Wellesly Hills & Wayland, Mass.
1900
May 26-29
BOSTON EVENING TRANSCRIPT, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6, 1900
THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 
  By the last week of May the grand pro-
cession of migratory birds (and a wonder-
ful, imagination-stirring procession it is, if 
one stops to consider it) has mostly gone 
by; but even then every day may be trust-
ed to furnish some agreeable excitement to 
a man who keeps his eyes open. This year, 
for example, I returned from New Hamp-
shire on the 25th, and woke the next morn-
ing to find Canadian warblers singing un-
der my windows. They had been numer-
ous among the mountains for several days 
before I came away, but here was another 
detachment of the host still making the 
journey.
  I went out as soon as possible to see 
them, but was barely on the piazza before 
the brief, cool song of a mourning warbler, 
out of a clump of gray birches opposite the 
steps, made me oblivious to everything be-
side. This was a voice I had listened for in 
vain in New Hampshire, where I had 
rather confidently counted upon hearing it. 
After allowing the bird to repeat the strain 
a few times (with experience one grows 
thrifty in such matters) I stole forward, 
hoping to see him, for on all accounts he is 
well worth looking at; and I did see him, 
but only in flight. Before I had settled upon 
his exact whereabouts he took wing, and 
though I hastened in pursuit I failed to 
find him.
  Perhaps I should have found him, for he 
was not likely to go far, but just then, 
from a bit of roadside thicket which I have 
before mentioned as a birdy spot, a water 
thrush announced himself, and I turned my 
steps in that direction. Here were not only 
the water thrush, sleek and shiny as ever, 
and two or three Canadians, but a second 
mourning warbler. This one, fortunately, 
I approached without startling, and ex-
amined him at my pleasure. Crape was as 
becoming to him, I thought, as it ever was 
to a young widow; and then I pleased my-
self by remembering that two mourning 
warblers in one day were twice as many as 
I had ever seen before in Massachusetts, 
even in the course of a whole migration. 
The species is really pretty rare with us in 
spring, and is never seen in autumn - at all 
events I have never seen it at that season. 
With its congenor, the Connecticut war-
bler, these conditions are curiously reversed. 
I almost always see a few specimens in 
the fall, but have never met with one in 
the spring. If I had been left to draw my 
own conclusions, I fear I should have as-
sumed that the birds - which closely re-
semble each other - were all of one species, 
such differences as there were being 
chargeable to difference of season.
  Before night it appeared that olive-
backed thrushes, also, were still passing. 
One sang to me, and showed himself, on 
my way home from the railway station at 
noon. And he sang quite as well as his 
mates had been doing In New Hampshire. 
The hermit's music is better, no doubt; but 
what a loss it would be if instead of two 
species we had only one; if all the olive-
backs were converted into hermits. Variety 
with a measure of inferiority is better 
than monotonous perfection. Canadian 
warblers were more abundant, I thought, 
than I had ever seen them before, except, 
perhaps, at Highlands, North Carolina, 
where miles on miles of rhododendron and 
laurel thickets along all the mountain 
streams make a covert exactly to their 
liking.
  The next day the story was the same: 
Canada warblers all about me, olive-backed 
thrushes whistling and singing, a Wilson's 
blackcap putting himself out of breath, as 
usual, and a single mourning warbler feed-
ing in a low, swampy tangle down into 
which I looked from the highway - one of 
the two birds of the day before, for aught 
I could tell. The same or another, I was 
glad enough to see him. Before this, how-
ever, I had passed three mourning doves, 
birds that I had never happened to see 
before in this township. Two hours later 
they were still in the same grove, and 
there I heard one of them cooing softly in 
the afternoon. It was Sunday, and I re-
membered the scripture text, "The voice 
of the turtle is heard in the land." I 
should love to hear it oftener. The place 
was not one for doves to summer in, how-
ever, and I have seen nothing of them 
since.
 -
  Tuesday, the 29th, I paid a forenoon 
visit to Wayland. After the mountains I 
wished to see those broad river meadows. 
And gloriously beautiful they were, the 
sunshine streaming into them, and the 
bobolinks rising out of them on rapid-beat-
ing wings, to express at once their own 
felicity and mine. They could not sing 
fast enough nor long enough. After every 
pause they must begin again. Few birds 
are so carried away with lyrical ecstasy. 
Kingbirds are little behind them, perhaps; 
but the kingbird has no singing voice, and 
can utter his madness only in formless 
twitters and crazy serial antics.
  As I crossed the river, walking between 
rows of freshly green willows. I found 
Canada warblers, Northern water thrushes 
and whispering blackpolls still keeping me 
company. From a luxuriant growth of 
tall reeds, close by the water's edge, came 
the brief, lively gurgle of long-billed marsh 
wrens; and once in a while the birds threw 
themselves a few feet into the air, sang 
their little tune all in a breath, and dropped 
again out of sight. It is a pretty home 
they live in. They ought to be happy. 
Their neighbors, the short-bills, seemed 
not to have come. I stopped in the old 
places to listen for them, putting my hands 
behind my ears, but could hear nothing. 
  Many cliff swallows were gathering clay 
for their nests, holding their wings upright 
over their backs with a tremulous, shiver-
ing motion, to keep them out of the mud -  
one of the prettiest sights imaginable. 
Kingbirds were chasing crows across the 
meadows - half for the fun of it, I guessed -
cuckoos of both kinds were most uncom-
monly numerous, and alder flycatchers - 
Northern birds which I too seldom see in 
this latitude - were calling quay-queer in 
several places. (They arrived - or began 
to call - at Moosilauke on the 24th.)
 - 
  The weather was of the finest, and the 
grass of the greenest. There had been a 
severe frost the night before, but, as a 
farmer said when I asked him about it, it 
had probably done no great damage, be-
cause there had been so many frosts of 
late that there was nothing left for this 
one to kill. The face of nature had not 
been scarred, at all events. It was never 
more radiant. Thoreau himself, when he 
used to pull his boat up this river, never 
saw the world about him more beautiful. 
  I wonder whether he sometimes left his 
boat against the bank, and walked up and 
down the village street; and, if he did, 
whether he used to notice, as I always do, 
a certain bright window garden in one of 
the older houses. I dare say house and 
garden were both there in his time. Yes-
terday the lady was tending the plants as 
I went by, and I took only such a glance as 
a man may take without rudeness; but in 
that one took I saw a thing that pleased 
me - a very handsome specimen of a very 
old-fashioned flower, a calceolaria. "Car-
pet-bag flower," I used to hear it called in 
the old days. It was much esteemed then, 
but seems to have gone largely out of 
vogue of recent years. Strange how fash-
ion alters about plants as about everything 
else.
 This Wayland specimen carried me back 
to another window garden, which I used to 
enjoy from the inside, and felt proud to 
see passers-by stopping to admire. If I 
seemed to do something very like that yes-
terday, the good lady pardoned me, I am 
sure; and if by any chance she should read 
this paragraph, I trust her to take it kind-
ly. It is a wise provision of Providence 
that house plants must be set in the win-
dow for the sake of the sun, and being 
there, they are of necessity visible to all 
who are wise enough to look up as they pass.
  - 
  The horse-chestnut trees are just now 
celebrating their annual fiesta, such as it 
is, with all their candles lighted. Pretty 
stiff, some people call them, a little dis-
dainfully; but for my own part I still say, 
let us be thankful for variety. The elm 
may be more graceful than the horse-
chestnut, but I vote for both.
BRADFORD TORREY
109