Outings at Odd Times

by Charles C. Abbott

Another phase of this subject is that of properly observing. Do we always “see straight”? I prefer this homely phrase in putting the question, because I was so often asked, when reporting the results of youthful rambles, “Did you see straight? Are you sure?” And so the familiar questions come to mind now: Have the summer tourists seen straight? Was everything they saw really as they saw it? “Can I not believe my own eyes?” is the usual reply. It is the commonly accepted opinion that we can, certainly; but may not many an error arise from such testimony? Undoubtedly; but, on the other hand, if the sight-seer is really anxious to learn the exact truth, if he guards himself continuously against false impressions, the danger is comparatively slight, and diminishes to practically nothing by repetition of observation. It must be remembered, too, that an occurrence may be very rare, and, if observed by one not familiar with the ordinary conditions, he may be misled so far as to suppose it not unusual; but it is far from justifiable to assert that he did not “see straight.”

This is particularly true in the study of nature; by which is meant, at this time, the observation of objects, animate and inanimate, as they are and where they belong, not the study of “specimens” taken from their proper places. If a bird is seen out of season, or out of place, or copies the song and manners of a far different species, the observer is not true to himself if he withholds a statement as to the fact, although others may not have been so fortunate as to witness this; and no less imperative is it to express his opinions and give his own interpretations of what he sees. To say that it is indiscreet to set his “unsupported opinion against the facts gathered by a host of observers” is simply absurd. To fail to speak out boldly is miserable cowardice; and he who advises silence because an honest conviction wars with others’ opinions is contemptible. Evidently, having no opinions or knowledge of his own, he champions the cry of the crowd, be it right or wrong. When a friend returns from a distant land, or even from a walk in the country, we do not ask concerning what we have often seen for ourselves, or know from hearsay, is a feature of the land, but of those peculiarities that particularly impress him, and his personal adventures; and, by proper questioning, a dozen ramblers over the same area will tell as many different stories. If every observer or traveler was a mere cataloguing machine what a cool welcome would each receive on his return from an outing.

How are we to know whether or not we “see straight”—whether or not we correctly interpret? Time alone will decide this; adding thereto the experiences of others. From the sum total of many observers will ultimately spring the truth, if happily we shall ever possess it; but no one experience must be suppressed. I saw the Niagara River recently where it is crossed by the suspension bridge, and the water was intensely black save where flecked with snowy foam. I had seen this river at this same spot previously, and had seen it since, and always, except this one instance, the water was deeply blue or brilliantly green. It may never have been black before, and may never be so again, but this has no bearing upon the fact that once, at least, that torrent was as a torrent of ink. And so it certainly is in one’s observations of animal life, if one is a persistent, painstaking observer. His experience will teem with unique occurrences; but they are none the less valuable and worthy of record because of their character.

We hear now and then of misconception of nature—some pretentious critic assuming that another sees what is not to be seen, hears what is not to be heard, and attributes to the lower forms of life faculties beyond their capabilities. By what authority comes this—provided absurdity does not enter into the case? Has the whole region of the United States been so ransacked by a handful of professionals that the habits of every living creature other than man are known even to the minutest details? If so, where is this vast store of learning garnered? It must still be religiously guarded by this same handful. The world at large knows this is nonsense. There have not been enough facts gathered to enable one to more than conclude tentatively. A botanist, not far away, remarked in my hearing that he had tramped over the whole neighborhood in search of sun-dews. He was positive that none grew within miles of his home. Another, with keener vision, tramped the same ground, and found them in abundance. A host of careful, earnest, and devoted observers may be unsuccessful, but that does not prove that some one may not succeed where the others failed; nor can the animadversions of the critical alter the fact that some one has succeeded.

