On May 25th I reached Pownal, Bennington County. Upon the following day I explored the great swamps of Etchowog. Prepared with luncheon, vasculum, basket for roots and my hound Major, I started on one of those happy excursions such as Thoreau recommends we should take, “in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return,—prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms.”[2]

Ball Brook, a sluggish stream flowing northwardly to East Pownal swamps—commonly called the Bogs of Etchowog—has its source in the marshy hillsides northwest of the schoolhouse in District Fourteen. Two streams flow from this valley. One is called Ladd Brook, running southwesterly and following the windings of the shady Ladd Road to Pownal village, where it joins the Hoosac River. The other stream, Ball Brook, flows north and northeast onward through innumerable and unfathomable swamps, to Bennington village, ten miles north, there meeting the Walloomsac River, which is also a tributary of the Hoosac, farther northward in its course. This brook is rich in a continuous chain of peat bogs—rich from an orchid-hunter’s point of view.

Although I have been familiar with this region from childhood, viewing it from the roadside only, I never at any time had ventured to follow Ball Brook through all its meanderings to the Bogs of Etchowog near Pownal Pond, a distance of some three miles. This would not be a long walk on a fair road, but it becomes rather dangerous and formidable when leading through quaking marshes in the soaking currents of a stream.

A short distance to the right, north of the schoolhouse in Number Fourteen, there is an old pathway nearly overgrown with bushy pines and birch and chestnut underbrush. This I followed, entering the hollow under the brow of the hill, and passing along the wood road which skirts the margins of one of the deepest, darkest jungles in these regions. The old people look upon it as akin to “Witch Hollow,” on the Gulf Road near by, and tell strange tales of ghosts, and of some mythological peddler who was swallowed here in the black mud of this ancient tarn, after having been robbed of his fine silks and precious jewels.

Weird, hollow drummings issue and echo through these shaded vales from time to time. Probably they are due, however, to nothing more startling than the alarum of a partridge, or the hoot of the screech-owl; or the creaking and rubbing of partially fallen trees against their supporting brothers, voicing a portent of coming storm. I hear in this woodland seclusion little save the whispering of the winds, the sighing of the pines, and snapping of dead twigs, mingled with the chorus of the thrushes. The first settlers here about interpreted these wood-sounds far differently; then the primeval forests were dense, and the noises were deep and full of mystery, and there was fear of the Redman’s war-whoop. As Burroughs writes: “The ancients, like women and children, were not accurate observers. Just at the critical moment their eyes were unsteady, or their fancy, or their credulity, or their impatience got the better of them, so that their science was half fact and half fable.... They sought to account for such things without stopping to ask, Are they true? Nature was too novel, or else too fearful to them to be deliberately pursued and hunted down.”[3]

I stopped on a corduroy bridge to draw on my high-water boots and rubber gloves, for one feels safer when entering this dense swamp if protected from poisonous roots and foliage, biting insects and things that creep and crawl.

I had started out with small belief that I would find any prime blossoms of the Orchid Family, for nothing of importance had yet unfolded in Aurora’s Swamp in North Adams. But when I penetrated the heart of these rich, warm glooms, I found waiting for me a fragrant company of Dwarf Yellow Lady’s Slipper (Cypripedium parviflorum); and innumerable Stemless Pink Lady’s Slippers, more frequently called the Indian’s Moccasin-Flower (Cypripedium acaule), stood as sentinels on the dryer edges of the swamp.

The Marsh Marigolds were here also in their last stages, fading away, but still sufficiently bright; with the late indigo-blue violets, which rear their faces at least a foot high above the dark pools, to carpet the marsh with gold and purple. Poison Ivy cropped out frequently among these graceful orchids,—a beautiful vine, although unfriendly to man.

It is difficult to describe the dense gloom of this bog, closed in on all sides by high rock-bound hills, which are clothed with pine and yellow birch trees, and which in their turn are but foothills to the higher watershed. It seems to have been a receiving basin for the waste and wear of the heights above for thousands of years. Here are fallen trees of every variety common in southwestern Vermont, and these prostrate giants helped to form a safe footing through the quaking bogs.

