Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, February 18, 1912

Last night I firmly resolved that in all respect to my cough and cold, I should not go for a walk today. Nature has ways of breaking all resolutions, however, good or bad. This morning when I awoke and looked out, the struggle began. Ground and roofs were coated white with hoarfrost. If frost was so thick in town, what would it be out in the “Bottoms”, where it is so moist? It took me quite a while to decide to break my resolution, but once I was decided to go, I began to look forward to my walk with more than ordinary eagerness.

After eating a hasty breakfast, I started out. The sun was well up in the sky by this time, but such a dense mist obstructed his view, that his heat as yet had no effect on the frost, which covered the ground everywhere, while trees were bare of it. Frost is odd; the morning was warm almost – in fact I needed no gloves; and yet everything had the appearance of a bitterly cold morning. I took the usual way – following the lane leading straight east from the end of Hawley Ave, to Brooks Alfalfa field. The alfalfa, one of our plants that stays green thruout the winter – in fact, this is the case with many members of the Pulse Family, especially clovers – was beautiful, for every leaf was fringed at the edge with a fine frost. As I was crossing a wire fence here a note came across the fields from the south, that seemed so unusual that I thought it was my overdeveloped imagination – an imagination overdeveloped by the last few spring days. Stopped suddenly and listened hard and eagerly. Again it came, this time more clearly, tho he was some distance away. “Cheer’p, Cheer’p, Cheer’p, Cheer’p” he called. A Cardinal! A Cardinal singing! A cardinal singing that spring will surely come sometime! Everything else forgotten I crossed the alfalfa field and “Brook’s lawn”, in the direction of the call, hoping to hear it again. But he was silent, as tho afraid of his own audacity.

At the frog pond, the excessive moisture of the pond had fastened itself to low weeds and bushes. A dense growth of red black berry bushes, were striking in a filmy coat of frost why made them look pinkish. The first Pasture field had a wierdly beautiful appearance. Stretches of silvery grey sod were broken in places by dark bluish grey ponds of ice, and patches of white snow; in the distance were grey trees of Bentley’s, partially obscured by mists, towards which I naturally turned, crossing the pasture field. When I came to the “Trough, after slipping and sliding over a stretch of ice in front of it, I saw it was not frozen over, and the green water plants in it seemed strange when one looked out over the frosty scene.

“The Locusts” were wonderful. Naturally a wild-looking, grotesque and gaunt tree, they appeared more so today. “The Locusts: is a grove of locust trees crowning the hill just beyond the “Twin Springs. Leading from the rail-fence that crawls along the west and north edge of Bentley to paths lead, one turning down in to stop at the Springs and then climbing the abrupt little hill, where are the locust; the other, lazily contenting itself with merely leading up around thru the Locusts proper, both of them finally writing and continuing along the south edge of the woods. Behind the black locusts, that seemed to be struggling to keep from falling down in the hollow, were the grey dim woods, the yellowish misty sky.

As lazy as the second path, I chose to follow it. I had hardly started when I heard the “Cht-cht” of a cardinal. On looking I saw a pair of them in an oak sapling. What beautiful birds they are, and how powerfully graceful! For a short time I followed them, they ever flying ahead of me, until they came to the wood’s edge, where they stopped loathe to leave it. The call of a cardinal somewhere to the north-east now attracted my attention and I went along the hills edge, with a view to finding the wonderful cheer-giver. Past the “Twin Chestnuts,” thru tangles of brambles and down around the “Tree of Yellow Apples” I walked enjoying to the full the cardinal’s call. The woods seemed to actually resound with it, so powerful, strong, and exuberant was it. Finally I saw where I could descend into the hollow. The woods down in the hollow here, were wonderfully pleasing to the eye. Every bush and tree was coated with frost, only to a certain invariable height however, which gave it the appearance of a mist.

A Peterbird now began to mingle his song with that of the red-bird, and the result was effective. As I crossed the hollow however, and ascend into North Bentleys both songs ceased and I was left to saunter thru the growth of maple saplings. Saunter I did, here and there examining a sapling that was especially coated with frost. Too soon I came to the end of Bentley’s, and crossing the rail fence that runs along its eastern edge, I came out into the Field between North Forker’s and North Bentley’s. The Beech Grove was even more beautiful than I have yet seen it. All at once cardinals and peter-birds seemed to go mad for they began to call and sing on every hand. I simply stood still listening. And then, - more wonderful still – I heard the song of a songsparrow. I then, was not the only one who believed spring was coming.

