Now it is July. The tall swamp rosebushes are in full flower, here and there a clump4, the morning sun heightening their beauty, though for the most part there is no getting near them without wading5 to the knees. More accessible, as well as more numerous, are the trailing morning-glory vines (Convolvulus sepium), with showy, trumpet-shaped, pink-and-white blossoms; and in one place I stop to notice a watery-stemmed touch-me-not, or jewel-weed, from which a solitary6 frail-looking, orange-colored flower is hanging—the first of the year. What thousands on thousands will follow it; no meadow’s edge or boggy7 spot will be without them. The pendent jewel makes me think of hummingbirds8, which is another reason for liking9 to look at it. Years ago I used to plant some of its red and white congeners (balsams, we called them) in a child’s garden. I wish I were a botanist10; I am always wishing so; but I am thankful to know enough of the science to be able to recognize a few such relationships between native “weeds” and cultivated exotics. Somehow the weeds look less weedy for that knowledge; as the most commonplace of mortals becomes interesting to average humanity if it is whispered about that he is fourth cousin to the king. The world is not yet so democratic that anything, even a plant, can be rated altogether by itself.
The gravelly banks of the railroad, on which I go dry-shod through the swamp, are covered with a forest of chicory; a thrifty11 immigrant, tall, coarse, scraggy, awkward, homely12, anything you will, but a great brightener of our American waysides on sunny midsummer forenoons. It attracts much notice, and presumably gives much pleasure, to judge by the number of persons who ask me its name. May the town fathers spare it! The bees and the goldfinches will thank them, if nobody else. Here I am interested to see that a goodly number of the plants—but not more than one in fifty, perhaps—bear full crops of pure white flowers; a rarity to me, though I am well used to pink ones. Gray’s Manual by the by, a Cambridge book, makes no mention of white flowers, while Britton and Brown’s Illustrated13 Flora14 says nothing about a pink variety. In a multitude of books there is safety, or, if not quite that, something less of danger. The pink and the white flowers are reversions to former less highly developed states, I suppose, if certain modern theories are to be trusted. I have read somewhere that the acid of ants turns the blue of chicory blossoms to a bright red, and that European children are accustomed to throw the flowers into ant hills to watch the transformation15. Perhaps some young American reader will be moved to try the experiment.
The best plants, however, those that I enjoy most for to-day, at all events, are the cat-tails. How they flourish!—“like a tree planted by the rivers of water.” And how straight they grow! They must be among the righteous. We may almost say that they make the swamp. Certainly, when they are gone the swamp will be gone. Both kinds are here, the broad-leaved and the narrow-leaved, equally rank, though angustifolia has perhaps a little the better of the other in point of height. The two can be distinguished16 at a glance, and afar off, by a difference in color, if by nothing else. “Cat-tails” and “cat-tail flags,” the Manual and the Illustrated Flora call them; but I was brought up to say “cat-o’-nine-tails,” with strong emphasis on the numeral, and am glad to find that more romantic-sounding name recognized by the latest big dictionary. Not that the name has any particular appropriateness; but like my fellows, I have been trained to venerate17 a dictionary, especially an “unabridged,” as hardly less sacred than the Bible, and am still much relieved whenever my own usage, past or present, happens to be supported by such authority.
Rankness is the swamp’s note, we may say. Look at the spatter-dock leaves and the pickerel-weed! The tropics themselves could hardly do better. And what a maze18 and tangle19 of vegetation!—as if the earth could produce more than the air could find room for. So much for plenty of water and a wholesome20 depth of black mud. One thinks of the scriptural phrase about paths that “drop fatness.”
Ever since I arrived, the short, hurried, gurgling trill of the long-billed marsh21 wren22 has been in my ears. If I have been here an hour, I must have heard that sound five hundred times. Once only, and only for an instant, I saw one of the singers. I have not been on the watch for them, to be sure; but if it had been earlier in the season I should have seen them whether I tried to do so or not. It must be that the little aerial song-flights, then so common and so cheerful to look at, are now mostly over.