Many cold springs under the hill to the south conspire to freshen the marsh, and after sluggish oozing northward, they unite and form the brook proper. The stream leads directly through the heart of the swamp, and at last, gathering force, rushes down over rocky slopes, presently to enter another swamp of greater breadth, filled with different trees and flowers.

The Showy Lady’s Slipper (Cypripedium reginæ) was just sending forth its tiny roll of leaves, so I could not expect prime blossoms before June 15th at the earliest.

Seated on a decaying log, I ate my luncheon, with Major before me begging impolitely for his portion, until I divided my cake with him. The mosquitoes were so troublesome that I decided to push onward. Carefully picking my way out of the swamp, I crossed the muddy brook, and found myself in a dry, rocky pathway which winds around the hillside, but still keeps within sound of the brook’s murmur.

In exquisite little glens beside the path were Painted Trilliums and Stars-of-Bethlehem, while the white and gold stars of the dainty Goldthread (Coptis trifolia) were shining amid the moss and their own glossy green leaves.

In the bend of the stream a little farther on were some of the most graceful little ferns, just near enough to the brink to catch now and then a dash of spray from the rushing waters, swayed in the coolness all day long, adding beauty to the nook.

Still farther on, I saw that by crossing the stream I could enter a little ravine to the right, which promised hidden treasures. I waded through the brook, which was too wide to jump across; I found that it was also rather too deep for my boots, and that there were very few stepping-stones to make a dry crossing possible. But of what matter is a little water in one’s boots, when seeking the Gardens of the Gods? I landed safely on the opposite bank, after frightening many a shy, speckled trout from his hiding-place in this ideal fishing-hole.

I was now in a small, low-lying glen where foot of man has seldom been. The soil, though much drier than the ground over which I had recently passed, displayed a honeycombed appearance, showing where the water had oozed away through the rich leaf-mould to seek the flowing stream beyond.

Whole constellations of star-flowers were here; both the Painted and Crimson or Nodding Trilliums were abundant, asserting themselves and their rights, if size of flowers and leaves may indicate strength, among the tall, rank growth of the Common Brake (Pteris aquilina), which frequently rise five feet in height. Close by their long, harsh lobes grew the plicate leaves of the Indian Poke or White Hellebore. Skunk Cabbage (Spathyema fœtida), so frequent in the swamps along Bronx River in Greater New York, is rarely seen here, although I find lone specimens now and then in Aurora’s Swamp in northern Berkshire, and in this jungle. Lily leaves and Dwarf Cornel peeped out from every shadow. Here I found the red-spotted leaves of Dog’s-Tooth Lily (Erythronium Americanum) and Clintonia (Clintonia borealis), as well as the delicate leaves of the False Lily-of-the-Valley (Unifolium Canadense), and several species of Solomon’s Seal, while the weird Indian Cucumber (Medeola Virginiana) rose up everywhere beneath the luxuriant ferns.

Dwarf Cornel, or Bunch Berry, locally known as Bear Berry (Cornus Canadensis) was about to set its fruit. These berries are of a deep vermilion color, and eatable if one has the patience to sever the seeds. From the bark of this species of the Dogwood Family is extracted a tonic which is very bitter.

I found the beautiful Star-Flowered Solomon’s Seal (Vagnera stellata), and the deeper bogs revealed specimens of the rarer bog species, Vagnera trifolia, which, in spite of its name, produced plants with more than three leaves, and many beautiful fragrant flowers of a waxy white color. Indian Turnip (Arisæma triphyllum), more commonly known to-day as Jack-in-the-Pulpit, was numberless; the little priests in the pulpits were dressed in cardinal’s robes trimmed with stripes of green, white, and purple.

This sylvan retreat which yielded so many specimens of beautiful flowers I called the “Glen of Comus,” for I could not rid my thoughts of the deep, dark woodlands where Sabrina was lost among the enchanters.[4] I fancied that the Purple Trilliums stood with nodding petals bowed down to earth as though they were guilty of some crimson sin and dared not lift their faces to the sun.

I gathered from every species some perfect treasure, and then returned, wandering once more beside the cool brook. I wondered if it carried all the memories of the forest fastness, gleaned among the roots of our frail, beautiful hillside flowers, through the mighty rivers to the deep seaweeds and strange aquatic blossoms which had at one time bloomed among these very hills ages and ages ago.

