IN THE PAUGUS WOODS.
Just opposite our house, which stood on the north side of the road, facing south towards Paugus, was a black forest of spruces. Into this we plunged on Tuesday morning, not knowing what might lie within. The silence of the gloom was broken by the sound of falling bits of ice and drops of melting snow. Bird notes, too, could be heard, and now and then a red squirrel chattered. The trunks of the trees stood closely together, and thousands of small dead branches radiated from the trunks and interlaced, opposing our progress. The crashing of these twigs as we broke through them, accompanied by the crunching of the snow-crust under our feet, noisily announced our coming. At intervals we found masses of fallen timber, the wreck of fierce storms, and brooks covered with thin ice and misleading snow, through which we slumped into cold water beneath. Every few paces rabbit tracks dotted the soft film of snow which lay upon the crust. If the tracks which we crossed during our three or four mile walk could have been measured in all their meanderings, I think the aggregate of miles traversed by the rabbits of that locality would have been found to rival the railway mileage of New Hampshire. From time to time we stopped to call birds to us by the aid of my whistles. I think I called eight or nine times, and in each instance birds appeared promptly. Usually pine finches came first, whirling through the upper air like burnt paper driven by the wind. As they passed over us, they would catch the sound of the whistles more distinctly and begin a series of undulatory circles. Then one or two would drop straight down into a leafless tree, or upon the tips of the spruces, and the rest would follow them, sometimes twenty going into one tree. Their sweet queryings filled the air, and drew other birds to the focus of sound, among others a number of purple finches and a white-bellied nuthatch. Kinglets came very near to us when we were well hidden; so near that the brilliant color on their dainty heads could be seen with perfect distinctness. There were more chickadees in these woods than in the other places we had visited, and I examined them all with great care, hoping to find a Hudson Bay titmouse. Two flocks of the common species came, and produced no northern birds, but at a third rally of nuthatches, finches, and kinglets, a strange voice made itself heard. I knew it for something different from a chickadee at once, and yet it was titmouse language. Squeaking vigorously, I called the stranger down to me. At first I thought it was a chickadee; then he sputtered out his “dee-dee” and showed his brownish head and great chestnut patch on his flank, and I knew he was from Hudson Bay. Three others joined him and gave me ample chance to inspect their points. I had the feeling that they had less character and spirit than our blackcap titmouse. Their voices were weaker and more petulant and their general appearance less positive and aggressive.
Once I caught a glimpse of a big white hare bounding away from us through a jungle of young spruces. He was so nearly the color of the snow that my eyes found it difficult to follow him.
After going rather more than two miles through the spruce tangle, we entered an old logging road much used by rabbits, foxes, and grouse, and, following it northward, we made our way home.
About 3.30 P. M. the baying of a hound attracted our notice, and I walked up the road to see what he was doing. He soon appeared at the edge of the spruce woods, and I followed him into their dark shades. After a moment’s hesitation he took the back track and was soon almost out of earshot on a hot scent. Not long after, my friend left the house and, crossing Swift River by the railway bridge, followed the rails northward through the forest. Soon he heard the hound baying to the eastward, down river. Then a snapping of branches and crunching of crust came to his ears, and a moment later a deer broke through the bushes, dashed up the embankment, and, turning at right angles, came in weary leaps towards him. My friend stood perfectly still, too much astonished to move. The deer came to within twelve paces of him, then saw him, and with a bound left the track and plunged into the woods on the western side. A few moments later the hunters came up and my friend demanded what they were doing, and whether the hound was their dog, in so severe a tone that the poachers denied their interest in the dog and made off into the woods. Meanwhile, I wandered southward through the spruces, now hearing the hound, now losing his melancholy baying. No small birds were to be seen or heard. They had vanished to their night abiding-places. Two grouse rose noisily and went into the tops of the trees. Red squirrels continued to bustle about until after dusk. As light faded in the sky, the forest grew very dark, and fallen trees, stumps, and bushes rearranged themselves into weird shapes which seemed to move against the vague background of the snow. The silence of the cold black and white woods became oppressive, and the chill of night increased moment by moment. The baying of the hound, lost to the eastward, had come again from the north, and finally moved over towards the west. It was after five o’clock, and the dog had followed his chase since eleven. Standing still, listening to the hound, and peering into the trees in search of the grouse, I began to grow drowsy, and to long to sink down upon the soft snow and go to sleep. It required a strong effort of will to rouse myself and to start my benumbed feet upon their homeward way. As soon as I moved, the grouse, which had been budding in a high maple, flew away deeper into the gloom, and then utter silence settled down upon the deserted forest.
