an undergrowth of saw palmetto. This was the place for the ivory-bill,
and as at the swamp two days before, so now I stopped and listened,
and then stopped and listened again. The Fates were still against me.
There was neither woodpecker nor turkey, and I pushed on, mostly through
pine-woods--full of birds, but nothing new--till I came out at the lake.
Here, beside an idle sawmill and heaps of sawdust, I was greeted by a
solitary negro, well along in years, who demanded, in a tone of almost
comical astonishment, where in the world I had come from. I told him
from Tallahassee, and he seemed so taken aback that I began to think I
must look uncommonly like an invalid, a "Northern consumptive," perhaps.
Otherwise, why should a walk of six miles, or something less, be treated
as such a marvel? However, the negro and I were soon on the friendliest
of terms, talking of the old times, the war, the prospects of the colored
people (the younger ones were fast going to the bad, he thought), while
I stood looking out over the lake, a pretty sheet of water, surrounded
mostly by cypress woods, but disfigured for the present by the doings of
lumbermen. What interested me most (such is the fate of the devotee) was
a single barn swallow, the first and only one that I saw on my Southern
trip.
On my way back to the city, after much fatherly advice about the road on
the part of the negro, who seemed to feel that I ran the greatest risk of
getting lost, I made two more additions to my Florida catalogue--the wood
duck and the yellow-billed cuckoo, the latter unexpectedly early (April
11), since Mr. Chapman had recorded it as arriving at Gainesville at a
date sixteen days later than this.
I did not repeat my visit to Lake Bradford; but, not to give up the
ivory-bill too easily,--and because I must walk somewhere,--I went again
as far as the palmetto scrub. This time, though I still missed the
woodpecker, I was fortunate enough to come upon a turkey. In the thickest
part of the wood, as I turned a corner, there she stood before me in the
middle of the road. She ran along the horse-track for perhaps a rod, and
then disappeared among the palmetto leaves.
Meanwhile, two or three days before, while returning from St. Mark's,
whither I had gone for a day on the river, I had noticed from the car
window a swamp, or baygall, which looked so promising that I went the
very next morning to see what it would yield. I had taken it for a
cypress swamp, but it proved to be composed mainly of oaks; very tall
but rather slender trees, heavily draped with hanging moss and standing
in black water. Among them were the swollen stumps, three or four feet
high, of larger trees which had been felled. I pushed in through the
surrounding shrubbery and bay-trees, and waited for some time, leaning
against one of the larger trunks and listening to the noises, of which
the air of the swamp was full. Great-crested flycatchers, two Acadian
flycatchers, a multitude of blue yellow-backed warblers, and what I
supposed to be some loud-voiced frogs were especially conspicuous in
the concert; but a Carolina wren, a cardinal, a red-eyed vireo, and
a blue-gray gnatcatcher, the last with the merest thread of a voice,
contributed their share to the medley, and once a chickadee struck up his
sweet and gentle strain in the very depths of the swamp--like an angel
singing in hell.
My walk on the railway, that wonderful St. Mark's branch (I could never
have imagined the possibility of running trains over so crazy a track),
took me through the choicest of bird country. The bushes were alive, and
the air rang with music. In the midst of the chorus I suddenly caught
somewhere before me what I had no doubt was the song of a purple finch,
a bird that I had not yet seen in Florida. I quickened my steps, and
to my delight the singer proved to be a blue grosbeak. I had caught a
glimpse of one two days before, as I have described in another chapter,
but with no opportunity for a final identification. Here, as it soon
turned out, there were at least four birds, all males, and all singing;
chasing each other about after the most persistent fashion, in a piece
of close shrubbery with tall trees interspersed, and acting--the four
of them--just as two birds are often seen to do when contending for the
possession of a building site. At a first hearing the song seems not so
long sustained as the purple finch's commonly is, but exceedingly like it
in voice and manner, though not equal to it, I should be inclined to say,
in either respect. The birds made frequent use of a monosyllabic call,
corresponding to the calls of the purple finch and the rose-breasted
grosbeak, but readily distinguishable from both. I was greatly pleased
to see them, and thought them extremely handsome, with their dark blue
plumage set off by wing patches of rich chestnut.
