My home is in the woods, so far north that from mid-October to May, the garden is frost-hound. Therefore I must content myself for the most part during this period with the things that grow naturally all about me on the forest floor. These I encounter most frequently in the daily trips between the house and barn.
The cabin is on high ground. From it, the footpath works steadily downward for six or seven rods, crosses a narrow wooden bridge over a low place between two small swamps, and then rises again to the corral, which lies at the head of another slope.
At the south side of the path, where it starts, a rather over-grown hedge of species roses makes a dense tangle of arching canes, reaching as high as 8′ feet. These were raised from seed, but they present as wild an appearance as the rest of the -growth about them.
The roses—rugosa, rubiginosa, and multiflora—have a long season of bloom and fragrance in the summer, and their hips, except those of the rugosa, last well into the winter, giving a nice bit of color long after the snow has fallen.
Chipmunks are fond of the seeds of the rugosa rose, and the hips do not last long. But, even if these species of roses had neither flower nor fruit, they would still be worthwhile, I think, simply for the exciting pattern made by the crisscrossing canes.
Large Blackberry Patch
Just below this hedge is a large patch of wild blackberries, an out-and-out nuisance for eleven months of the year but one of the most delicate things I know from the middle of October to the center of November.
The leaves of this bramble color slowly under the bite of frost, first just a flush of red over the green, then becoming a bronze, gradually deepening into purple.
Sometimes I say to myself, “Now forget for a moment that some plants are considered choice and others commonplace; instead, look around and see what is good.” And then I find that the blackberry stands high on the list.
If I had any choice in the matter, I’d probably try to get rid of the wild blackberry because it is too invasive. But I have no choice. Suppose I should spend hours of hard work in a hot sun grubbing out the canes, face lacerated by the thorns, gloves torn to shreds.
In that case, I’d still be likely to suffer defeat because if only a half dozen small pieces of root are left in the soil, the blackberry patch will be as large and vigorous as ever in just a few years.
Attractive Path Of The Swamp
Below the patch of brambles, the ground is pretty open. Years ago, I cleared away most of the trees to give an unobstructed view from the path of the swamp, which lies just a short distance to the south.
This swamp is ray particular pleasure, and I have done some work to bring out its most attractive characteristics.
It is covered with a heavy scattering of black alder (Ilex verticillate) and mountain holly (Nemopant hits mucronate), which rise occasional spruces and swamp maples.
Beyond the swamp, only a few acres in the area increase a background of solid woods accented by rough old hemlock.
Within the swamp, but not visible from the path, other features become apparent—the sharp vertical lines of cat-tails in a low spot; great clumps of fern that get to the 3’ or 4’ feet tall, and underfoot, sheep laurel (Kalinin Angustifolia), leatherleaf (Chamaedaphne calyculata), and sphagnum moss, among a multitude of other things commonly found in northern swamps.
The picture that the swamp presents is at its best in the winter. Then the thick-clustered berries of the black alder shine at their reddest, and the gray twigs of the mountain holly seem to cast a mist over the whole place.
But there is another season, too, when the swamp is compelling, which is early fall when the swamp maples are at the height of their color.
The trees start coloring weeks before the first frost, And at last, the crimson becomes so intense that the maples seem incandescent.
The ground is covered with winter green when the path starts leveling to meet the bridge. Unfortunately, I am not aware of this growth for most of the year, as it is deep under snow in the winter and obscured by tall bracken fern in summer.
But its bronze color is welcome in the fall, and its deeper green is even more welcome in early spring before other things have started to grow.
Mixed with the wintergreen ground cover in one place, adding shade to two red oak trees, is a colony of Indian cucumber root (Medeola virginiana).
The plant carries its leaves in two tiers and, as each plant stands alone and uncrowded, has an interesting architectural effect.
The flowers are small and not very attractive, but the dark purple berries, which are bedded in the center of the upper whorl of leaves like the bunchberry carries its fruit, are pleasant to look at.
But the best feature of the cucumber root, which makes me wonder why it is not recommended occasionally for the wild garden, lies in its fall color.
After frost, the leaves turn to straw color, shading to amber, brushed irregularly with red-purple, as though fantastic grape wine had been splashed on them.
Now the path climbs more sharply to the barnyard gate. On both sides, the effect of the seepage from the corral is apparent.
The bracken grows taller and stouter here than elsewhere, and the foliage of the trees, in summer, is so luxuriant that it throws an unusually black, cool shadow across the path, which edges along among maples and oaks until it ends at last at the barnyard gate.
44659 by Walter J. Muilenburg