quarter of the world.
To-day, however, my first thoughts were not of birds, but of the mountain. The weather was all that could be asked,—the temperature perfect, and the atmosphere so transparent88 as to be of itself a kind of lens; so that in the evening, when I rejoined my companions at the hotel, I found to my astonishment89 that I had been plainly visible while at the summit, the beholders having [Pg 20] no other help than an opera-glass! It was almost past belief. I had felt some dilation90 of soul, it was true, but had been quite unconscious of any corresponding physical transformation91. What would our aboriginal92 forerunners93 have said could they have stood in the valley and seen a human form moving from point to point along yonder sharp, serrated ridge94? I should certainly have passed for a god! Let us be thankful that all such superstitious95 fancies have had their day. The Indian, poor child of nature,
stood afar off and worshiped toward these holy hills; but the white man clambers gayly up their sides, guide-book in hand, and leaves his sardine97 box and eggshells—and likely enough his business card—at the top. Let us be thankful, I repeat, for the light vouchsafed98 to us; ours is a goodly heritage; but there are moods—such creatures of hereditary99 influence are we—wherein I would gladly exchange both the guide-book and the sardine box for a vision, never so indistinct and transient, of Kitche Manitoo. Alas100! what a long time it is since any of us [Pg 21] have been able to see the invisible. "In the mountains," says Wordsworth, "did he feel his faith." But the poet was speaking then of a very old-fashioned young fellow, who, even when he grew up, made nothing but a peddler. Had he lived in our day, he would have felt not his faith, but his own importance; especially if he had put himself out of breath, as most likely he would have done, in accomplishing in an hour and forty minutes what, according to the guide-book, should have taken a full hour and three quarters. The modern excursionist (how Wordsworth would have loved that word!) has learned wisdom of a certain wise fowl101 who once taught St. Peter a lesson, and who never finds himself in a high place without an impulse to flap his wings and crow.
For my own part, though I spent nearly three hours on the less than four miles of mountain path, as I have already acknowledged, I was nevertheless somewhat short-winded at the end. So long as I was in the woods, it was easy enough to loiter; but no sooner did I leave the last low spruces behind me than I was seized with an importunate102 desire to stand upon the peak, so near [Pg 22] at hand just above me. I hope my readers are none of them too old to sympathize with the boyish feeling. At all events, I quickened my pace. The distance could not be more than half a mile, I thought. But it was wonderful how that perverse103 trail among the boulders104 did unwind itself, as if it never would come to an end; and I was not surprised, on consulting a guide-book afterwards, to find that my half mile had really been a mile and a half. One's sensations in such a case I have sometimes compared with those of an essay-writer when he is getting near the end of his task. He dallied106 with it in the beginning, and was half ready to throw it up in the middle; but now the fever is on him, and he cannot drive the pen fast enough. Two days ago he doubted whether or not to burn the thing; now it is certain to be his masterpiece, and he must sit up till morning, if need be, to finish it. What would life be worth without its occasional enthusiasm, laughable in the retrospect107, perhaps, but in itself pleasurable almost to the point of painfulness?
It was a glorious day. I enjoyed the climb, the lessening108 forest, the alpine109 [Pg 23] plants (the diapensia was in full flower, with its upright snowy goblets110, while the geum and the Greenland sandwort were just beginning to blossom), the magnificent prospect111, the stimulating112 air, and, most of all, the mountain itself. I sympathized then, as I have often done at other times, with a remark once made to me by a Vermont farmer's wife. I had sought a night's lodging113 at her house, and during the evening we fell into conversation about Mount Mansfield, from the top of which I had just come, and directly at the base of which the farmhouse114 stood. When she went up "the mounting," she said, she liked to look off, of course; but somehow what she cared most about was "the mounting itself."
The woman had probably never read a line of Wordsworth, unless possibly, "We are Seven" was in the old school reader; but I am sure the poet would have liked this saying, especially as coming from such a source. I liked it, at any rate, and am seldom on a mountain-top without recalling it. Her lot had been narrow and prosaic,—bitterly so, the visitor was likely to think; she was little used to expressing herself, and [Pg 24] no doubt would have wondered what Mr. Pater could mean by his talk about natural objects as possessing "more or less of a moral or spiritual life," as "capable of a companionship with man, full of expression, of inexplicable115 affinities116 and delicacies117 of intercourse118." From such refinements119 and subtleties120 her mind would have taken refuge in thoughts of her baking and ironing. But she enjoyed the mountain; I think she had some feeling for it, as for a friend; and who knows but she, too, was one of "the poets that are sown by Nature"?