A little farther, and I was saluted by the saucy cry of my first Florida
chat. The fellow had chosen just such a tangled thicket as he favors in
Massachusetts, and whistled and kept out of sight after the most approved
manner of his kind. On the other side of the track a white-eyed vireo
was asserting himself, as he had been doing since the day I reached
St. Augustine; but though he seems a pretty clever substitute for the
chat in the chat's absence, his light is quickly put out when the clown
himself steps into the ring. Ground doves cooed, cardinals whistled, and
mocking-birds sang and mocked by turns. Orchard orioles, no unworthy
companions of mocking-birds and cardinals, sang here and there from a low
treetop, especially in the vicinity of houses. To judge from what I saw,
they are among the most characteristic of Tallahassee birds,--as numerous
as Baltimore orioles are in Massachusetts towns, and frequenting much the
same kind of places. In one day's walk I counted twenty-five. Elegantly
dressed as they are,--and elegance is better than brilliancy, perhaps,
even in a bird,--they seem to be thoroughly democratic. It was a pleasure
to see them so fond of cabin dooryards.
Of the other birds along the St. Mark's railway, let it be enough to
mention white-throated and white-crowned sparrows, red-eyed chewinks
(the white-eye was not found in the Tallahassee region), a red-bellied
woodpecker, two red-shouldered hawks, shrikes, kingbirds, yellow-throated
warblers, Maryland yellow-throats, pine warblers, palm warblers,--which
in spite of their name seek their summer homes north of the United
States,--myrtle warblers, now grown scarce, house wrens, summer tanagers,
and quails. The last-named birds, by the way, I had expected to find
known as "partridges" at the South, but as a matter of fact I heard
that name applied to them only once. On the St. Augustine road, before
breakfast, I met an old negro setting out for his day's work behind
a pair of oxen. "Taking some good exercise?" he asked, by way of a
neighborly greeting; and, not to be less neighborly than he, I responded
with some remark about a big shot-gun which occupied a conspicuous place
in his cart. "Oh," he said, "game is plenty out where we are going, about
eight miles, and I take the gun along." "What kind of game?" "Well, sir,
we may sometimes find a partridge." I smiled at the anti-climax, but was
glad to hear Bob White honored for once with his Southern title.
A good many of my jaunts took me past the gallinule swamp before
mentioned, and almost always I stopped and went near. It was worth
while to hear the poultry cries of the gallinules if nothing more; and
often several of the birds would be seen swimming about among the big
white lilies and the green tussocks. Once I discovered one of them
sitting upright on a stake,--a precarious seat, off which he soon
tumbled awkwardly into the water. At another time, on the same stake,
sat some dark, strange-looking object. The opera-glass showed it at
once to be a large bird sitting with its back toward me, and holding
its wings uplifted in the familiar heraldic, _e-pluribus-unum_ attitude
of our American spread-eagle; but even then it was some seconds before
I recognized it as an anhinga,--water-turkey,--though it was a male in
full nuptial garb. I drew nearer and nearer, and meanwhile it turned
squarely about,--a slow and ticklish operation,--so that its back was
presented to the sun; as if it had dried one side of its wings and
tail,--for the latter, too, was fully spread,--and now would dry the
other. There for some time it sat preening its feathers, with monstrous
twistings and untwistings of its snaky neck. If the chat is a clown,
the water-turkey would make its fortune as a contortionist. Finally it
rose, circled about till it got well aloft, and then, setting its wings,
sailed away southward and vanished, leaving me in a state of wonder as
to where it had come from, and whether it was often to be seen in such a
place--perfectly open, close beside the highway, and not far from houses.
I did not expect ever to see another, but the next morning, on my way up
the railroad to pay a second visit to the ivory-bill's swamp, I looked up
by chance,--a brown thrush was singing on the telegraph wire,--and saw
two anhingas soaring overhead, their silvery wings glistening in the sun
as they wheeled. I kept my glass on them till the distance swallowed them
up.
