Edwin Way Teale (1899–1980)

I haven't read much nature writing. This book doesn't convince me to read more. It's so... aimless. Hundreds of pages of Teale-- who I must admit, seems a very nice fellow-- just telling you things he's seen. He loves to count, especially: how many birds flew by, how many sequential times a frog croaked, how long it takes his wife to walk around a pond. But the numbers are just numbers. You don't learn anything from knowing them. Most of what he describes is just there, the book is a blaze show more of information not put into anything that would give it meaning. Though on the occasions he does moralize, it makes you roll your eyes. Aren't we all just intrepid little squirrels? Honest question: is all nature writing this purposeless, or is it just Teale? Or is it just this book, which was one of the last he wrote? He won a Pulitzer early in his career; that book must have had some kind of point, right?

There are occasional nuggets. As a local, I liked the bits of  Connecticut history he provided, from the founding of his town to some of the local characters. And the chapter where he flies over his property at dawn in a hot-air balloon is delightful. Also: I learned about Lake Char­gog­gag­ogg­man­chaug­gag­ogg­chau­bun­a­gung­a­maugg, the longest place name in the United States. show less

Couple buys an old CT farm in the 1950's? Sounds like a fun slice of life. Unfortunately I missed the word 'naturalist' in the title, so welcome to twenty chapters cataloging every squirrel that lives on the property. That said, there were some good parts talking about the history of the farm and domestic life. It's also easy to figure out when to start flipping pages (if more than four bird species are mentioned on a page, start turning).

I collect the works of Edwin Way Teale. Among the pantheon of naturalists writing in USAmerica in the 1930’s and 40’s, he is my favorite. He is best known for his marvelous series exploring the four seasons as they move across the country: North with the Spring, Journey into Summer, Autumn Across America, and Wandering Through Winter, all of which combine in his inimitable way authentic observations with personal associations and just enough scientific background to be show more interesting.

However, I have chosen for review another of his works, also a favorite of mine, Springtime in Britain (Dodd, Mead, 1970). From my youth on, I have always wanted to hike through the English countryside, Wordsworth’s Lake District, Hardy’s Wessex, or the route Keats chose when he made his way “to the north, to the north.” Unfortunately, the opportunity never arose. So I have read Teale’s book twice, shared it with colleagues, and browse in it often. I have experienced England “now that April’s here.” Without being there, I have been there.

Starting at Land’s End on Cornwall’s rugged shoreline, I have seen the legendary cock robin at St. Ives, miles and miles of daffodils along the northern edge of the Forest of Dean, those alien American squirrels in the ancient New Forest, skylarks at Stonehenge, Robin Hood’s old oak, Loch Lomond in all kinds of weather, all the way to the lonely, far northern sight called John o’ Groats, with its subarctic night of light.

Heading south, later in the season, through Aberdeen, then Norfolk, I have seen through Teale’s eyes what I have actually seen with my own: the roses of England: “Now, as we returned in July, the tide of roses that annually sweeps over England from end to end seemed at its height. Red, yellow, white, pink, roses bloomed everywhere; roses with two tones, with delicate shadings, with velvety petals. Villages were filled with roses. Country dooryards were colored with their blooms. All down residential streets in towns, on either side, yards were rich with gardens of roses. Even in the Black Country the grim aspect of the smoke-stained land was relieved by the brightness of the flowers.”

This sense of plenitude, of celebration, even exultation, is representative of Teale’s prose. Equally typical, is his immediate comment on the cultural context: “Traditionally no other people take more delight in their roses or find more pleasure and solace in their gardens than the inhabitants of Britain. There are, it has been estimated, 10,000,000 flower gardens in England alone.”

Of course, I have taken pleasure in Teale’s identification and description of natural phenomena: native trees and wildflowers, birds and rodents, rivers and lakes and waterfalls, stones and mountains, rain and chill and fog and clouds, and then the crisp sun of May. But I have been equally pleased to learn of the inns where the Teales stayed, of the folks they met, of the old houses and landmarks they sought out, and of their awareness of the centuries of history through which they ambled.

For me, Teale’s book serves as an informal literary atlas. Always he reminds readers of writers associated with places: where they were born, where they lived, how they immortalized the countryside in their words. We explore the settings that influenced James Thomson’s The Seasons, Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit, the lake discovered by Thomas Gray (well before Wordsworth), the quaint village of Miss Mitford, Malham Tarn where little Tom the chimney sweep began his adventures in Charles Kingsley’s Water-Babies — the list could go on and on.

But one of the major highlights of the book is the tribute Teale pays to the great British naturalists who were his predecessors and models. For example, there was Richard Jefferies, who lived his short life in poverty but celebrated the beauty of nature around him. The quotation Teale chooses from his work obviously also speaks for Teale himself: “The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we really live, so that the longer we can stay among these things, so much the more is snatched from the inevitable Time.”

But the great Gilbert White, whose Natural History of Selborne set such a high standard for naturalists, captures even more of Teale’s attention. His book was not written as a book but as letters from a country clergyman to two of his friends, recording his accurate observations and earnest appreciation of the countryside around his home, The Wakes, in Selborne.

There the Teales find an ancient yew tree. His paragraph about the experience illustrates the homeliness, the good humor, and yet the timelessness of his writing:

“Nothing we had ever heard or read, no picture we had seen, quite prepared us for the size of the ancient yew hat stands just outside the Church of Saint Mary where White conducted services. Even on the brightest days, a continued twilight lies in the shade of its dense foliage. This yew is believed to have been a well-grown tree, perhaps a century old, when King Alfred was alive. Its age is estimated at more than twelve centuries. When Nellie and I examined its gigantic trunk, nearly twenty-eight feet in circumference, we noticed a roughened vertical strip, perhaps eighteen or twenty inches high and five inches wide. It appeared scarred by the claws of some animal. Turning away, we saw a large yellow-and-white cat watching us from the top of a neighboring gravestone. In the ancient yew, no doubt, it was making use of one of the oldest scratching posts in Britain.”

Oh, yes, I have hiked the length and breadth of England and Scotland, seeing with Teale’s eyes what I might never have found with my own, both the then and the now. And I haven’t yet mentioned the splendid black-and-white photographs from his camera or the fastidiously detailed index that lets me revisit at will the flora and fauna, the places and people we have encountered in the one hundred days, or so, and 17,000 miles of our travels. In my armchair now, in my old age, I return again and again. show less

This is a "classic" of nature writing. I think for it's day it was very good. However it has not held up with time. It's not a bad book but no longer essential. It might be useful as a snapshot in time as the author surveys wildlife and people in America 60 years ago that he randomly encounters during a cross country road trip. He was part of the burgeoning environmental movement that would rather watch birds than kill them. That's all good but mainstream now, the battles today are more show more difficult than a simple change of perspective. I don't feel compelled to read the rest of the series, but I think one of these books is worth checking out because it so frequently pops up on book lists as important. show less