I spent two happy hours and a half at the summit of Lafayette. The ancient peak must have had many a worthier121 guest, but it could never have entertained one more hospitably122. With what softly temperate123 breezes did it fan me! I wish I were there now! But kind as was its welcome, it did not urge me to remain. The word of the brook came true again,—as Nature's words always do, if we hear them aright. Having gone as high as my feet could carry me, there was nothing left but to go down again. "Which things," as Paul said to the Galatians, "are an allegory."
[Pg 25]
I was not asked to stay, but I was invited to come again; and the next season, also in June, I twice accepted the invitation. On the first of these occasions, although I was eight days later than I had been the year before (June 19th instead of June 11th), the diapensia was just coming into somewhat free bloom, while the sandwort showed only here and there a stray flower, and the geum was only in bud. The dwarf paper birch (trees of no one knows what age, matting the ground) was in blossom, with large, handsome catkins, while Cutler's willow23 was already in fruit, and the crowberry likewise. The willow, like the birch, has learned that the only way to live in such a place is to lie flat upon the ground and let the wind blow over you. The other flowers noted124 at the summit were one of the blueberries (Vaccinium uliginosum), Bigelow's sedge, and the fragrant125 alpine holy-grass (Hierochloa alpina). Why should this sacred grass, which Christians126 sprinkle in front of their church doors on feast-days, be scattered127 thus upon our higher mountain-tops, unless these places are indeed, as the Indian and the ancient Hebrew believed, the special abode128 of the Great Spirit?
[Pg 26]
But the principal interest of this my second ascent of Mount Lafayette was to be not botanical, but ornithological129. We had seen nothing noteworthy on the way up (I was not alone this time, though I have so far been rude enough to ignore my companion); but while at the Eagle Lakes, on our return, we had an experience that threw me into a nine days' fever. The other man—one of the botanists of last year's crew—was engaged in collecting viburnum specimens, when all at once I caught sight of something red in a dead spruce on the mountain-side just across the tiny lake. I leveled my glass, and saw with perfect distinctness, as I thought, two pine grosbeaks in bright male costume,—birds I had never seen before except in winter. Presently a third one, in dull plumage, came into view, having been hidden till now behind the bole. The trio remained in sight for some time, and then dropped into the living spruces underneath131, and disappeared. I lingered about, while my companion and the black flies were busy, and was on the point of turning away for good, when up flew two red birds and alighted in a tree close by the [Pg 27] one out of which the grosbeaks had dropped. But a single glance showed that they were not grosbeaks, but white-winged crossbills! And soon they, too, were joined by a third bird, in female garb132. Here was a pretty piece of confusion! I was delighted to see the crossbills, having never before had the first glimpse of them, summer or winter; but what was I to think about the grosbeaks? "Your determination is worthless," said my scientific friend, consolingly; and there was no gainsaying133 his verdict. Yet by what possibility could I have been so deceived? The birds, though none too near, had given me an excellent observation, and as long as they were in sight I had felt no uncertainty134 whatever as to their identity. The bill alone, of which I had taken particular note, ought in all reason to be held conclusive. So much for one side of the case. On the other hand, however, the second trio were unmistakably crossbills. (They had been joined on the wing by several others, as I ought to have mentioned, and with their characteristic chattering135 cry had swept out of sight up the mountain). It was certainly a curious coincidence: three [Pg 28] grosbeaks—two males and a female—had dropped out of a tree into the undergrowth; and then, five minutes later, three crossbills—two males and a female—had risen out of the same undergrowth, and taken almost the very perch54 which the others had quitted! Had this strange thing happened? Or had my eyes deceived me? This was my dilemma136, on the sharp horns of which I tried alternately for the next eight days to make myself comfortable.
