Chapter I: Part 1

Bog-trotting for orchids

“_I enter a swamp as a sacred place._”—Thoreau

BOG-TROTTING
_FOR_
ORCHIDS

_By_ GRACE GREYLOCK NILES

_With Illustrations from Nature_

G. P. Putnam’s Sons
_New York and London_
The Knickerbocker Press
_1904_

COPYRIGHT, 1904
BY
GRACE GREYLOCK NILES

Published, April, 1904

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

TO
GENEVIEVE FARNELL
IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION
OF
HER AID AND ENCOURAGEMENT

“_One true-born blossom, native to our skies,_
_We dare not claim as kin,_
_Nor frankly seek, for all that in it lies,_
_The Indian’s moccasin._”

ELAINE GOODALE.]

Preface

During many seasons spent in the Hoosac Valley, it has been a source of great pleasure to me to trace mountain streams through moss-grown ravines to their beginnings, and to explore the almost inaccessible recesses of the sphagnous boglands. I have found it a delight to study the orchids, ferns, and various flowers sheltered in their homes, far removed from the roadside. I seldom follow any well-worn forest paths, for I have observed that the rarer plants do not dwell where the foot of man or the grazing herds have wandered. So it happens that the walks described in these pages lead mostly across lots, over hills and mountains, and through swamps.

The Hoosac Valley lies in the heart of the irregular Taconic Mountains, and extends over the southwestern part of Bennington County, Vermont, and the northwestern part of Berkshire County, Massachusetts. This region has a soil peculiarly adapted to the origin and growth of orchids. Here along the numerous streams and in the little vales are many unfathomable peat and marl beds which are veritable orchid gardens. The valley seems to be the common ground where rare plants from the North and South, as well as the migrating species from the East and West, meet and overlap each other.

Many people are accustomed to think of the orchid as a tropical flower which grows in our country only in cultivation and under highly artificial conditions. It is, however, true that many of the most attractive species of this beautiful group are endemic to most parts of the United States. There are to-day, according to conservative reports, from twenty-seven to thirty genera and from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and sixty species of native orchids found in North America, north of Mexico. Most of these are terrestrial or earth-loving. There are eleven epiphytes, all of which are found only in the Southern States. The range of the North American orchids extends wherever sunshine and moisture prevail, nearly as far north as the Arctic Circle. Four Cypripediums grow between latitudes 54° and 64°, and from fifteen to eighteen species of the Orchid Family are natives of Alaska.

The North Atlantic region, covering northeastern United States and Canada, produces seventy-one species of Orchidaceæ; of these from forty-eight to fifty-six are reported for New England, and from forty to forty-two are found in the Hoosac Valley. Of the seventy-one North Atlantic orchids only fifteen or sixteen have not been found within Vermont. The most widely-known genus—_Cypripedium_, or Moccasin-Flower—is represented by thirteen species on the North American continent. This includes the single Mexican species. Six of this number have been collected in Connecticut, and five grow in the Hoosac Valley.

The excursions which I have recorded in this book were made particularly in search of orchids; but I have collected and observed all other flowers of interest which grow in the region which I have traversed, for the purpose of showing the natural environments of orchids, and introducing their near neighbors of swamp, forest, and rocky pasture-land.

G. G. N.

WILLIAMSTOWN, MASSACHUSETTS.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

_First Season_

I. OFF TO THE HILLS OF BERKSHIRE AND BENNINGTON 3

II. BALL BROOK AND THE BOGS OF ETCHOWOG 15

III. THE HAUNTS OF THE RAM’S-HEAD MOCCASIN-FLOWERS 39

IV. THE STOLEN MOCCASINS 44

V. THE QUEEN OF THE INDIAN MOCCASIN-FLOWERS 55

VI. HAIL STORMS AT ETCHOWOG 72

VII. SWEET POGONIAS AND LIMODORUMS 83

VIII. A COLONY OF RAM’S-HEADS IN WITCH HOLLOW 95

IX. OVER THE HUCKLEBERRY PLAINS 115

_Second Season_

X. WESTVILLE SWAMPS AND MOUNT CARMEL, CONNECTICUT 125

XI. MAY SHOWERS AND WHITE MOCCASIN-FLOWERS 137

XII. SAUCY JAYS AND POLYPORES 149

_Third Season_

XIII. THE SWAMPS AND HILLS OF MOSHOLU AND LOWERRE, NEW YORK 157

XIV. THE SWAMP OF ORACLES—HOOSAC VALLEY 167

XV. WHITE OAKS AND GREGOR ROCKS 183

XVI. ALPINE BLOSSOMS OF THE DOME 201

XVII. THE CASCADE AND BELLOWS-PIPE, NOTCH VALLEY, BERKSHIRE
COUNTY, MASSACHUSETTS 212

XVIII. THE NATURAL BRIDGE OF MAYUNSOOK VALLEY, NORTHERN BERKSHIRE 224

XIX. ORANGE MOUNTAINS, AND SALT MEADOWS, NEW JERSEY 231

APPENDIX—NEW ENGLAND ORCHIDS 239

INDEX 285

Illustrations

The photographs in this list marked thus * were taken by Miss Katherine Lewers, the others by the author. The coloring is the work of the author. Of the fifteen genera of _Orchidaceæ_ in New England, all save _Listera_, _Tipularia_, and _Aplectrum_ are represented in these illustrations.

PAGE

The Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_)* _Frontispiece_
_Colored_

The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium hirsutum_)* 4
_Colored_

The Botanizing Can, or Vasculum, Showing the White-Petaled Lady’s
Slipper and Maiden-Hair Fern* 8

Mount Greylock’s Brotherhood—the Berkshire Highlands, from Mount
Œta, Bennington County, Vermont, Showing the College Town of
Williamstown in the Valley* 10

The Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, the Entrance to Hoosac
Tunnel, North Adams, Massachusetts 14
Source of photograph unknown.

