A Bird-Lover in the West.
by Olive Thorne Miller and Harriet Mann Miller.
IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
Trust me, "t is something to be cast Face to face with one"s self at last, To be taken out of the fuss and strife, The endless clatter of plate and knife, The bore of books, and the bores of the street, From the singular mess we agree to call Life.
And to be set down on one"s own two feet So nigh to the great warm heart of G.o.d, You almost seem to feel it beat Down from the sunshine and up from the sod; To be compelled, as it were, to notice All the beautiful changes and chances Through which the landscape flits and glances, And to see how the face of common day Is written all over with tender histories.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
A BIRD-LOVER IN THE WEST.
I.
CAMPING IN COLORADO.
This chronicle of happy summer days with the birds and the flowers, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, begins in the month of May, in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-two.
As my train rolled quietly out of Jersey City late at night, I uttered a sigh of grat.i.tude that I was really off; that at last I could rest. Up to the final moment I had been hurried and worried, but the instant I was alone, with my "section" to myself, I "took myself in hand," as is my custom.
At the risk of seeming to stray very far from my subject, I want at this point to say something about rest, the greatly desired state that all busy workers are seeking, with such varying success.
A really re-creative recreation I sought for years, and
"I"ve found some wisdom in my quest That"s richly worth retailing,"
and that cannot be too often repeated, or too urgently insisted upon.
What is imperatively needed, the sole and simple secret of rest, is this: To go to our blessed mother Nature, and to go with the whole being, mind and heart as well as body. To deposit one"s physical frame in the most secret and sacred "garden of delights," and at the same time allow the mind to be filled, and the thoughts to be occupied, with the concerns of the world we live in year after year, is utterly useless; for it is not the external, but the internal man that needs recreation; it is not the body, but the spirit that demands refreshment and relief from the wearing cares of our high-pressure lives. "It is of no use,"
says a thoughtful writer, "to carry my body to the woods, unless I get there myself."
Let us consult the poets, our inspired teachers, on this subject. Says Lowell,--
"In June "t is good to lie beneath a tree While the blithe season comforts every sense, Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g it o"er with sweetness unawares, Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up And tenderly lines some last-year"s robin"s nest."
And our wise Emerson, in his strong and wholesome, if sometimes rugged way,--
"Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, And build to them a final tomb.
Behind thee leave thy merchandise, Thy churches and thy charities.
Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams--that breathes in wind."
Even the gentle Wordsworth, too; read his exquisite sonnet, beginning,--
"The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers."
All recognize that it is a mental and spiritual change that is needed.
With the earnest desire of suggesting to tired souls a practicable way of resting, I will even give a bit of personal history; I will tell the way in which I have learned to find recreation in nature.
When I turn my back upon my home, I make a serious and determined effort to leave behind me all cares and worries. As my train, on that beautiful May evening, pa.s.sed beyond the brick and stone walls, and sped into the open country, and I found myself alone with night, I shook off, as well as I was able, all my affairs, all my interests, all my responsibilities, leaving them in that busy city behind me, where a few burdens more or less would not matter to anybody. With my trunks checked, and my face turned toward the far-off Rocky Mountains, I left the whole work-a-day world behind me, departing--so far as possible--a liberated soul, with no duties excepting to rejoice and to recruit.
This is not an easy thing to do; it is like tearing apart one"s very life; but it can be done by earnest endeavor, it has been done, and it is a charm more potent than magic to bring restoration and recreation to the brain and nerve-weary worker.
To insure any measure of success I always go alone; one familiar face would make the effort of no avail; and I seek a place where I am a stranger, so that my ordinary life cannot be recalled to me. When I reach my temporary home I forget, or at least ignore, my notions as to what I shall eat or drink, or how I shall sleep. I take the goods the G.o.ds provide, and adjust myself to them. Even these little things help one out of his old ways of thought and life. To still further banish home concerns, I mark upon my calendar one week before the day I shall start for home, and sternly resolve that not until I reach that day will I give one thought to my return, but will live as though I meant to stay always. I take no work of any sort, and I banish books, excepting a few poets and studies of nature.
