



Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Michael Zeug,
Lisa Reigel, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net







Transcriber's Notes: Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been
left as in the original. No typographical corrections have been made.
Words in italics in the original are surrounded by _underscores_. Words
in bold in the original are surrounded by =equal signs=. The words
"manoeuvres," "phoebe", and "phoebes" use an oe ligature in the
original.




    +--------------------------------------------------------------+
    |                     Books by Mr. Torrey.                     |
    |                                                              |
    |                                                              |
    |               BIRDS IN THE BUSH. 16mo, $1.25.                |
    |               A RAMBLER'S LEASE. 16mo, $1.25.                |
    |                                                              |
    |                                                              |
    |                   HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.                    |
    |                     BOSTON AND NEW YORK.                     |
    |                                                              |
    +--------------------------------------------------------------+




                          A RAMBLER'S LEASE


                                  BY

                           BRADFORD TORREY


     I have known many laboring men that have got good estates in
     this valley.--BUNYAN

     Sunbeams, shadows, butterflies, and birds.--WORDSWORTH


                         BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                    HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
                    The Riverside Press, Cambridge
                                 1892




                           Copyright, 1889,
                         BY BRADFORD TORREY.

                        _All rights reserved._


          _The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
           Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.




PREFATORY NOTE.


The writer of this little book has found so much pleasure in other men's
woods and fields that he has come to look upon himself as in some sort
the owner of them. Their lawful possessors will not begrudge him this
feeling, he believes, nor take it amiss if he assumes, even in this
public way, to hold _a rambler's lease_ of their property. Should it
please them to do so, they may accept the papers herein contained as a
kind of return, the best he knows how to offer, for the many favors,
alike unproffered and unasked, which he has received at their hands. His
private opinion is that the world belongs to those who enjoy it; and
taking this view of the matter, he cannot help thinking that some of
his more prosperous neighbors would do well, in legal phrase, to perfect
their titles. He would gladly be of service to them in this regard.




CONTENTS.


                                              PAGE
     MY REAL ESTATE                              1

     A WOODLAND INTIMATE                        22

     AN OLD ROAD                                45

     CONFESSIONS OF A BIRD'S-NEST HUNTER        70

     A GREEN MOUNTAIN CORN-FIELD                99

     BEHIND THE EYE                            114

     A NOVEMBER CHRONICLE                      121

     NEW ENGLAND WINTER                        140

     A MOUNTAIN-SIDE RAMBLE                    164

     A PITCH-PINE MEDITATION                   182

     ESOTERIC PERIPATETICISM                   189

     BUTTERFLY PSYCHOLOGY                      206

     BASHFUL DRUMMERS                          214




A RAMBLER'S LEASE.




MY REAL ESTATE.

     Yet some did think that he had little business here.--WORDSWORTH.


Every autumn the town of W---- sends me a tax-bill, a kindly remembrance
for which I never fail of feeling grateful. It is pleasant to know that
after all these years there still remains one man in the old town who
cherishes my memory,--though it be only "this publican." Besides, to
speak frankly, there is a measure of satisfaction in being reminded now
and then of my dignity as a landed proprietor. One may be never so rich
in stocks and bonds, government consols and what not, but, acceptable as
such "securities" are, they are after all not quite the same as a
section of the solid globe itself. True, this species of what we may
call astronomic or planetary property will sometimes prove
comparatively unremunerative. Here in New England (I know not what may
be true elsewhere) there is a class of people whom it is common to hear
gossiped about compassionately as "land poor." But, however scanty the
income to be derived from it, a landed investment is at least
substantial. It will never fail its possessor entirely. If it starve
him, it will offer him a grave. It has the prime quality of permanence.
At the very worst, it will last as long as it is needed. Railroads may
be "wrecked," banks be broken, governments become bankrupt, and we be
left to mourn; but when the earth departs we shall go with it. Yes, the
ancient form of speech is correct,--land is _real_; as the modern phrase
goes, translating Latin into Saxon, land is _the thing_; and though we
can scarcely reckon it among the necessaries of life, since so many do
without it, we may surely esteem it one of the least dispensable of
luxuries.

But I was beginning to speak of my tax-bill, and must not omit to
mention a further advantage of real estate over other forms of property.
It is certain not to be overlooked by the town assessors. Its
proprietor is never shut up to the necessity of either advertising his
own good fortune, or else submitting to pay less than his rightful share
of the public expenses,--a merciful deliverance, for in such a strait,
where either modesty or integrity must go to the wall, it is hard for
human nature to be sure of itself.