Ball Brook, in the Swamp of Oracles, Pownal, Vermont* 18

The Showy Lady’s Slipper—the Queen of the Indian Moccasin-Flowers
(_Cypripedium reginæ_)* 24
_Colored_

The Fleur-de-Lis (_Iris versicolor_)* 28

The Fountain of Arethusa, near the Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont 30

Round-Leaved Sundew (_Drosera rotundifolia_) 32

The Carnivorous Plants, commonly called Pitcher Plants, and Dumb
Watches (_Sarracenia purpurea_) 34

The Bogs of Etchowog, Showing the Dome in the Distance, Pownal,
Vermont* 36

The Ram’s-Head Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium arietinum_) 42

The Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_)* 48
This is the only two-leaved _Cypripedium_ found in the
Atlantic region.
_Colored_

The Tall White Northern Orchis (_Habenaria dilatata_), near
Arethusa’s Spring, Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont 52
_Colored_

The Showy Orchis (_Orchis spectabilis_) 56
The first orchid of the spring, found near the rocky borders of
the Thompson Brook, East Pownal, Vermont.
_Colored_

The Small Yellow Fragrant Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium
parviflorum_)* 60
_Colored_

The Small White Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium candidum_) 62
_Colored_

The Queen of the Indian Moccasin-Flowers (_Cypripedium reginæ_),
from the Bogs of Etchowog, Pownal, Vermont 68

The Small Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria psycodes_) 72

The Showy Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium reginæ_)* 78
_Colored_

The Northern Gap, Showing the Taconic Mountains of Bennington
County, from Mount Œta, Vermont. The Bennington Battle
Monument towers to the left in the Distance* 86

The Rose Pogonia (_Pogonia ophioglossoides_) 88
_Colored_

The Thompson Brook, East Pownal, Vermont 90

The Grass Pink (_Limodorum tuberosum_) 92
This is a strange, beautiful orchid with a straight
seed-pod (ovary).
_Colored_

The Perry Elm, Marking the Site of Fort Massachusetts, on the
Harrison’s Flats, North Adams, Massachusetts, Showing
Saddleback Mountain in the Distance 96

The Small Round-Leaved Orchis (_Habenaria Hookeriana_)* 100
_Colored_

The Showy Orchis (_Orchis spectabilis_)* 104
Showing the plant nearly natural size.
_Colored_

The Large Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria grandiflora_) 110
From lithograph in Meehan’s _Native Flowers and Ferns of the
United States_, 1: 1878. By permission.
_Colored_

The Blackberry Blossoms from Mount Œta, Pownal, Vermont* 112

The Yellow Clintonia (_Clintonia borealis_), Rattlesnake Brook
Swamp, Mount Œta, Pownal, Vermont 116

“White, innocent twigs of apple”* 126

The Woodman’s Road through Rattlesnake Swamp, Mount Œta, Pownal,
Vermont 134

The Beautiful Arethusa (_Arethusa bulbosa_) 144
_Colored_

The Rattlesnake Plantain (_Peramium_), a Group of Three Species
Collected on Rattlesnake Ledge, Mount Œta, Pownal, Vermont 150

The Snowy Dogwood Blossoms, from the Hills of Mosholu, New York* 158

1. Indian Pipes (_Monotropa uniflora_); 2. Pine-Sap (_Monotropa
Hypopitys_) 164

The Snow-Plant of the Sierra Nevada Mountains (_Sarcodes
sanguinea_)* 166

Motherless Baby Whippoorwills* 176

A Colony of the Small Yellow Fragrant Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium
parviflorum_) in the Glen of Comus, District Fourteen, Pownal,
Vermont* 178
_Colored_

The Mountain Laurel (_Kalmia latifolia_) 184

The Gregor Rocks, Hoosac Valley, from Pownal Centre Road, Vermont* 188

The Pot-Hole of Wash-Tub Brook, Pownal, Vermont, Showing the
Stream Whirling through its Basin 190

An Ancient Pot-Hole, Showing an Erstwhile Revolving Stone, Located
on the Granite Ridge, near the Wolf’s Den, Bronx Park, New
York City* 194

The Bluebells of New England (_Campanula rotundifolia_)* 196

Three Rare Ferns from Gregor Rocks and Wash-Tub Brook Region,
Pownal, Vermont: 1. Rue-in-the-Wall Spleenwort (_Asplenium
Ruta-muraria_); 2. Purple-Stemmed Cliff-Brake (_Pellæa
atropurpurea_); 3. Walking Fern (_Camptosorus rhizophyllus_)* 198

The Rocking Boulder, Located on the Granite Ridge near the Bear’s
Den, in the Zoölogical Garden, Bronx Park, New York City 200
A pressure of fifty pounds causes this boulder to move about
two inches.
From photograph by George Stonebridge.

The Red Wood Lily (_Lilium Philadelphicum_) 210

The Cascade of Notch Brook, at the Base of Mount Greylock’s
Brotherhood, North Adams, Massachusetts 212

Notch Valley and the Bellows-Pipe, North Adams, Massachusetts.
Mount Greylock towers up on the right, and the Ragged
Mountains on the left hand 218

The Marble Arch of the Natural Bridge, North Adams, Massachusetts 228

The Star-Blossoms of the Grass of Parnassus (_Parnassia
Caroliniana_), and the Ladies’ Tresses 234

The Hoosac River, Pownal, Vermont* 238

The Fragrant White Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium Montanum_) 242
_Colored_

The Showy Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium reginæ_)* 244
This is the most gorgeous _Cypripedium_ in the world, and without
doubt one of the most ancient types of the genus.
_Colored_

The Pink Moccasin-Flower—the Stemless Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium
acaule_)* 246
Showing the structure of the pendulous and bi-lobed labellum,
and the processes of the sepals and petals.
_Colored_

The Showy Orchis (_Orchis spectabilis_)* 248
The first orchid of the season, showing the hooded fold above the
orifice of the spur, and the processes of the flowers on the
bracted scape.
_Colored_

A Group of Three Species of Genus Habenaria: 1. The Tall Northern
Green Orchis (_Habenaria hyperborea_); 2. The Tall Northern
White Orchis (_Habenaria dilatata_); 3. The Large Round-Leaved
Orchis (_Habenaria orbiculata_)* 250
_Colored_

The Spikes of Habenaria (_Habenaria Andrewseii_ and _Habenaria
psycodes_) 252

The Small Bog Orchis (_Habenaria clavellata_) 254

Andrews’ Rose-Purple Orchis (_Habenaria Andrewseii_) 258

The Beautiful Arethusa (_Arethusa bulbosa_) 262
Showing the structural parts of the flower, the single leaf,
and bulbous root.
_Colored_

