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.