To my thinking there is no call upon a man's purse which should be
responded to with greater alacrity than this of the tax-gatherer. In
what cause ought we to spend freely, if not in that of home and country?
I have heard, indeed, of some who do not agree with me in this feeling.
Possibly tax-rates are now and then exorbitant. Possibly, too, my own
view of the subject might be different were my quota of the public levy
more considerable. This year, for instance, I am called upon for
seventy-three cents; if the demand were for as many dollars, who knows
whether I might not welcome it with less enthusiasm? On such a point it
would be unbecoming for me to speak. Enough that even with my fraction
of a dollar I am able to rejoice that I have a share in all the town's
multifarious outlay. If an additional fire-engine is bought, or a new
school-house built, or the public library replenished, it is done in
part out of my pocket.

Here, however, let me make a single exception. I seldom go home (such
language still escapes me involuntarily) without finding that one or
another of the old roads has been newly repaired. I hope that no mill of
my annual seventy or eighty cents goes into work of that sort. The
roads--such as I have in mind--are out of the way and little traveled,
and, in my opinion, were better left to take care of themselves. There
is no artist but will testify that a crooked road is more picturesque
than a straight one; while a natural border of alder bushes,
grape-vines, Roxbury wax-work, Virginia creeper, wild cherry, and such
like is an inexpensive decoration of the very best sort, such as the
Village Improvement Society ought never to allow any highway surveyor to
lay his hands on, unless in some downright exigency. What a
short-sighted policy it is that provides for the comfort of the feet,
but makes no account of those more intellectual and spiritual pleasures
which enter through the eye! It may be answered, I know, that in matters
of general concern it is necessary to consult the greatest good of the
greatest number; and that, while all the inhabitants of the town are
supplied with feet, comparatively few of them have eyes. There is force
in this, it must be admitted. Possibly the highway surveyor (the
highwayman, I was near to writing) is not so altogether wrong in his
"improvements." At all events, it is not worth while for me to make the
question one of conscience, and go to jail rather than pay my taxes, as
Thoreau did. Let it suffice to enter my protest. Whatever others may
desire, for myself, as often as I revisit W----, I wish to be able to
repeat with unction the words of W----'s only poet,[5:1]--

     "How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood!"

And how am I to do that, if the "scenes" have been modernized past
recognition?

My own landed possessions are happily remote from roads. Not till long
after my day will the "tide of progress" bring them "into the market,"
as the real-estate brokers are fond of saying. I have never yet been
troubled with the importunities of would-be purchasers. Indeed, it is a
principal recommendation of woodland property that one's sense of
proprietorship is so little liable to be disturbed. I often reflect how
altered the case would be were my fraction of an acre in some peculiarly
desirable location near the centre of the village. Then I could hardly
avoid knowing that the neighbors were given to speculating among
themselves about my probable selling price; once in a while I should be
confronted with a downright offer; and what assurance could I feel that
somebody would not finally tempt me beyond my strength, and actually buy
me out? As it is, my land is mine; and, unless extreme poverty overtakes
me, mine it is reasonably certain to remain, till death shall separate
us.

Whatever contributes to render life interesting and enjoyable goes so
far toward making difficult its final inevitable surrender; and it must
be confessed that the thought of my wood-lot increases my otherwise
natural regret at being already so well along on my journey. In a sense
I feel my own existence to be bound up with that of my pine-trees; or,
to speak more exactly, that their existence is bound up with mine. For
it is a sort of unwritten but inexorable law in W----, as in fact it
appears to be throughout New England, that no pine must ever be allowed
to reach more than half its normal growth; so that my trees are certain
to fall under the axe as soon as their present owner is out of the way.
I am not much given to superstition. There are no longer any dryads, it
is to be presumed; and if there were, it is not clear that they would be
likely to take up with pines; but for all that, I cherish an almost
affectionate regard for any trees with which I have become familiar. I
have mourned the untimely fate of many; and now, seeing that I have been
entrusted with the guardianship of these few, I hold myself under a kind
of sacred obligation to live as long as possible, for their sakes.