The Hooded Ladies’ Tresses (_Gyrostachys Romanzoffiana_) 264

The Nodding Ladies’ Tresses (_Gyrostachys cernua_) 266

The Slender Ladies’ Tresses (_Gyrostachys gracilis_) 268

The Haunts of the Rattlesnake Plantain (_Peramium_) amid the Pines
and Spruces of the Domelet, Pownal, Vermont 270

The Green Adder’s-Mouth (_Achroanthes unifolia_) 272

The Large Twayblade (_Leptorchis liliifolia_) 274

Northern Calypso (_Calypso bulbosa_) 276
From lithograph in Meehan’s _Native Flowers and Ferns of the
United States_, 1: 1878. By permission.
_Colored_

The Coral-Root (_Corallorhiza_) 280

The Grass Pink (_Limodorum tuberosum_) 282
A beautiful grassy-leaved orchid found in company with the
dainty Rose Pogonia, and frequently with the rarer Arethusa
in wild cranberry marshes.
_Colored_

Epiphytes, or Air Plants. A Corner in the Orchid House of the
Botanical Gardens of New York City* 284

FIRST SEASON

I

Off to the Hills of Berkshire and Bennington

It is not the walking merely, it is keeping yourself in tune
for a walk, in the spiritual and bodily condition in which
you can find entertainment and exhilaration in so simple and
natural a pastime.—BURROUGHS, _Pepacton_.

All winter I had been promising myself the pleasure of watching the flowers unfold in the Bogs of Etchowog. On May 25th I reached the old farm on Mount Œta, having departed from New York on May 14th, fully equipped as a bog-trotter, with hunting-boots, rubber gloves, short skirts and vasculum.

My route was through New Haven and Hartford, across the States of Connecticut and Massachusetts. On my way I stopped for a brief visit at the home of a friend in New Haven. In her garden, I found a corner of the Taconic woodlands awakening. Here, in line and on time, stood five modest Yellow Lady’s Slippers (_Cypripedium hirsutum_), members of the Orchid Family; while along the same border clusters of the Showy Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium reginæ_) were pushing their dewy-tipped beaks into light and sunshine. Although rather late in their blossoming, compared with the other sisters of this genus in New England, this species usually reaches its prime about June 20th.

On the east side of the garden towered an ambitious row of ferns, some twenty root clusters or more, including many rare species. Here was an especially queer little strap-like leaf, which one would scarcely call a fern unless one were a professed fern-hunter. It is the rare Walking Leaf (_Camptosorus rhizophyllus_), the scientific name meaning a bent heap, and the appearance of the plant indeed is suggestive of the name. The frond is from four to twelve inches long, springing from a heart-shaped base and reaching out a long, narrow runner, which readily roots at the end again, and thence takes a step onward, and so on, until three or four steps are taken, often in this way forming a beautiful carpet for the cold gray lime rocks, which it prefers in its native haunts.

The Walking Fern is shy in its habitat, seeking the most hidden crevices in ledges along our mountain sides. I have collected it in many dark ravines, as well as along dry, rocky ridges in the Hoosac Highlands. It takes kindly to cultivation for a season or two, and then dies out for want of its natural soil of limestone.

This common _Cypripedium_ is closely allied with the Small Yellow Fragrant species—_Cypripedium parviflorum_—with which it grows in close comradeship, often intergrading. It is also nearly related with the European Yellow Cypripedium (_Cypripedium calceolus_), the first _Cypripedium_ described by Linnæus in 1740-1753.]

A short walk toward West Rock, New Haven, showed me how far advanced the season really was. Here were crowds of children playing in fields covered with violets and bluets, and farther down in the damp meadows were long, serpentine lines of gold, where the Marsh Marigolds (_Caltha palustris_), known commonly as Cowslips, were already fading. On the edges of the swamp, the Marsh Buttercups of the Crowfoot Family (_Ranunculaceæ_), were lifting their shallow yellow cups to catch the sunshine. We wandered on through a pretty, wild bit of young woodland until we reached the border of a murmuring stream, creeping onward through the vale and meadow, touching the blossoming orchards here and there, and freshening the sweet white violets on its brink.

North Adams, Massachusetts, was to be my next station. This city is about two hundred miles from New York, among the Hoosac Highlands. I almost expected to see reluctant snowdrifts still lingering in the fence corners and shaded pine glens of this part of “Beautiful Berkshire,” and I half hoped to find a few late clusters of the Trailing Arbutus (_Epigæa repens_) creeping through the cold, mossy ravines.

Upon my arrival in North Adams, I looked through the bogs under the brow of Hoosac Mountain near Aurora’s Lake, and I could perceive scarcely any difference in the progress of flowers or foliage here from that of the region from which I had just departed. Dogwood, apple trees, violets, anemones and wake-robins were in blossom, while in the deeper bogland I found one lone, pale Pink Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_).

American White Hellebore, so commonly known as Indian Poke or Itch Weed (_Veratrum viride_), had already sent out a luxuriant growth of green leaves, which for a moment deceived me—as it had done many times before—by its resemblance to the foliage of the Showy Lady’s Slipper. The leaves of both these plants are plicate, and have ever been confused even by the earliest herbalists. Unrolling a spike of leaves one day, I found I had actually disturbed the buds of the queen of the Lady’s Slippers instead of the Hellebore, although they proved to be blasted. No doubt some warm day had started them prematurely, frost and cold rains later proving their ruin.

Here on a sheltered damp hillside, I found my first clusters of the season of the Pink Azalea (_Azalea nudiflora_), which is commonly known hereabout as Swamp-Apple, and which is very similar to _Rhodora Canadensis_. These species belong to the Heath Family, one of the largest among the flora of Hoosac Valley. The beautiful pink flowers of the Great Rhododendron, which measure from one to two inches in diameter, render it the most charming species of this group. It is cultivated extensively, but grows in its natural wild state, in this region, only along the margins of ponds near Montpelier and Wells River, in Vermont.

