September, 1922.] 



The Canadian Field-Naturalist 



109 



What a paradise the Grand River Valley must 

 have been in the days of the Indians! It should 

 really belong to them yet, for six miles on each side 

 from source to mouth was once set aside by the 

 Government for the Six Nations. In their day the 

 rolling hills were covered with the greatest variety 

 of trees, some of the wonderful stumps of which 

 remain as monuments. There were pines, elms, 

 oaks, maples, nut trees, hickory, butternut, chestnut 

 and beech, also hazel nut bushes. Even yet, the 

 woods give the rambler a variety of delightful things 

 to eat, maple sap and sap icicles, when the snow 

 begins to melt, then, later, wintergreen and part- 

 ridge-berries fresh and firm from under the snow. 

 Spring brings pungent pepper-root from the black 

 earth of the swamp, watercresses from the streams, 

 and morels from the meadows. In early summer, 

 the rambler finds young, golden-green wintergreen 

 leaves, two varieties of wild strawberries and June 

 berries. Then in summer there are black and red 

 raspberries, blue berries and thimble berries, and in 

 the fall, butternuts, hickory nuts, chestnuts and 

 hazel nuts. The rambler may spend happy after- 

 noons in the fall beside a flat, limestone rock with 

 a heap of hazel nuts or hickory nuts at one side, and 

 a small round stone in the right hand. 



So the Indians must have had plenty to eat, for 

 game was also abundant in the Valley — deer, and 

 wild duck, and partridge — and the river and the 

 creeks were full of fish. The river is now polluted 

 by the towns along its banks, but the creeks are 

 still clean, and in the hope of preserving what we 

 have, the outdoor lovers of the neighborhood have 

 formed an Association to protect wild life for three 

 miles on each side of the river, so that birds, small 

 animals, and fish may have a Sanctuary. The 

 protected area will extend from Gait to Glen Morris, 

 I hope, but it is only half way, so far. 



The early settlers tell us that originally the river 

 flowed deep and full among its many islands until 

 late July, and that the dreadful spring floods of 

 later years were unknown. The islands were 

 wooded, principally with great elm trees. The ice 

 freshets of many springs have battered against the 

 trunks of these trees, grinding their bark to match- 

 wood, and, one by one, the few that were left when 

 my memory of the river began have fallen, and, 

 undermined by the flood, have been carried away 

 in the turbid torrent. I am mourning two great 

 trees, the last ones, that disappeared from the island 

 under the bridge at Glen Morris this spring. The 

 flood is a wild, foaming torrent, as unlike as possible 

 to the gentle brown stream of the summer, and 

 flows far beyond the confines of its banks. After 

 the waters have abated, I have walked among the 

 trees and noted the cruel marks of the grinding ice 

 cakes, in the torn and splintered bark, higher above 

 my head than I could reach. 



Springs of clear, cold water rise all along the 

 river banks. On the east between Gait and Glen 

 Morris are seven springs, one for each mile, so the 

 foot passenger need never thirst even on the hottest 

 day. The rambler should make it a point to drink 

 at each one when tramping the seven miles. One 

 stream rises under a cairn of petrified stones, and 

 we always call it "Sweet water" because of a fancied 

 taste of sweetness that does not seem to belong to 

 the other six. All these springs are heavily charged 

 with lime and twigs, mosses, and stones touched by 

 the water gradually become petrified. 



Besides the seven springs there are two large 

 creeks on the east side, with cresses and water 

 weeds along the edge, where people still fish for 

 speckled trout. I have followed one almost to its 

 source, but the other remains to be explored. At 

 Gait, Mill Creek, a really lovely little river, enters 

 the Grand. It passes through a park, and is guided 

 into several pools where the boys and girls can 

 splash in absolute safety, and in water that is purer 

 than the drinking water of most cities. 



There are not so many springs on the west bank, 

 between Gait and Glen Morris, but there is one 

 creek called Glen Burn, which is a great favorite of 

 mine, because it can be followed up to its source in 

 a lake, which we call "Lime Lake". Nearly all the 

 lakes in the valleys of the hills above the river are 

 on the west side. Most of them are the centres of 

 swamps and are gradually drying up. The water 

 is brackish and not fit to drink, and their beds are 

 quicksand or black swamp mud, ideal for waterlilies, 

 arrowheads and bulrushes, but bottomless for 

 anyone who chances to fall in. 



"Lime Lake", where the Glen Burn creek rises, 

 is different. Its water is clear and "hard". It is 

 fed from lime springs rising along its banks, and its 

 bed is white lime, also "sinking sand", but you can 

 wade out a long way without danger of bemg mired. 

 One of its springs rises under a grassy mound and 

 you can see the water bubbling up slowly through 

 the white lime particles The last time I was there, 

 an Eglantine bush was is bloom, and the faint 

 pink petals of the sweet briar roses had fallen into 

 the spring, and were drifting down to the lake, little 

 fairy boats, on the clear water 



Besides the lakes there are dozens of ponds which 

 do not dry up entirely except in an unusually dry 

 summer. These are fascinating places all the year, 

 but particularly in the spring. When the first 

 hepaticas bloom, if you kneel on a log and dredge 

 down in the brown water, amongst scum and 

 withered leaves and broken dried grasses, you dis- 

 cover frogs' eggs in jelly, red water spiders, fairy 

 shrimps, water boatmen, and electric light bugs in 

 their aquatic stage, tiny lizards and caddis cases, 

 and damsel-fly nymphs. Plunging down deeper. 