It is now a little less than a fortnight since I paid them a visit. The
path runs through the wood for perhaps half a mile; and, as I sauntered
along, I heard every few rods the thump of falling acorns, though there
was barely wind enough to sway the tree-tops. "Mother Earth has begun
her harvesting in good earnest," I thought. The present is what the
squirrels call a good year. They will laugh and grow fat. Their oak
orchards have seldom done better, the chestnut oaks in particular, the
handsome, rosy-tipped acorns of which are noticeably abundant.

This interesting tree, so like the chestnut itself in both bark and
leaf, is unfortunately not to be found in my own lot; at any rate, I
have never discovered it there, although it grows freely only a short
distance away. But I have never explored the ground with anything like
thoroughness, and, to tell the truth, am not at all certain that I know
just where the boundaries run. In this respect my real estate is not
unlike my intellectual possessions; concerning which I often find it
impossible to determine what is actually mine and what another's. I
have written an essay before now, and at the end been more or less in
doubt where to set the quotation marks. For that matter, indeed, I
incline to believe that the whole tract of woods in the midst of which
my little spot is situated belongs to me quite as really as to the
various persons who claim the legal ownership. Not many of these latter,
I am confident, get a better annual income from the property than I do;
and even in law, we are told, possession counts for nine points out of
the ten. They are never to be found at home when I call, and I feel no
scruple about carrying away whatever I please. My treasures, be it said,
however, are chiefly of an impalpable sort,--mostly thoughts and
feelings, though with a few flowers and ferns now and then; the one set
about as valuable as the other, the proprietors of the land would
probably think.

In one aspect of the case, the lot which is more strictly my own is just
now in a very interesting condition, though one that, unhappily, is far
from being uncommon. Except the pines already mentioned (only six or
eight in number), the wood was entirely cut off a few years before I
came into possession, and at present the place is covered with a thicket
of vines, bushes, and young trees, all engaged in an almost desperate
struggle for existence. When the ground was cleared, every seed in it
bestirred itself and came up; others made haste to enter from without;
and ever since then the battle has been going on. It is curious to
consider how changed the appearance of things will be at the end of
fifty years, should nature be left till then to take its course. By that
time the contest will for the most part be over. At least nineteen
twentieths of all the plants that enlisted in the fight will have been
killed, and where now is a dense mass of shrubbery will be a grove of
lordly trees, with the ground underneath broad-spaced and clear. A noble
result; but achieved at what a cost! If one were likely himself to live
so long, it would be worth while to catalogue the species now in the
field, for the sake of comparing the list with a similar one of half a
century later. The contrast would be an impressive sermon on the
mutability of mundane things. But we shall be past the need of
preaching, most of us, before that day arrives, and not unlikely shall
have been ourselves preached about in enforcement of the same trite
theme.

Thoughts of this kind came to me the other afternoon, as I stood in the
path (what is known as the town path cuts the lot in two) and looked
about. So much was going on in this bit of earth, itself the very centre
of the universe to multitudes of living things. The city out of which I
had come was not more densely populous. Here at my elbow stood a group
of sassafras saplings, remnants of a race that has held the ground for
nobody knows how long. One of my earliest recollections of the place is
of coming hither to dig for fragrant roots. At that time it had never
dawned upon me that the owner of the land would some day die, and leave
it to me, his heir. How hard and rocky the ground was! And how hard we
worked for a very little bark! Yet few of my pleasures have lasted
better. The spicy taste is in my mouth still. Even in those days I
remarked the glossy green twigs of this elegant species, as well as the
unique and beautiful variety of its leaves,--some entire and oval,
others mitten-shaped, and others yet three-lobed; an extremely pretty
bit of originality, suiting admirably with the general comely habit of
this tree. There are some trees, as some men, that seem born to dress
well.

Along with the sassafras I was delighted to find one or two small
specimens of the flowering dogwood (_Cornus florida_),--another original
genius, and one which I now for the first time became acquainted with as
a tenant of my own. Its deeply veined leaves are not in any way
remarkable (unless it be for their varied autumnal tints), and are all
fashioned after one pattern. Its blossoms, too, are small and
inconspicuous; but these it sets round with large white bracts
(universally mistaken for petals by the uninitiated), and in flowering
time it is beyond comparison the showiest tree in the woods, while its
fruit is the brightest of coral red. I hope these saplings of mine may
hold their own in the struggle for life, and be flourishing in all their
beauty when my successor goes to look at them fifty years hence.

