The next morning I went to school without visiting the spot, fearing I might meet with the supposed offender. All day long I wondered. No boy had any marvellous tale to tell and no one looked at all guilty. There soon came over me a feeling that perhaps I had played a trick upon myself, and by sundown I was rather reluctant to determine if anything had happened; but go I did. The trap had evidently been disturbed. The “boa” with the rabbit’s head was lying at full length outside and the bushes were broken as if a bull had rushed through them. But who or what had been there?
Two days of most distressing doubt passed, and then came Saturday. I was ill at ease and took no pleasure in my holiday; but about noon our neighbor came over, and I heard him tell grandfather how, on Fifth-day, while the family were at breakfast, Bill, the bound boy, came rushing into the room and exclaimed, excitedly, “Something from the menagerie’s broke loose and got in the rabbit-trap!”
I had had my revenge.
A wood, to be at its best, should be located on the shore of a lake or river, or, perhaps better still, a river should run through it. Here are my impressions of such a wood, from my note-book of 1892, under date of May 1:
Nothing could have been more fitting than to take a May-day outing at such a place. The swift current of the Great Egg Harbor River rolled resistlessly along, its waters black as night, save where, over the pebbly shallows, it gleamed like polished amber. The wind that swayed the tall crowns of the towering pines made fitting music, according well with the rippling laugh of the fretted river, while heard above all were the joyous songs of innumerable warblers.
We had placed our boat upon a wagon six miles below our point of departure, and partly realized on our way what this pine region really was. The cedar swamp, the oak openings, the arbutus that gave color to the narrow wagon-track, the absence of man’s interference,—all tended to give us the full significance of that most suggestive word, wilderness. We needed but to catch a glimpse of an Indian to see this part of creation precisely as it was in pre-Columbian days. I sat for some time in the boat before taking up the anchor. This was but the entrance, I was told, to spots more beautiful, but it was hard to believe. Here was a river hidden in a forest, and what more could one wish? The warblers well knew that May-day had come again, and every one of the mighty host greeted the brilliant sunshine. There seemed literally to be hundreds of them. Flashing like gems were redstarts, light as swallows upon the wing. Bright-spotted warblers, and others sombre gray, laughed as they tarried on the trembling twigs; then, mounting into the sunlight, sang loudly as they flew, or darted into gloomy nooks so hidden that not even a sunbeam could follow them.
The river with its attendant birds could not claim all the merit; the land was no less beautiful. The oaks were not yet in leaf, but there was no lack of green. The holly’s foliage was bright as May, the polished leaves of the tea-berry shone as a midsummer growth, the ink-berry had defied the winter’s storms, and the maples glowed as a great ruddy flame. Really distinct as was every object, yet, as a whole, the outlook was dreary, hazy, half obscure, as we looked directly into the wood, where the drooping moss festooned the branches of the smaller oaks.
No voyager ever set forth from so fair a port.
My companion knew the route, and with an oar he took his place astern to guide the boat safely down the swift stream. It was all right as it proved, but at times I forgot that I had come to see the forest. Instead, an element of doubt as to the guide’s ability came painfully to the front. With devilish malignancy, as I thought, trees had prostrated themselves and rested just beneath the water’s surface, or stood up, with outreached arms, as if defying us. How we passed many a crook and turn I cannot now remember. I was too much occupied with desperately clutching at anything within reach to notice the “when” or “how,” but there still remains the delicious sensation of suddenly shooting into smooth water and feeling—brave as a lion.
For several miles on either side of the stream we had a typical mixed forest. The willow-oak predominated at times, and the delicate foliage, so unlike other oaks, was very beautiful. The leaves appeared translucent in the bright sunlight, fairly sparkled, and once made a splendid background to scarlet tanagers that flashed through them. In this long reach of dense woods there were fewer birds than at our starting-point, or perhaps they held back as we passed. But other life was not wanting. From many a projecting stump there slid many a turtle into the dark waters, and a mink or musk-rat crossed our bow. Careful search would no doubt have revealed numerous creatures, for here was a safe retreat for all the fauna of the State. The deer are not yet quite gone, possibly a few bears remain. Certainly the raccoon and otter must be abundant. I was constantly on the lookout for minks, for the river abounds in fish. This animal is sometimes mistaken for a huge snake, as it rises several inches above the water at times, and has then a rather startling appearance. An old fisherman on Chesapeake Bay told me that he had seen a mink with a huge eel in its mouth come to the surface, and then the wriggling fish and long, lithe body of the mink together looked like two serpents fighting. I can readily imagine it. Birches, liquidambars, and pines in clusters would next command attention, and usually there was a dense undergrowth. Holding the boat, at times, we could hear the water rushing through the roots of this tangled mass, and found that what we had supposed was firm land afforded no certain footing, and a bluff of firm earth was very welcome when we thought of landing for a hasty lunch. This firm earth did indeed support us, but in reality it was the most unstable of shifting sands, being held in place by reindeer-moss, partridge-berry, and other pine-barren growths. Nothing was in sight but the scrubby pines, and we had to be very careful that our fire did not get among the “needles” and dash through the woods. I found here absolutely no birds. They seem all to prefer the tracts covered by deciduous trees; but insect-feeders could have flourished here. The steam of our dinner-pot brought more substantial forms than mosquitoes, one house-fly being determined to share my Frankfurter and successfully defying all attempts at capture.