i8 
LAND & WATER 
July 27, 1916 
By a Mountain Bog 
By William T. Palmer 
FROM the edge of a familiar bog, O brother in 
the Indies, one writes these lines. A task 
familiar in our boyish days has jvist been mine ; 
my boots are draining of the blackpcat-mud, 
and my stockings drying on the sun-wanned rocks— 
those "rocks you remember from which we scouted 
whether the tumbledown fishing hut had visitors before 
we went down to launch the weedy, leaky, old boat from 
its dock among the boulders. That was a lark, wasn't 
it, as was also the precarious crossing to the willow-braked 
isiet in the bog, over that causeway of half-sunken stones. 
Last year you placed a stone here and there and crossed 
in safety, but your causeway has gone below and my 
experiment included a knee-deep disaster. 
Though you donned the khaki again and sailed far 
into the Orient, one feels that your spirit somehow is 
near my comer in the hills this afternoon, and as the 
spirit may return mute to you, let me write the record 
of the dav and scene. 
Away down the deep valley the oats are yellowing to 
harvest, a field of pale gold here and there in the rich 
green plush of aftermath. Staider, sag'cr is the green of 
"the woodlands of oak, the coppices of ash and sycamore, 
the river- fringes of alder and elm and wych-elm, but 
black green are the plantations of spruce and larch and 
fir on the opposite hills with here and there the lightning 
white of birchen stems. Out there the ridges pass west- 
ward through green to blue, and to the east the great 
strath yawns for the purple cloud-shadows, for the 
mantle of bronze and crimson where the heather grows 
deep on the undrained moss. And still further beyond is 
the golden-brown of the estuary sands, the silver trickles 
winding down, and the deep-blue of shadowed ocean 
beyond the bar. Flashes here and there a tarn among 
the woods or on the high shelves of moor, jerks here and 
there the riffle beyond some quiet reach beloved of the 
kingfisher, or the pool where at even-tide we have watched 
the otter family at play. Yonder, above the old mill, 
is the lodge where the giant trout dwell, and one sees the 
steely ghmpse of the salmon pool below the bridge. But 
all these greater things will be thine in spirit, brother 
of the garrison beyond the Sea. 
Gold and Silver Lilies 
See what smaller things are here ; the crimsoned folds 
of the moor, the swaying, glancing beds of bracken, the 
tangled weeds of the tarn, the great banks of water grass, 
the gold and silver lilies, the purple loosestrife, the water 
lobeUas, the periscarias on their curious stems. Here is a 
drift of white petals on the still water, there a dusting of 
blue where the forget-me-nots grow, and there the tall 
rushes are friezed with blue and yellow iris-flags. Arid 
busily, about their business, wild ducks and moor hens, 
with now and then a sohtary coot, appear and disappear, 
now diving, now forcing a way through the cover of grass 
or rush. Do you remember, brother, the wild duck's 
nest on that islet of the willow-brake ? It was there again 
this spring, and quite a covey of young and old were 
roused away this afternoon. It was a rare feat to capture 
the whole family asleep in the rushes. Not that, after 
all, even one remained with us as spoil ! 
The bog is much the same — the stalks of bog asphodel, 
some of them showing golden stars of foliage, others mere 
drv stems from which both flower and seed vessel have 
departed ; then a fleck here and there of cotton grass, of 
green leaves where the chocolate-and-cream bog-bean 
has served its day. The bilberry tufts stand knee-deep in 
ooze, the heather disputes with the dwarf willow for every 
" nigger head " in the morass. The tiny moths are 
numerous as dust-flecks, and the gnats, for the afternoon 
is calm, are on picnic bent. On the same errand is the 
big dragon fly, and his lesser brethren, but for them the 
gnat is food, while less merciful the gnat feeds .on me. 
Twice, when writing these sentences, the fiends have 
settled on my hands and begun boring operations. Can 
it be that the scent of the dead carcases attracted that 
tiny beetle with the bronze wings to pause on my writing 
pad ? 
There are great green caterpillars on the heather, and 
enormous black slugs on the gra^• -■ —for the rain is but a 
recent memory. There is the sound of the wild bees 
among the heather, the buzz of the splendid blue-bottles 
here and there — see, there he is, sunning on the lichened 
rock, too near by far to the long lines strung out by a 
great grey and brown spider. Just before my plunge 
into the peat-mud, one watched a great spider stalk 
and kill one of these big, unsuspicious fellows, and saw 
another with a flying thread of gossamer neatly capture 
a small but active fly a foot from its haunt. 
Sphagnum Dressings 
There are lizards by the shore of the pool, and frogs 
among the mud, but what are these in their yellow and 
green and white to the gorgeous reptiles of the East ? 
And hov\ does our viper which yesterday one saw on the 
rocky hillside compare with the snakes about you ? 
Just as well as our British hedgehog comparer in beauty 
and agihty with that snake-destroyer, the mongoose. 
You will be glad to hear that our bog has been turned 
to use this summer. Some one learned in the ancient 
lore of Erse and Gael pointed out that dressings from 
sphagnum moss were used centuries ago in the treatment 
of cuts and abrasions, and that in the remoter Highlands 
the remedy was still in successful use. The great demand 
of the casualty hospitals for cotton wool had caused a 
shortage. Well, here to hand, in our own mountain 
bogs, was a substitute, even an improvement. So a 
party of Girl Guides came up here, gathered the moss by 
the bag full, cleansed it of all foreign matter, and away 
to the hospitals it was sent. Th«^re should be no short- 
age of sphagnum dressings now, for there are scores of 
aeres of the moss among our fells, and it is still more 
common in Scotland. 
The other use-you will also welcome, though here again 
it is but a reversion by necessity to the good old ways. 
Coal is expensive and its delivery at our waj'side stations 
so uncertain that the farmers are again exercising their 
ancient right to cut peat enough for winter fuel. The 
peat layers are certainly not deep— some thirty inches at 
rnost including the heather roots — and the quality is 
inferior to that of the low country mosses. Still it will 
burn. Joe has cut four trenches" near fifty yards long 
and down to the glacial drift and his " peats " are out in 
wind-rows between the beds of heather. Next month 
he will sled them down to the old farm and rejoice, so far 
as it is in his complaining nature, that his fire-elden has 
been won at so little cost and trouble. 
This afternoon even the grouse seem asleep. The 
only danger the young coveys will know is from the fox 
below and the strong-winged peregrine above. The 
raven has not come here often since the game was pre- 
served — one may thank successions of keepers for that ! 
— and you remember raiding the nest of the last pair of 
. carrion cro\\-s. They preferred a tall tree at the edge of 
our bog — over there by the spring one can still see traces 
of its stump, for it was felled years back — and you 
swarmed up the bole, reached the branches, the nest, 
the eggs. Where did you stow them ? And what 
happened on your return when you slithered down the 
last ten feet of the tree ? 
One is glad that years have softened the memory 
somewhat or even the distance of the Indies would not 
save from your wrath anyone who reminded you of that 
dav of evil taste. 
Sir Charles Wakclield, the Lord Mayor, visits Southend-on- 
Sea on Saturday. He will pay an inspection of the Queen 
Mary's Naval Hospital and will attend a luncheon which the 
Mayor of Southe«id, Alderman Francis, is giving in his honour 
at the Queen's Hotel, Westcliff. 