Having spoken of the originality of the sassafras and the dogwood, I
must not fail to mention their more abundant neighbor, the witch-hazel,
or hamamelis. In comparison with its wild freak of singularity, the
modest idiosyncrasies of the other two seem almost conventional. Why, if
not for sheer oddity's sake, should any bush in this latitude hold back
its blossoms till near the edge of winter? As I looked at the half-grown
buds, clustered in the axils of the yellow leaves, they appeared to be
waiting for the latter to fall, that they might have the sunlight all to
themselves. They will need it, one would say, in our bleak November
weather.

Overfull of life as my wild garden patch was, it would not have kept its
(human) possessor very long from starvation. One or two barberry bushes
made a brave show of fruitfulness; but the handsome clusters were not
yet ripe, and even at their best they are more ornamental than
nutritive,--though, after the frost has cooked them, one may go farther
and fare worse. A few stunted maple-leaved viburnums (_this_ plant's
originality is imitative,--a not uncommon sort, by the bye) proffered
scanty cymes of dark purplish drupes. Here and there was a spike of red
berries, belonging to the false Solomon's-seal or false spikenard (what
a pity this worthy herb should not have some less negative title!); but
these it would have been a shame to steal from the grouse. Not far off a
single black alder was reddening its fruit, which all the while it
hugged close to the stem, as if in dread lest some chance traveler
should be attracted by the bright color. It need not have trembled, for
this time at least. I had just dined, and was tempted by nothing save
two belated blackberries, the very last of the year's crop, and a single
sassafras leaf, mucilaginous and savory, admirable as a relish. A few
pigeon-berries might have been found, I dare say, had I searched for
them, and possibly a few sporadic checkerberries; while right before my
eyes was a vine loaded with large bunches of very small frost-grapes,
such as for hardness would have served well enough for school-boys'
marbles. Everything has its favorable side, however; and probably the
birds counted it a blessing that the grapes _were_ small and hard and
sour; else greedy men would have come with baskets and carried them all
away. Except some scattered rose-hips, I have enumerated everything that
looked edible, I believe, though a hungry man's eyes might have
lengthened the list materially. The cherry-trees, hickories, and oaks
were not yet in bearing, as the horticultural phrase is; but I was glad
to run upon a clump of bayberry bushes, which offer nothing good to eat,
to be sure, but are excellent to smell of. The leaves always seem to
invite crushing, and I never withhold my hand.

Among the crowd of young trees--scrub oaks, red oaks, white oaks,
cedars, ashes, hickories, birches, maples, aspens, sumachs, and
hornbeams--was a single tupelo. The distinguished name honors my
catalogue, but I am half sorry to have it there. For, with all its
sturdiness, the tupelo does not bear competition, and I foresee plainly
that my unlucky adventurer will inevitably find itself overshadowed by
more rapid growers, and be dwarfed and deformed, if not killed outright.
Some of the very strongest natures (and the remark is of general
application) require to be planted in the open, where they can be free
to develop in their own way and at leisure. But this representative of
_Nyssa multiflora_ took the only chance that offered, I presume, as the
rest of us must do.

Happy the humble! who aspire not to lofty things, demanding the lapse of
years for their fulfillment, but are content to set before themselves
some lesser task, such as the brevity of a single season may suffice to
accomplish. Here were the asters and golden-rods already finishing their
course in glory, while the tupelo was still barely getting under way in
a race which, however prolonged, was all but certain to terminate in
failure. Of the golden-rods I noted four species, including the
white--which might appropriately be called silvery-rod--and the
blue-stemmed. The latter (_Solidago cæsia_) is to my eye the prettiest
of all that grow with us, though it is nearly the least obtrusive. It is
rarely, if ever, found outside of woods, and ought to bear some name
(sylvan golden-rod, perhaps) indicative of the fact.

As a rule, fall flowers have little delicacy and fragrance. They are
children of the summer; and, loving the sun, have had almost an excess
of good fortune. With such pampering, it is no wonder they grow rank and
coarse. They would be more than human, I was going to say, if they did
not. It is left for stern winter's progeny, the blossoms of early
spring-time, who struggle upward through the snow and are blown upon by
chilly winds,--it is left for these gentle creatures, at once so hardy
and so frail, to illustrate the sweet uses of adversity.

All in all, it was a motley company which I beheld thus huddled together
in my speck of forest clearing. Even the lands beyond the sea were
represented, for here stood mullein and yarrow, contesting the ground
with oaks and hickories. The smaller wood flowers were not wanting, of
course, though none of them were now in bloom. Pyrola and winter-green,
violets (the common blue sort and the leafy-stemmed yellow), strawberry
and five-finger, saxifrage and columbine, rock-rose and bed-straw,
self-heal and wood-sorrel,--these, and no doubt many more, were there,
filling the chinks otherwise unoccupied.