The American Mountain Laurel (_Kalmia_), which becomes so gorgeous later in the season, the Lambkill, Labrador Tea, Andromeda and the Cassandra are closely allied species of this group, common to this region. Other familiar members of it are the Trailing Arbutus, Gaultheria, and the Creeping Snowberry. They may be found in Aurora’s Swamp.

North Adams is not far from the sources of the south and north branches of the Hoosac River, in a wild and rugged portion of Berkshire. The Hoosac proper is formed at the junction of these two streams, in the vicinity of the Print Works near Marshall Street in the city, and flows on gently in a northwesterly course to join the Hudson, near Lansingburg. Mountain streams in this region are numerous, and flow musically down through deep chasms and over great marble precipices, to swell the Hoosac as it glides slowly out through the deep-cut valley.

“We Hold the Western Gateway,” is part of the inscription on the seal of the city of North Adams, which is known as the “Tunnel City.” This is practically true, for the sole gateway of the trade from the Western States passes though the flinty wall of the Hoosac Mountain, in order to reach Boston direct. The idea of opening a path for transit through the “Forbidden Mountain,” as the Indians called it, was conceived six years after the first mail-coach and four-in-hand rattled through the street of this town to Greenfield, in 1814. It was found impossible to build the projected canal from Boston to Albany. The estimated cost of building the tunnel was less than two million dollars, but when it was completed in 1875, the total financial outlay had amounted to over twenty millions. Until January 1, 1887, this tunnel was owned by the State of Massachusetts, when it was purchased by the Fitchburg Railroad. It is four and three fourths miles long, and twenty-six feet wide, permitting of double tracks. The arch is from twenty-two to twenty-six feet high, and at each portal there is a massive granite façade.

Whenever I come to the Hoosac Valley, I enter, if possible, by way of this tunnel. I seem thus to close away the outer world, and to penetrate a new realm hidden here in the seclusion of the marble highlands. This triumph of man over the power of Nature needs no further introduction here. I can never forget, however, the weary years of hardships endured by those who toiled in its construction, entombed within the heart of the mountain, subject to the dangers of quicksands, falling rocks, damp and gases, explosives, fire and starvation, before the great work was accomplished.

I enjoyed the ridges in the pastures along the foothills of the grim-faced Tunnel Mountain, and about Aurora’s Lake, which reflects like a pretty little mirror the rugged beauty of the hills. This lake is partly natural, but now dammed artificially. Every line of its terraced shores bears the scars of antiquity, which would indicate that ten thousand years ago a larger lake slept in this hollow vale which geologists have estimated at a depth of six hundred feet. Here are rich deposits of glacial drift, and northeast of Aurora’s Lake are sphagnous swamps, where I find many rare orchids and early spring blossoms. Here both the pink and yellow Moccasin-Flowers bloom in May, while in June the queen of the tribe unfolds her white-petaled purity.

This bogland is very similar to that of the Swamp of Oracles in Pownal, in District Fourteen, save for the openness of the former’s shores. Aurora’s Swamp is located in a deep flinty basin, surrounded only by low tangled bushes and open pasture-land beyond, without forests to shield the bogs from the sweep of winds.

The hills are strewn with great boulders left here in the Glacial Age, which rest, poised as monuments of that mystical period. Especially interesting are the dimpled erosions upon one boulder, which rests just northeast of the lakelet, upon the ridges sloping eastward toward the sphagnous swamp. There are visible deep scratches, hollows, arches and miniature pillars, which the whirling eddies of the perilous waves have eroded during the ages unknown. Higher on the summit of the Hoosac rests another immense rock known to students of geology as the “Great Vermonter.” It is said to have been brought from the marble and granite heights of Vermont, imbedded in the ice-drift. Through the melting of the glacial sheet, one of the drifting bergs left this hero of the ages as we may see it now, moored and balanced high on old Hoosac’s brow.

The geological surveys of northern Massachusetts, by President Hitchcock of Amherst in 1838, early identified all of the low, round hills to be seen southward from Aurora’s Lake as the result of glacial action. Mount Greylock’s Brotherhood is a group of giant glacial hills, as it were, and is the highest pile of Taconic formation in this State. The erosions of the great ice-sheet are plainly seen on the rocky summits of these mountains, and only time and the decay of the rock itself will do away with these scars of that mystical age. The name of “Greylock” appears to be derived from the lowering cloud-mist so often capping the whole Brotherhood at early dawn or before a storm.

Vermonters who, from the hills at a great distance to the north, view this group of mountains, depend upon this capping of clouds as a forecast of the weather. Among the old folk, it is known and designated as “Greylock’s Nightcap,” a portent of a coming storm.

Mount Greylock, the highest swell of this range, is 3600 feet above sea level, and commands a variable and extensive view from its bald summit, on which was early erected that first wooden observatory, during President Griffin’s term at Williams College. Here the poet and the philosopher, Hawthorne and Thoreau, have climbed to meditate.

Many a message has gone forth from these heights to bless the busy world. Scarcely is there a son of old Williams who does not recall the mountain-day excursions led by Professor Albert Hopkins, and the glory of old Greylock at dawn and at the sunset hour.

Thoreau writes of it: “It would be no small advantage if every college were thus located at the base of a mountain, as good at least as one well-endowed professorship. It were as well to be educated in the shadow of a mountain as in more classical shades. Some will remember, no doubt, not only that they went to college, but that they went to the mountain. Every visit to its summit would, as it were, generalize the particular information gained below, and subject it to more catholic tests.”[1]

The peak especially designated as Saddleback Mountain is at the junction of the eastern abutments of that huge wall of Taconic Brotherhood which appears south of the old battle-ground where formerly stood the early border Fort Massachusetts, on the Harrison flats, near the flag station of Greylock. The union of Mount Williams, sloping to the east, and Prospect Mountain to the west forms the seat of the saddle.

Mount Hopkins—so named in honor of Professor Albert Hopkins of Williams, the first nature-student of our land, making excursions afield in 1833—lies south of these. Old Greylock, proper, lifts its lofty brow still farther south, being situated about in the centre of this great range as it extends from east to west.