Climbing a fence, I found myself in a parched, short-cropped cow-pasture, but the stream soon passed into a large tamarack swamp, where in many places neither man nor beast can wander with ease or safety. I rested under a wide-spreading pine tree, looking the marsh over to choose the best path through it, for I still had some distance to walk before I could reach Pownal Pond and the Bogs of Etchowog.

In order to make my journey less burdensome, I decided to leave my treasures of gold and crimson hidden in this stream, where they would not only keep fresh, but would be much safer than with me. I felt that they would be reasonably safe from marauders, for orchids are far more numerous than human beings in this forlorn locality; for where verdant meadows might spread were only uncultivated, almost impassable, dismal swamp-lands.

At last my flowers were safely placed in the bend of the brook near an old pine stump, where I made them fast, covering them with the coarse brakes which grow everywhere; then I strode on northward through the tamarack swamp. This marsh covers a large part of Ball Farm, from which the brook crossing it derives its name.

Through the trees I could see the old weather-worn farm buildings, nestling in the shade of a dozen or more large, thrifty maples, and now and then I heard a faint murmur of distant voices. Suddenly they subsided, and a small dog’s shrill bark told me that I was discovered, mistaken perhaps for the veritable “Witch of the Hollow,” by the present colored occupants.

There was no use in trying to follow the stream now, for its windings were intricate and indefinite. It wandered all over the meadow marsh, and splashed out in one great mud-hole, similar to that of the jungle in District Fourteen, save that the meadow here was open, with very little low tangle or underbrush in sight. Innumerable tamarack trees, however, lifted their graceful spires throughout the bog; yet this did not prevent the meadow from appearing flooded with sunshine.

Away over on the west side of this swamp were many low-spreading trees of virgin pine, contrasting prettily with the lighter greens of the delicate spires of tamarack. Between myself and the shore on either side of this mud-swamp waved acres of Fleur-de-lis, which would soon color the whole meadow with royal purple. Still westward of this lay an alder swamp. This shrub, called Speckled or Hoary Alder, belongs to the Willow Family, and grows about fifteen feet high, along swamp meadows, forming dense thickets.

Many saucy swamp birds dwell here and appear tame; they came chattering after me, fearing, no doubt, that I might be in search of their nests and birdlings.

Under the pines on the border of the swamp I rested, finding the while tender young Wintergreens (Gaultheria), and many edible red berries, called Checkerberries, fruit of Gaultheria, sometimes known as Partridge-berry and Boxberry. The last two names are more frequently applied to the fruit of Mitchella repens, found growing in company with Gaultheria, and producing edible scarlet berries on a trailing vine, resembling myrtle. The flowers of this vine were now in bloom, giving forth a delicate perfume. Their white and pinkish-purple blossoms dotted the moss with a brilliancy like that of the Trailing Arbutus (Epigæa repens), so lately faded.

The buds of Moneses uniflora were putting forth their “single-delight,” the name coming from their solitary flower. Here also were quantities of the glossy, waxen leaves of Pipsissewa or Prince’s Pine (Chimaphila), and low creeping evergreens. Common Club-Moss and Ground-Pine were interlaced in their dark green beds, where had recently nestled the clusters of arbutus, now brown and faded, although the mossy hummocks still held the fragrance of their luxuriant green leaves. Whittier, writing of these spicy flowers, associated them as the first flowers which the Pilgrims looked upon after their landing on the bleak shores of New England, at Plymouth, in the spring of 1621, and says:

In New England the Arbutus is commonly called “Mayflower,”—not that it blooms especially in the month of May, for it has been found in northern Berkshire as early as February and March. My observation is that prime blossoms are found in the Hoosac Valley region from March 15th until May 15th. I have also gathered beautiful clusters as late as June 23d, in cold nooks beneath the shades of spruce and pines. Their spicy perfume is ever the delight of New Englanders.

Scrambling with difficulty over a fence which sagged toward me, I entered a neighboring pasture, finding here more alder trees. Small tamaracks, Christmas spires of spruce, and pine seedlings filled the pasture with fresh evergreens, making me fancy myself in a cultivated park, so regular and trim they stood. Eastward crept Ball Brook, wandering through deep, reedy grasses, where here and there stood tall spikes of last year’s Cat-tail Flag (Typha). Here also grows the Sweet Flag or Calamus (Acorus), which is not only good to eat, but a panacea for sore eyes. The cat-tails stood stiffly erect, as if guarding the blossoming bog, and serving, notwithstanding their dignity, as perches for the saucy finches which still chattered after me.