Of one long forenoon's ramble I retain particular remembrance, not on
account of any birds, but for a half hour of pleasant human intercourse.
I went out of the city by an untried road, hoping to find some trace of
migrating birds, especially of certain warblers, the prospect of whose
acquaintance was one of the lesser considerations which had brought me so
far from home. No such trace appeared, however, nor, in my fortnight's
stay in Tallahassee, in almost the height of the migratory season, did
I, so far as I could tell, see a single passenger bird of any sort.
Some species arrived from the South--cuckoos and orioles, for example;
others, no doubt, took their departure for the North; but to the best
of my knowledge not one passed through. It was a strange contrast to
what is witnessed everywhere in New England. By some other route swarms
of birds must at that moment have been entering the United States from
Mexico and beyond; but unless my observation was at fault,--and I am
assured that sharper eyes than mine have had a similar experience,--their
line of march did not bring them into the Florida hill-country. My
morning's road not only showed me no birds, but led me nowhere, and,
growing discouraged, I turned back till I came to a lane leading off to
the left at right angles. This I followed so far that it seemed wise, if
possible, to make my way back to the city without retracing my steps. Not
to spend my strength for naught, however (the noonday sun having always
to be treated with respect), I made for a solitary house in the distance.
Another lane ran past it. That, perhaps, would answer my purpose. I
entered the yard, all ablaze with roses, and in response to my knock a
gentleman appeared upon the doorstep. Yes, he said, the lane would carry
me straight to the Meridian road (so I think he called it), and thence
into the city. "Past Dr. H.'s?" I asked, "Yes." And then I knew where I
was.
First, however, I must let my new acquaintance show me his garden. His
name was G., he said. Most likely I had heard of him, for the legislature
was just then having a good deal to say about his sheep, in connection
with some proposed dog-law. Did I like roses? As he talked he cut one
after another, naming each as he put it into my hand. Then I must look at
his Japanese persimmon trees, and many other things. Here was a pretty
shrub. Perhaps I could tell what it was by crushing and smelling a leaf?
No; it was something familiar; I sniffed, and looked foolish, and after
all he had to tell me its name--camphor. So we went the rounds of the
garden,--frightening a mocking-bird off her nest in an orange-tree,--till
my hands were full. It is too bad I have forgotten how many pecan-trees
he had planted, and how many sheep he kept. A well-regulated memory would
have held fast to such figures: mine is certain only that there were four
eggs in the mocking-bird's nest. Mr. G. was a man of enterprise, at any
rate; a match for any Yankee, although he had come to Florida not from
Yankeeland, but from northern Georgia. I hope all his crops are still
thriving, especially his white roses and his Marshal Niels.
In the lane, after skirting some pleasant woods, which I meant to visit
again, but found no opportunity, I was suddenly assaulted by a pair of
brown thrashers, half beside themselves after their manner because of
my approach to their nest. How close my approach was I cannot say; but
it must be confessed that I played upon their fears to the utmost of my
ability, wishing to see as many of their neighbors as the disturbance
would bring together. Several other thrashers, a catbird, and two house
wrens appeared (all these, since "blood is thicker than water," may
have felt some special cousinly solicitude, for aught I know), with a
ruby-crowned kinglet and a field sparrow.
In the valley, near a little pond, as I came out into the Meridian road,
a solitary vireo was singing, in the very spot where one had been heard
six days before. Was it the same bird? I asked myself. And was it settled
for the summer? Such an explanation seemed the more likely because I had
found no solitary vireo anywhere else about the city though the species
had been common earlier in the season in eastern and southern Florida,
where I had seen my last one--at New Smyrna--March 26.
At this same dip in the Meridian road, on a previous visit, I had
experienced one of the pleasantest of my Tallahassee sensations. The
morning was one of those when every bird is in tune. By the roadside I
had just passed Carolina wrens, house wrens, a chipper, a field sparrow,
two thrashers, an abundance of chewinks, two orchard orioles, several
tanagers, a flock of quail, and mocking-birds and cardinals uncounted.
