Part 3

After leaving this jungle,—which reminded me of the luxuriant vegetation of tropical swamps,—I pushed onward, ever nearing the broad marsh-lands of Etchowog, east of Pownal Pond, in the shadow of the Dome. A shaded wood-road winds around the base of the hill, through an open gateway into a thrifty, well-kept apple orchard. This adjoins the old Kimball homestead, and I therefore designated these marshes Kimball Bogs. Out through the orchard meadow I passed, crossing the dusty highway which leads northward around the pond. There are several roads leading to Bennington village; some are rough, some are narrow and hilly, while others are broad and easy. The one to the left, called the Middle Road, follows through Pownal Centre to the county seat of courts and justice. By keeping to the right, one arrives at the same destination by the rough but picturesque East Road, under the brow of the Green Mountains. A direct route from Pownal Pond to Bennington is by way of the Hill Road, which leads directly north between the other highways. Thus the region is intersected from east to west by many roads running northward. I invariably recommend the Hill Road to the traveller who enjoys beauty of landscape. On this way, if he be a keen observer of nature, he will find much pleasure.

Instead of going by the trodden way to Pownal Pond, I chose to follow closely the windings of Ball Brook, which at this point of the road, opposite Kimball’s barns, mingles with another mountain torrent that comes down from the spring heads above Thompson’s Pond, under the Majestic Dome. The main current of this stream continues with the bend of the road, taking with it the volume of the water of Ball Brook as it crosses the greater stream. The courses of both streams are unnatural, having been removed, over one hundred years ago, from their original channels in order to form a mill-pond for sawmill use. Originally, I am told, a dense forest of pine trees occupied the hollow where now the waves of Pownal Pond wash over the decaying stumps.

The natural lake bed lies in these broad, sphagnous meadows east of Kimball’s homestead, winding around to the north, where now wave various small shrubs and trees. Barber’s sawmill, which stands close by the roadside, east of the pond to-day, is slowly crumbling away for want of use. Water finds its level, and although forced to go by the roadside, Ball Brook still seeks in part its old channels through the ancient meadows of Kimball’s Farm, where the stream is silent and elusive, as it glides among the tall, lush grasses. Walking along the borders of this hidden brook, through the tangle mingled with daisies and buttercups, I lost the stream entirely, only a line of gold marking its sleepy wanderings,—for marsh marigolds were still plentiful here, ever following the edges of the brook.

[Illustration: =The Fleur-de-Lis.= (_Iris verisicolor._)]

Hellebore grew over the swamp, and the tall grasses took on coarser forms as I waded farther on, deeper and deeper into the sphagnous grave of the ancient lake. At times it seemed so soft and spongy that I questioned my safety, even doubting the possibility of a search party securing my “embalmed heart,” if once I became fast in the mud, so I began to edge up toward firmer ground and the rocky hills near by.

This was the most uncertain swamp I had ever traversed, and not quite safe for one to wade through alone. It is reputed to have been at one time the bed of a great lake, as evidenced by the terraced hillsides about it. Its waters might still linger beneath the black-peat and forest débris which support the trees and spongy sphagnum. However, a fence closed off the most dangerous parts of the bog to keep back the cows from the mire and “dead holes,” as the unfathomable places are designated by the lads who penetrate these bogs for the marsh cranberries in the autumn.

I searched through this meadow for the Large Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria grandiflora_), thinking perhaps I might find the leaves, although I was somewhat too early to secure the flowers, since they are not due until June 20th and later.

On striking out for the hillside path, I found many problems to solve. It appeared impossible to gain a firm or safe footing in the sphagnum and mud, so securing a fence board which had been hurled about the marsh by the winds and storms, I slapped it down upon the soft earth and moss, and walked its length of eight feet. Then quickly relaying it, while my feet sank lower and lower in the moss, I hastened to pull out my muddy foot-gear and walked the length of my bridge once more,—repeating this perilous feat several times, until I had finally crossed the “dead hole” and stood on _terra firma_ once more.

