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34 chapters
THE CLERK OF THE WOODS
THE CLERK OF THE WOODS
THE CLERK OF THE WOODS BY BRADFORD TORREY “News of birds and blossoming.” Shelley. BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1904 COPYRIGHT 1903 BY BRADFORD TORREY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published September, 1903...
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PREFATORY NOTE
PREFATORY NOTE
The chapters of this book were written week by week for simultaneous publication in the “Evening Transcript” of Boston and the “Mail and Express” of New York, and were intended to be a kind of weekly chronicle of the course of events out-of-doors, as witnessed by a natural-historical observer. The title of the volume is the running title under which the articles were printed in the “Evening Transcript.” It was chosen as expressive of the modest purpose of the writer, whose business was not to be
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A SHORT MONTH
A SHORT MONTH
May is the shortest month in the year. February is at least twice as long. For a month is like a movement of a symphony; and when we speak of the length of a piece of music we are not thinking of the number of notes in it, but of the time it takes to play them. May is a scherzo, and goes like the wind. Yesterday it was just beginning, and to-day it is almost done. “If we could only hold it back!” an outdoor friend of mine used to say. And I say so, too. At the most generous calculation I cannot
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A FULL MIGRATION
A FULL MIGRATION
One of my friends, a bird lover like myself, used to complain that by the end of May he was worn out with much walking. His days were consumed at a desk,—“the cruel wood,” as Charles Lamb called it,—but so long as migrants were passing his door he could not help trying to see them. Morning and night, therefore, he was on foot, now in the woods, now in the fields, now in shaded by-roads, now in bogs and swamps. To see all kinds of birds, a man must go to all kinds of places. Sometimes he trudged
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A FAVORITE ROUND
A FAVORITE ROUND
After three days of heat, a cool morning. I take an electric car, leave it at a point five miles away, and in a semicircular course come round to the track again a mile or two nearer home. This is one of my favorite walks, such as every stroller finds for himself, affording a pleasant variety within comfortable distance. First I come to a plain on which are hay-fields, gardens, and apple orchards; an open, sunny place where, in the season, one may hope to find the first bluebird, the first vespe
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IN THE CAMBRIDGE SWAMP
IN THE CAMBRIDGE SWAMP
Once a year, at least, I must visit the great swamp in Cambridge, one of the institutions of the city, as distinctive, not to say as famous, as the university itself. It is sure to show me something out of the ordinary run (its courses in ornithology are said to be better than any the university offers); and even if I were disappointed on that score, I should still find the visit worth while for the sake of old times, and old friends, and the good things I remember. At the present minute I am th
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A QUIET AFTERNOON
A QUIET AFTERNOON
After running hither and thither in search of beauty or novelty, try a turn in the nearest wood. So my good genius whispered to me just now; and here I am. I believe it was good advice. This venerable chestnut tree, with its deeply furrowed, shadow-haunted, lichen-covered bark of soft, lovely grays and grayish greens, is as stately and handsome as ever. How often I have stopped to admire it, summer and winter, especially in late afternoon, when the level sunlight gives it a beauty beyond the rea
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POPULAR WOODPECKERS
POPULAR WOODPECKERS
There are two birds in Newton, the present summer, that have perhaps attracted more attention than any pair of Massachusetts birds ever attracted before; more, by a good deal, I imagine, than was paid to a pair of crows that, for some inexplicable reason, built a nest and reared a brood of young a year ago in a back yard on Beacon Hill, in Boston. I refer to a pair of red-headed woodpeckers that have a nest (at this moment containing young birds nearly ready to fly) in a tall dead stump standing
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LATE SUMMER NOTES
LATE SUMMER NOTES
On this bright morning I am passing fields and kitchen gardens that I have not seen since a month ago. Then the fields were newly mown stubble-fields, such as all men who knew anything of the luxury of a bare-footed boyhood must have in vivid remembrance. (How gingerly, with what a sudden slackening of the pace, we walked over them, if circumstances made such a venture necessary,—in pursuit of a lost ball, or on our way to the swimming-hole,—setting the foot down softly and stepping high! I can