Have any of those who have spent the summer in the country amused themselves by watching some one animal as it was busy with life’s cares? I hope so; and while so doing, was the creature credited with intelligence or blind instinct? I trust with the former. But “Stay!” shouts the critic, “do you realize the danger of loose interpretation?” How are we to decide whether or not an animal thinks as we do? Hereon hinges the whole matter. Obviously, it can never be demonstrated with what may be called mathematical certainty; but the average, unbiased observer will admit that when a creature acts under given circumstances precisely as he would do, that the brain directing those movements is essentially such a brain as his own. To prove that it is something else is left with those who deny the position that I take. Animals think; they are not mere machines; this position is as rational as to claim it of some of the lowest existing races of mankind, for the claim is laid upon the same class of occurrences. To wander abroad, whether in the forest or on the plain, and not to look upon animate creation as endowed with intelligence—of course, of varying degrees—is to go, not as an observer in the true sense, but as one deaf and blind. To ramble with this conviction, one will not misread the book of nature, and so be guilty of a literary crime if he gives his story to the world.

An Open Winter.

I have heard or read that one may experience a sense of weariness when surrounded by the best that Nature has to offer—a cloying with too many sweets, as it were. It seems hard to believe, so rejoiced is the average rambler at the return of spring, but that it is true has recently dawned upon me, here in the wilds of Jersey, after some six weeks of merely nominal winter.

Wherever there is a little shelter from the occasional north winds, the immediate outlook is suggestive of early April, but the growing daffodils and blooming hunger-plant, dead-nettle, chickweed, spring beauties, violets, and dandelions, do not give us a springtide landscape, although columbine, giant hyssop, motherwort, self-heal, yellow corydalis, alum root, false mitrewort, and star of Bethlehem, are all green in the sheltered nooks, and the waters of many a spring-basin glow as emeralds with their wealth of aquatic plant life. It avails nothing that these springs and outflowing brooks teem with fish, frogs, salamanders, and spiders; nor does it matter that the sun gives us summer heat and that birds throng the underbrush as in nesting days; still it is winter. This is the crowning fact that colors every thought, and though we can not step but we crush a flower, winter will not be ignored. Nor would I have it so. January has its merits as well as June, and I hail with pleasure that spot where frost has gained a foothold. Here is one such spot; a circle of dead weeds bordering one of moss, and blackberry canes in rank profusion arising as an oval mound within all. It is an odd-looking spot to-day, and sure to attract attention. It is unlike the average clump of briers, and properly should be, as it is the sorry monument to a giant that for century after century dwelt here in glory. It was my good fortune to know him well, but my misfortune to be too young to assume the role of historian. Here stood the Pearson Oak. Perhaps my learned botanical friends may take exceptions, but I hold that this tree was nearly, if not quite, one thousand years old. How the Indian looms up when we think of such a tree! Here was a silent witness to the every-day life of an Indian village that in part rested in the mighty shadows that it cast. And later, from one huge limb dangled the rude pole swing that was the delight of the first of my people born in America. Being the most prominent feature of the neighborhood, this oak was brought within the boundary line of two great plantations, and the half acre beneath its branches was the common playground of two families. Little wonder, then, that in time it was also common courting ground. Indeed, the phrase common in several families now, referring to engaged couples, “under the oak,” has reference to this tree and the engagements that arose from frequently meeting there, during the first half-century after the place was settled.

But what has this to do with winter? Nothing, perhaps, but it seemed fitting that a film of ice should cover the little pool in the circle, as frost had blighted every shrub about, when recalling that long-gone past that seems to us so rosy-hued when comparing it with the present. Ruin is stamped upon every feature of the landscape here, and it is well that the old oak that witnessed more mirth than sadness should have passed away.

To those who can walk eight furlongs and see only a milestone, winter may be a dreary season: but Nature at rest, for those who love her, is a sleeping beauty. Again, if it so happens death is everywhere about you, it should not prove repulsive. Death is the law of life, and not a flower in June can boast greater beauty than the empty seed-pods of many a decaying plant. Shudder, if you will, at the word “skeleton,” but handle that of many a creature or plant, and enthusiastic admiration is sure to follow. In June, we glory in the deadly struggle for existence that everywhere is raging; charmed by the flaunting banners, the music, the “pomp and circumstance of glorious war”; why not then be rational and cull beauty as well as profit from the battle-field when the struggle is over? If a shrub is beautiful clad in motley garb, should not its filmy ghost in silvery gray merit a passing glance?