Now I passed through a barway to the right, ever in hearing of the gurgling stream, which had reached a hard, dry, gravelly soil, abruptly following the downward slope around a hillside. A well-worn sheep path led me down into a bog similar to the Glen of Comus in District Fourteen, only if anything more wild and weird. Through the openings between the trees and knob-like glacial hills, I caught glimpses of the bold, rugged form of the Dome, standing coldly against the eastern horizon.

A glance through these glooms revealed another colony of the Showy or White-petalled Lady’s Slippers just bursting forth from the earth, perhaps four inches high. I have found them frequently in these bogs, when full-grown, standing three feet tall, but the usual height is about two feet; and in open meadow swamps often only eighteen inches, owing to the crowded soil, choked with grasses and low shrubs. In about three weeks these bogs would be gay with dainty Moccasin-Flowers.

In the upper part of this swamp, I found a rather quaking corner devoted entirely to the deep green leaves and tall, white-bearded spikes of the not common Buckbean (Menyanthes trifoliata), a distant cousin of the Blue Fringed Gentian. I know of several colonies of this rare plant in the bogs hereabout, where it grows plentifully, in its pet localities. It is liable to grow ever undisturbed, I am sure, since it chooses such dangerous swamps in which to flourish.

Thoreau mentions that Hodge the geologist once found at least an acre of this species. He writes: “We reached Shad Pond, or Noliseemack, an expansion of the river. Hodge, the assistant State Geologist, who passed through this region on the 25th of June, 1837, says, ‘We pushed our boats through an acre or more of buckbeans, which had taken root at the bottom, and bloomed above the surface in the greatest profusion and beauty.’”[6]

After leaving this jungle,—which reminded me of the luxuriant vegetation of tropical swamps,—I pushed onward, ever nearing the broad marsh-lands of Etchowog, east of Pownal Pond, in the shadow of the Dome. A shaded wood-road winds around the base of the hill, through an open gateway into a thrifty, well-kept apple orchard. This adjoins the old Kimball homestead, and I therefore designated these marshes Kimball Bogs. Out through the orchard meadow I passed, crossing the dusty highway which leads northward around the pond. There are several roads leading to Bennington village; some are rough, some are narrow and hilly, while others are broad and easy. The one to the left, called the Middle Road, follows through Pownal Centre to the county seat of courts and justice. By keeping to the right, one arrives at the same destination by the rough but picturesque East Road, under the brow of the Green Mountains. A direct route from Pownal Pond to Bennington is by way of the Hill Road, which leads directly north between the other highways. Thus the region is intersected from east to west by many roads running northward. I invariably recommend the Hill Road to the traveller who enjoys beauty of landscape. On this way, if he be a keen observer of nature, he will find much pleasure.

Instead of going by the trodden way to Pownal Pond, I chose to follow closely the windings of Ball Brook, which at this point of the road, opposite Kimball’s barns, mingles with another mountain torrent that comes down from the spring heads above Thompson’s Pond, under the Majestic Dome. The main current of this stream continues with the bend of the road, taking with it the volume of the water of Ball Brook as it crosses the greater stream. The courses of both streams are unnatural, having been removed, over one hundred years ago, from their original channels in order to form a mill-pond for sawmill use. Originally, I am told, a dense forest of pine trees occupied the hollow where now the waves of Pownal Pond wash over the decaying stumps.

The natural lake bed lies in these broad, sphagnous meadows east of Kimball’s homestead, winding around to the north, where now wave various small shrubs and trees. Barber’s sawmill, which stands close by the roadside, east of the pond to-day, is slowly crumbling away for want of use. Water finds its level, and although forced to go by the roadside, Ball Brook still seeks in part its old channels through the ancient meadows of Kimball’s Farm, where the stream is silent and elusive, as it glides among the tall, lush grasses. Walking along the borders of this hidden brook, through the tangle mingled with daisies and buttercups, I lost the stream entirely, only a line of gold marking its sleepy wanderings,—for marsh marigolds were still plentiful here, ever following the edges of the brook.