In such a place, however, populous23 as it is, one does not expect to see many birds—blackbirds being left out of the reckoning—at any time. Swamp ornithology is mainly a matter of “earsight.” Birds that live in cat-tail beds and button-bush thickets24 are very little on the wing. Here a least bittern may coo day after day, and season after season, and it will be half a lifetime before you see him do it. I have made inquiries25 far and near in the likeliest quarters, and have yet to learn, even at second hand, of any man who has ever had that good fortune. Once, for five minutes, I entertained a lively hope of accomplishing the feat26 myself, but the bird was too wary27 for me; and a miss is as good as a mile. No doubt I shall die without the sight.
So the Carolina rail will whistle and the Virginia rail call the pigs, but it will be a memorable28 hour when you detect either of them in the act. You will hear the sounds often enough; I hear them to-day; and much less frequently you will see the birds stepping with dainty caution along a favorite runway, or feeding about the edges of their cover. But to see them utter the familiar notes, that is another story.
This morning I see on the wing a night heron (so I call him, without professing29 absolute certainty), a bittern (flying from one side of the railroad tracks to the other), and a little green heron, but no rail of either species, although I sit still in favorable places—where at other times I have seen them—with exemplary patience. In hunting of this kind, patience must be mixed with luck. It pleases my imagination to think what numbers of birds there are all about me, each busy with its day’s work, and not one of them visible for an instant, even by chance.
I go to the top of a grassy30 mound31, and seat myself where I have a lengthwise view of a ditch. Here, ten years ago, more or less, I saw my first gallinule. We had heard his outcries for some days (I speak of myself and two better men), and a visiting New York ornithologist32 had told us that they were probably the work of a gallinule. They came always from the most inaccessible33 parts of the swamp, where it seemed hopeless to wade34 in pursuit of the bird, since we wished to see him alive; but turning the question over in my mind, I bethought myself of this low hilltop, with its command of an open stretch of water between a broad expanse of cat-tails and a wood. Hither I came, therefore. If there was any virtue35 in waiting, the thing should be done. And sure enough, in no very long time out paddled the bird, with those queer bobbing motions which I was to grow familiar with afterward—a Florida gallinule, with a red plate on his forehead. Again and again I saw him (patience was easy now), and when I had seen enough—for that time—and was on my way back to the railway station, I met the foremost of[33] New England, ornithologists coming down the track. He was on the same hunt, and together we returned to the place I had left; and together we saw the bird. A week or two later he found the nest, and a Massachusetts record was established.
This, I say, was ten years ago. To-day there is no gallinule, or none for me. The best thing I hear, the most characteristically swampy36, is the odd diminuendo whistle of a Carolina rail. “We are all here,” he says; “you ought to come oftener.” And I think I will.
点击收听单词发音
1 distinctive | |
adj.特别的,有特色的,与众不同的 | |
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2 ornithology | |
n.鸟类学 | |
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3 lamented | |
adj.被哀悼的,令人遗憾的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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5 wading | |
(从水、泥等)蹚,走过,跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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6 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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7 boggy | |
adj.沼泽多的 | |
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8 hummingbirds | |
n.蜂鸟( hummingbird的名词复数 ) | |
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9 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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10 botanist | |
n.植物学家 | |
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11 thrifty | |
adj.节俭的;兴旺的;健壮的 | |
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12 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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13 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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14 flora | |
n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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15 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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16 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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17 venerate | |
v.尊敬,崇敬,崇拜 | |
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18 maze | |
n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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19 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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20 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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21 marsh | |
n.沼泽,湿地 | |
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22 wren | |
n.鹪鹩;英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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23 populous | |
adj.人口稠密的,人口众多的 | |
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24 thickets | |
n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 );丛状物 | |
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25 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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26 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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27 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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28 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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29 professing | |
声称( profess的现在分词 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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30 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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31 mound | |
n.土墩,堤,小山;v.筑堤,用土堆防卫 | |
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32 ornithologist | |
n.鸟类学家 | |
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33 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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34 wade | |
v.跋涉,涉水;n.跋涉 | |
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35 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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36 swampy | |
adj.沼泽的,湿地的 | |
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