A DAY IN A TAMARACK SWAMP. 183 



I had come forth again into the full light of the sun 

 and had left far behind me the swamp with all its 

 characteristic surroundings. Much of this feeling 

 was doubtless due to a lack of those animal sounds 

 usually present in a forest. This lack may not be so 

 noticeable at other seasons of the year, but on this 

 September day it was especially striking. I listened 

 in vain for the chirp of bird or the hum of insect. 

 The silence was broken only at long intervals by 

 the trill of a striped tree frog, or the low soughing of 

 the wind in a weird and mournful cadence through 

 the thick branches of the trees about me. The lower 

 limbs of the tamaracks, which hung downwards as 

 if weeping, were, for the most part, lifeless and cov- 

 ered with gray lichens. Many of these lichens grow 

 in long and slender tufts like the "Spanish moss" of 

 the Southern States ; this sombre drapery but adding 

 a deeper tinge of desolation to the scene. 



But, however lonely such a swamp may appear to 

 one who traverses it, to the botanist it is ever a place 

 of interest on account of* the many rare plants which 

 lurk within its bounds. No grass or sedge can exist 

 in the profound shade of the trees, but three or four 

 kinds of sphagnum mosses grow everywhere in deep, 

 dense masses which gave way like windrows of new 

 mown hay beneath my tread. When dry these beds 

 of moss furnish delightful cushions, on which when 

 tired, one can throw himself down and rest at ease. I 

 dug deep into one" of them but could find nothing but 

 layers of moss, the older stems slowly decaying, the 

 younger finding a foothold and sustenance among the 

 ruins of the old. 