Hellebore grew over the swamp, and the tall grasses took on coarser forms as I waded farther on, deeper and deeper into the sphagnous grave of the ancient lake. At times it seemed so soft and spongy that I questioned my safety, even doubting the possibility of a search party securing my “embalmed heart,” if once I became fast in the mud, so I began to edge up toward firmer ground and the rocky hills near by.

This was the most uncertain swamp I had ever traversed, and not quite safe for one to wade through alone. It is reputed to have been at one time the bed of a great lake, as evidenced by the terraced hillsides about it. Its waters might still linger beneath the black-peat and forest débris which support the trees and spongy sphagnum. However, a fence closed off the most dangerous parts of the bog to keep back the cows from the mire and “dead holes,” as the unfathomable places are designated by the lads who penetrate these bogs for the marsh cranberries in the autumn.

I searched through this meadow for the Large Purple-Fringed Orchis (Habenaria grandiflora), thinking perhaps I might find the leaves, although I was somewhat too early to secure the flowers, since they are not due until June 20th and later.

On striking out for the hillside path, I found many problems to solve. It appeared impossible to gain a firm or safe footing in the sphagnum and mud, so securing a fence board which had been hurled about the marsh by the winds and storms, I slapped it down upon the soft earth and moss, and walked its length of eight feet. Then quickly relaying it, while my feet sank lower and lower in the moss, I hastened to pull out my muddy foot-gear and walked the length of my bridge once more,—repeating this perilous feat several times, until I had finally crossed the “dead hole” and stood on terra firma once more.

There is certainly no experience like being stuck in a bog to arouse fearful forebodings. The discouraging effort to keep one foot above the ground only to find the other sinking deeper is most terrifying, and leads to hasty and excited movements which but increase the danger, and may finally lodge both feet fast in the mud. In such a case the sight of a board fence upon which an elbow may be rested is as welcome as a sail to a ship-wrecked mariner. There is in truth much art and science in walking safely through mud and sphagnum. One cannot saunter over the surface, and meditate at ease, but one must be ever alert, elastic as a rubber ball, and quick to feel a danger before it can be seen.

The fields and woods are a good deal like the books we read: the more we become familiar with printed page or forest path, the oftener we return to certain thoughts and trails that lead us back to scenes and associations enjoyed before. I like to mark passages in books I love, here and there, as I would blaze a tree to guide me to the haunt of a cool stream or a rare flower’s hiding-place. Whenever I turn to such passages, I find that time and season have expanded some new thought in my mind, even as they have developed the buds to full-grown flowers since my first journey through the wood.

There is a beautiful cold spring under the hill near the swamps of Etchowog. I have known of it all my life, and were I to visit this region every day for months, I should invariably be drawn unconsciously to this fountain. It is here that I quench my thirst and rest after wading through the neighboring swamps. I have turned many stones here in the past, and lifted the dead leaves from the choking throat of the spring. I have gathered the sundew growing in the moss fringing the banks; and in the sweet solitude and peace I have dreamed many dreams, inextricably mingled with the music of the stream.

To-day I sought this spring to rest. I bathed my face and combed my hair over Nature’s own mirror, after taking a generous draught from the sparkling water. It bubbles and gushes continuously from under the rocky hillside, bringing sand and delicate-hued pebbles to scatter in the bottom of its bowl the year round. I rested here a full hour, and rinsed the mud off my boots.

From here it is but a short walk to Barber’s Mill at the foot of Pownal Pond. Alders, willows, shad-bushes and pink azaleas, small white birches, tamaracks, pines, and beautiful swamp or soft maples fill the broad expanse of marsh-land to the right; while the rocky, burnt-over, and blackened hillside rises up to the left. I was tempted into the deeper underbrush, but proceeded very slowly, as the treacherous bog was so spongy with sphagnum that I would often sink from twelve to fifteen inches into its soft, pink depths. But here I felt secure, since there were many fallen trees and growing saplings to which I could hold and cling, in case I stepped into a “dead hole.”