Beyond Greylock stretches a long, misty line of blue peaks against the sky, which if observed from Mount Œta at the north, in Bennington County, Vermont, may be traced to the southwest to Symond’s Peak, the lowest of the group, named in memory of Captain Symond, who led the volunteer forces from our hills and vales to the memorable Battle of Bennington in 1777. Bald Mountain is also in the vicinity, and the closing in of these several peaks has conspired to form what is known as the “Hopper,” and the “Heart of Greylock.” The hollow vale amid these heights has the appearance of the hoppers used by millers years ago.

Surely in the heart of the Taconics we are in one of the oldest rock formations of the earth, and the green terraced stairs lead us slowly down to the deep-set valley of the Hoosac, where once slept that ancient lake. All that now remains of that Lake of Dawn is pocketed in the basin under the Hoosac. The shores of Aurora’s Lake are lonely and still, save for the marsh thrushes which skim low over the waves and whistle shrilly. The groves of pine to the southeast are the haunts of solitude, and those who wander here can well imagine that the Æolian harps among the whispering trees are repeating a music of ages past, when only wind and waves were known to these hills.

Amid these damp and reedy shores and swampy woods are tall brakes and delicate Maiden-Hair Ferns. Here, too, the tall and stately Royal-Fern (_Osmunda regalis_) flourishes in deep seclusion, sheltered by the low-branching pines along the shore. It grows from two to four feet high in this locality, and is of a deep rich crimson-green tone against the grasses and bushes near. Mounds of moss, marking one of the trees of a primitive forest rotting below the soil, are thickly carpeted with the leaves of the Dog’s-Tooth Lily. Indeed, the picturesque paths which lead through these woods wind through a veritable fairy-land of flowers and ferns. One of these trails runs southward through rocky pastures, swamps and thickets, toward the Tunnel’s western gate.

Along these slopes, among the limestone rocks, I found rows of the Ebony Spleenwort Fern, rather rare in this much-travelled way; and on the brow of this ridge were many species of common fern. The pastures are barren and dry, with few bushes to break the dreary horizon, as one approaches the western portal of the Tunnel.

I came upon one lone Apple-Thorn bush, of genus _Cratægus_ of the Apple Family. Nearly opposite, across the valley of the south branch of the Hoosac, which the Indians named the Ashuilticook, may be distinguished the smoking Limekilns; while still farther southward, the white-spired village of Adams nestles at the base of Greylock, which towers serenely above the shaggy shoulders of Ragged Mountain. I wandered about the edges of the Tunnel cliffs where, in years gone by, had stood the impoverished cabins which sheltered the laborers who tunnelled the Hoosac. I descended into the chasm and seated myself upon the wall of rocks, waiting for the trains to appear and disappear at the portal in the side of the hill. Presently one from the West crept ponderously into the cavern. The echoing roar was smothered, and died slowly away until it became an indistinct murmur. Not long afterward I felt, as well as heard, the low breathings and rumblings of a locomotive coming in the opposite direction. I heard its subterranean groans as of a great spirit, while the smoke poured forth, pushed in volumes before the engine, wreathing and curling about it as it emerged, and partially concealing its grim outlines.

The faithful watchman, a modern Eckhart, sits before the entrance of the Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, and warns the people against entering through this portal to the greater world that lies beyond. It is as if he wished to guard these children of the marble highlands from the risks attendant upon the wild whirl of life beyond these quiet hills.

The sun was setting as I left him, calm but alert, at his post of duty, trimming and lighting his colored lanterns for signals of danger or safety to the approaching trains. Climbing up by the path which passes the little red cottage on the crest of the hill on the north bank of the chasm, I returned leisurely homeward, winding over the hillsides, far above Aurora’s Lake, then down along the borders of the swamp-lands. In the crevices of rock were creeping colonies of the Common Polypody (_Polypodium vulgare_). Along the edges of this bog are still seen the primeval stumps of the pine and hemlock forests, which clothed these hillsides when only the Redmen dwelt and hunted among these wildernesses.

In May and early June these decaying stumps are usually draped with Painted Trillium and the delicate vines of Gaultheria and the Creeping Snowberry, while the Arbutus trails about luxuriantly, covering up the ruins of years.

II

Ball Brook and the Bogs of Etchowog

Fringing the stream, at every turn
Swung low the waving fronds of fern;
From stony cleft and mossy sod
Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

WHITTIER, _The Seeking of the Waterfall_.

On May 25th I reached Pownal, Bennington County. Upon the following day I explored the great swamps of Etchowog. Prepared with luncheon, vasculum, basket for roots and my hound Major, I started on one of those happy excursions such as Thoreau recommends we should take, “in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return,—prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms.”[2]

Ball Brook, a sluggish stream flowing northwardly to East Pownal swamps—commonly called the Bogs of Etchowog—has its source in the marshy hillsides northwest of the schoolhouse in District Fourteen. Two streams flow from this valley. One is called Ladd Brook, running southwesterly and following the windings of the shady Ladd Road to Pownal village, where it joins the Hoosac River. The other stream, Ball Brook, flows north and northeast onward through innumerable and unfathomable swamps, to Bennington village, ten miles north, there meeting the Walloomsac River, which is also a tributary of the Hoosac, farther northward in its course. This brook is rich in a continuous chain of peat bogs—rich from an orchid-hunter’s point of view.

Although I have been familiar with this region from childhood, viewing it from the roadside only, I never at any time had ventured to follow Ball Brook through all its meanderings to the Bogs of Etchowog near Pownal Pond, a distance of some three miles. This would not be a long walk on a fair road, but it becomes rather dangerous and formidable when leading through quaking marshes in the soaking currents of a stream.

A short distance to the right, north of the schoolhouse in Number Fourteen, there is an old pathway nearly overgrown with bushy pines and birch and chestnut underbrush. This I followed, entering the hollow under the brow of the hill, and passing along the wood road which skirts the margins of one of the deepest, darkest jungles in these regions. The old people look upon it as akin to “Witch Hollow,” on the Gulf Road near by, and tell strange tales of ghosts, and of some mythological peddler who was swallowed here in the black mud of this ancient tarn, after having been robbed of his fine silks and precious jewels.