In a pine-wood near by, a wood pewee, a pine warbler, a yellow-throated
warbler, and a pine-wood sparrow were singing--a most peculiarly select
and modest chorus. Just at the lowest point in the valley I stopped to
listen to a song which I did not recognize, but which, by and by, I
settled upon as probably the work of a freakish prairie warbler. At that
moment, as if to confirm my conjecture,--which in the retrospect becomes
almost ridiculous,--a prairie warbler hopped into sight on an outer twig
of the water-oak out of which the music had proceeded. Still something
said, "Are you sure?" and I stepped inside the fence. There on the ground
were two or three white-crowned sparrows, and in an instant the truth of
the case flashed upon me. I remembered the saying of a friend, that the
song of the white-crown had reminded him of the vesper sparrow and the
black-throated green warbler. That was my bird; and I listened again,
though I could no longer be said to feel in doubt. A long time I waited.
Again and again the birds sang, and at last I discovered one of them
perched at the top of the oak, tossing back his head and warbling--a
white-crowned sparrow: the one regular Massachusetts migrant which I had
often seen, but had never heard utter a sound.
The strain opens with smooth, sweet notes almost exactly like the
introductory syllables of the vesper sparrow. Then the tone changes, and
the remainder of the song is in something like the pleasingly hoarse
voice of a prairie warbler, or a black-throated green. It is soft and
very pretty; not so perfect a piece of art as the vesper sparrow's
tune,--few bird-songs are,--but taking for its very oddity, and at the
same time tender and sweet. More than one writer has described it as
resembling the song of the white-throat. Even Minot, who in general was
the most painstaking and accurate of observers, as he is one of the
most interesting of our systematic writers, says that the two songs
are "almost exactly" alike. There could be no better example of the
fallibility which attaches, and in the nature of the case must attach,
to all writing upon such subjects. The two songs have about as much in
common as those of the hermit thrush and the brown thrasher, or those
of the song sparrow and the chipper. In other words, they have nothing
in common. Probably in Minot's case, as in so many others of a similar
nature, the simple explanation is that when he thought he was listening
to one bird he was really listening to another.
The Tallahassee road to which I had oftenest resorted, to which, now,
from far Massachusetts, I oftenest look back, the St. Augustine road,
so called, I have spoken of elsewhere. Thither, after packing my trunk
on the morning of the 18th, I betook myself for a farewell stroll.
My holiday was done. For the last time, perhaps, I listened to the
mocking-bird and the cardinal, as by and by, when the grand holiday is
over, I shall listen to my last wood thrush and my last bluebird. But
what then? Florida fields are still bright, and neither mocking-bird nor
cardinal knows aught of my absence. And so it _will_ be.
"When you and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last."
None the less, it is good to have lived our day and taken our peep at the
mighty show. Ten thousand things we may have fretted ourselves about,
uselessly or worse. But to have lived in the sun, to have loved natural
beauty, to have felt the majesty of trees, to have enjoyed the sweetness
of flowers and the music of birds,--so much, at least, is not vanity nor
vexation of spirit.
INDEX.
Air-plants, 104.
Alligator, 131, 146.
Azalea, 172, 206, 216.
Baptisia, 206.
Beggar's-ticks, 27.
Blackberry, 27, 29, 117, 152, 163, 217.
Blackbird, red-wing, 97, 106, 134, 145, 147, 161, 167.
Bladderwort, 29.
Bluebird, 4, 115, 147, 170, 218.
Blue-eyed Grass, 30.
Butterworts, 27, 28, 29, 173.
Buzzard, turkey, 20, 36, 38, 66, 126, 128, 145.
Calopogon, 125.
Carrion Crow (Black Vulture), 40, 134, 191.
Catbird, 65, 233.
Cedar-bird, 80.
Cedar, red, 90.
Chat, yellow-breasted, 226.
Cherokee Rose, 125, 165, 172, 201, 206.
