Between May 30th and June 8th, I made short excursions to the Bog of Oracles above the Glen of Comus. On the latter date I found my first blossoms of the season, of the Showy Queen of the Moccasin-Flowers (Cypripedium reginæ), the white sepals and petals standing fully unfurled, but still lacking the rich magenta-pink on the crest of the slippers which another week’s time would give them. One feature this season, among these plants, was the unusual number of two buds on a single scape. While a single blossom is generally found on a stalk, I discovered now that nearly every other stem bore two buds.

At the same time and in the same place, along the edges of decaying logs on the borders of Ball Brook, grew the spikes of the Tall Green Orchis (Habenaria hyperborea). Its greenish-yellow color is conspicuously different from the tones of its distant relative, the showy, white-petaled queen of this swamp. Another spike similar to that of the Tall Green Orchis, but short and smaller in every way, stood near. It was not so tall and coarse as its sister species, and may have been a stray specimen of the Tall White Habenaria (Habenaria dilatata). These two species are peculiar in appearance, and many inexperienced bog-hunters would pass them by as weeds, and homely weeds at that.

Upon closer scrutiny, the peculiar twisted seed-pods of these flowers suggest a rarity. The name Habenaria signifies “a rein or thong,” derived from the shape of the labellum in some species of this genus. They are often also called “Rein-Orchises.”

On June 10th I drove into the Chalk Pond region, on the “Witch Hollow,” or Gulf Road leading to the Centre-of-the-Town; and hitching old Bonny, took a circle around the peat and marl meadows, searching for signs of the Showy Orchis (Orchis spectabilis), a species of a sister genus of Habenaria. The Showy Orchis is due here about May 25th, the date on which the early Moccasin-Flowers awaken.

Four species of this genus unfold upon almost the same day. The Ram’s-Head Cypripedium should bloom first, according to general reports of botanists, the Pink Acaule immediately follows, and the Larger Yellow Moccasins, and, at the same time, the Small Yellow Fragrant Slippers unlace their beautiful twisting petals. The Showy Orchis is supposed to be the first orchid of the spring to blossom in New England.

I discovered nothing in the Chalk Pond meadows, however, save that it was one of the most charming little corners in the town, showing deep erosions about its terraced basin, proving that the ice-currents of the past flowed through these gulfs with terrible force.

I have found the Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower growing in close relationship with the dwarf fragrant species (Cypripedium parviflorum), in the Swamp of Oracles, in District Fourteen, about May 25th; while they appear later in the upland woods,—from June 6th until June 25th. They grow, as will be observed, along high, rocky hillsides as well as in damp, sphagnous marshes. The upland species are often found in open clearings on hillsides, among the dead brushwood heaps, where grow the Maiden-Hair and Christmas Ferns. Often they are in full sight, but sometimes they are hidden under small hazel-nut bushes, amid sapling white birches.

There seem to be three different forms of the Yellow Cypripediums, although there are but two accepted distinct North American species north of Mexico; these appear also to intergrade frequently. Close association of habitat has probably something to do with this cross-fertilization of the two species.

Finding the two marsh plants, Cypripedium hirsutum and Cypripedium parviflorum, growing side by side in the Swamp of Oracles, I observed a marked intergrading,—the larger species, Cypripedium hirsutum, producing variegated sepals and petals, or possibly now and then a brown-pink petal or sepal, imitating the type species of the smaller Moccasin-Flower. Both species were fragrant in a slight degree, Cypripedium parviflorum being, of course, the more fragrant of the two.

There is an European Yellow Cypripedium (Cypripedium calceolus) which is almost identical with the smaller species of North America, Cypripedium parviflorum. As early as 1760, Cypripedium calceolus was described and illustrated in color in Philip Miller’s Figures of Plants. Linnæus, 1740, gave the European yellow species the present generic and specific designation. Any history relating to that species of Lady’s Slipper, as it was first known in Europe by Dodoens as early as 1616 under the title of Calceolus Marianus, will also pertain to the history of the two closely allied Yellow Cypripediums found in North America.