Here, half buried in the moss, I found hundreds of crimson-veined Pitcher Plants, or Side-Saddle Flowers (Sarracenia purpurea), which bear olive-green, purple-veined, vase-like leaves that hold rain and dew. Often the species varies in color, and its absolute greenish-yellow with lighter green veinings. Many of the larger pitchers hold fully a tumbler of fluid. Their brilliant-hued brims are edged with crimson ridges, delicately coated with honey, thus enticing flies and moths to drink from the nectar beyond the brim. The more common prisoners are small flies and moths, but one day I found two dozen snails captive in the larger leaves of an ancient plant, for if once within, there is no escape even for snails. Consequently the Pitcher Plants—locally called St. Jacob’s Dippers and Dumb Watches by the children—are considered carnivorous plants, since they are flesh-eating by nature. This is also true of the small Round-leaved Sundew (Drosera rotundifolia).

These plants are traps that not only cunningly entice, but actually entrap and slowly devour their victims. Sundew delights in being fed beefsteak, and Professor Bailey cites Darwin’s experiment of feeding them steak, which “they accepted as readily as an insect.”[7] The Sundew is plentiful in these mossy bogs. It has red and white, dewy, bristling, round leaves, with long petioles spreading in a tuft. When a small fly or ant touches these sticky bristles or tentacles on the upper face of the leaf, the points of the outer row slowly turn inward, holding their prey closely until it is dead.

Like the enticing honey of the Pitcher Plant, the viscid fluid of the Sundew attracts the flies, and, once alighted upon it, they become entangled and doomed to certain death. After drawing the juices from their victim or bits of steak, they relax and slowly regain their normal positions. The glands of these leaves send out drops of a clean, sticky fluid which glitter like dew drops in the sunlight. The plant sends up a short spike of insignificant, whitish-green, bud-like flowers, which are said to open briefly one by one in their turn, each morning in the sunshine, till the whole spike has unfolded. Each flower turns brown and fades before the successive bud unfolds, so that there is never more than one full-grown flower to be seen at a time. This is not the case with the flowers of the Pitcher Plant. I found many crimson, ball-like buds sleeping tucked up in their mossy beds. They would be in their prime in a week or ten days.

Here I discovered some fine specimens of the Pink Moccasin-Flower, and I was just about to pluck one, when behold—stretching at full length, basking in the sunshine on one of those sphagnous stump mounds, lay a snake, very near the coveted blossom. He may have been black or he may have been checkered or variegated and even charming and beautiful to the snake-hunter, but to the orchid-hunter he was not a prize worthy of a place in the vasculum. I did not wait to study or designate him or count his diamonds, but softly stole away, leaving him still cunningly sleeping, in waiting for prey, beside that gorgeous Moccasin-Flower.

I now regarded with suspicion all the holes in the soft mounds of moss, as the possible homes of snakes, that might object to visitors in their Eden. Immense ant-hills were numerous, and the occupants may have afforded food for Satan’s prototype in his idle hours. Now and then the drum of a frightened partridge, giving her alarum, assured me that her brood of chickens was hidden under the leaves and logs not far distant. It is very probable that snakes in these bogs devour small birds and frogs, and lie in wait for them, as I found the one that I had seen this morning.

Before continuing my search, I secured a hardwood staff, feeling safer with a cudgel of some kind in my hand, in case I met Satan face to face. In my tussle to sever the birch limb from the green tree, I snapped off all the Venus Slippers that I had actually gathered here. I was therefore no richer in actual specimens upon my departure from the swamp than when I entered it; but I carried away memories of that vast solitude and slumbering desolation where foot of man, I dare say, has seldom if ever been.

Now well out of this swamp, I found myself on the edge of an apple orchard, filled with rosy bloom and the fragrance of happy May. A newly planted garden bore witness to human life, and the long rows of potato-hills spoke of industry. Passing through the gate, I entered the East Pownal Road near the mill, and walking down the bank to the right, just north of the mill, where cobblestones had been dumped from the fields, I picked my way into the open Bogs of Etchowog, which lie directly east of the pond.

