Franconia Mountains (N.H.); Natural history -- Outdoor books; White Mountains (N.H. and Me.)
I took my time for the ascent (blessed be all-day jaunts, say I),
minding the mossy boulders, the fern-beds, and the trees (many of them
old friends of mine--it is more than twenty years since I began going
up and down here), and especially the violets. It was surprising, not
to say amusing, now that I had violets in my eye, how ubiquitous the
little _blanda_ had suddenly become. Almost it might be said that there
was nothing else in the whole forest. So true it is that seeing or
not seeing is mostly a matter of prepossession. As for the birds, this
was their hour of after-dinner silence. I recall only a golden-crowned
kinglet _zeeing_ among the low evergreens about the cone. He was the
first one of my whole vacation trip, and slipped at once into the
eighty-seventh place in my catalogue, the place I had tried so hard
to induce the brown creeper to take possession of two hours before.
Creeper or kinglet, it was all one to me, though the kinglet is
the handsomer of the two, and much the less prosaic in his dietary
methods. In fact, now that the subject suggests itself, the two birds
present a really striking contrast: one so preternaturally quick and
so continually in motion, the other so comparatively lethargic. Every
one to his trade. Let the creeper stick to his bark. Quick or slow, he
should still have been Number 88, and thrice welcome, if he would have
given me half an excuse for counting him. As things were, he kept out
of my reckoning to the end.
“This is the best thing I have had yet.” So I said to myself as I
turned to look about me at the summit. It was only half past two, the
day was gloriously fair, the breeze not too strong, yet ample for
creature comforts,--coolness and freedom,--and the place all my own.
If I had missed Selkirk’s violet, I had found his solitude. The joists
of the little open summer-house were scrawled thickly with names and
initials, but the scribblers and carvers had gone with last year’s
birds. I might sing or shout, and there would be none to hear me. But I
did neither. I was glad to be still and look.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account