The Writings of John Burroughs | Page 6

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bridge to reach me! I looked out well satisfied upon the foaming water,
upon the wet, unpainted houses and barns of the Shavertowners, and
upon the trees,
"Caught and cuffed by the gale."
Another traveler--the spotted-winged nighthawk--was also roughly
used by the storm. He faced it bravely, and beat and beat, but was
unable to stem it, or even hold his own; gradually he drifted back, till
he was lost to sight in the wet obscurity. The water in the river rose an
inch while I waited, about three quarters of an hour. Only one man, I
reckon, saw me in Shavertown, and he came and gossiped with me
from the bank above when the storm had abated.
The second night I stopped at the sign of the elm-tree. The woods were
too wet, and I concluded to make my boat my bed. A superb elm, on a
smooth grassy plain a few feet from the water's edge, looked hospitable
in the twilight, and I drew my boat up beneath it. I hung my clothes on
the jagged edges of its rough bark, and went to bed with the moon, "in
her third quarter," peeping under the branches upon me. I had been
reading Stevenson's amusing "Travels with a Donkey," and the lines he
pretends to quote from an old play kept running in my head:--
'The bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit;
The air was sweet, the water ran; No need was there for maid or man,
When we put up, my ass and I, At God's green caravanserai."
But the stately elm played me a trick: it slyly and at long intervals let
great drops of water down upon me, now with a sharp smack upon my
rubber coat; then with a heavy thud upon the seat in the bow or stern of
my boat; then plump into my upturned ear, or upon my uncovered arm,
or with a ring into my tin cup, or with a splash into my coffee-pail that
stood at my side full of water from a spring I had just passed. After two
hours' trial I found dropping off to sleep, under such circumstances,
was out of the question; so I sprang up, in no very amiable mood
toward my host, and drew my boat clean from under the elm. I had
refreshing slumber thenceforth, and the birds were astir in the morning
long before I was.
There is one way, at least, in which the denuding the country of its
forests has lessened the rainfall: in certain conditions of the atmosphere
every tree is a great condenser of moisture, as I had just observed in the
case of the old elm; little showers are generated in their branches, and

in the aggregate the amount of water precipitated in this way is
considerable. Of a foggy summer morning one may see little puddles of
water standing on the stones beneath maple-trees, along the street; and
in winter, when there is a sudden change from cold to warm, with fog,
the water fairly runs down the trunks of the trees, and streams from
their naked branches. The temperature of the tree is so much below that
of the atmosphere in such cases that the condensation is very rapid. In
lieu of these arboreal rains we have the dew upon the grass, but it is
doubtful if the grass ever drips as does a tree.
The birds, I say, were astir in the morning before I was, and some of
them were more wakeful through the night, unless they sing in their
dreams. At this season one may hear at intervals numerous bird voices
during the night. The whip-poor-will was piping when I lay down, and
I still heard one when I woke up after midnight. I heard the song
sparrow and the kingbird also, like watchers calling the hour, and
several times I heard the cuckoo. Indeed, I am convinced that our
cuckoo is to a considerable extent a night bird, and that he moves about
freely from tree to tree. His peculiar guttural note, now here, now there,
may be heard almost any summer night, in any part of the country, and
occasionally his better known cuckoo call. He is a great recluse by day,
but seems to wander abroad freely by night.
The birds do indeed begin with the day. The farmer who is in the field
at work while he can yet see stars catches their first matin hymns. In the
longest June days the robin strikes up about half- past three o'clock, and
is quickly followed by the song sparrow, the oriole, the catbird, the
wren, the wood thrush, and all the rest of the tuneful choir. Along the
Potomac I have