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mcdude · 05-17-2005, 06:34 PM

A NOTE ON LONG ISLAND
Chapter Two
(For Henry E. Allen)

"When I returned from a vacation in New Hampshire, filled with enthusiasm at the things I saw there and the people I met, and told how I intended buying a place on Winnipesaukee, I met with varied response. By far the most frequently asked question was, “Why go so far from home, especially since, for a while at least, you can go there for only two or three weeks in the year? It’s too far for week-ends unless a holiday falls so that you have three days instead of only Saturday and Sunday.” there were other questions, and not a few slighting remarks when I explained that my place-to-be is on an island in the lake, a half mile from the main road which serves the other folks on the island, remote from electricity, and likely enough, unapproachable in winter. How explain?

There is the solitude of our island lodge, where our nearest neighbor is more than a mile away, and yet, where on separate afternoons we entertained, at one time seven, at another three, and at still another two, guests who thought enough of us to make the trip. All around us, for the property we had consists of seventy-five acres of woods, was the wildness that made some atavistic strain in my blood rejoice. In spite of warnings that we would be visited by porcupines and skunks not one appeared. And on a trip of walking the bounds we found a colony of chipmunks, those delightful red ground squirrels that would have been, perhaps, as bad news to Robert Lamprey in the days when, a mile or two down the island road, he was raising prize corn on his acres, as skunks would have been to us. We found great amusement in their antics.

There are the trees; the pines, the oaks, the beeches, and especially the birch. No woodsman ever swung his axe on these acres, nor, from the boulders, left in disarray on top of the ground and just beneath its surface ty the retreat of the great ice blanket that scooped the bowl of Winnipesaukee, had any farmer ever toiled within our bounds.

There is the view from Harry Rivers’ farm at Tip-Top, where the eye feasts the brain with a gorgeous panorama of water, woods and hills from sunrise to sunrise again. , Than here, the stars were never brighter, nor was there need of thinking of them as a great electric sign in the Heavens proclaiming the glory that is God’s. We accepted them for what they are, and for the joy they brought us.

There are the breezes that blow through the pines and the birch at night, urging sleep, and the heavier winds, almost of gale velocity, that sweep down suddenly from Belknap and across the lake, transforming its surface from the calm of a mill pond to the intense fury of the Atlantic in an instant. Then, just before going to bed, we go out to the shore, and with our flashlights pick out the whitecaps that presage the storm of tomorrow. And in the morning we are awakened by the sun instead of the rain we had expected, and up from the surface of the lake the mist lifts slowly, under the sun’s persuasion, disclosing suddenly a great blue heron on the far side of our cove, the leg of an unfortunate frog dangling from his bill like a ludicrous cigar from the mouth of a toothless old man.

There are the frogs in Little Pond. Amiable creatures, these, and as amusing. They seem thoroughly to enjoy our visits to their haunts, even if only for the excuse they give for them to dive with a chirp or a croak from the lily pads on which we, many times, have not even noticed them. And a second or two later they climb out of the water to another pad, a little more distant, and blink at us with a sly, amused expression that is almost an invitation to sit with them on their favorite pads. Would that we could!

A neat old Library of Congress photo circa 1906 dug up by RG showing the Mt. Washington and the Lamprey at the Long Island Wharf.

There is the discovery on a walk through the woods, of a patch of rattlesnake plantain, that daintily scented orchid, greenish white, whose infrequent appearance under pines and oaks is a reward to him who finds it. I have a dozen or so in my pool garden at home, but here, unexpected, we find masses of them almost, it seems, too large to be real. Here, too, we find the lady’s slipper. Driven to hide in remote and deep woods by the progression of cities in their native places, or eradicated by thoughtless people who see only the flowers and not the result of picking them wantonly, it was necessary to drive more than a hundred miles to find those plants that blossom in May and June in my pool garden. Arbutus, rarest of all spring flowers in our Connecticut woods, here forms a carpet for us as it must have done for the Indians who came here many years ago to bury their dead. And here, too, in great array, are many colored mushrooms and toad stools, curious things, and that ghost of flowers, the Indian Pipe, How many of our city dwellers know its queer waxen flower that hands its head, ashamed of its life as a parasite?

But the more practical than I, the more gregarious - is there a lure for him here, too? The petty politician, who spends his every evening over a cigar discussing with other petty politicians our eventual emergence from our alphabetical daze, would not like it. The psuedo-economist, whose concern, whose concern with the administration’s vacillations to the right and left must be discussed before an appreciative audience to applaud his wisdom would be bored. The would-be sophisticate, the want-to-be bohemian, the wish-I-were cosmopolitan, none of these would stay over night, ears strained for the loon and the last good night of the frogs. Perhaps, in days to come, they will be there, for there is a plan on foot for a golf course and a large hotel on the island. But even then I shall be quite safe, for my woods are away from the road, and I suspect that those who come into them will be only those I shall want to see."

Any requests for the next chapter to be posted?