The common English name “Lady’s Slipper” arose from the Latin Marianus, referring to “Our Lady,” the Virgin Mary, while Calceolus is the Latin for shoe or slipper. Linnæus, however, in 1740, being a devout Lutheran, objected to this species being dedicated to the Mother of Christ, and re-established the custom of dedicating the names of flowers to gods and goddesses of classical mythology known before Christ. The origin of the generic name Cypripedium is from the two Greek words Κύπρις, an ancient name for Venus, and πόδιον, a sock, buskin, or slipper.

Venus, in classical literature, was also known as “Our Lady,” the “Divine Mother” of the Romans, so that the common name has never in reality changed since 1616, when it was first applied to these shoe-shaped flowers of Europe, in honor of Mary, “Our Lady,” the “Divine Mother” of all nations.

The Algonquin Indians, in their forests of Northeastern North America, saw this same shoe-shape resemblance in these flowers, and called them Mawcahsun or Makkasin-Flowers, since they reminded them of little Indian Moccasins. Thus arose the common name Indian Moccasin-Flowers for all our native species of Cypripedium. Lady’s Slipper is distinctly of European origin, while Moccasin-Flower is most appropriately American, since this name was given by the first inhabitants of our shores, as it were, in mythological days. May the name of the Indian’s Moccasin-Flower pass down through the coming centuries in honor of a race that will disappear long before these flowers, which they christened so appropriately.

I have never thus far found the Dwarf Fragrant Moccasin-Flower, an upland flower, which Higginson describes as growing on the “Rattlesnake Ledge” on “Tatessit Hill,”[20] in the neighborhood of Boston. The larger yellow species, Cypripedium hirsutum, grows in the Hoosac Valley high on the steep sides of the Domelet, while the smaller species seeks the deepest parts of the Swamp of Oracles and Aurora’s Bog. I have collected it also in damp, marshy woods in Mosholu, near New York City.

The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower seems, of the two yellow species, the more generally distributed over the continent, although most botanists state that the smaller species is the commoner. The dwarf yellow species is certainly the rarer plant in New England. In the Hoosac Valley, particularly in Pownal swamps, it is quite as rare as the Ram’s-Head Cypripedium. I have discovered only one swamp here where it grows.

It will be of interest to make note of two species of our Eastern Cypripediums, which extend nearly to the Arctic Circle northward, as well as adjusting themselves southward near the Tropic of Cancer. One of these species is the Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower, reported as found associated with the Pink Acaule, in latitude 54° to 60° North, by Dr. John Richardson on Captain Franklin’s journey to the Arctic lands in 1823.[21]

Dr. F. Kurtz, in an Arctic Expedition in 1882, collected the large yellow species, Cypripedium hirsutum[22] of the Atlantic Region, as well as Cypripedium passerinum, which is endemic only to the Northern Pacific Region. Cypripedium hirsutum also extends from New England westward much farther than the pink species, Cypripedium acaule. The dwarf yellow, Cypripedium parviflorum, closely follows the larger yellow species both southward and westward, but according to the stations reported to the author for the continent, it cannot be said to have the broader range of the two species.

The Dwarf White Moccasin-Flower (Cypripedium candidum) may also be counted with Ram’s-Head Cypripedium as one of the rare species of the Northern Atlantic Region. It is seldom found in the New England States. In the range reported to the author for this species, there is but one New England station. This has been given by A. W. Driggs of East Hartford, Connecticut.[23] This orchid belongs more especially to the damp swells of the prairie. It is very similar to the Dwarf Yellow Cypripedium, except in color, and like it produces a faint fragrance. This dainty white shoe is often no larger than the tiny Ram’s-Head flower, the plant being about six to ten inches high, bearing small waxen shoes, the shape of the blossoms of Cypripedium parviflorum. I have often received descriptions from country lads, supposedly of these White Moccasin-Flowers, only to find that they were either albinos, or bleached out and pale specimens of the gorgeous colored Cypripedium reginæ. Often the latter seem pure white to the hurried observer in the swamps, for the albino or white variety rarely occurs. I found one plant, however, this season bearing two blossoms, the first I ever saw, and I removed the plant to watch it in my garden.