Presently I turned and descended into the hollow. At the willows, I saw some off ice. It was as thin as paper and lay across a small depression, about two or three inches above solid ice. When I tramped thru it, it sounded like a rattling of time. For a short distance I went along the bed of the stream, and then I struck up the side of the hill to the path leading along the south edge of Forkers. As I went along here, I was accompanied on every side by the songs of the two birds, the cardinal and peter-birds. What a seemingly endless variety of songs these two have! And yet all of them are distinctive of the bird. Once I heard a call of the cardinals, that I rarely hear and which is one his most charming one. He sings “Che-whoit΄, Che-whoit΄, Che-whoit΄, Che-whoit΄, Che-whoit΄, che-whoit΄, Che-whoit΄, Che-whoit΄, very rapidly; it sounds almost like a warble and seems to be a song of tenderness and love. His song “What cheer, what cheer, whoit, whoit, whoit whoit whoit” is really a song of cheerfulness while his “Cheer-oip, Cheer-oip, cheer’p cheer’p cheer’p cheer’p, cheer’p” express exuberance and power and a joy of living.

The songs of a Peter-bird do not vary so noticeably as those of the Cardinal – that is; is different resemble each other more than the different songs of the latter bird. His most common is:

MUSICAL SCALE
In it he says “Peter,” mostly clearly. Another is somewhat the same, but higher and more metallic. The first expresses cheerfulness and joy, but he has one that sounds tender and compassionate. It is:
MUSICAL SCALE
Much softer and more tender than the real Peter song and sounds like “Pay-ter, Pay-ter, Pay-ter.” Still another is “P-tur, P-tur, P-tur, P-tur” given rapidly. I have before described his cry when he is disturbed – a short whistle followed by “Ssvee Isvee Isvee”, sometimes sounding quite like a chick-a-dee and again a little like a cat bird. It also had a sound of curiosity in it.

A short distance past the acorn trees as I was walking along listening to many birds, I heard an odd chattering noise in the hollow, flowed by a sound of scuffling and then silence. Looking quickly to where I thought I heard the sound, I saw two streaks in the bushes, as of one animal pursuing others. Was this a race for life? I thought. I paused a moment hoping to see more that would enlighten me. Presently I heard a sound in the leaves on the side of the hollow opposite, and then I saw a fox-squirrel coming running along, until he came to a beech tree opposite me, when he paused suddenly reared himself up and gave a most defiant chatter to someone. This done he proceeded along the hollow finally disappearing in some small bushes. For a few moments all was silent; then from the same direction that the first came, a second fox squirrel came running along in the same manner. It then dawned upon me that they were playing!

For quite a while I watched them, fascinatedly as they chased each other pell-mell over the hill. What graceful, quick creatures they are! Up trees and down, over logs, on the ground, thru the air from tree to tree, they run, going as easily on the thinnest branch as on the most level ground. What exultance and spirit they showed at the first warm weather after the long cold spell! They had one course, over which they ran, and from which they never deviated. Usually they commenced at the Beech opposite me; just west of it was a fallen tree of the same kind, over which they ran; coming to the end of it they turned down the steep side, to a giant beech which was scarred black by the weather. Up this tree they would dash to a gnarled limb about halfway up; here the pursued would usually give a defiant chatter and then, the pursuer too close, down they both would go at a merry rate. Once they both came down the trunk, spirally as usual, so that they were on the side toward. The sight of their red bodies rapidly gliding down the black and white bark of the beech was one that I can see yet, in my “inward eye.” From this tree, they would race along the stream bed, till they came to an uprooted tree, around which they would dash, again up the steep side, and they to another beech to the east. Here the pursued again would give his defiant chatter, and the pursuer, would come back over the course to the starting point, giving a chatter just as defiantly. Then the race would begin all over again.

Presently I sauntered on, reluctantly. Today I had the one real requisite to the study of nature – a real saunter, usually I walk rapidly on, missing many things. To-day however, I seemed to have not the slightest disposition to hurry – the more idly and aimlessly I could go the better it seemed. My way gradually resolved itself into being around Blue Mountain by way of the lane, on over the creek, to the end of Farquar’s which brings one to Painter Road.