When we awoke, December 24, the day promised to be fine. Blue sky covered the area above Carrigain, and a cool west wind swept across the fields from which much of the snow had disappeared. We had planned to climb another of the mountains near the railway track, but while we were breakfasting, the engine came in, and, finding no cars loaded, went out again at once. By nine o’clock clouds had gathered and caps had settled down upon many of the peaks. We heard crossbills calling as we left the house. Their short, sharp call is much like the English sparrow’s alarm-note. A flock of nine settled on the spruces by the salting-trough as we went past. One was a red bird, two had a trace of red, five were brown, with some streaking on the sides of the breast, and one was quite yellow. One of them was gnawing a long shoot of spruce which had already been chewed free of needles and left brown and forlorn. Unfortunately we took a dog with us, a black mongrel with pleading eyes and no wisdom. He loved to zigzag over the country in front of us, and to bark at red squirrels. He was a nuisance, but very sweet-tempered, as many fools are. We took him, hoping that he might hunt rabbits, but we wished him in Jericho long before the forenoon was over.
Although cloudy all day, no rain fell until evening; consequently birds were astir and abundant. We left the highway at a point where an old logging road led southward through the spruce swamp, parallel to a stream bearing the odd name of Oliverian Brook. Continued far enough over ledges and through “harricanes,” the road would pass between Paugus and Passaconaway and come out into the Birch Intervale, Tamworth. After going in for a couple of miles the road bends to the left, following the east branch of the Oliverian Brook up to the spruce forests on Paugus.
We made our first halt in a dense spruce and hemlock thicket and called for birds. They came from all quarters until dozens of the usual kinds were around us. After a while seven or eight blue jays flitted past, one by one, attracted mainly by my hooting. They came within easy gunshot and peered at us with suspicion and anger in their wicked eyes. They are villains in spite of their attractive dress. Suddenly they flew with cries of alarm, and I saw a large light-colored hawk sweep past and alight in a tall dead tree just out of range. The dog at this crisis made his appearance and rushed back and forth with ill-timed energy. The hawk flew a little farther away and was on his guard against stalking. The jays also vanished, and soon the smaller birds left also. Among the latter was one Hudson Bay titmouse.
In the depths of the spruce swamp the snow had not wasted much, and it was soft enough to take the imprint of passing feet. We found the tracks of a deer, a mink, and a ’coon. Foxes, rabbits, squirrels, mice, and grouse had been that way also. Several times, in crossing fresh fox tracks, I got a whiff of odor which I fancied might be that of the fox. It suggested the smell of hamamelis. The swamp trees were draped with gray moss, one of the most striking of nature’s decorations in this latitude. Many of the trees were thickly grown with green lichens, which, being wet, were two or three times as bright in coloring as when dry. In spots where the snow had melted, showing patches of the swamp floor, mayflower, checkerberry, ranunculus, partridge-berry, ferns, and other leaves showed their vivid coloring, or were replaced in very damp ground by sphagnum.
As we neared the slopes of Paugus the trees became larger and the forest clear of undergrowth. Our road—a very old one—was most clearly marked by being densely grown with weeds, and an inferior crop of trees and bushes. As compared with the clear forest, the road was a ribbon-like jungle. Its young growth was composed of viburnums, slender maples, and cherry-trees. Spots where the cattle had been fed could be picked out by means of the asters, clover, and other flowers and weeds which had sprung up from the seeds sown by the fodder.