There is certainly no experience like being stuck in a bog to arouse fearful forebodings. The discouraging effort to keep one foot above the ground only to find the other sinking deeper is most terrifying, and leads to hasty and excited movements which but increase the danger, and may finally lodge both feet fast in the mud. In such a case the sight of a board fence upon which an elbow may be rested is as welcome as a sail to a ship-wrecked mariner. There is in truth much art and science in walking safely through mud and sphagnum. One cannot saunter over the surface, and meditate at ease, but one must be ever alert, elastic as a rubber ball, and quick to feel a danger before it can be seen.

The fields and woods are a good deal like the books we read: the more we become familiar with printed page or forest path, the oftener we return to certain thoughts and trails that lead us back to scenes and associations enjoyed before. I like to mark passages in books I love, here and there, as I would blaze a tree to guide me to the haunt of a cool stream or a rare flower’s hiding-place. Whenever I turn to such passages, I find that time and season have expanded some new thought in my mind, even as they have developed the buds to full-grown flowers since my first journey through the wood.

There is a beautiful cold spring under the hill near the swamps of Etchowog. I have known of it all my life, and were I to visit this region every day for months, I should invariably be drawn unconsciously to this fountain. It is here that I quench my thirst and rest after wading through the neighboring swamps. I have turned many stones here in the past, and lifted the dead leaves from the choking throat of the spring. I have gathered the sundew growing in the moss fringing the banks; and in the sweet solitude and peace I have dreamed many dreams, inextricably mingled with the music of the stream.

[Illustration: =The Fountain of Arethusa, near the Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont.=

“If you would get exercise, go in search of the springs of life. Think of a man swinging dumb-bells for his health, when those springs are bubbling up in far-off pastures unsought by him!”—THOREAU.]

To-day I sought this spring to rest. I bathed my face and combed my hair over Nature’s own mirror, after taking a generous draught from the sparkling water. It bubbles and gushes continuously from under the rocky hillside, bringing sand and delicate-hued pebbles to scatter in the bottom of its bowl the year round. I rested here a full hour, and rinsed the mud off my boots.

From here it is but a short walk to Barber’s Mill at the foot of Pownal Pond. Alders, willows, shad-bushes and pink azaleas, small white birches, tamaracks, pines, and beautiful swamp or soft maples fill the broad expanse of marsh-land to the right; while the rocky, burnt-over, and blackened hillside rises up to the left. I was tempted into the deeper underbrush, but proceeded very slowly, as the treacherous bog was so spongy with sphagnum that I would often sink from twelve to fifteen inches into its soft, pink depths. But here I felt secure, since there were many fallen trees and growing saplings to which I could hold and cling, in case I stepped into a “dead hole.”

Here, half buried in the moss, I found hundreds of crimson-veined Pitcher Plants, or Side-Saddle Flowers (_Sarracenia purpurea_), which bear olive-green, purple-veined, vase-like leaves that hold rain and dew. Often the species varies in color, and its absolute greenish-yellow with lighter green veinings. Many of the larger pitchers hold fully a tumbler of fluid. Their brilliant-hued brims are edged with crimson ridges, delicately coated with honey, thus enticing flies and moths to drink from the nectar beyond the brim. The more common prisoners are small flies and moths, but one day I found two dozen snails captive in the larger leaves of an ancient plant, for if once within, there is no escape even for snails. Consequently the Pitcher Plants—locally called St. Jacob’s Dippers and Dumb Watches by the children—are considered carnivorous plants, since they are flesh-eating by nature. This is also true of the small Round-leaved Sundew (_Drosera rotundifolia_).

These plants are traps that not only cunningly entice, but actually entrap and slowly devour their victims. Sundew delights in being fed beefsteak, and Professor Bailey cites Darwin’s experiment of feeding them steak, which “they accepted as readily as an insect.”[7] The Sundew is plentiful in these mossy bogs. It has red and white, dewy, bristling, round leaves, with long petioles spreading in a tuft. When a small fly or ant touches these sticky bristles or tentacles on the upper face of the leaf, the points of the outer row slowly turn inward, holding their prey closely until it is dead.