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WOOD SILENCE
WOOD SILENCE
The scarcity of birds and bird music, of which I spoke a week ago, still continues. The ear begins to feel starved. A tanager’s chip-cherr , or the prattle of a company of chickadees, is listened to more eagerly than the wood thrush’s most brilliant measures were in June and July. Since September came in (it is now the 8th) I have heard the following birds in song: robins, half a dozen times, perhaps, in snatches only; a Maryland yellow-throat, once; warbling vireos, occasionally, in village elm
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SOUTHWARD BOUND
SOUTHWARD BOUND
Although it is the 20th of September, the autumnal migration of birds, as seen in this neighborhood, is still very light. Robins are scattered throughout the woods in loose flocks—a state of things not to be witnessed in summer or winter; the birds rising singly from the ground as the walker disturbs them, sometimes all silent, at other times all cackling noisily. Chickadees, too, are in flocks, cheerful companies, good to meet in any weather; behaving just as they will continue to do until the
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FOUR DREAMERS
FOUR DREAMERS
I remember the first man I ever saw sitting still by himself out-of-doors. What his name was I do not know. I never knew. He was a stranger, who came to visit in our village when I was perhaps ten years old. I had crossed a field, and gone over a low hill (not so low then as now), and there, in the shade of an apple tree, I beheld this stranger, not fishing, nor digging, nor eating an apple, nor picking berries, nor setting snares, but sitting still. It was almost like seeing a ghost. I doubt if
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A DAY IN FRANCONIA
A DAY IN FRANCONIA
It is the most delightful of autumn days, too delightful, it seemed to me this morning, to have been designed for anything like work. Even a walking vacationer, on pedestrian pleasures bent, would accept the weather’s suggestion, if he were wise. Long hours and short distances would be his programme; a sparing use of the legs, with a frequent resort to convenient fence-rails and other seasonable invitations. There are times, said I, when idleness itself should be taken on its softer side; and to
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WITH THE WADERS
WITH THE WADERS
The 12th of October was a day. There are few like it in our Massachusetts calendar. And by a stroke of good fortune I had chosen it for a trip to Eagle Hill, on the North Shore. All things were near perfection; the only drawbacks to my enjoyment being a slight excess of warmth and an unseasonable plague of mosquitoes. “Yes, it is too fine,” said the stable-keeper, who drove me down from the railroad station. “It won’t last. It’s what we call a weather breeder.” “So be it,” thought I. Just then I
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ON THE NORTH SHORE AGAIN
ON THE NORTH SHORE AGAIN
If you have once seen a picture, says Emerson somewhere, never look at it again. He means that hours of insight are so rare that a really high and satisfying experience with a book, picture, landscape, or other object of beauty is to be accepted as final, a favor of Providence which we have no warrant to expect repeated. If you have seen a thing, therefore, really seen it and communed with the soul of it, let that suffice you. Attempts to live the hour over a second time will only result in fail
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AUTUMNAL MORALITIES
AUTUMNAL MORALITIES
For the month past my weekly talk has been more or less a traveler’s tale—of things among the mountains and at the seaside. Now, on this bright afternoon in the last week of October, a month that every outdoor man saddens to see coming to an end (like May, it is never half long enough), let me note a little of what is passing in the lanes and by-roads nearer home. Leaves are rustling below and above. As is true sometimes in higher circles, they seem to grow loquacious with age; the slightest occ
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A TEXT FROM THOREAU
A TEXT FROM THOREAU
“ There is no more tempting novelty than this new November. No going to Europe or to another world is to be named with it. Give me the old familiar walk, post-office and all, with this ever new self, with this infinite expectation and faith which does not know when it is beaten. We’ll go nutting once more. We’ll pluck the nut of the world and crack it in the winter evenings. Theatres and all other sight-seeing are puppet shows in comparison. I will take another walk to the cliff, another row on
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THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY
THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY
This wintry November forenoon I was on a sea beach; the sky clouded, the wind high and cold, cutting to the marrow; a bleak and comfortless place. A boy, dragging a child’s cart, was gathering chips of driftwood along the upper edge of the sand,—one human figure, such as painters use to make a lonesome scene more lonesome. A loon, well offshore, sat rocking upon the water, now lifted into sight for an instant, now lost behind a wave. Distant sails and a steamship were barely visible through the
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IN THE OLD PATHS
IN THE OLD PATHS
For men who know how to bear themselves company there are few better ways of improving a holiday, especially a home-keeping, home-coming, family feast, like our autumnal Thanksgiving, than to walk in one’s own childish steps—up through the old cattle pasture behind the old homestead, into the old woods. Every jutting stone in the path—and there are many—is just where it was. Your feet remember them perfectly (as your hand remembers which way the door-knob turns, though you yourself might be puzz
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THE PROSPERITY OF A WALK
THE PROSPERITY OF A WALK
A bird lover’s daily rations during a New England winter are somewhat like Robinson Crusoe’s on his island in the wet season. “I eat a bunch of raisins for my breakfast,” he says, “a piece of goat’s flesh or of the turtle for my dinner, and two or three of the turtle’s eggs for my supper.” Such a fare was ample for health, perhaps; and probably every item of it was sufficiently appetizing, in itself considered; but after the first week or two it must have begun to smack of monotony. The castaway
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SIGNS OF SPRING
SIGNS OF SPRING
They are not imaginary, but visible and tangible. I have brought them home from the woods in my hands, and here they lie before me. I call them my books of the Minor Prophets. This one is an alder branch. Along its whole length, spirally disposed at intervals of an inch or two, are fat, purplish leaf-buds, each on its stalk. As I look at them I can see, only four months away, the tender, richly green, newly unfolded, partly grown leaves. How daintily they are crinkled! And how prettily the edges
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OLD COLONY BERRY PASTURES
OLD COLONY BERRY PASTURES
The last holiday of the century found me in the place where I was born, with weather made on purpose for out-of-door pleasures—warm, bright, and still. A sudden inspiration took me. I would go to see the old berry pastures—not all of them (the forenoon would hardly be long enough for that), but two or three of the nearest, on opposite sides of the same back road. It would be a kind of second boyhood. As I traveled the road itself, past two or three houses that were not there in the old time, two
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SQUIRRELS, FOXES, AND OTHERS
SQUIRRELS, FOXES, AND OTHERS
“ Do you know where there are any flying squirrels?” I asked a friend, two or three weeks ago. My friend, I should mention, is a farmer, living a mile or two away from the village, and, being much out-of-doors with his eyes open, has sometimes good things to show me. With all the rest, he has more than once taken me to a flying squirrel’s tree and given me a chance to see the creature “fly.” This peculiar member of the squirrel family, as all readers may be presumed to know, is nocturnal in its
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WINTER AS IT WAS
WINTER AS IT WAS
With the wind howling from the northwest, and the mercury crouching below the zero mark, it seems a good time to sit in the house and think of winter as it used to be. What is the advantage of growing old, if one cannot find an hour now and then for the pleasures of memory? The year’s end is for the young. Such is the order of the world, the universal paradox. Opposite seeks opposite. And we were young once,—a good while ago,—and for us, also, winter was a bright and busy season, its days all to
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“DOWN AT THE STORE”
“DOWN AT THE STORE”
I talked , a week ago, as if, in my time as a boy, we lived out-of-doors every day, and all day long, regardless of everything that winter could do to hinder us. That was an exaggeration. Now and then there came a time when the weather shook itself loose, as it were, and bore down upon us with banners flying. Then the strong man bowed himself, and even the playful boy took to his burrow. The pond might be smooth as glass, but he did not skate; the hill-track might be in prime condition, but he d
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BIRDS AT THE WINDOW
BIRDS AT THE WINDOW
The winter has continued birdless, not only in eastern Massachusetts, but, as far as I can learn, throughout New England. Letters from eastern Maine, the White Mountain region, and western Massachusetts all bring the same story: no birds except the commonest—chickadees and the like. Crossbills, redpolls, and pine grosbeaks have left us out in the cold. The only break in the season’s monotony with me has been a flock of six purple finches, seen on the 29th of January. I was nearing home, in a sid