Cherry, wild, 175.
Chewink (Towhee):--
red-eyed, 65, 167, 218, 227, 234.
white-eyed, 5, 65, 115, 227.
Chickadee, Carolina, 21, 97, 218, 224.
Chimney Swift, 209.
Chuck-will's-widow, 96.
Clematis Baldwinii, 125.
Clover, buffalo, 191.
Cloudberry, 29.
Coot (Fulica americana), 134.
Coquina Clam, 55.
Coreopsis, 30.
Cormorant, 66, 78, 124, 134, 145.
Crab-apple, 172.
Creeper, black-and-white, 97, 218.
Cross-vine, 172.
Crow, 5, 35, 37, 100, 114, 124.
Cuckoo, yellow-billed, 176, 222.
Cypress-tree, 127.
Dabchick, 124, 128, 134, 145.
Dove:--
Carolina, 147.
ground, 65, 147, 218, 226.
Duck, wood, 222.
Eagle, bald, 43, 79, 143, 145.
Egret:--
great white, 76.
little white, 75.
Fish-hawk, 42, 44, 79, 116, 127, 143, 147.
Flicker (Golden-winged Woodpecker), 4, 65, 81, 106.
Flowering Dogwood, 172, 206, 216.
Flycatchers:--
Acadian, 224. 240
crested, 153, 224.
kingbird, 176, 190, 191, 227.
phœbe, 8, 65, 81.
wood pewee, 170, 234.
Fringe-bush, 206, 216.
Frogs, 185.
Gallinule:--
Florida, 132, 217, 228.
purple, 137, 139.
Gannet, 46.
Gnatcatcher, blue-gray, 224.
Golden club, 27.
Goldenrod, 26.
Grackle, boat-tailed, 107, 124, 145.
Grebe, pied-billed, 124, 128, 134, 145.
Grosbeak:--
cardinal, 64, 81, 114, 118, 166, 176, 191, 212, 218, 226, 234.
blue, 187, 191, 224.
Gull:--
Bonaparte's, 48.
ring-billed, 49.
Hawk:--
fish, 42, 44, 79, 116, 127, 143, 147.
marsh, 36, 38, 176, 213.
red-shouldered, 106, 115, 218, 227.
sparrow, 76, 169.
swallow-tailed, 138.
Heron:--
great blue, 35, 36, 39, 50, 70, 107, 134, 145, 190, 217.
great white (_or_ Egret), 76.
green, 76, 107, 133, 181.
little blue, 74, 107, 134, 145, 181, 218.
Louisiana, 74, 75, 107, 145.
night (black-crowned), 133, 145.
Honeysuckle:--
scarlet, 172.
white, 151, 172.
Houstonia, round-leaved, 26, 82, 105, 116.
Humming-bird, ruby-throated, 114, 118, 153.
Hypoxis, 27.
Iris versicolor, 29, 112, 139.
Jay:--
Florida, 61.
Florida blue, 62, 153.
Judas-tree, 27.
Killdeer Plover, 39, 78.
Kingbird, 176, 190, 191, 227.
Kingfisher, 6, 36, 39, 145, 147.
Kinglet, ruby-crowned, 81, 153, 170, 214, 233.
Kite, fork-tailed, 138.
Krigia, 27.
Lantana, 151, 172.
Lark, meadow, 6, 145, 183.
Leptopoda, 30.
Live-oak, 96, 104.
Lizards, 115.
Lobelia Feayana, 30.
Loggerhead Shrike, 5, 111, 123, 177, 190, 191, 200, 218.
Lygodesmia, 125.
Martin, purple, 65, 124, 145, 147, 158, 176.
Maryland Yellow-throat, 116, 218, 227.
Mocking-bird, 4, 64, 81, 123, 167, 170, 176, 191, 210, 212, 218, 232,
234.
Mullein, 27.
Myrtle Bird. _See_ Warbler.
Night-hawk, 176.
Nuthatch, brown-headed, 6, 106, 218.