[Illustration: =Round-Leaved Sundew.= (_Drosera rotundifolia._)]

Like the enticing honey of the Pitcher Plant, the viscid fluid of the Sundew attracts the flies, and, once alighted upon it, they become entangled and doomed to certain death. After drawing the juices from their victim or bits of steak, they relax and slowly regain their normal positions. The glands of these leaves send out drops of a clean, sticky fluid which glitter like dew drops in the sunlight. The plant sends up a short spike of insignificant, whitish-green, bud-like flowers, which are said to open briefly one by one in their turn, each morning in the sunshine, till the whole spike has unfolded. Each flower turns brown and fades before the successive bud unfolds, so that there is never more than one full-grown flower to be seen at a time. This is not the case with the flowers of the Pitcher Plant. I found many crimson, ball-like buds sleeping tucked up in their mossy beds. They would be in their prime in a week or ten days.

Here I discovered some fine specimens of the Pink Moccasin-Flower, and I was just about to pluck one, when behold—stretching at full length, basking in the sunshine on one of those sphagnous stump mounds, lay a snake, very near the coveted blossom. He may have been black or he may have been checkered or variegated and even charming and beautiful to the snake-hunter, but to the orchid-hunter he was not a prize worthy of a place in the vasculum. I did not wait to study or designate him or count his diamonds, but softly stole away, leaving him still cunningly sleeping, in waiting for prey, beside that gorgeous Moccasin-Flower.

I now regarded with suspicion all the holes in the soft mounds of moss, as the possible homes of snakes, that might object to visitors in their Eden. Immense ant-hills were numerous, and the occupants may have afforded food for Satan’s prototype in his idle hours. Now and then the drum of a frightened partridge, giving her alarum, assured me that her brood of chickens was hidden under the leaves and logs not far distant. It is very probable that snakes in these bogs devour small birds and frogs, and lie in wait for them, as I found the one that I had seen this morning.

Before continuing my search, I secured a hardwood staff, feeling safer with a cudgel of some kind in my hand, in case I met Satan face to face. In my tussle to sever the birch limb from the green tree, I snapped off all the Venus Slippers that I had actually gathered here. I was therefore no richer in actual specimens upon my departure from the swamp than when I entered it; but I carried away memories of that vast solitude and slumbering desolation where foot of man, I dare say, has seldom if ever been.

[Illustration: =The Carnivorous Plants, commonly called Pitcher Plants, and Dumb Watches.= (_Sarracenia purpurea._)

“_What’s this I hear_ _About the new carnivora?_ _Can little plants_ _Eats bugs and ants_ _And gnats and flies?—_ _A sort of retrograding_ _Surely the fare_ _Of flowers is air,_ _Or sunshine sweet;_ _They shouldn’t eat,_ _Or do aught so degrading._”

ANONYMOUS.]

Now well out of this swamp, I found myself on the edge of an apple orchard, filled with rosy bloom and the fragrance of happy May. A newly planted garden bore witness to human life, and the long rows of potato-hills spoke of industry. Passing through the gate, I entered the East Pownal Road near the mill, and walking down the bank to the right, just north of the mill, where cobblestones had been dumped from the fields, I picked my way into the open Bogs of Etchowog, which lie directly east of the pond.

I wandered up and down through this swamp, finding hundreds of Pitcher Plants, which had begun to nod their crimson buds. Clusters of the Showy Lady’s Slippers were springing up on the higher, drier mounds among the lily leaves of _Clintonia borealis_ and Dog’s Tooth. Fleur-de-lis grew everywhere, while the Poison Ivy flaunted its three-fingered palm on every side. Poison Sumach or Poison Dogwood, sometimes known as Poison Elder, grows luxuriantly in this swamp, and susceptible people have been poisoned merely by passing above along the roadside. By wearing high hunting-boots and rubber or chamois gloves, however, I am perfectly safe in such places. In fact, I never think of these plants as poisonous when brushing through the tangles of bushes and blossoming vines. These species of _Rhus_ are in blossom most of the summer. The juice of the plant is resinous, and the fruit consists of white or dun-colored berries.