During all that time, the weather rendered mountain climbing impracticable. But the morning of the 28th was clear and cold, and I set out forthwith for the Eagle Lakes. If the grosbeaks were there, I meant to see them, though I should have to spend all day in the attempt. My botanist21 had returned home, leaving me quite alone at the hotel; but, as good fortune would have it, before I reached the Profile House, I was overtaken unexpectedly by a young ornithological friend, who needed no urging to try the Lafayette path. We were creeping laboriously137 up the long, steep shoulder beyond the Eagle Cliff gorge138, and drawing near the lakes, when all at once a peculiarly sweet, flowing [Pg 29] warble fell upon our ears. "A pine grosbeak!" said I, in a tone of full assurance, although this was my first hearing of the song. The younger man plunged139 into the forest, in the direction of the voice, while I, knowing pretty well how the land lay, hastened on toward the lakes, in hopes to find the singer visible from that point. Just as I ran down the little incline into the open, a bird flew past me across the water, and alighted in a dead spruce (it might have been the very tree of nine days before), where it sat in full sight, and at once broke into song,—"like the purple finch's," says my notebook; "less fluent, but, as it seemed to me, sweeter and more expressive140. I think it was not louder." Before many minutes, my comrade came running down the path in high glee, calling, "Pine grosbeaks!" He had got directly under a tree in which two of them were sitting. So the momentous141 question was settled, and I commenced feeling once more a degree of confidence in my own eyesight. The loss of such confidence is a serious discomfort142; but strange as it may seem to people in general, I suspect that few field ornithologists, except [Pg 30] beginners, ever succeed in retaining it undisturbed for any long time together. As a class, they have learned to take the familiar maxim143, "Seeing is believing," with several grains of allowance. With most of them, it would be nearer the mark to say, Shooting is believing.
My special errand at the lakes being thus quickly disposed of, there was no reason why I should not accompany my friend to the summit. Lafayette gave us a cold reception. We might have addressed him as Daniel Webster, according to the time-worn story, once addressed Mount Washington; but neither of us felt oratorically inclined. In truth, after the outrageous144 heats of the past few days, it seemed good to be thrashing our arms and crouching145 behind a boulder105, while we devoured146 our luncheon147, and between times studied the landscape. For my own part, I experienced a feeling of something like wicked satisfaction; as if I had been wronged, and all at once had found a way of balancing the score. The diapensia was already quite out of bloom, although only nine days before we had thought it hardly at its best. It is one of the prettiest and [Pg 31] most striking of our strictly148 alpine plants, but is seldom seen by the ordinary summer tourist, as it finishes its course long before he arrives. The same may be said of the splendid Lapland azalea, which I do not remember to have found on Mount Lafayette, it is true, but which is to be seen in all its glory upon the Mount Washington range, in middle or late June; so early that one may have to travel over snow-banks to reach it. The two flowers oftenest noticed by the chance comer to these parts are the Greenland sandwort (the "mountain daisy"!) and the pretty geum, with its handsome crinkled leaves and its bright yellow blossoms, like buttercups.
My sketch149 will hardly fulfill150 the promise of its title; for our June in Franconia included a thousand things of which I have left myself no room to speak: strolls in the Landaff Valley and to Sugar Hill; a walk to Mount Agassiz; numerous visits—by the way, and in uncertain weather—to Bald Mountain; several jaunts151 to Lonesome Lake; and wanderings here and there in the pathless valley woods. We were none of us of that unhappy class who cannot enjoy doing the same thing twice.
[Pg 32]
I wished, also, to say something of sundry152 minor153 enjoyments154: of the cinnamon roses, for example, with the fragrance155 of which we were continually greeted, and which have left such a sweetness in the memory that I would have called this essay "June in the Valley of Cinnamon Roses," had I not despaired of holding myself up to so poetic156 a title. And with the roses the wild strawberries present themselves. Roses and strawberries! It is the very poetry of science that these should be classified together. The berries, like the flowers, are of a generous turn (it is a family trait, I think), loving no place better than the roadside, as if they would fain be of refreshment157 to beings less happy than themselves, who cannot be still and blossom and bear fruit, but are driven by the Fates to go trudging158 up and down in dusty highways. For myself, if I were a dweller1 in this vale, I am sure my finger-tips would never be of their natural color so long as the season of strawberries lasted. On one of my solitary rambles159 I found a retired160 sunny field, full of them. To judge from appearances, not a soul had been near it. But I noticed that, while the [Pg 33] almost ripe fruit was abundant, there was scarce any that had taken on the final tinge161 and flavor. Then I began to be aware of faint, sibilant noises about me, and, glancing up, I saw that the ground was already "pre?mpted" by a company of cedar-birds, who, naturally enough, were not a little indignant at my poaching thus on their preserves. They showed so much concern (and had gathered the ripest of the berries so thoroughly) that I actually came away the sooner on their account. I began to feel ashamed of myself, and for once in my life was literally162 hissed163 off the stage.