When I thought the Bottoms would be a veritable Fairyland, I was not disappointed by the realization. It was a fairyland – a wonderland of frost and mists. Just after you leave Blue Mountain, the path takes a winding course along the sulphur stream, which, from running east, turns suddenly north. Naturally, at the turn, the side of the hollow forms a sort of headland on land, shutting out the view of the Painter Road until you actually make the turn. The effect this morning was striking – as I came around the “corner”, the beauty of the scene startled me almost. A few trees near the road were coated white; beyond the road was an impenetrable bank of mist, making it seem as though I had come to a precipice and the mist was the sky.

With keen anticipation of the “beauty feast” I was to enjoy, I climbed the frosty covered “Gate”, and started on the road, with a view to entering Hawthorne meadow and the swamp adjoining. The scene here, tempered by the heavy grey mists, was pretty.

A short ways from the road were many corn shucks, looking like hobbling bent over old men, the frost for white hair, beyond, a few whitened trees stood forth prominently from the mist as tho extending a welcome hand to all comers. In a break in the mist I could catch a faint suggestion of a few grey beech trees of Beech Hill. The “welcome hand” of the few prominent trees, I found to be unnecessary to induce anyone to enter the domain of frost. Anyone with eyes – appreciative eyes – could not have been torn from the scenes so beautiful and luring was it. Entering Hawthorne Swamp, the sight of that beautiful old elm with its graceful drooping white branches tempted one to go further into the concealing mists for more wonders. As I walked on the mists seemed to magically disperse, retreating to just beyond the border of the swamp. What a place of magic this really was. When I looked out over the white grass, and whitened weeds, bushes and trees, I was impressed with its beauty and weirdness, and when I saw that mists shut out the view on every hand, I wondered if I had been transferred to some unknown place by witchery. Only distant resounding tones of church bells reminded me that the transforming power was real and not imaginative – that it was the ordinary witchery of nature in her most capricious mood. Here were ironweed stalks, each seed head holding a cluster of white ray like frost, about a half inch long; there were clumps of swamp grass, whose feathery seeds heads, weighted with frost, hung over a tiny sparkling rivulet, in a graceful curve. Grey empty fish-shaped milkweed pods, too were edged with frost clusters. In one place I came to some dry poke weed stalks. Frost had formed on the berries, the juice of which had run out into the frost making it a bright crimson! Hawthorne trees, with their dense branches, reminded one vividly of “Christmas-trees.”

The most beautiful sight of all was in a “pine-tree” Hawthorne. I was walking slowly along reveling in the frosty scene, when a sharp flutter of wings in an apple tree startled me. Presently I descried a pair of cardinals, in a Haw, whither they had flown. The brilliant red of the male was a strikingly beautiful contrast to the white branches around him.

All too soon I came to the edge of the swamp, and consequently, the end of “Fairyland.” One “long last look” I gave, and then climbed the fence to the wheat hills just beyond. Over these I walked rapidly, heading for the Little Beaver. “Cigar Hill,” those really close at hand was at first invisible, owing to the thick mists, which the sun as yet had been unable to dispel. Down at the Little Beaver, was again the domain of frost. The creek, frozen over, presented a beautiful scene. Owing to some sulphuric element in the water, the ice in places was yellow, looking as tho rusted. On both sides, as far as the eye could reach, white bushes fringed the banks, - the distance, as before was hidden in mist.

Owing to ice which had been cast up during a freshet, the walking right along the creek was exceedingly difficult, and in fact nigh impossible. So I contented myself with walking along the edge of the brush. My way led up over a slight rise of ground. Here were some prostrate beeches and haws, that had evidently been felled when the leaves were yet green, as the haws had retained all their foliage. The colors of the leaves – yellow, russet, and dark brown – blended beautifully.

