I followed down one of those sun-dried brook beds that melting snows from the hillsides had eroded during past ages. It proved a short journey to the Glen of Comus, descending northward toward Ball Brook in the vale below. I had not proceeded far when I discovered what at first sight seemed a robin’s nest, built high in the branches of the American Hornbeam,—or, as it is locally known, the Iron-Wood tree (Carpinus Caroliniana). It is the only American species of this genus in the Birch Family. Several saplings stood about fifteen feet high, two having so interlaced their branches as to form a strong crotch about eight feet from the ground. The nest was fashioned roughly, built of small sticks, and fastened in the crotch-like loft of these trees. Looking more closely, I perceived the nest was a third larger than the robin’s, and was not plastered with mud. I soon discovered that the bird upon the nest had blue tail feathers and a jaunty cadet top-knot, as she peeped over the edge of the nest at me. This was, then, the saucy jay’s nest, so seldom found about these woods. She became disturbed, and flew off down the ravine. I managed to climb up the trees high enough to determine that the eggs were still unhatched.

The glen was dark here, and Major and I sat in the dim light beneath the shadows of this dense underwood. The jays began in chorus to scream unmercifully. They were distressed by Major’s presence, and flew saucily above his head. He scarcely knew what to make of it all,—not being a bird-dog,—and sat demurely looking at me and wagging his tail. Finally, tired of their own screaming, the jays proceeded down through the intricate windings of the hollow, and we heard their mutterings at a distance,—a pleasant wild sound through these forests.

I looked carefully over the iron-wood trees. They are not uncommon hereabout. Their trunks are ridged and muscular in appearance. These trees are in fact very strong, possessing the endurance of the oak and beech. They never attain great height,—from fifteen to forty feet or so,—but the weight of their wood to the cubic foot is forty to fifty pounds.

Many decaying logs of yellow birch and pine stumps were scattered along the brook bed. They were covered with beautiful mosses and fungi. The shelf-like growth, known as Polypores, was abundant on these trees. There are several varieties of this group of fungi here. The larger kind often attains a diameter from six inches to three or four feet, in a semicircle, according to age. It is a hard, leathery or cork-like growth full of pores, the top of the shelf seeming like a slanting roof, grained and striated as it were, with colored slates of gray and brown. This fungus seeks no special species of decayed tree, as I find it clinging to several,—the yellow and white birch, and hemlock logs and stumps.

The underside of Polypores is of a soft ashes-of-roses hue when fresh, later becoming a dull gray-brown. If one looks sharply at the under surface, even with the naked eye, he will observe little pores no larger than pin-points. Under the magnifying-glass, these appear like giant honeycomb cells. Cutting through a section of the shelf, we find that these pores penetrate the heart of the shelf. In these little pore-like cells, the spores or seeds are borne, more hidden even than those of the Fern Family.

The name Polypores originated from these minute pores. Puff-balls or toadstools spring up during a night in pastures or corners in rich wood. But the Polypores are slow in growth.

A beautiful species of the Polypores is worshipped by the natives in Guinea. I also have found and worshipped several specimens of great beauty. I discovered a very large shelf on a decaying hemlock stump in Rattlesnake Swamp, which I severed carefully with a woodsaw, removing enough of the stump to show its attachment to the tree.

As I passed through the glen to-day, I found many large and small specimens of this fungus, whose growth demands a humid atmosphere. The fact that decay does not take place rapidly save in a damp, warm wood, naturally proves that Polypores require such shades as these in which to develop.

Tall brakes rose luxuriantly four feet high or more. The atmosphere was heavy, and the sphagnum was steaming wherever the sunshine poured through the leaves upon it. A certain fragrance of the earth rose up from the swamp and met me everywhere,—a mingled perfume as of violets and Cypripediums. I explored about the pools to the left, finding many flowers in bloom.

Upon a miniature island in the centre of the pool grew the tall spikes of the Queen Moccasin-Flower, in bud. Turning to the south, under the hill among the rocks, is the fountain of the glen, which freshens the heart of the flowers beyond. Surely these are the haunts of thrushes, as well as the home of the queen of the orchids. The Golden Moccasin-Flowers peeped out from beneath the shades of ferns, and sprinkled the mellow glooms with jewels, like footsteps of sunshine left by the wood-nymphs of old.

The footprints of the woodman and the clips from his axe are yet unknown in this Glen of Comus. This is the sanctuary of the gods of old, and these the altars beneath the roofless temples, where man may worship still the deities of Nature. The wood-thrush’s song rings through these cathedral aisles:

I crept quietly through all these winding halls, which I had never before explored. Near the northern portal of the glen stood a white birch, branchless, and mellow in decay, yet beautifully robed with delicate Butterfly Polypores of a velvety-purplish hue. Turning at the junction of the streams, I frightened up the oven-bird, the golden-crowned thrush. She moaned and fluttered away, as though in distress, dropping her wings and hiding among the ferns. I searched about for her nest, and soon found it low upon the ground. Her cottage door was open to the south, revealing five pinkish eggs mottled with purple. The nest was hooded,—thatched, as it were, like an Indian’s wigwam, with leaves, twigs, ferns, and mosses,—so like the ground itself that I nearly walked upon it.

We have five true thrushes of genus Turdus in the Atlantic Region—the Veery, Wood-Thrush, and Hermit-Thrush are found in this immediate region. They are our peerless woodland songsters, coming about May 1st, and often lingering until September 15th. The Veery winters in Central America, and flies as far north as Newfoundland to nest in summer. Like the Hermit-Thrush, it builds its nest on the ground. The Veery has a mysterious strain likened often to an Æolian harp; the Wood-Thrush rings like the chimes of vesper bells, and the Hermit-Thrush has the deepest note of all, rolling like “anthems clear” through the dim woods. Burroughs translates its song thus: “O spheral, spheral! O holy, holy!”

My delight was complete, since I had found two rare birds’ nests within an hour,—those of the melancholy songster and the screaming jay. Four days later I visited both of these nests to see the birdlings. The mother jay was not at home, so I did not distress her when I climbed up to peep at the homely babies. I passed on down to the deeper glen to the oven-bird’s wigwam. She too was absent. Five little bald heads and five wide-gaping mouths were revealed as I drew near the nest, bespeaking the necessity of a thrifty mother to search for food to satisfy their needs. I touched their little heads, then drew back and waited almost an hour for the return of the mother bird, hoping to see the feeding of the young. But she was either shy or belated, and did not appear.