Such is the aim of my honest and earnest striving; that I do not quite reach my goal is merely to say I am human. Letters from home and friends will drag me back to old interests, and times will come, in sleepless nights and unguarded moments, when the whole world of old burdens and cares sweep in and overwhelm me. But I rouse my will, and resolutely, with all my power, push them back, refuse to entertain them for a moment.
The result, even under these limitations, is eminently satisfactory.
Holding myself in this att.i.tude of mind, I secure a change almost as complete as if I stepped out of my body and left it resting, while I refreshed myself at the fountain of life. A few weeks in the country make me a new being; all my thoughts are turned into fresh channels; the old ruts are smoothed over, if not obliterated; nerves on the strain all the year have a chance to recreate themselves; old worries often weaken and fade away.
The morning after I left home that balmy evening in May dawned upon me somewhere in western New York, and that beautiful day was pa.s.sed in speeding through the country, and steadily getting farther and farther from work and care.
And so I went on, day after day, night after night, till I entered Kansas, which was new to me. By that time I had succeeded in banishing to the farthest corner of my memory, behind closed and locked doors, all the anxieties, all the perplexities and problems, all the concerns, in fact, of my home life. I was like a newly created soul, fresh and eager to see and enjoy everything. I refused the morning papers; I wished to forget the world of strife and crime, and to get so into harmony with the trees and flowers, the brooks and the breezes, that I would realize myself
"Kith and kin to every wild-born thing that thrills and blows."
In one word, I wished as nearly as possible to walk abroad out of my hindering body of clay.
I looked out of the windows to see what the Cyclone State had to give me. It offered flowers and singing birds, broad fields of growing grain, and acres of rich black soil newly turned up to the sun. Everything was fresh and perfect, as if just from the hands of its maker; it seemed the paradise of the farmer.
From the fertile fields and miles of flowers the train pa.s.sed to bare, blossomless earth; from rich soil to rocks; from Kansas to Colorado.
That part of the State which appeared in the morning looked like a vast body of hardly dry mud, with nothing worth mentioning growing upon it.
Each little gutter had worn for itself a deep channel with precipitous sides, and here and there a great section had sunken, as though there was no solid foundation. Soon, however, the land showed inclination to draw itself up into hills, tiny ones with sharp peaks, as though preparing for mountains. Before long they retreated to a distance and grew bigger, and at last, far off, appeared the mountains, overtopping all one great white peak, the
"Giver of gold, king of eternal hills."
A welcome awaited me in the summer home of a friend at Colorado Springs, in the presence of the great Cheyenne Range, with the snow-cap of Pike"s Peak ever before me. Four delightful days I gave to friendship, and then I sought and found a perfect nook for rest and study, in a cottonwood grove on the banks of the Minnelowan (or Shining Water). This is a mad Colorado stream which is formed by the junction of the North and South Cheyenne Canon brooks, and comes tumbling down from the Cheyenne, rushing and roaring as if it had the business of the world on its shoulders, and must do it man-fashion, with confusion and noise enough to drown all other sounds.
Imagine a pretty, one-story cottage, set down in a grove of cottonwood-trees, with a gnarly oak and a tall pine here and there, to give it character, and surrounded as a hen by her chickens, by tents, six or eight in every conceivable position, and at every possible angle except a right angle. Add to this picture the sweet voices of birds, and the music of water rushing and hurrying over the stones; let your glance take in on one side the grand outlines of Cheyenne Mountain,
"Made doubly sacred by the poet"s pen And poet"s grave,"
and on the other the rest of the range, overlooked by Pike"s Peak, fourteen thousand feet higher than the streets of New York. Do this, and you will come as near to realizing Camp Harding as one can who is hundreds of miles away and has never seen a Colorado camp.