After Decoration Day, I had all I could do to keep pace with the unfolding flowers in the woods on Mount Œta. In the Chestnut Woods and Rattlesnake Swamp region, near Lloyd Spring, and along the mountain sides of the Knubble and Domelet, I found beautiful azalea shrubs laden with luxuriant clusters of fragrant pink flowers. These open woodlands become brilliant with these rose-colored blossoms. The Large Yellow Moccasin-Flower was here too, with violets, Stars-of-Bethlehem, and innumerable pink blossoms of Cypripedium acaule growing along the side hill, shining out from every corner. All at once, these nearer woodlands had unfurled their banners of spring, and now, “With blossom, and birds, and wild bees’ hum,” they held me from the more distant Bogs of Etchowog. On the 14th of June, however, I decided to take old Bonny and the buggy, and drive to these bogs to see if any Pogonias and Limodorums were budded as yet amid the grasses of the open cranberry marsh.

Bonny hitched to the old buggy, my faithful old Major at my side, and I, with my vasculum for rare flowers, a basket containing drinking glass, carving knife, and bog-hoe for gathering special roots, started down the hill on an easy trot toward Pownal Pond. As I passed School Fourteen, I was cheered and hailed by the children, who shouted, “Going a-flowering?” I nodded “Yes,” with a “Get-ty up” to old Bonny, who had thought I wished to visit along the way.

It was warm and dusty, and whenever I could, I drove through the streams which crossed the road, in order to swell the felly, and thus tighten the tires to my rattling wheels. Although I felt that by driving along the highway I was losing much beauty that was unfolding in the fields and fence corners, I found this method of progress quite comfortable.

How these East Pownal bogs came by the musical name of Etchowog, I am not quite certain; nor do I know exactly what it means. It may have come from a primitive language of a mythological age for all I know, or it may have come from the Itch-Weed or Indian Poke and Poison Rhus, which cause much irritation of the skin. I am safe in saying that it is a corruption of the Indian’s Greek and Latin words for “itch” and “bog,”—at least this etymology quite suits the designation of these swamps. Ever since I can remember I have heard the older folk of the town call it Etchowog. I have associated the region with rare flowers, orchids, pollywogs, snapping-turtles and mud-holes, together with the schoolhouse in District Thirteen, where the good people hold Advent meetings, and set the dates for the world to come to an end. To me it seems one of the brightest, richest of swamps, full of “Bottomless Dead Holes,” where only bull-frogs peep and trill and croak the whole season through, till their notes blend with the chirp and whirr of the autumn crickets.

At the Barber Mill, I hitched Bonny to a fence-post and started on my excursions. I looked through the open meadow east of the mill to see if I could find any rose-colored Pogonias and Grass-Pinks. There was as yet no sign of them; so I came back to the mill and turned in through the bars, on the north side of the pond, where I followed a grassy path around the hill to the treacherous Cranberry Swamp farther northward, where I had been cautioned not to wander alone.

Sounding the margin of the marshy meadow, I found quaking and unstable ground. With a ten-foot pole I probed the depths of the mud, and found it unfathomable, and no signs of terra firma about it. Pickerel-weed, eel-grass, frog’s-bit, and the leaves of arrow-head grew about the pools. I could not very well find an entrance here, unless for a permanent residence. So going northward along the west shore of this mud-pond, I came to a place which promised fair and safe walking, with my waterproof boots for protection. At first I felt my way very cautiously, then grew bolder and forgot that I was in a dangerous place, for the farther I advanced, the firmer and drier and more enchanting became the field of my vision.

Before me opened a wide expanse of meadow-land, where even unruly cows dared not wander, and man seldom ventured to trespass. Nature’s remote solitude indeed was peacefully hidden here. No human voices nor sounds of hay-making ever echoed over these luxuriant fields, and the grasses grew sweetly, to fall untouched to earth again, mown as it were by the autumn winds, and stored beneath the drifts of November snow, to lay, in time, one more thin coat of soil upon the unplumbed depths of this ancient lake bed. During some long-ago winter, some one had ventured here while the earth was frozen and safe, and had built a homely hedge-fence through the meadow, probably to keep the cattle pasturing hereabout away from the dangerous bog. This fence was the only visible trace of man. In its tumbled-down and overgrown condition, it became a part of Nature’s self, and added to the picturesqueness of the field. Although Rafinesque says “that he hates the sight of fences like the Indians,” to me the hedge-fence is one of the wildest and most primitive of forest barriers. Indeed, it must have originated with the veritable wild man himself.