Weird, hollow drummings issue and echo through these shaded vales from time to time. Probably they are due, however, to nothing more startling than the alarum of a partridge, or the hoot of the screech-owl; or the creaking and rubbing of partially fallen trees against their supporting brothers, voicing a portent of coming storm. I hear in this woodland seclusion little save the whispering of the winds, the sighing of the pines, and snapping of dead twigs, mingled with the chorus of the thrushes. The first settlers here about interpreted these wood-sounds far differently; then the primeval forests were dense, and the noises were deep and full of mystery, and there was fear of the Redman’s war-whoop. As Burroughs writes: “The ancients, like women and children, were not accurate observers. Just at the critical moment their eyes were unsteady, or their fancy, or their credulity, or their impatience got the better of them, so that their science was half fact and half fable.... They sought to account for such things without stopping to ask, Are they true? Nature was too novel, or else too fearful to them to be deliberately pursued and hunted down.”[3]

I stopped on a corduroy bridge to draw on my high-water boots and rubber gloves, for one feels safer when entering this dense swamp if protected from poisonous roots and foliage, biting insects and things that creep and crawl.

I had started out with small belief that I would find any prime blossoms of the Orchid Family, for nothing of importance had yet unfolded in Aurora’s Swamp in North Adams. But when I penetrated the heart of these rich, warm glooms, I found waiting for me a fragrant company of Dwarf Yellow Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium parviflorum_); and innumerable Stemless Pink Lady’s Slippers, more frequently called the Indian’s Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_), stood as sentinels on the dryer edges of the swamp.

The Marsh Marigolds were here also in their last stages, fading away, but still sufficiently bright; with the late indigo-blue violets, which rear their faces at least a foot high above the dark pools, to carpet the marsh with gold and purple. Poison Ivy cropped out frequently among these graceful orchids,—a beautiful vine, although unfriendly to man.

It is difficult to describe the dense gloom of this bog, closed in on all sides by high rock-bound hills, which are clothed with pine and yellow birch trees, and which in their turn are but foothills to the higher watershed. It seems to have been a receiving basin for the waste and wear of the heights above for thousands of years. Here are fallen trees of every variety common in southwestern Vermont, and these prostrate giants helped to form a safe footing through the quaking bogs.

Many cold springs under the hill to the south conspire to freshen the marsh, and after sluggish oozing northward, they unite and form the brook proper. The stream leads directly through the heart of the swamp, and at last, gathering force, rushes down over rocky slopes, presently to enter another swamp of greater breadth, filled with different trees and flowers.

“_Here, let these rivulets forever flow!_
_Drink from these highland domes the melting snow;_
_Drain from the dark ravines, and hollows near,_
_The mountain cascades, flowing soft and clear._”

G. G. N.]

The Showy Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium reginæ_) was just sending forth its tiny roll of leaves, so I could not expect prime blossoms before June 15th at the earliest.

Seated on a decaying log, I ate my luncheon, with Major before me begging impolitely for his portion, until I divided my cake with him. The mosquitoes were so troublesome that I decided to push onward. Carefully picking my way out of the swamp, I crossed the muddy brook, and found myself in a dry, rocky pathway which winds around the hillside, but still keeps within sound of the brook’s murmur.

In exquisite little glens beside the path were Painted Trilliums and Stars-of-Bethlehem, while the white and gold stars of the dainty Goldthread (_Coptis trifolia_) were shining amid the moss and their own glossy green leaves.

In the bend of the stream a little farther on were some of the most graceful little ferns, just near enough to the brink to catch now and then a dash of spray from the rushing waters, swayed in the coolness all day long, adding beauty to the nook.

Still farther on, I saw that by crossing the stream I could enter a little ravine to the right, which promised hidden treasures. I waded through the brook, which was too wide to jump across; I found that it was also rather too deep for my boots, and that there were very few stepping-stones to make a dry crossing possible. But of what matter is a little water in one’s boots, when seeking the Gardens of the Gods? I landed safely on the opposite bank, after frightening many a shy, speckled trout from his hiding-place in this ideal fishing-hole.

I was now in a small, low-lying glen where foot of man has seldom been. The soil, though much drier than the ground over which I had recently passed, displayed a honeycombed appearance, showing where the water had oozed away through the rich leaf-mould to seek the flowing stream beyond.

Whole constellations of star-flowers were here; both the Painted and Crimson or Nodding Trilliums were abundant, asserting themselves and their rights, if size of flowers and leaves may indicate strength, among the tall, rank growth of the Common Brake (_Pteris aquilina_), which frequently rise five feet in height. Close by their long, harsh lobes grew the plicate leaves of the Indian Poke or White Hellebore. Skunk Cabbage (_Spathyema fœtida_), so frequent in the swamps along Bronx River in Greater New York, is rarely seen here, although I find lone specimens now and then in Aurora’s Swamp in northern Berkshire, and in this jungle. Lily leaves and Dwarf Cornel peeped out from every shadow. Here I found the red-spotted leaves of Dog’s-Tooth Lily (_Erythronium Americanum_) and Clintonia (_Clintonia borealis_), as well as the delicate leaves of the False Lily-of-the-Valley (_Unifolium Canadense_), and several species of Solomon’s Seal, while the weird Indian Cucumber (_Medeola Virginiana_) rose up everywhere beneath the luxuriant ferns.

Dwarf Cornel, or Bunch Berry, locally known as Bear Berry (_Cornus Canadensis_) was about to set its fruit. These berries are of a deep vermilion color, and eatable if one has the patience to sever the seeds. From the bark of this species of the Dogwood Family is extracted a tonic which is very bitter.

I found the beautiful Star-Flowered Solomon’s Seal (_Vagnera stellata_), and the deeper bogs revealed specimens of the rarer bog species, _Vagnera trifolia_, which, in spite of its name, produced plants with more than three leaves, and many beautiful fragrant flowers of a waxy white color. Indian Turnip (_Arisæma triphyllum_), more commonly known to-day as Jack-in-the-Pulpit, was numberless; the little priests in the pulpits were dressed in cardinal’s robes trimmed with stripes of green, white, and purple.

This sylvan retreat which yielded so many specimens of beautiful flowers I called the “Glen of Comus,” for I could not rid my thoughts of the deep, dark woodlands where Sabrina was lost among the enchanters.[4] I fancied that the Purple Trilliums stood with nodding petals bowed down to earth as though they were guilty of some crimson sin and dared not lift their faces to the sun.