Just beyond here I learned a new fact about the birds. It is this that makes the study of nature so enjoyable. We never can go to the woods without learning something new. We may make a life study of nature, and yet miss many things. John Burroughs listed a few birds which Audubon never saw – and no doubt someone will find new ones after Burroughs. I am glad to say I have a million or more new facts yet to find out, which of course have been found out by others long before, and which I doubtless could read in books – but this would rob the whole pleasure from the study. As John Burroughs says, the beginner learns fact after fact with joy as if her were the original discover. This is not telling what I discovered. I solved for myself the mystery of the lonely cry I heard last Sunday – the wailing whistle represented on the scale as mi-re. I was just coming down the other side of the rise of ground I mentioned, when I first heard it. As it was not far away I proceeded with all quietness possible, lest I disturb its author. Presently another one began to answer form another direction. I halted under an elm to listen. Somehow the notes did not seem so desolate as on last Sunday, and yet they did have a touch of wistfulness in them. Suddenly, to my delight, a pair of tiny birds flew out from Beech Hill, and alighted in the tree under which I was standing, where he again began to call. I did not move, for I could watch him over my shoulder. Presently he hopped to the other side of the tree; in order now to see him I must move. As I turned, he became alarmed, and to my surprise – nay almost my chagrin at being fooled – he cried “Chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee”!

As I went on again, now and then pieces of frost came falling down from the trees showing that the sun was at last making his power felt. Going thru the underbrush between Stump Hill and the creek, I saw that here it was as frosty as ever. On one place I saw a bush with some hanging cluster of berry seeds, which I recognized as poison sumac, the first I have ever seen around here. At the Bridge, as I stopped to view the whiteness on every side, I experienced the same thrills as when I entered Hawthorne Meadow.

Just beyond the Bridge I ventures into the swampy pasture field that leads to Mystery Hollow to see if perchance any skunk cabbage flowers had come up. I have read that sometimes they may be found in January, but this must be when the weather had more or less mild for some time proceeding. Today I found the patch completely covered with unyielding ice.

Turning, I recrossed the fence that bounds the field on the north, and struck along the wagon path that leads along the foot of Cigar Hill for a short distance until it comes to a deserted lumber mill, where it thinks better of its boldness and stops. The grass was now wet with melting frost, and soon the frost began to disappear from the trees, altho the sun was still obscured by the mists. The woods here were beautiful. Here it seems as tho Autumn had overpowered Winter, for this woods is composed chiefly of oaks and beeches, both grown trees and saplings, all of which retain their leaves; - the oak’s a reddish brown, the beeches’, a yellowish tint. The sunlit lit mists spreading everywhere thruout the trees softened and blended these colors with the light yellowish and brown of the rank weed growth on every side. It is wonderful how rapidly the sun, once started, can change a scene so rapidly. From a white frosty winter scene, it had become a wet springy scene. Trees were dripping constantly and the ground was wet and soggy. I soon tuned back as it was getting late, and now facing the sun, I could see glittering drops of melted frost on the trees.

On the way back, I followed the Painter road straight to Hyland Ave. The road had now become muddy, and I had to content myself with making my way in wet snow along the side. The day, from a dear fresh one had gradually changed to one of deadness and murkiness. The sun became dimmer, and the air heavier. I suddenly realized that I wished I was home, because I was lazy and tired, and with this realization came another, that I have not longed for Spring. I can’t help it – I long for cold, dark days again.

In the afternoon, as the sun disappeared, and the air became “deader”, I decided we were about to have a rain. Most of the time I spent in reading, as the book was overdue already, but occasionally I snatched a moment or two to look out doors. Towards the middle of the afternoon, a slow hesitating rain commenced. But I knew it was short-lived, for over in the west, near the horizon was a yellow glow, showing there was a break in the clouds. The yellow glow grew larger and brighter until finally the sun came forth again. As it was still raining, I eagerly looked for a rainbow, but was disappointed. Sometime later I came out again, to see the sunset. Over in the east were the fleeing rain could, a grayish pink. In the west the sun, an orange disc, slowly disappeared in deep grey mists which melted gradually from rosy to yellow and to faded blue, where overhead were a few white clouds. As night came on, the stars came out, and there was just enough chill in the air to make it pleasant.

After supper, I intended going over to see Mrs. Kirst, but when Louise called up from Edith’s asking me to come up and play cards, I intended to go see Mrs. Kirst. Before going up to the Edith’s I went out Ellsworth Ave with Joe, who was delivering some pictures to Mrs. Obenour.

Charles E. Burchfield, February 18, 1912