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WOOD SILENCE THE
scarcity of
birds and bird music, of which I spoke a week ago, still continues. The
ear
begins to feel starved. A tanager's chip-cherr, or the prattle
of a company of
chickadees, is listened to more eagerly than the wood thrush's most
brilliant
measures were in June and July. Since September came in (it is now the
8th) I
have heard the following birds in song: robins, half a dozen times,
perhaps, in
snatches only; a Maryland yellow-throat, once; warbling vireos,
occasionally,
in village elms; yellow-throated vireos, rarely, but more frequently
than the
last; a song sparrow (only one!), amusing himself with a low-voiced,
inarticulate
warble, rather humming than singing; an oriole, blowing a few whistles,
on the
4th; a phoebe, on a single occasion; wood pewees, almost daily, oftener
than
all the foregoing species together. Except a
single
water thrush, on the first day of the month, I have seen no land bird
that
could be set down with certainty as a migrant, and in the eight days I
have
listed but thirty-seven species. And of this number twelve are
represented in
my notes by a single individual only. My walks have been short, it is
fair to
say, but they have taken me into good places. I could spin a long
chapter on
the birds I have not seen; but perhaps the best thing I could do,
writing
merely as an ornithologist, would be to make the week's record in two
words:
“No quorum.” My last
hummingbird
(but I hope for others before the month ends) was seen on the 2d. He
was about
a bed of tall cannas in a neighbor's dooryard, thrusting his tongue
into the
flowers, one after another, and I went near and focused my opera-glass
upon
him, taking my fill of his pretty feathers and prettier movements. It
was
really the best music of the week. The sun was on his emerald back and
wings,
making them shine. One thing
that
pleased me, as it always does, was his address in flying backwards.
Into the
flower he would dart, stay a longer or shorter time, as he found
occasion, and
then like a flash draw out and back away, his wings all the while
beating
themselves to a film of light. I wonder if any other of our common
hovering
birds — the kingbird, for example, or the kingfisher — can match the
hummer in
this regard. A second
thing that
interested me was his choice of blossoms. My neighbor's canna bed is
made up in
about equal parts of two kinds of plants, one with red blossoms, the
other with
yellow. The hummer went to the red flowers only. He must have probed a
hundred,
I should say. As for the yellow ones, he seemed not to know they were
there.
Now, was not this a plain case of color preference? It looked so,
surely; but
I remembered that hummingbirds are persistent haunters of the yellow
blossoms
of the jewelweed, and concluded that something besides a difference of
color
must account for what appeared to be this fellow's well-considered line
of
conduct. It is hard work, but as far as possible, let us abstain from
hasty
generalizations. There is no music sweeter than wood silence. I am enjoying it now. It is not strictly silence, though it is what we call by that name. There is no song. No one speaks. The wind is not heard in the branches. But there is a nameless something in the air, an inaudible noise, or an audible stillness, of which you become conscious if you listen for it; a union of fine sounds, some of which, as you grow inwardly quiet, you can separate from the rest — beats of distant crickets, few and faint, and a hum as of tiny wings. Now an insect passes near, leaving a buzz behind him, but for a second only. Then, before you can hear it, almost, a frog out in the swamp yonder has let slip a quick, gulping, or string-snapping syllable. Once a small bird's wings are heard, just heard and no more. Far overhead a goldfinch passes, with rhythmic calls, smooth and soft, not so much sounds as a more musical kind of silence. The
morning sun
strikes aslant through the wood, illuminating the trunks of the trees,
especially a cluster of white birches. A lovely sisterhood? I can
hardly take
my eyes from them. In general all the leaves are motionless, but now
and then a
tree, or it may be a group of two or three at once, is jostled for an
instant
by a touch too soft for my coarser human apprehension. “Dee-dee,” says a titmouse;
“Here,” answers
a flicker. But both speak under their breath, as if they felt the spell
of the
hour. Listen! was that a hyla or a bird? There is no telling, so
elusive and so
distant-seeming was the sound. And anon it has ceased altogether. Now, for
the
smallest fraction of a second, I see the flash of a moving shadow. The
flicker's, perhaps. Yes, for presently he calls as in spring, but only
for four
or five notes. If it were April, with the vernal inspiration in his
throat,
there would be four or five times as many, and all the woods would be
ringing.
And now the breeze freshens, and the leaves make a chorus. No thrush's
song
could be sweeter. It is not a rustle. There is no word for it, unless
we call
it a murmur, a rumor. Even while we are trying to name it, it is gone.
Leaves
are true Friends, they speak only as the spirit moves. “Wicker, wicker,” says the
woodpecker, and
his voice is in perfect tune with the silence. How still
and happy
the boulders look, with friendly bushes and ferns gathered about them,
and
parti-colored lichens giving them tones of beauty! Men call them dead.
“Dead as
a stone,” has even passed into a proverb. “Stone dead,” we say. But I
doubt.
They would smile, inwardly, I think to hear us. We have small idea, the
wisest
of us, what we mean by life and death. Men who hurry to and fro,
scraping money
together or chasing a ball, consider themselves alive. The trees, and
even the
stones, know better. Yes, that
is a
crow, cawing; but far, far off. Distance softens sound as it softens
the
landscape, and as time, which is only another kind of distance, softens
grief.
A cricket at my elbow plays his tune, irregularly and slowly. The low
temperature slackens his tempo.
Now he is done. There is only the stirring of leaves. Some of the birch
leaves,
I see, are already turning yellow, and once in a while, as the wind
whispers
to one of them, it lets go its hold and drops. “Good-by,” I seem to
hear it
say; “my summer is done.” How tenderly the air lets it down, as loving
arms
lower a child to its burial. Yet the trees are still happy. And so am
I. The
wood has blessed me. I have sensations, but no thoughts. It is for this
that I
have been sitting here at this silent concert. I wish for nothing. The
best
that such an hour can do for us is to put us into a mood of
desirelessness, of
complete passivity; such a mood as mystics covet for a permanent
possession; a
state of surrender, selflessness, absorption in the infinite. I love
the
feeling. All the trees have it, I think. So I sit in their shadow, my eyes returning again and again to those dazzling white birch boles, where loose shreds of filmy bark twinkle as the breeze and the sunlight play upon them. Once two or three chickadees come into the branches over my head and whisper things to each other. Very simple their utterances sound, but perhaps if I could understand them I should know more than all the mystics. |