My assortment of ferns is small, but I noted seven species: the
brake, the polypody, the hay-scented, and four species of
shield-ferns,--_Aspidium Noveboracense_, _Aspidium spinulosum_, variety
_intermedium_, _Aspidium marginale_, and the Christmas fern, _Aspidium
acrostichoides_. The last named is the one of which I am proudest. For
years I have been in the habit of coming hither at Christmas time to
gather the fronds, which are then as bright and fresh as in June. Two of
the others, the polypody and _Aspidium marginale_, are evergreen also,
but they are coarser in texture and of a less lively color. Writing of
these flowerless beauties, I am tempted to exclaim again, "Happy the
humble!" The brake is much the largest and stoutest of the seven, but it
is by a long time the first to be cut down before the frost.

Should I ever meet with reverses, as the wealthiest and most prudent are
liable to do, and be compelled to part with my woodland inheritance, I
shall count it expedient to seek a purchaser in the spring. At that
season its charms are greatly enhanced by a lively brook. This comes
tumbling down the hill-side, dashing against the bowlders (of which the
land has plenty), and altogether acting like a thing not born to die;
but alas, the early summer sees it make an end, to wait the melting of
next winter's snow. Many a happy hour did I, as a youngster, pass upon
its banks, watching with wonder the swarms of tiny insects which
darkened the foam and the snow, and even filmed the surface of the brook
itself. I marveled then, as I do now, why such creatures should be out
so early. Possibly our very prompt March friend, the phoebe, could
suggest an explanation.

A break in the forest is of interest not only to such plants as I have
been remarking upon, but also to various species of birds. No doubt the
towhee, the brown thrush, and the cat-bird found out this spot years
ago, and have been using it ever since for summer quarters. Indeed, a
cat-bird snarled at me for an intruder this very September afternoon,
though he himself was most likely nothing more than a chance pilgrim
going South. This member of the noble wren family and near cousin of
the mocking-bird would be better esteemed if he were to drop that
favorite feline call of his. But this is his bit of originality
(imitative, like the maple-leaved viburnum's), and perhaps, if justice
were done, it would be put down to his credit rather than made an
occasion of ill-will.

Once during the afternoon a company of chickadees happened in upon me;
and, taking my cue from the newspaper folk, I immediately essayed an
interview. My imitation of their conversational notes was hardly begun
before one of the birds flew toward me, and, alighting near by,
proceeded to answer my calls with a mimicry so exact, as fairly to be
startling. To all appearance the quick-witted fellow had taken the game
into his own hands. Instead of my deceiving him, he would probably go
back and entertain his associates with amusing accounts of how cleverly
he had fooled a stranger, out yonder in the bushes.

It would have seemed a graceful and appropriate acknowledgment of my
rightful ownership of the land on which the cat-bird and the titmice
were foraging, had they greeted me with songs. But it would hardly have
been courteous for me to propose the matter, and evidently it did not
occur to them. At all events, I heard no music except the hoarse and
solemn asseverations of the katydids, the gentler message of the
crickets, and in the distance an occasional roll-call of the grouse. My
dog--who is a much better sportsman than myself, but whose
companionship, I am ashamed to see, has not till now been mentioned--was
all the while making forays hither and thither into the surrounding
woods; and once in a while I heard, what is the best of all music in his
ears, the whir of "partridge" wings. Likely as not he thought it a queer
freak on my part to spend the afternoon thus idly, when with a gun I
might have been so much more profitably employed. He could not know that
I was satiating myself with a miser's delights, feasting my eyes upon my
own. In truth, I fancy he takes it for granted that the whole forest
belongs to me--and to him. Perhaps it does. As I said just now, I
sometimes think so myself.


FOOTNOTES:

[5:1] Since this essay was originally published (in the _Atlantic
Monthly_) I have been assured that the author of _The Old Oaken Bucket_
was not born in W----, but in the next town. Being convinced against my
will, however, and finding the biographical dictionaries divided upon
the point, I conclude to let the text stand unaltered.




A WOODLAND INTIMATE.

                 Surely there are times
     When they consent to own me of their kin,
     And condescend to me, and call me cousin.
                                  JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.


It is