I gathered from every species some perfect treasure, and then returned, wandering once more beside the cool brook. I wondered if it carried all the memories of the forest fastness, gleaned among the roots of our frail, beautiful hillside flowers, through the mighty rivers to the deep seaweeds and strange aquatic blossoms which had at one time bloomed among these very hills ages and ages ago.

Climbing a fence, I found myself in a parched, short-cropped cow-pasture, but the stream soon passed into a large tamarack swamp, where in many places neither man nor beast can wander with ease or safety. I rested under a wide-spreading pine tree, looking the marsh over to choose the best path through it, for I still had some distance to walk before I could reach Pownal Pond and the Bogs of Etchowog.

In order to make my journey less burdensome, I decided to leave my treasures of gold and crimson hidden in this stream, where they would not only keep fresh, but would be much safer than with me. I felt that they would be reasonably safe from marauders, for orchids are far more numerous than human beings in this forlorn locality; for where verdant meadows might spread were only uncultivated, almost impassable, dismal swamp-lands.

At last my flowers were safely placed in the bend of the brook near an old pine stump, where I made them fast, covering them with the coarse brakes which grow everywhere; then I strode on northward through the tamarack swamp. This marsh covers a large part of Ball Farm, from which the brook crossing it derives its name.

Through the trees I could see the old weather-worn farm buildings, nestling in the shade of a dozen or more large, thrifty maples, and now and then I heard a faint murmur of distant voices. Suddenly they subsided, and a small dog’s shrill bark told me that I was discovered, mistaken perhaps for the veritable “Witch of the Hollow,” by the present colored occupants.

There was no use in trying to follow the stream now, for its windings were intricate and indefinite. It wandered all over the meadow marsh, and splashed out in one great mud-hole, similar to that of the jungle in District Fourteen, save that the meadow here was open, with very little low tangle or underbrush in sight. Innumerable tamarack trees, however, lifted their graceful spires throughout the bog; yet this did not prevent the meadow from appearing flooded with sunshine.

Away over on the west side of this swamp were many low-spreading trees of virgin pine, contrasting prettily with the lighter greens of the delicate spires of tamarack. Between myself and the shore on either side of this mud-swamp waved acres of Fleur-de-lis, which would soon color the whole meadow with royal purple. Still westward of this lay an alder swamp. This shrub, called Speckled or Hoary Alder, belongs to the Willow Family, and grows about fifteen feet high, along swamp meadows, forming dense thickets.

Many saucy swamp birds dwell here and appear tame; they came chattering after me, fearing, no doubt, that I might be in search of their nests and birdlings.

Under the pines on the border of the swamp I rested, finding the while tender young Wintergreens (_Gaultheria_), and many edible red berries, called Checkerberries, fruit of _Gaultheria_, sometimes known as Partridge-berry and Boxberry. The last two names are more frequently applied to the fruit of _Mitchella repens_, found growing in company with _Gaultheria_, and producing edible scarlet berries on a trailing vine, resembling myrtle. The flowers of this vine were now in bloom, giving forth a delicate perfume. Their white and pinkish-purple blossoms dotted the moss with a brilliancy like that of the Trailing Arbutus (_Epigæa repens_), so lately faded.

The buds of _Moneses uniflora_ were putting forth their “single-delight,” the name coming from their solitary flower. Here also were quantities of the glossy, waxen leaves of Pipsissewa or Prince’s Pine (_Chimaphila_), and low creeping evergreens. Common Club-Moss and Ground-Pine were interlaced in their dark green beds, where had recently nestled the clusters of arbutus, now brown and faded, although the mossy hummocks still held the fragrance of their luxuriant green leaves. Whittier, writing of these spicy flowers, associated them as the first flowers which the Pilgrims looked upon after their landing on the bleak shores of New England, at Plymouth, in the spring of 1621, and says:

Yet, “God be praise!” the Pilgrim said,
Who saw the blossoms peer
Above the brown leaves, dry and dead,
“Behold our Mayflower here!”[5]

In New England the Arbutus is commonly called “Mayflower,”—not that it blooms especially in the month of May, for it has been found in northern Berkshire as early as February and March. My observation is that prime blossoms are found in the Hoosac Valley region from March 15th until May 15th. I have also gathered beautiful clusters as late as June 23d, in cold nooks beneath the shades of spruce and pines. Their spicy perfume is ever the delight of New Englanders.

Few poets have ever sung the praises of the Queen of the Moccasin-Flowers, although a lovelier flower never beckoned to poetic fancy.]

Scrambling with difficulty over a fence which sagged toward me, I entered a neighboring pasture, finding here more alder trees. Small tamaracks, Christmas spires of spruce, and pine seedlings filled the pasture with fresh evergreens, making me fancy myself in a cultivated park, so regular and trim they stood. Eastward crept Ball Brook, wandering through deep, reedy grasses, where here and there stood tall spikes of last year’s Cat-tail Flag (_Typha_). Here also grows the Sweet Flag or Calamus (_Acorus_), which is not only good to eat, but a panacea for sore eyes. The cat-tails stood stiffly erect, as if guarding the blossoming bog, and serving, notwithstanding their dignity, as perches for the saucy finches which still chattered after me.

Now I passed through a barway to the right, ever in hearing of the gurgling stream, which had reached a hard, dry, gravelly soil, abruptly following the downward slope around a hillside. A well-worn sheep path led me down into a bog similar to the Glen of Comus in District Fourteen, only if anything more wild and weird. Through the openings between the trees and knob-like glacial hills, I caught glimpses of the bold, rugged form of the Dome, standing coldly against the eastern horizon.

A glance through these glooms revealed another colony of the Showy or White-petalled Lady’s Slippers just bursting forth from the earth, perhaps four inches high. I have found them frequently in these bogs, when full-grown, standing three feet tall, but the usual height is about two feet; and in open meadow swamps often only eighteen inches, owing to the crowded soil, choked with grasses and low shrubs. In about three weeks these bogs would be gay with dainty Moccasin-Flowers.

