One Perfect Saturday -- Part 3
Apr. 28th, 2003 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanI was hungry, so we went over the little wooden bridge that spans the marsh and up a hill a short distance to a bench. We had by this time passed several people, singly and in groups, and I remarked to Eric as we sat down that my impression was that Minnesotans believed firmly that when passing on a narrow path in a wildflower garden, one must say hello, but that they didn't really want to.
We shared the salmon sandwich and I started on an apple. Below us were marsh marigolds in scattered clumps and a great many trout-lily leaves, some with flowers. I love trout lilies. They have gray stripes. There are some nice photos of them on Raphael's website.
We went on up the hill, and about halfway Eric said quietly, "Gang way!" I moved to the edge of the path in time not to be run down by a small running child, who cheerily informed us that there were "Baby bunnies up there!" We went on up the hill and saw a group of several kids and a grown man and woman; the man was carrying a pink plastic laundry basket in which could dimly be discerned small brown furry forms. The whole group tromped off the path, causing me to go "Urgg!"
Behind them, mercifully, came in hot pursuit one of the young women working for the garden. She told them to stay on the path. They said they just wanted to let the rabbits go. She said they must have misunderstood her -- maybe in the park they could do that, but not in the garden. They came back to the path, not really sulky but bewildered.
Eric and I went on up towards the Martha Crone Shelter. "They want to release rabbits in a wildflower garden," marvelled Eric. "Well," I said, "it would be a fine thing for the rabbits."
The shelter has bird feeders just outside. We sat down on a bench in the porch; I was still eating my apple, and we wanted to see the birds. A hairy or down woodpecker was making good use of the suet feeder, and a couple of chickadees swooped in, snatched seeds, and flew off to eat them on branches. A squirrel and then a chipmunk moved around on the ground. Eric noticed some little brown birds on the ground. They were not our usual city little brown birds, not house sparrows nor house finches. He got up quietly to get closer to them.
They flew into the bushes, where they took up identical postures, facing away from the feeders. Eric was able to observe them fairly well after they finally moved themselves a bit, and noted the stripes on their heads, which he thought should aid identification. People kept coming up the path and scaring the birds away, but mostly the birds came back again. I heard one of the young women showing some patron the Dutchman's breeches near the path. They have one or two cherished little plants.
We went inside and looked through the magnetic bird forms, but couldn't find Eric's sparrows. He saw that they had a copy of Sibley and started looking through that. I looked at pictures of flowers on the wall and ascertained that the white and the yellow trout lily were separate species. Behind us the young women were talking over the rabbit incident. "This is a nice cushy job," said one of them, "but every once in a while you get moments of incredible stress." "I thought, after they asked," said the other, "that I never do see rabbits in the garden. I see fur sometimes, the fox's dinner." "I know they'll be eaten soon, but they'd eat the flowers first, and probably go after all the rarest and most delicate ones we have," said the other.
Eric narrowed his sparrows down to Clay-colored, Chipping, or maybe White-Throated. The young woman behind the desk asked if Sibley had answered our questions; Eric told her his conclusions, and she said that would be the White-Throated Sparrow, the garden definitely had those.
We went on up the steep hill to the front gate, and so around to the upland meadow. We had last been in the garden when many meadow flowers were blooming. It was still brown and dead, with some green rosettes, but not many. Eric exclaimed pleasedly how different it looked. One dragonfly was sailing over the dead plants. It landed twice, but was very skittish about being approached at all closely.
We climbed some more, and Eric looked from the upper part of the path back over the meadow and exclaimed again. There were dragonflies up here, two, three, four, half a dozen, maybe more, zipping and swerving, their wings glittering. In time a few flew so close that we could see their green or blue coloring. We thought we saw some slightly smaller ones of no defined color, but they were too fast.
After some discussion we went downhill and took the lower path past the marsh rather than the upper one with the bench, and then came back to the front gate and headed for the Quaking Bog.
Pamela
We shared the salmon sandwich and I started on an apple. Below us were marsh marigolds in scattered clumps and a great many trout-lily leaves, some with flowers. I love trout lilies. They have gray stripes. There are some nice photos of them on Raphael's website.
We went on up the hill, and about halfway Eric said quietly, "Gang way!" I moved to the edge of the path in time not to be run down by a small running child, who cheerily informed us that there were "Baby bunnies up there!" We went on up the hill and saw a group of several kids and a grown man and woman; the man was carrying a pink plastic laundry basket in which could dimly be discerned small brown furry forms. The whole group tromped off the path, causing me to go "Urgg!"
Behind them, mercifully, came in hot pursuit one of the young women working for the garden. She told them to stay on the path. They said they just wanted to let the rabbits go. She said they must have misunderstood her -- maybe in the park they could do that, but not in the garden. They came back to the path, not really sulky but bewildered.
Eric and I went on up towards the Martha Crone Shelter. "They want to release rabbits in a wildflower garden," marvelled Eric. "Well," I said, "it would be a fine thing for the rabbits."
The shelter has bird feeders just outside. We sat down on a bench in the porch; I was still eating my apple, and we wanted to see the birds. A hairy or down woodpecker was making good use of the suet feeder, and a couple of chickadees swooped in, snatched seeds, and flew off to eat them on branches. A squirrel and then a chipmunk moved around on the ground. Eric noticed some little brown birds on the ground. They were not our usual city little brown birds, not house sparrows nor house finches. He got up quietly to get closer to them.
They flew into the bushes, where they took up identical postures, facing away from the feeders. Eric was able to observe them fairly well after they finally moved themselves a bit, and noted the stripes on their heads, which he thought should aid identification. People kept coming up the path and scaring the birds away, but mostly the birds came back again. I heard one of the young women showing some patron the Dutchman's breeches near the path. They have one or two cherished little plants.
We went inside and looked through the magnetic bird forms, but couldn't find Eric's sparrows. He saw that they had a copy of Sibley and started looking through that. I looked at pictures of flowers on the wall and ascertained that the white and the yellow trout lily were separate species. Behind us the young women were talking over the rabbit incident. "This is a nice cushy job," said one of them, "but every once in a while you get moments of incredible stress." "I thought, after they asked," said the other, "that I never do see rabbits in the garden. I see fur sometimes, the fox's dinner." "I know they'll be eaten soon, but they'd eat the flowers first, and probably go after all the rarest and most delicate ones we have," said the other.
Eric narrowed his sparrows down to Clay-colored, Chipping, or maybe White-Throated. The young woman behind the desk asked if Sibley had answered our questions; Eric told her his conclusions, and she said that would be the White-Throated Sparrow, the garden definitely had those.
We went on up the steep hill to the front gate, and so around to the upland meadow. We had last been in the garden when many meadow flowers were blooming. It was still brown and dead, with some green rosettes, but not many. Eric exclaimed pleasedly how different it looked. One dragonfly was sailing over the dead plants. It landed twice, but was very skittish about being approached at all closely.
We climbed some more, and Eric looked from the upper part of the path back over the meadow and exclaimed again. There were dragonflies up here, two, three, four, half a dozen, maybe more, zipping and swerving, their wings glittering. In time a few flew so close that we could see their green or blue coloring. We thought we saw some slightly smaller ones of no defined color, but they were too fast.
After some discussion we went downhill and took the lower path past the marsh rather than the upper one with the bench, and then came back to the front gate and headed for the Quaking Bog.
Pamela
