Again afloat, we soon came to the mouth of an inflowing stream called Dead River, said to be very deep. This point was perhaps the wildest of all. The open water here was very wide, and a forest of projecting stumps of various heights showed plainly that we were on the edge of an area of drowned land. In the distance was an unbroken background of pines, which now looked black. At wide intervals could be seen huge pines that had escaped the charcoal-burner or lumberman. The stems and lower branches were, of course, concealed, but in the hazy atmosphere the tops were as floating islands of darkest green, standing boldly out against the pearly sky behind them.
Here, at the mouth of Dead River, we beheld a pretty sight. A wood-duck with her brood rushed over the water in a most lively manner, flecking the black expanse with patches of white foam. Such incidents add much to such a journey. An empty forest is as forbidding as an empty house.
In the coves there were changes from the surrounding scenery that were not to be overlooked. A rank growth of golden-club resting on the dark waters was very striking. The picture was such as we see on a Claude Lorrain glass. Near by fresh sphagnum in a shallow pool was bronze and green: a place for frogs to squat unseen, but I could find none. How often this happens! At the very places where we think animal life will be in abundance we can find no trace of it. Then, looking up, we see but trees. No break in the line that hems us in. Trees old and young, trees living and dead, great and small; nothing but trees.
The wind freshened as the day grew old, and doubly troubled were the waters. There was no rest for them now, even in sheltered nooks, and it was only by sturdy strokes of the oars that we made headway at all. There was no perceptible current to bear us along as before. The waves dashing against the bare trunks of trees long dead and now bent by the wind added much to the wild scene. Novel as it all was, I could not quite enjoy it. It was something to be contemplated from the shore, I thought. I know I was laughed at, but the many “blind” stumps, or those just beneath the surface, of which my companion spoke so unconcernedly came too prominently to mind when I least expected them, and added much significance to the fact that I cannot swim.
As we neared home the scene abruptly changed, and the river was lost in a wide expanse that might be called a lake if the fact was not so evident that it is a mill-pond. This, however, did not detract from the beauty of the surroundings, and before our final landing we drew up to a bold bit of shore and searched, while it was yet day, for pyxie. There was an abundance of blooming andromeda, too, and arbutus, with clubmoss of richest green. I almost placed my hand on a centipede that glowed like an emerald. It was resting on ruddy sphagnum, and made a splendid picture. I could not capture the creature. An attempt to do so on my part was followed by its disappearance with a suddenness that could be likened only to the flashes of light that played upon its back. Here I heard many frogs, but could find none. The rattle and peep were not like the voices of those in the meadows at home, and I wondered about Cope’s new tiger-frog and the little green hyla that is so rare here in Jersey. Possibly I heard them both; probably not.
We returned to prosy life when the boat was lifted over the dam, and the incidents were few and commonplace in the short drift that carried us to an old wharf, a relic of the last century.
What a difference between such a forest and a few hundred oaks and ashes at home! and yet these are far better than treeless fields. It is these few trees that hold many of our migratory birds, and through them, in spring, troop the north-bound warblers. In the gloaming a small tract of woodland widens out, and, seeing no open country beyond, what does it matter, if we walk in a circle, whether it be one acre or one thousand? There is good philosophy in “Small favors thankfully received.” Here in this little wood are beautiful white-footed mice, a shy, nocturnal jerboa, flying-squirrels, and, if I mistake not, a whole family of opossums. Here, until autumn, are wood-robins that never weary us by overmuch singing, and cat-birds, chewinks, and the rose-breasted grosbeak. I do not complain, but as the summer passes I regret that these birds have their appointed time and will soon be gone. Why so soon? I often wonder, for their haunts do not lose their loveliness for weeks after they have disappeared.
No wall of green above, about,
They silently steal away;
With but a carpet of withered leaves,