NO month offers less than does March to attract the rambler, and for that reason it is, perhaps, the best month to be out of doors. To see little, and that thoroughly, leaves a more lasting impression than a bewildering multitude of Nature's riches.

Not long since I turned from a wide expanse of wind-tossed waters to an inviting cove, and then, letting the boat drift where it might, I peered into the depths of a forest that reached to the water's edge. One tall, towering pine, blasted by the storms, pierced the upper air, and dark, tapering cedars on either side shut from view the neighboring hills; while beneath the lesser growth of birches, rhododendron, and tangled shrubs hid the huge rocks among which they grew. The outlook was grand but gloomy. I was both attracted and repelled. Even the shallow waters were black, lifeless, and unfathomable. No rambler, eager for Nature at her best, could have asked for more, and yet my enthusiasm was not aroused. The winds that rioted on the lake dared not venture here.

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Then, as the sun dashed through a fleecy cloud, the spell was broken. A sluggish snake rolled from a jutting rock, and following the trail of that serpent came the weird glory of a bright March day.

Guiding my boat to the rocky shore, I drew it from the water, and ventured to explore the dark, dank wood before me. Between loose rocks that threatened to topple over as I passed, I threaded “the sombre boscage," not wholly at ease, and longing for other evidence of life; for, although death has claimed the lion's share of my treasure, I still love the living world. Happily, there was soon a rustling of dead leaves near by, and then a strange, indefinite shape approached. The path was too narrow for me to step aside, and I had neither time nor room to turn back and reach my boat. Nearer it came, hugging the stony path, a writhing, squirming, tangled knot of serpents, and I must prove the barrier to its progress. As well be a fool outright as cursed with a tardy wit. Had every snake been venomous, I should have been safe only by standing immovably, but personal safety crowded all saner thought, and I clutched and scrambled vainly against the wall-like rocks. Of course in vain, and then the snakes were upon me. It was a strange sight. Ankle-deep in garter-snakes! Let the timid folk think of it. Only to a slight extent did I stay their progress, and before all had passed I sat down and gathered as many as I could hold. They were very cold, sluggish, and many, I think, were blind. The languid darting of their forked tongues was very funny; as if they felt compelled to keep up the custom, but were terribly bored by it. How often have I known human tongues to wag in just that way!

For an hour I toyed with a score of pretty snakes, but they could neither be teased nor Warmed to activity. I despaired of learning anything from them, until the thought came to me as to their destination, and why they should seek the icy waters of the lake. Tangles of snakes, in the meadows at home, are not common, although, like many another feature of the fauna of that spot, they can generally be found, when earnestly looked for. There were nothing but crayfish in a meadow-brook when a friend came for the single purpose of studying them; and how abundant were the rare Muhlenberg turtles when the herpetologist happened along! The rambler, on the other hand, indulges in hap-hazard observation, and unavoidably so. To be constantly on the alert for certain forms of life is to become a specialist, and this means work, that most dreaded of all combinations of the alphabet. But the snakes at home: they wait until April sunshine warms them into activity, and away they go until the first ditch is reached, when each individual bids his fellows farewell; but here, in a mountain-lake, it all seemed different. It is March, and as wintry on the hill-tops as a month ago, and these snakes are taking a brief outing, or some hidden cause has sent them, out of season. This, too, is an occurrence I have known. Huge water-snakes occasionally appear in the fields during warm days in February, coiled into circular mats, and too lazy to uncoil when picked up. Where they come from is a mystery, unless they have been sleeping in some spring-hole near by.

Still retaining a half-dozen large specimens, I went to the water, but the snakes had not plunged in. Instead, they were basking on the sunny rock. Returning to the spot where I met them, I liberated my pets, but they had lost all recollection of their original intention, and crawled off in any and every direction. I leave to others to determine how a vast number of snakes, coiled in some hidden, dark cave among heaped-up rocks, could know that the sun was shining brightly; that the warmth of spring bathed the lake shore; that the world was ready for their active lives. And again, why do they so closely cling to each other until every doubt has disappeared? We see a single snake in summer, and know it only as a timid creature, or one that vainly hopes to turn you from its path by idle threats; but, looking longer, if an unjust repugnance can be overcome, we will find there is more credit due a snake than it usually receives. It has a hard time of it at best, and success is proportionate to its cunning in the ever-present struggle for existence. And what is cunning?