05-17-2005, 06:34 PM	#2
mcdude Senior Member Join Date: Jul 2002 Location: Rock Haven Lake - West Newfield, ME Posts: 5,367 Thanks: 374 Thanked 1,057 Times in 495 Posts	Chapter Two A NOTE ON LONG ISLAND Chapter Two (For Henry E. Allen) "When I returned from a vacation in New Hampshire, filled with enthusiasm at the things I saw there and the people I met, and told how I intended buying a place on Winnipesaukee, I met with varied response. By far the most frequently asked question was, “Why go so far from home, especially since, for a while at least, you can go there for only two or three weeks in the year? It’s too far for week-ends unless a holiday falls so that you have three days instead of only Saturday and Sunday.” there were other questions, and not a few slighting remarks when I explained that my place-to-be is on an island in the lake, a half mile from the main road which serves the other folks on the island, remote from electricity, and likely enough, unapproachable in winter. How explain? There is the solitude of our island lodge, where our nearest neighbor is more than a mile away, and yet, where on separate afternoons we entertained, at one time seven, at another three, and at still another two, guests who thought enough of us to make the trip. All around us, for the property we had consists of seventy-five acres of woods, was the wildness that made some atavistic strain in my blood rejoice. In spite of warnings that we would be visited by porcupines and skunks not one appeared. And on a trip of walking the bounds we found a colony of chipmunks, those delightful red ground squirrels that would have been, perhaps, as bad news to Robert Lamprey in the days when, a mile or two down the island road, he was raising prize corn on his acres, as skunks would have been to us. We found great amusement in their antics. There are the trees; the pines, the oaks, the beeches, and especially the birch. No woodsman ever swung his axe on these acres, nor, from the boulders, left in disarray on top of the ground and just beneath its surface ty the retreat of the great ice blanket that scooped the bowl of Winnipesaukee, had any farmer ever toiled within our bounds. There is the view from Harry Rivers’ farm at Tip-Top, where the eye feasts the brain with a gorgeous panorama of water, woods and hills from sunrise to sunrise again. , Than here, the stars were never brighter, nor was there need of thinking of them as a great electric sign in the Heavens proclaiming the glory that is God’s. We accepted them for what they are, and for the joy they brought us. There are the breezes that blow through the pines and the birch at night, urging sleep, and the heavier winds, almost of gale velocity, that sweep down suddenly from Belknap and across the lake, transforming its surface from the calm of a mill pond to the intense fury of the Atlantic in an instant. Then, just before going to bed, we go out to the shore, and with our flashlights pick out the whitecaps that presage the storm of tomorrow. And in the morning we are awakened by the sun instead of the rain we had expected, and up from the surface of the lake the mist lifts slowly, under the sun’s persuasion, disclosing suddenly a great blue heron on the far side of our cove, the leg of an unfortunate frog dangling from his bill like a ludicrous cigar from the mouth of a toothless old man. There are the frogs in Little Pond. Amiable creatures, these, and as amusing. They seem thoroughly to enjoy our visits to their haunts, even if only for the excuse they give for them to dive with a chirp or a croak from the lily pads on which we, many times, have not even noticed them. And a second or two later they climb out of the water to another pad, a little more distant, and blink at us with a sly, amused expression that is almost an invitation to sit with them on their favorite pads. Would that we could! A neat old Library of Congress photo circa 1906 dug up by RG showing the Mt. Washington and the Lamprey at the Long Island Wharf. There is the discovery on a walk through the woods, of a patch of rattlesnake plantain, that daintily scented orchid, greenish white, whose infrequent appearance under pines and oaks is a reward to him who finds it. I have a dozen or so in my pool garden at home, but here, unexpected, we find masses of them almost, it seems, too large to be real. Here, too, we find the lady’s slipper. Driven to hide in remote and deep woods by the progression of cities in their native places, or eradicated by thoughtless people who see only the flowers and not the result of picking them wantonly, it was necessary to drive more than a hundred miles to find those plants that blossom in May and June in my pool garden. Arbutus, rarest of all spring flowers in our Connecticut woods, here forms a carpet for us as it must have done for the Indians who came here many years ago to bury their dead. And here, too, in great array, are many colored mushrooms and toad stools, curious things, and that ghost of flowers, the Indian Pipe, How many of our city dwellers know its queer waxen flower that hands its head, ashamed of its life as a parasite? But the more practical than I, the more gregarious - is there a lure for him here, too? The petty politician, who spends his every evening over a cigar discussing with other petty politicians our eventual emergence from our alphabetical daze, would not like it. The psuedo-economist, whose concern, whose concern with the administration’s vacillations to the right and left must be discussed before an appreciative audience to applaud his wisdom would be bored. The would-be sophisticate, the want-to-be bohemian, the wish-I-were cosmopolitan, none of these would stay over night, ears strained for the loon and the last good night of the frogs. Perhaps, in days to come, they will be there, for there is a plan on foot for a golf course and a large hotel on the island. But even then I shall be quite safe, for my woods are away from the road, and I suspect that those who come into them will be only those I shall want to see." Any requests for the next chapter to be posted? Last edited by mcdude; 05-17-2005 at 06:53 PM.