I was tempted on and still farther on through the meadow, by the brilliant crimson-purple blossoms of the Pitcher Plant, or Side-Saddle Flowers, so named on account of the hard shells of the stigma of these flowers resembling the padded cushions of a lady’s ancient side-saddle. This cushion was known as the “pillion.” The more common name in this locality for these flowers is St. Jacob’s-Dippers and Dumb-Watches, children playing with the hard shells of the stigmas left after the purple petals have fallen, calling them watches. The convex surface of the stigma does indeed resemble the face of a watch, although there are no hands to point the hour. Gay blossoms of Fleur-de-lis flaunted their gaudy petals, and many times deceived me by making me imagine that I spied the Purple-Fringed Orchises in the distance, waving amid the tall grasses.

Here I dreamed away an hour or more, following out some little paths, worn perhaps by the muskrats or swamp minks or wicked weasels, or perchance by the tiny feet of the meadow-moles, who apparently had blindly rooted various underground tunnels in every direction. I can fancy them all trotting swiftly along, playful at times, yet with an eye to their affairs,—quite as important in the scheme of Nature and Science as are the brokers’ studied operations in Wall Street. The weasels and minks are the terrors of the other path-holders in this natural syndicate. They are indeed the high and dreaded trust officials of the lesser and blind rooters of the earth.

Tangled vines of the marsh cranberry were now in full bloom, and at the same time the soft fruit of last autumn’s crop was present on the vines, still bright crimson, even after enduring the winter’s frosts and stubborn snows.

Looking northward to see what fields lay unexplored beyond me, I realized the remoteness of this region slumbering amid these glacial hills. To my right towered the Dome, the highest mountain of Pownal, of a bluish-green tone, against the sky. Nearer, graceful elms, tall pines, and numerous low pointed, lighter green tamarack trees lifted their spires, and adorned the distant meadow; while in the wide expanse on the west side, along the edges of the swamp, rose the giant forms of elm and pine, and tall, lithe trees of the swamp maple, flashing forth their crimson and gold blossoms, reminding me of the coloring of autumn leaves. The nearer marsh was rich with tasselled grasses and blossoming vines, dotted here and there with the cardinal buds of the Pitcher Plant and the purple Fleur-de-lis. It seemed a land of dreams.

The air vibrated with the happy, mellow song of birds, interspersed with the ever-present lesser sounds of deep solitudes. Major, like me, at first, was cautious where he wandered, but once amid the various haunts of wild creatures of the wood, he caught the happy spirit of the hound, frisking and studiously following the paths of the wild little animals to the very doors of their homes.

To test the land, I stood and deliberately shook the foundation of the earth. All the blossoming ground about me, for at least fifteen feet distant, trembled as if it were so much jelly. Yet the spot was honeycombed and dry on the surface, there having been little rain in this region during the month.

I now sought the western hillside path, and bearing northwestward around the border of the swamp, I occasionally ventured in and out along the edges of the meadow bushes. Finally I reached the swamp maples, which I had observed from the interior, and I secured a good-sized branch of the gold and crimson clusters to carry off with my load of treasures. On every hand, out of the small, muddy pools of water, rose the leaves of the Buckbean (Menyanthes trifoliata). The beautiful spikes of white-bearded flowers were turning brown with age, and the plants were setting their bullet-like seed-pods. Now and then, beneath the low, shaggy pines, I found the humble Pink Moccasin-Flower (Cypripedium acaule), which I hailed as a sign that the Showy Queen of the genus might dwell not far distant.