In the edge of the high growth we halted a second time, and called the birds together. They failed not to respond, and when their chattering was at its height the familiar “who-hoo, hoo-hoo, who-hoo-hoo-hooo” of a barred owl was heard. The birds became silent and most of them disappeared, perhaps to scold the real owl. Many of the trees in this belt of forest were nearly a hundred feet in height.
Well up towards the high ridges of Paugus our road crossed the Oliverian Brook. The point chosen twenty years ago by the lumberman-engineer for building his bridge was a ravine of singularly picturesque character. Thirty feet below its two precipitous banks the noisy torrent struggled among its boulders. Dozens of dark spruces overhung it, and rank upon rank of evergreens lined the banks. In the bed of the brook the lumbermen had built up in “cob-house” fashion two log abutments about twenty-five feet high. From each bank immense logs were run out to rest upon the abutments, and similar logs formed the central span. Then scores of shorter logs were laid across from girder to girder, and all were firmly bound together by heavy side-logs laid on top of and parallel to the girders. We decided to cross this bridge, although it was falling to pieces. Many of the short logs had rotted off and fallen through. We walked upon the girders, the whole bridge trembling ominously under our tread. Our dog, foolish as he was, knew enough not to cross this bridge, for after inspecting it he whined, ran down the bank, plunged through the stream, and clambered up the other side.
At half past two we had reached rather high land. The road was fast climbing the flank of Paugus, following a minor branch of the Oliverian Brook. Just across this little run rose the gloomiest grove of spruces we had seen. It stood upon a bank fifty feet above the road and brook. I clambered up to it, and forced my way through its dense tangle. To my surprise I found that it was only about thirty feet wide, growing on a mere tongue of land between two mountain gorges. On the farther side the land fell off abruptly two or three hundred feet, and down in the shades below still another branch of the Oliverian fretted in its bed. Beyond it was another ridge, over which, a mile and more away, grim Passaconaway frowned across at me. A white cloud-banner streamed from his spruce-crowned head. To the serious detriment of my clothes I climbed a tall spruce on the edge of the ravine in order to determine our position. Behind us was Paugus, its summits within comparatively easy reach. From them I could have looked down at my snow-covered home by Chocorua lakes. Westward, just across the forest basin on whose edge we stood, was Passaconaway. Northward the eye wandered downward over gently sloping tree-tops to the broad snowy intervale with its cozy farms and its one long, straight road, running from west to east, from the forests by Sabba Day Brook, down Swift River, through its gorges towards Conway. Above and beyond the intervale were the northern mountains which lock it in from the rest of the world,—Bear Mountain on the right, then Owl’s Head, Carrigain, Green’s Cliffs, Sugar Hill, and Kancamagus. The notch east of Carrigain is one of the grandest rifts in the White Mountain panorama. It is like a black gateway opened for storms and wailing winds to sweep through.
The black grove on its narrow tongue of land hanging between two gorges was alive with birds, and I fancied it to be their sleeping-place. Chickadees, kinglets, and a brown creeper were in possession and resented my intrusion. It was just such a place as I have always imagined a small bird’s dormitory to be.
FROST-COVERED SPRUCE NEAR THE SUMMIT OF PASSACONAWAY
We returned, descending by another logging road leading due north to the intervale road about a mile below the Carrigain House. This logging road is one of the most picturesque I have ever seen. It follows closely a brook of considerable size which is one long series of pools, falls, and dashing rapids. The forest on both sides of the brook bed is of high growth and generous proportions. Every few moments a vista view of Bear Mountain charmed us as we wound down the steep incline, while behind and above us the ledges of Paugus, gleaming with ice and capped by snow, showed at intervals through the trees.