Going back to the roadside to rest, I took out my color-box and attempted to sketch the swamp I had just left. Eastward, rising boldly in the background, towered the Majestic Dome against the sky. In the middle distance, a long line of alders and willow shrubs blended softly into the blues, here and there dashed with the crimson and gold swamp-maple buds; while still nearer, amid the low, grassy reeds and poison sumachs of the wet swamp, three tall, stately pines reared their shaggy green forms against the dark blue tones of the mountains, lending strength and balance to the scene.

My day nearly spent, I packed away my colors, and started on my return trip, leaving the mill at the bend of the road at three o’clock. Just above the Kimball Farm, I came to a pent-road leading through the pastures to Ball Brook Farm, where I must go to get my Moccasin-Flowers, left hidden in the stream. I found them as fresh and fragrant as if just gathered.

The walking was good, so I exchanged my high, heavy boots for low shoes, which were much more comfortable for dry paths and climbing hillside roads.

Going directly up through the cow-pastures along the border of the Glen of Comus, I came upon a colony of Pink Moccasin-Flowers, growing on a sloping hillside under low-spreading pines and birches. Although the spot was shaded, many flowers were unfolding, but they were not so deep in color as time and sunshine would paint them. I counted at least two hundred buds and blossoms, thinking what a feast for the eyes I should have another day, when they were in their prime.

Later, as I turned into the Centre Road, I met Lorenna, one of the school children in District Fourteen. She, too, had her hands full of flowers. I asked her to keep a lookout for strange, small Moccasin-Flowers, hoping thereby that she might find the rare little Ram’s-Head (_Cypripedium arietinum_), for which I have so hopefully searched these woods in vain. I had found thus far all the representative species of the Moccasin-Flowers of this State, save the rarer Ram’s-Head.

[Illustration: =The Bogs of Etchowog, Showing the Dome in the Distance, Pownal, Vermont.=

“There are not only stately pines, but fragile flowers, like the orchises, commonly described as too delicate for cultivation, which derive their nutriment from the crudest mass of peat. These remind us, that, not only for strength, but for beauty, the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger’s path and the Indian’s trail ... far in the recesses of the wilderness.”—THOREAU.]

The name Ram’s-Head arose from the resemblance of this flower to that of a sheep’s or ram’s head, the conical or pouched-shaped shoe serving in certain positions to remind the early Canadian children of the noses of frisky lambs’ heads, while the twistings of both sepals and petals answered for the ram’s horns. This rare species was first collected in Canada near Montreal before 1808. In that year it was transplanted to English gardens by Messrs. Chandler and Buckingham, where they had opportunity to study it closely. For some time it was known as Chandler’s _Cypripedium_. Finally, Mr. Robert Brown of England published a description of North American Orchids in Aiton’s _Catalogue of Plants_, in 1813, and he must have learned what the children first named it in Canada and Vermont, for he gave it the Latin name, _Cypripedium arietinum_, which it has ever since borne in the science. _Arietinum_ signifies shaped like a ram’s head, and so one readily observes how the common names of plants suggest to the botanist the origin of the strange Latin names, which are in one sense but the explanations of the common names.

I told Lorenna the story of this stray lamb, and she was as eager to find its trail as I was. The plant is shy at best, the flowers being of the most inconspicuous purple and white shades, found in cedar swamps and on the drier hillsides in mixed wood, of pine, chestnut, and birch. Truth to tell, I was not familiar with the appearance of the plant, nor did I know at what date to search for the blossoms.