In the upper part of this swamp, I found a rather quaking corner devoted entirely to the deep green leaves and tall, white-bearded spikes of the not common Buckbean (_Menyanthes trifoliata_), a distant cousin of the Blue Fringed Gentian. I know of several colonies of this rare plant in the bogs hereabout, where it grows plentifully, in its pet localities. It is liable to grow ever undisturbed, I am sure, since it chooses such dangerous swamps in which to flourish.

Thoreau mentions that Hodge the geologist once found at least an acre of this species. He writes: “We reached Shad Pond, or Noliseemack, an expansion of the river. Hodge, the assistant State Geologist, who passed through this region on the 25th of June, 1837, says, ‘We pushed our boats through an acre or more of buckbeans, which had taken root at the bottom, and bloomed above the surface in the greatest profusion and beauty.’”[6]

After leaving this jungle,—which reminded me of the luxuriant vegetation of tropical swamps,—I pushed onward, ever nearing the broad marsh-lands of Etchowog, east of Pownal Pond, in the shadow of the Dome. A shaded wood-road winds around the base of the hill, through an open gateway into a thrifty, well-kept apple orchard. This adjoins the old Kimball homestead, and I therefore designated these marshes Kimball Bogs. Out through the orchard meadow I passed, crossing the dusty highway which leads northward around the pond. There are several roads leading to Bennington village; some are rough, some are narrow and hilly, while others are broad and easy. The one to the left, called the Middle Road, follows through Pownal Centre to the county seat of courts and justice. By keeping to the right, one arrives at the same destination by the rough but picturesque East Road, under the brow of the Green Mountains. A direct route from Pownal Pond to Bennington is by way of the Hill Road, which leads directly north between the other highways. Thus the region is intersected from east to west by many roads running northward. I invariably recommend the Hill Road to the traveller who enjoys beauty of landscape. On this way, if he be a keen observer of nature, he will find much pleasure.

Instead of going by the trodden way to Pownal Pond, I chose to follow closely the windings of Ball Brook, which at this point of the road, opposite Kimball’s barns, mingles with another mountain torrent that comes down from the spring heads above Thompson’s Pond, under the Majestic Dome. The main current of this stream continues with the bend of the road, taking with it the volume of the water of Ball Brook as it crosses the greater stream. The courses of both streams are unnatural, having been removed, over one hundred years ago, from their original channels in order to form a mill-pond for sawmill use. Originally, I am told, a dense forest of pine trees occupied the hollow where now the waves of Pownal Pond wash over the decaying stumps.

The natural lake bed lies in these broad, sphagnous meadows east of Kimball’s homestead, winding around to the north, where now wave various small shrubs and trees. Barber’s sawmill, which stands close by the roadside, east of the pond to-day, is slowly crumbling away for want of use. Water finds its level, and although forced to go by the roadside, Ball Brook still seeks in part its old channels through the ancient meadows of Kimball’s Farm, where the stream is silent and elusive, as it glides among the tall, lush grasses. Walking along the borders of this hidden brook, through the tangle mingled with daisies and buttercups, I lost the stream entirely, only a line of gold marking its sleepy wanderings,—for marsh marigolds were still plentiful here, ever following the edges of the brook.

Hellebore grew over the swamp, and the tall grasses took on coarser forms as I waded farther on, deeper and deeper into the sphagnous grave of the ancient lake. At times it seemed so soft and spongy that I questioned my safety, even doubting the possibility of a search party securing my “embalmed heart,” if once I became fast in the mud, so I began to edge up toward firmer ground and the rocky hills near by.

This was the most uncertain swamp I had ever traversed, and not quite safe for one to wade through alone. It is reputed to have been at one time the bed of a great lake, as evidenced by the terraced hillsides about it. Its waters might still linger beneath the black-peat and forest débris which support the trees and spongy sphagnum. However, a fence closed off the most dangerous parts of the bog to keep back the cows from the mire and “dead holes,” as the unfathomable places are designated by the lads who penetrate these bogs for the marsh cranberries in the autumn.

I searched through this meadow for the Large Purple-Fringed Orchis (_Habenaria grandiflora_), thinking perhaps I might find the leaves, although I was somewhat too early to secure the flowers, since they are not due until June 20th and later.

On striking out for the hillside path, I found many problems to solve. It appeared impossible to gain a firm or safe footing in the sphagnum and mud, so securing a fence board which had been hurled about the marsh by the winds and storms, I slapped it down upon the soft earth and moss, and walked its length of eight feet. Then quickly relaying it, while my feet sank lower and lower in the moss, I hastened to pull out my muddy foot-gear and walked the length of my bridge once more,—repeating this perilous feat several times, until I had finally crossed the “dead hole” and stood on _terra firma_ once more.

There is certainly no experience like being stuck in a bog to arouse fearful forebodings. The discouraging effort to keep one foot above the ground only to find the other sinking deeper is most terrifying, and leads to hasty and excited movements which but increase the danger, and may finally lodge both feet fast in the mud. In such a case the sight of a board fence upon which an elbow may be rested is as welcome as a sail to a ship-wrecked mariner. There is in truth much art and science in walking safely through mud and sphagnum. One cannot saunter over the surface, and meditate at ease, but one must be ever alert, elastic as a rubber ball, and quick to feel a danger before it can be seen.

The fields and woods are a good deal like the books we read: the more we become familiar with printed page or forest path, the oftener we return to certain thoughts and trails that lead us back to scenes and associations enjoyed before. I like to mark passages in books I love, here and there, as I would blaze a tree to guide me to the haunt of a cool stream or a rare flower’s hiding-place. Whenever I turn to such passages, I find that time and season have expanded some new thought in my mind, even as they have developed the buds to full-grown flowers since my first journey through the wood.

There is a beautiful cold spring under the hill near the swamps of Etchowog. I have known of it all my life, and were I to visit this region every day for months, I should invariably be drawn unconsciously to this fountain. It is here that I quench my thirst and rest after wading through the neighboring swamps. I have turned many stones here in the past, and lifted the dead leaves from the choking throat of the spring. I have gathered the sundew growing in the moss fringing the banks; and in the sweet solitude and peace I have dreamed many dreams, inextricably mingled with the music of the stream.

“If you would get exercise, go in search of the springs of life. Think of a man swinging dumb-bells for his health, when those springs are bubbling up in far-off pastures unsought by him!”—THOREAU.]