Some Winter Days in Iowa | Page 3

the cardinal was observed in
this latitude. Green leaves, such as wild geranium, strawberry and
speedwell, were to be found in abundance beneath their covering of
fallen forest leaves. Scouring rushes vied with evergreen ferns in
arresting the attention of the rambler. In one sheltered spot a clump of
catnip was found, fresh, green, and aromatic, as if it were July instead
of January.
Sunday, the sixth, was a day of rare beauty and enticement. Well might
the recording angel forgive the nature lover who forgot the promises
made for him by his sponsors that he should "hear sermons," and who
fared forth into the woods instead, first reciting "The groves were God's
first temples," and then softly singing, "When God invites, how blest
the day!"
* * * * *
They err who think the winter woods void of life and color. Pause for a
moment on the broad open flood-plain of the river, the winter fields
and meadows stretching away in gentle slopes on either side. There are
but few trees, but they have had room for full development and are
noble specimens. All is gaiety. A blue-jay screams from a broad-topped
white ash which is so full of winged seeds that it looks like a mass of
foliage. The sable-robed king of the winter woods, the American crow,
in the full vigor of his three-score years, maybe, (he lives to be a
hundred) caws lustily from the bare white branches of a big sycamore,
that queer anomaly of the forest which disrobes itself for the winter.
The merry chickadees divide their time between the rustling, ragged
bark of the red birches and the withered heads of heath-aster and blue
vervain below. In the one they get the meat portion of their midday
meal, and in the other the cereal foods. No wonder they are sleek and
joyous.
A few steps farther and we leave this broad alluvial bottom to enter the

cañon through which the river, ages ago, began to cut its course. These
ridges of limestone, loess and drift rise a hundred feet or more above
the level of the plain from which the river suddenly turns aside. They
are thickly covered with timber. There is no angel with a flaming sword
to keep you from passing into this winter paradise! The river bank is
lined with pussy willows; they gleam in the sunshine like copper.
Farther back there are different varieties of dogwood, some with
delicate green twigs and some a cherry red. The wild rose and the
raspberry vines add their glossy purplish and cherry red stems to the
color combination, and a contrast is afforded by the silvery gray bark of
stray aspens. A still softer and more beautiful shade of silver gray is
seen in the big hornet's nest of last year which still hangs suspended
from a low sugar maple. On all of these the sunlight plays and makes a
wondrous color symphony. "Truly the light is sweet and a pleasant
thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun." To be sure, this colorful
arrangement of the stems and twigs is not brilliant, like the flaming
vermilion blossoms of the Lobelia cardinalis in August, the orange
yellow of the rudbeckias in September, or the wondrous blue of the
fringed gentian in early October. It is more like the delicate tints and
shadings of an arts and crafts exhibition, stained leather, hammered
copper and brass, art canvas, and ancient illuminated initials in monks'
missals. The tempered winter sunlight is further softened by the trees;
as it illuminates the soft red rags of the happy old birch it seems
sublimated, almost sanctified and spiritual, like that which filters
through rich windows in cathedrals, and makes a real halo around the
heads of sweet-faced saints.
* * * * *
There are strange sounds for January. All the winter birds are doing
their share in the chorus and orchestra; crows, jays, woodpeckers,
nut-hatches, juncos, tree-sparrows. But suddenly a woodpecker begins
a new sound,--his vernal drumming! Not the mere tap, tap, tap, in quest
of insects, but the love-call drumming of the nidification season, nearly
three months ahead of time.
Swollen by recent rains, the river is two feet higher than usual. There is

a sheet of ice on either shore, but the water swiftly flows down the
narrow channel in the middle with a sound halfway between a gurgle
and a roar, mingled anon with the sound of grinding cakes of ice.
Suddenly away up at the bend of the river there is a sharp crack, like
the discharge of a volley of musketry. Swiftly it comes down the ice,
passes your feet with a distinct tremor, and your eyes follow the sound
down the river until the two walls of the cañon meet