Even on my last page I must be permitted a word in praise of Mount Cannon164, of which I made three ascents165. It has nothing like the celebrity166 of Mount Willard, with which, from its position, it is natural to compare it; but to my thinking it is little, if at all, less worthy130. Its outlook upon Mount Lafayette is certainly grander than anything Mount Willard can offer, while the prospect of the Pemigewasset Valley, fading away to the horizon, if less striking than that of the White Mountain Notch, has some elements of beauty which must of necessity be lacking [Pg 34] in any more narrowly circumscribed167 scene, no matter how romantic.
In venturing upon a comparison of this kind, however, one is bound always to allow for differences of mood. When I am in tune for such things, I can be happier on an ordinary Massachusetts hilltop than at another time I should be on any New Hampshire mountain, though it were Moosilauke itself. And, truly, Fortune did smile upon our first visit to Mount Cannon. Weather conditions, outward and inward, were right. We had come mainly to look at Lafayette from this point of vantage; but, while we suffered no disappointment in that direction, we found ourselves still more taken with the valley prospect. We lay upon the rocks by the hour, gazing at it. Scattered clouds dappled the whole vast landscape with shadows; the river, winding168 down the middle of the scene, drew the whole into harmony, as it were, making it in some nobly literal sense picturesque169; while the distance was of such an exquisite170 blue as I think I never saw before.
How good life is at its best! And in such
[Pg 35]
"charm?d days,
When the genius of God doth flow,"
what care we for science or the objects of science,—for grosbeak or crossbill (may the birds forgive me!), or the latest novelty in willows? I am often where fine music is played, and never without being interested; as men say, I am pleased. But at the twentieth time, it may be, something touches my ears, and I hear the music within the music; and, for the hour, I am at heaven's gate. So it is with our appreciation171 of natural beauty. We are always in its presence, but only on rare occasions are our eyes anointed to see it. Such ecstasies172, it seems, are not for every day. Sometimes I fear they grow less frequent as we grow older.
We will hope for better things; but, should the gloomy prognostication fall true, we will but betake ourselves the more assiduously to lesser173 pleasures,—to warblers and willows, roses and strawberries. Science will never fail us. If worse comes to worst, we will not despise the moths.
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1
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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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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botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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ornithologist
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| n.鸟类学家 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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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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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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ogle
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| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
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ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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59
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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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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66
circumvent
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| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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geologists
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| 地质学家，地质学者( geologist的名词复数 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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quaintest
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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74
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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75
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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76
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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77
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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81
migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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82
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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83
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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84
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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85
hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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86
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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87
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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88
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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dilation
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| n.膨胀，扩张，扩大 | |
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91
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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92
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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sardine
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| n.[C]沙丁鱼 | |
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98
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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100
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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101
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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102
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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103
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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104
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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105
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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106
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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107
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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108
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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109
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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110
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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111
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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112
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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113
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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114
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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115
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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116
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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117
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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118
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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119
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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120
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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121
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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122
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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123
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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124
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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125
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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126
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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127
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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128
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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129
ornithological
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| adj.鸟类学的 | |
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130
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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131
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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132
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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133
gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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134
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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135
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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136
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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138
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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139
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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140
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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141
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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142
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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143
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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144
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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145
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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146
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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147
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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148
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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149
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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150
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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151
jaunts
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| n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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152
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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153
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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154
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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155
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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156
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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157
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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158
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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159
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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160
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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161
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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162
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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163
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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164
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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165
ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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166
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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167
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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168
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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169
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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170
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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171
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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172
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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