I wandered up and down through this swamp, finding hundreds of Pitcher Plants, which had begun to nod their crimson buds. Clusters of the Showy Lady’s Slippers were springing up on the higher, drier mounds among the lily leaves of Clintonia borealis and Dog’s Tooth. Fleur-de-lis grew everywhere, while the Poison Ivy flaunted its three-fingered palm on every side. Poison Sumach or Poison Dogwood, sometimes known as Poison Elder, grows luxuriantly in this swamp, and susceptible people have been poisoned merely by passing above along the roadside. By wearing high hunting-boots and rubber or chamois gloves, however, I am perfectly safe in such places. In fact, I never think of these plants as poisonous when brushing through the tangles of bushes and blossoming vines. These species of Rhus are in blossom most of the summer. The juice of the plant is resinous, and the fruit consists of white or dun-colored berries.

Going back to the roadside to rest, I took out my color-box and attempted to sketch the swamp I had just left. Eastward, rising boldly in the background, towered the Majestic Dome against the sky. In the middle distance, a long line of alders and willow shrubs blended softly into the blues, here and there dashed with the crimson and gold swamp-maple buds; while still nearer, amid the low, grassy reeds and poison sumachs of the wet swamp, three tall, stately pines reared their shaggy green forms against the dark blue tones of the mountains, lending strength and balance to the scene.

My day nearly spent, I packed away my colors, and started on my return trip, leaving the mill at the bend of the road at three o’clock. Just above the Kimball Farm, I came to a pent-road leading through the pastures to Ball Brook Farm, where I must go to get my Moccasin-Flowers, left hidden in the stream. I found them as fresh and fragrant as if just gathered.

The walking was good, so I exchanged my high, heavy boots for low shoes, which were much more comfortable for dry paths and climbing hillside roads.

Going directly up through the cow-pastures along the border of the Glen of Comus, I came upon a colony of Pink Moccasin-Flowers, growing on a sloping hillside under low-spreading pines and birches. Although the spot was shaded, many flowers were unfolding, but they were not so deep in color as time and sunshine would paint them. I counted at least two hundred buds and blossoms, thinking what a feast for the eyes I should have another day, when they were in their prime.

Later, as I turned into the Centre Road, I met Lorenna, one of the school children in District Fourteen. She, too, had her hands full of flowers. I asked her to keep a lookout for strange, small Moccasin-Flowers, hoping thereby that she might find the rare little Ram’s-Head (Cypripedium arietinum), for which I have so hopefully searched these woods in vain. I had found thus far all the representative species of the Moccasin-Flowers of this State, save the rarer Ram’s-Head.

The name Ram’s-Head arose from the resemblance of this flower to that of a sheep’s or ram’s head, the conical or pouched-shaped shoe serving in certain positions to remind the early Canadian children of the noses of frisky lambs’ heads, while the twistings of both sepals and petals answered for the ram’s horns. This rare species was first collected in Canada near Montreal before 1808. In that year it was transplanted to English gardens by Messrs. Chandler and Buckingham, where they had opportunity to study it closely. For some time it was known as Chandler’s Cypripedium. Finally, Mr. Robert Brown of England published a description of North American Orchids in Aiton’s Catalogue of Plants, in 1813, and he must have learned what the children first named it in Canada and Vermont, for he gave it the Latin name, Cypripedium arietinum, which it has ever since borne in the science. Arietinum signifies shaped like a ram’s head, and so one readily observes how the common names of plants suggest to the botanist the origin of the strange Latin names, which are in one sense but the explanations of the common names.

I told Lorenna the story of this stray lamb, and she was as eager to find its trail as I was. The plant is shy at best, the flowers being of the most inconspicuous purple and white shades, found in cedar swamps and on the drier hillsides in mixed wood, of pine, chestnut, and birch. Truth to tell, I was not familiar with the appearance of the plant, nor did I know at what date to search for the blossoms.

After leaving Lorenna, I followed the road homeward, reaching Mount Œta at six o’clock, somewhat dusty and ragged and tired. Old Bonny and the buggy were now suggested as assistants in my trips, when the folk observed my load of herbs and flowers. But bog-trotting in a buggy is certainly beyond the limits of my imagination. It did, however, at that tired moment seem a favorable project, for Bonny and the buggy could wait for me by the roadside while I plunged into the marshes to secure my treasures.

It is true, as Thoreau writes: “we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, nowadays, who undertake no persevering, never-ending enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearth-side, from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our steps.”[8]