Orange, wild, 87, 105.
Oriole, orchard, 177, 183, 191, 194, 200, 226, 234.
Osprey. _See_ Fish-Hawk.
Oven-bird, 80.
Oxalis, yellow, 26, 37, 81, 152.
Papaw, 125.
Paroquet, 147.
Partridge-berry, 105.
Pelican:--
brown, 47.
white, 66.
Persimmon, 175.
Phœbe, 8, 65, 81.
Pipewort, 30.
Poison Ivy, 116.
Poppy, Mexican, 152.
Quail, 115, 118, 167, 176, 218, 227, 234.
Rail:--
Carolina, 217.
clapper, 98.
king, 138.
Redbird (Cardinal Grosbeak), 64, 81, 114, 118, 166, 176, 191, 212, 218,
224, 226, 234.
"Ricebird," 161.
Robin, 4.
Salvia lyrata, 82.
Sanderling, 49, 59.
Sandpiper:--
solitary, 181, 191.
spotted, 35, 78.
Sassafras, 175.
Schrankia, 125.
Senecio, 139.
Shrike, loggerhead, 5, 111, 177, 190, 191, 200, 218, 227.
Sow Thistle, 26.
Snakebird (Water-Turkey), 66, 79, 141, 228.
Sparrow:--
chipping, 234.
field, 15, 233, 234.
grasshopper (yellow-winged), 212.
pine-wood, 6, 13, 106, 118, 234.
savanna, 65, 145.
song, 65.
white-crowned, 190, 191, 201, 227, 234.
white-throated, 153, 191, 227.
Spiderwort, 81.
St. Peter's-wort, 27, 28.
Strawberry, 173.
Swallow:--
barn, 222.
rough-winged, 218.
tree (white-bellied), 8, 65, 124, 145, 147.
Swift, chimney, 209.
Tanager, summer, 96, 153, 184, 191, 213, 227, 234.
Tern, 49, 59, 78.
Thorns, 172, 216.
Thrasher (Brown Thrush), 17, 64, 168, 191, 218, 229, 232.
Thrush:--
hermit, 80, 170.
Northern water, 80.
Louisiana water, 80.
Titlark, 38.
Titmouse:--
Carolina, 21, 97.
tufted, 96.
Towhee. _See_ Chewink.
Turkey, 147, 220, 223.
Vaccinium, arboreum, 172.
Venus's Looking-glass (Specularia), 152.
Verbena, 81.
Violets, 27, 81, 116, 173.
Vireo:--
red-eyed, 218, 224.
solitary, 97, 233.
white-eyed, 36, 115, 170, 218, 226.
yellow-throated, 191.
Virginia creeper, 116.
Vulture (Carrion Crow), 40, 134, 191.
Warbler:--
black-throated green, 21.
blue yellow-backed, 96, 124, 147, 218, 224.
myrtle (yellow-rumped), 36, 65, 97, 124, 145, 191, 214.
palm (yellow redpoll), 65, 81, 145, 191, 218, 227.
pine, 4, 106, 115, 214, 218, 227, 234.
prairie, 81, 97, 124, 234.
yellow-throated (Dendroica dominica), 21, 97, 153, 184, 213, 218, 227,
234.
Water Lily, 206, 228.
Water Thrush:--
Louisiana, 80.
Northern, 80.
Water-Turkey (Snakebird), 66, 79, 141, 228.
Wood Pewee, 170, 234.
Woodpecker:--
downy, 4.
golden-winged (flicker), 4, 65, 81, 106.
ivory-billed, 190, 214.
pileated, 25.
red-bellied, 106, 169, 227.
red-cockaded, 6, 24.
red-headed, 177.
Wren:--
Carolina (mocking), 64, 116, 153, 200, 218, 224, 234.
house, 81, 166, 214, 218, 227, 233, 234.
long-billed marsh, 38, 100.
winter, 17.
Yellow Jessamine, 105, 216.
Yellow-legs (Totanus flavipes), 181, 191.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Florida Sketch-Book, by Bradford Torrey