Moss-Gathering (1944)

To loosen with all ten fingers held wide and limber

And lift up a patch, dark green, the kind for lining cemetery baskets,

Thick and cushiony, like an old-fashioned doormat,

The crumbling small hollow sticks on the underside mixed with roots,

And wintergreen berries and leaves still stuck to the top,-

That was moss-gathering.

But something always went out of me when I dug those loose carpets

Of green, or plunged my elbows in the spongy yellowish moss of the marshes:

And afterwards I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,

As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;

Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,

By pulling off flesh from the living planet;

As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.

Moss-Picking

You have probably never gone out after moss, unless you were a small town florist who had the rather Emersonian idea that a man should try to do everything connected with his business, should try to make himself as self-supporting as possible.  Moss is not desired by the vast mob of tourist despoilers.  It has no food value like huckleberries, nor the beauty of flowers, unless one is keenly alive to subtleties.  Still, moss-seeking is probably the pleasantest task in all the world.  It does not tire the limbs, the back, or the nerves.  It leads to strange wild places where countless wonderful things are likely to happen any minute.  Moss grows best in those endless, trackless, burnt-over swamps which are probably the last place where nature still continues undisturbed.  You will feel lost and insignificant, but strangely calm in those swamps.  You will feel a close harmony between external nature and your inner self.  You won't think much or get a great deal of moss picked.  However irate you may be, you'll be soothed and beguiled into a wonderful sense of peace.

Moss-picking is a very primitive process that requires no particular skill at all.  Therein lies another of its peculiar charms.  The only equipment necessary is a gunny-sack.

Now there are many kinds of moss, the technical names of which I've forgotten long ago.  There is a thin, tough, bright green variety that grows over the base of a live tree or a not too old log.  Care must be taken to pull off as large pieces as possible because it is used to line cemetery baskets.  Not often can a great deal of this moss be gathered in one region, since it seems to require a very peculiar state of moistness on fairly new wood. 

You will often find snakes and weasels and wood-chucks around the logs.  They are your friends if you are a true moss-gatherer. 

...

After you've picked a while you'll probably find that this idyllic labor has made you quite sleepy.  Don't try to fight this feeling off.  Pick out a dry spot and lie down.  When you awaken, you'll feel, if you ever will, that you are a true child of nature-that she has accepted you and taken you into her arms.