Knowing the favorite haunts which this orchid seeks, I searched through all the dark corners of the swamp. At the extreme northwestern portion of the region, I entered a dense shaded corner about fifty feet square, where were many springs soaking through the sphagnum to the deeper fields of the interior which I had so lately left. Here were numerous decaying pine and tamarack logs, low sapling willows tangled amid the small scrubby spruces and tender pines, which were striving against the greater natives of the forest to lift their spires as high as possible; but however eager they were, they had not attained a height above ten or fifteen feet at most. Many were already discouraged or had died in the competition, and their wasting forms were still standing with broken and weather-worn trunks and limbs.

Tall brakes and Indian Poke ran riot among the deeper mounds of moss, which covered the decaying roots of the long wasted primeval pitch pines. The dark, sluggish pools reflected weirdly the ferns and trees above them.

Shooting up from these piles of sphagnum, I found at least fifty plants of the Showy Moccasin-Flower (Cypripedium reginæ). They were pregnant with slumbering buds, and would surely be in full blossom by June 20th. Happy over my good fortune at locating another station for this species, I prepared to bend my footsteps toward my horse and buggy,—glad indeed to know that I would not be obliged to walk home, laden as I was with Pitcher Plant roots and various other shrubs and vines.

Near the mill, just north of the little bay in the pond, I found quantities of the Yellow Pond Lily or Spatter-Dock (Nymphæa advena) just beyond my reach. Securing a long willow sapling with a tender end, I tied it into a loop, and stepping out into the shallow edges of the pond to an old pine log, I snared off several of these golden cups, which the children call Cow-Lilies. I floated them in to the shore, where I soon gathered them up and packed them in my vasculum.

A glance into the water along the edges of the old log revealed thousands of tiny pollywogs or tadpoles, as well as half-formed frogs, the hind legs beginning to put forth on the large tadpoles. Here, basking in the sunshine, were lizards, snails, leeches; and various species of small fish were sporting in the shallow waters. Perch, suckers, and eels are plentiful in Pownal Pond, which is locally called Perch Pond, from the abundance of perch found in its waters. These fish seemed to seek this sheltered arm of the pond to leave their young fry under the sheltering lily-pads.

Near the projecting stumps, amid floating logs were snails’ eggs, and I noticed several baby turtles, recently hatched from eggs in the sand, varying from the size of nickels to that of a silver dollar. Eel-grass and many marsh grasses and sedges grew or floated on the water, among which the small fish could hide.

On the edge of the water among the ferns and brakes I found the leaves of the Purple-Fringed Orchis (Habenaria psycodes), but no plants likely to bloom this season.

When I reached the mill, I placed my treasures in the buggy, and started after that part of my load which I had left around the hill. On my return, I gathered some waxen, crimson cones of the beautiful tamarack tree by the path. When I bade farewell to little Merwin and his mother, who lived in the mill-house, I asked them to watch for the rose-purple orchids,—Pogonias and Limodorums,—which were now due any day, east of the mill. The boy was very earnest and observing, and I knew that I now had a comrade to guard over the Bogs of Etchowog.

Students from Williams College, and tourists from near and afar seek these swamps of Pownal for botanical specimens, and Merwin had often been their guide to the haunts of these rare treasures. He told me that students from Williams had, the year before, gathered innumerable pink and purple flowers in these marshes, as well as the beautiful bearded spikes of the Buckbean.

For a succession of years—during all of President Carter’s term at Williams College at least—it has been the unique custom to bank the chancel of the Congregational Church with the Showy Moccasin-Flowers and Maiden-Hair Ferns, on Baccalaureate Sunday,—which occurs usually about June twentieth. These gorgeously colored orchids reach the height of their perfection about this date. They seem a fitting decoration for the church during the Commencement services of this college, situated in the heart of these Hoosac Highlands.

Plentiful as are the colonies of this Showy Moccasin-Flower in its pet localities, it has always been an interesting question to me where the great numbers of perfect blossoms grouped about the chancel are secured. They are known to the children in each school district, and usually they are collected as soon as discovered.

It is surprising to me that extinction of this rare plant is not taking place more rapidly hereabout. This orchid produces very few seedlings in its native haunts, and at the rate of collecting both its blossoms and roots in this valley, we must surely look for total extinction in less than half a century more, unless this ruthless plucking is modified.