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A GOOD-BY TO WINTER
A GOOD-BY TO WINTER
Winter is not quite done, but it will be by the time this “Clerk” is printed. That is to say, my winter will be done. In this respect, as in many others, I am a conservative. My calendar is of the old school. “There are four seasons in the year—spring, summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” So we began our school compositions; and by “spring” we meant the spring months—March, April, and May. The temperature might belie the almanac; there might be “six weeks’ sledding in March;” but when March bega
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BIRD SONGS AND BIRD TALK
BIRD SONGS AND BIRD TALK
I mentioned a fortnight ago a flock of half a dozen purple finches (linnets) seen and heard conversing softly among themselves in some roadside savin trees on the 29th of January. They must be passing the winter somewhere not far away, I ventured to guess. “Within a month,” I added, “they will be singing, taking the winds of March with music.” This forenoon (March 5) I had walked up the same pleasant by-road, meaning to follow it for a mile or two, but finding myself insufficiently shod for so d
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CHIPMUNKS, BLUEBIRDS, AND ROBINS
CHIPMUNKS, BLUEBIRDS, AND ROBINS
The season was opened, formally, on the 10th of March. I am speaking for myself. Friday, the 8th, brought genuine spring weather, sunny and warm, an ideal day for the first bluebird; but I was obliged to waste it in the city. The 9th was rainy and cold, and though I spent some hours out-of-doors, I saw no vernal signs. Birds of all sorts were never so few. The next morning—cloudy, with a raw northeasterly wind—I was fifteen minutes away from home when a squirrel came out of the woods on one side
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MARCH SWALLOWS
MARCH SWALLOWS
The birds are having their innings. They have been away and have come back, and even the most stolid citizen is for the moment aware of their presence. I rejoice to see them so popular. Two or three mornings ago I met a friend in the road, a farmer, one of the happy men, good to talk with, who glory in their work. A phœbe was calling from the top of an elm, and as we were near the farmer’s house I asked, “How long has the phœbe been here?” He looked up, saw the bird, and answered with a smile, “
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WOODCOCK VESPERS
WOODCOCK VESPERS
When I came to this town to live, in April, ten years ago, one of my first concerns was to find a woodcock resort. The friend with whom I commonly took a stroll at sundown had never heard the “evening hymn” of that bird, and, knowing him for a lover of “the poetry of earth,” I was eager to help him to a new pleasure. If the thing was to be done at all, it must be done soon, as the bird’s musical season is brief. So we walked and made inquiries. A farmer, who knew the region well, told us that wo
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UNDER APRIL CLOUDS
UNDER APRIL CLOUDS
“ Good-morning. ” “Ah, good-morning. How are you?” I was on what I suppose is habitually the most crowded sidewalk in Boston, where men in haste are always to be seen betaking themselves to the street as the only means of making headway. A hand was laid on my shoulder. A business man, one of the busiest, I should think he must be, had come up behind me. He was looking happy. Yes, he said, he was very well. “And yesterday,” he continued, “I had a great pleasure. I saw my first fox-colored sparrow
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FLYING SQUIRRELS AND SPADE-FOOT FROGS
FLYING SQUIRRELS AND SPADE-FOOT FROGS
It is pleasant to realize familiar truths anew; to have it brought freshly to mind, for example, how many forms of animal life there are about us of which we seldom get so much as a glimpse. In all my tramping over eastern Massachusetts I have met with two foxes. One I saw for perhaps the tenth part of a second, the other for perhaps two or three seconds. And probably my experience has not been exceptional. In this one particular it would be safe to wager that not one in ten of those who read th
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THE WARBLERS ARE COMING
THE WARBLERS ARE COMING
They are a grand army. The Campbells are nowhere in the comparison, whether for numbers or looks. And this is their month. Let us all go out to see them and cry them welcome. They are late, most exceptionally so. I have never known anything to match it. Brave travelers as they are (some of them, yes, many of them, are on a three or four thousand mile journey; and a long flight it is for a five-inch bird, from South America to the arctic circle)—brave travelers as they are, they cannot contend ag
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