After leaving Lorenna, I followed the road homeward, reaching Mount Œta at six o’clock, somewhat dusty and ragged and tired. Old Bonny and the buggy were now suggested as assistants in my trips, when the folk observed my load of herbs and flowers. But bog-trotting in a buggy is certainly beyond the limits of my imagination. It did, however, at that tired moment seem a favorable project, for Bonny and the buggy could wait for me by the roadside while I plunged into the marshes to secure my treasures.

It is true, as Thoreau writes: “we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, nowadays, who undertake no persevering, never-ending enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearth-side, from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our steps.”[8]

III

The Haunts of the Ram’s-Head Moccasin-Flowers

I call the old time back: I bring my lay In tender memory of the summer day When, where our native river lapsed away, We dreamed it over, while the thrushes made Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid On warm noonlights the masses of their shade.

WHITTIER, _Mabel Martin_.

The following morning, after my strenuous excursion through the swamps of Etchowog, I was somewhat tired and stiffened, but still ready for a journey which must be made to North Adams, a distance of ten miles from Mount Œta. As it was Saturday, Lorenna’s mother would soon be passing over the hill on her way to that city, with butter and eggs, so I decided to accompany her. Lorenna’s mother, formerly a teacher in District Fourteen in the neighborhood, had always considered my propensity for tramping through these bogs and woodlands, searching for flowers, as rather “queer.” This habit, coupled with my fondness for the poets, led her to believe I had sustained some great sorrow,—perhaps the loss of a lover,—and in those early days she invariably eyed me closely through her green goggles as I met her on the road. My evident annoyance and embarrassment under this scrutiny probably confirmed her suspicions. Nevertheless, she so far forgot her interest in this subject as to tell me to-day that Lorenna, on her way home with the cows the night previous, had found one of the strangest little flowers. None of them had ever seen the blossom before, nor did they know its name. She felt sure, however, that it belonged to the Nervine Family,—as they locally call the Moccasin-Flowers in many New England towns,—from the leaves and the little shoe-shaped flower.

That evening, as soon as the sun sank in the west, and the cool hours of twilight came, I sought Lorenna’s house in the vale below Mount Œta. As I sauntered through the fields, the distant sounds of Pownal’s church bells and the barking of dogs and the rolling wheels of the home-coming farmers’ wagons arose from the valley.

Under my arm I had tucked Baldwin’s _Orchids of New England_, a book which I had drawn from the North Adams Library, with permission to keep it as long as I desired, the calls for such books being very infrequent. This work contains many illustrations of species of orchids found in the New England States, and more especially in Vermont, the author having made his excursions and collections of species near Burlington, in the northwestern portion of the State. Among the sketches is one of the Ram’s-Head Cypripedium,[9] the species having been collected by him in cedar wood, in the neighborhood of Burlington, where he reports a colony of twenty plants.[10]

Arriving at Lorenna’s home, my hopes were realized, and I was introduced to the first fresh specimen I had ever seen of the _Cypripedium arietinum_. Later I was shown the spot where the flower grew. I was hoping to find several plants, but was disappointed. I studied the soil and locality, however, which gave me the clue for fresh trails. We had followed a winding wood-road that led from the Centre Road into the deep pine forests on the Amidon Farm, where the ground was strewn with piny needles and glittering with the Stars-of-Bethlehem, Goldthread blossoms, and the Painted Wake Robins. The broken stem that had borne the conical shoe stood on a rocky hillside, at the base of a chestnut tree. A dwarfed pine seedling was also struggling to grow in the hard soil, among the fibrous roots of the Ram’s-Head. The two had probably taken root there at the same time. We marked the spot, and sheltered the plant from the browsings of cows, by planting dead twigs near it.

Before the evening was ended, Lorenna’s mother had discovered that others besides myself must have made excursions afield and abog for flowers and herbs, and no doubt at some time in their lives must have also read poetry and made sketches. She became very much in earnest over a text-book on botany, and desired Lorenna to have a child’s manual.