Possibly everybody knows and all are familiar with basking snakes, and have traced their going and coming for years; but where is all this recorded? A species-monger, the value of whose writings consists in his wealth of quotations, complains that what any tyro knows has too often been proclaimed as a discovery. This is false, to be sure, but is notwithstanding a suggestive statement; for what of the world of not even tyros, the thousands without an inkling of zoologic lore? They constitute a considerable proportion of the civilized world, — savages, I take it, are necessarily naturalists, in the happier sense of that term, — and to say to them that all birds cannot fly, and that one kind of fish can climb a tree, is to announce a novel fact, if not to proclaim a discovery. But to come back to the subject of an animal's habits: there is probably not a creature, whether furred, feathered, or scaled, that does not contradict you sooner or later. The farmer, fisherman, or trapper is the man to whom we had better go for information on special points. Their facts are more readily separated from a fancy than the professional's from a theory. These men will stagger you with the list of surprises that have been theirs. Perhaps fish are so far methodical that they may be unmistakably reported. Sunfish always make nests in the sand, to the best of my knowledge; but do not be over-confident; next summer you may find a pair of them doing otherwise. This was written in 1889, and now the novelty is at hand: a pair of sunfish took up their quarters in an old shoe, and kept their offspring in it until August. This was not a forced matter, but voluntary choice. There was a half-acre of available nesting-ground on both sides of them, and nothing to explain their decision, unless they foresaw its security against spawn-eating and fry-eating fishes. The fish stories hardest to believe are the true ones. My old grandmother, that knew the birds in her garden for fifty years, I hold a better authority than the collector, however professionally he collects; yet my grandmother did not know that a cat-bird was a thrush. But she knew the birds of the garden as so many individuals, and realized what wealth of common sense was squeezed into their little brains.

Poor snakes, you have been quite forgotten; but here is to your health and headway! May the day of many serpents soon return. Every one knows a snake, but how few know anything about them! Generally, too, they care less, and think only of the advisability of bringing down a crushing heel. It is to be hoped that this villainous practice of teaching children to dread snakes will end some day. It is not an inborn dread, for I have given children snakes to play with, time without number, and have never found them otherwise than amused. It is only after silly stories are told them that the fear becomes established. It is funny to think that there are schoolteachers who shudder over a dead snake and forbid the scholars bringing living ones to the class-room. There is no herpetology to be taught outside of the text-books, and the fewer illustrations the better.

The mowing- meadows at home were the snakes' paradise; and long before the introduction of the mowing-machine what wonderful black-snakes were to be encountered! They were bold enough, so the mowers averred, to attack you, but none ever did. The champion mower of his day, who always cut the grass in the devil's kitchen, as one sunny nook was known, had no end of adventures there with snakes. His strangest tale was not far from the truth, for, as my grandfather said, they were not all “strictly correct." Hercules started to mow the corner, but the snakes rebelled. A dozen, he claimed, stood upon their tail-tips and defied him. He was about to drop his scythe and run, when the idea of being twitted as a coward held him back, and he made a bold strike forward, as if there was nothing there but waving grass. The largest snake was ready for this movement and dashed at the scythe, swallowing the blade and six inches of the sneed. So Hercules said when, weak with terror, he reached the house. My grandfather found that he had struck the snake in the mouth and cut the body so that it covered the end of the blade. This is about the proportion of fact and fiction in modern snake stories. That was fifty years ago, and now the devil's kitchen has to content itself with little garter-snakes. The world grows better, backward, in some respects.

Leaving the shores, with all their wildness and wonders, I returned to the boat, picking my way among the basking snakes that even now scarce deigned,. to look at me; and as I faced the rising wind that more than ruffled the wide reach of waters, I thought of my recent adventure, and wondered, and still wonder, if the wind, turning from its path and sweeping that sunny ledge of rocks, drove again to their home in the forest that writhing, squirming, crawling tangle of pretty snakes.