we had great questionings what was to be done with Hum. To get him home
with us was our desire; but who ever heard of a humming-bird travelling
by railroad? Great were the consultings. A little basket of Indian work
was filled up with cambric handkerchiefs, and a bottle of sugar and water
provided, and we started with him for a day’s journey. When we arrived
at night the first care was to see what had become of Hum, who had not
been looked at since we fed him with sugar and water in Boston. We found
him alive and well, but so dead asleep that we could not wake him to
roost; so we put him to bed on a toilet cushion, and arranged his tumbler
for morning. The next day found him alive and humming, exploring the
room and pictures, perching now here and now there; but as the weather
was chilly, he sat for the most part of the time in a humped-up state on
the tip of a pair of stag’s horns. We moved him to a more sunny
apartment; but, alas! the equinoctial storm came on, and there was no sun
to be had for days. Hum was blue; the pleasant seaside days were over;
his room was lonely, the pleasant three that had enlivened the apartment
at Rye no longer came in and out; evidently he was lonesome, and gave way
to depression. One chilly morning he managed again to fall into his
tumbler, and wet himself through; and notwithstanding warm bathings and
tender nursings, the poor little fellow seemed to get diphtheria, or
something quite as bad for humming-birds.
We carried him to a neighbouring sunny parlour, where ivy embowers all
the walls and the sun lies all day. There he revived a little, danced up
and down, perched on a green spray that was wreathed across the breast of
a Psyche, and looked then like a little flitting soul returning to its
rest. Towards evening he drooped; and, having been nursed and warmed and
cared for, he was put to sleep on a green twig laid on the piano. In
that sleep the little head drooped—nodded—fell; and little Hum went where
other bright dreams go—to the Land of the Hereafter.
_OUR COUNTRY NEIGHBOURS_.
WE have just built our house in rather an out-of-the-way place—on the
bank of a river, and under the shade of a patch of woods which is a
veritable remain of quite an ancient forest. The checkerberry and
partridge-plum, with their glossy green leaves and scarlet berries, still
carpet the ground under its deep shadows; and prince’s-pine and other
kindred evergreens declare its native wildness,—for these are children of
the wild woods, that never come after plough and harrow have once broken
a soil.
When we tried to look out the spot for our house, we had to get a
surveyor to go before us and cut a path through the dense underbrush that
was laced together in a general network of boughs and leaves, and grew so
high as to overtop our heads. Where the house stands, four or five great
old oaks and chestnuts had to be cut away to let it in; and now it stands
on the bank of the river, the edges of which are still overhung with old
forest-trees, chestnuts and oaks, which look at themselves in the glassy
stream.
A little knoll near the house was chosen for a garden-spot; a dense, dark
mass of trees above, of bushes in mid-air, and of all sorts of ferns and
wild-flowers and creeping vines on the ground. All these had to be
cleared out, and a dozen great trees cut down and dragged off to a
neighbouring saw-mill, there to be transformed into boards to finish off
our house. Then, fetching a great machine, such as might be used to pull
a giant’s teeth, with ropes, pulleys, oxen, and men, and might and main,
we pulled out the stumps, with their great prongs and their network of
roots and fibres; and then, alas! we had to begin with all the pretty
wild, lovely bushes, and the checkerberries and ferns and wild
blackberries and huckleberry-bushes, and dig them up remorselessly, that
we might plant our corn and squashes. And so we got a house and a garden
right out of the heart of our piece of wild wood, about a mile from the
city of H-.
Well, then, people said it was a lonely place, and far from
neighbours,—by which they meant that it was a good way for them to come
to see us. But we soon found that whoever goes into the woods to live
finds neighbours of a new kind, and some to whom it is rather hard to
become accustomed.
For instance, on a fine day early in April, as we were crossing over to
superintend the building of our house, we were startled by a striped
snake, with his little bright eyes, raising himself to look at us, and
putting out his red, forked tongue. Now there is no more harm in these
little garden-snakes than there is in a robin or a squirrel—they are poor
little, peaceable, timid creatures, which could not do any harm if they
would; but the prejudices of society are so strong against them that one
does not like to cultivate too much intimacy with them. So we tried to
turn out of our path into a tangle of bushes; and there, instead of one,
we found four snakes. We turned on the other side, and there were two
more. In short, everywhere we looked, the dry leaves were rustling and
coiling with them; and we were in despair. In vain we said that they
were harmless as kittens, and tried to persuade ourselves that their
little bright eyes were pretty, and that their serpentine movements were
in the exact line of beauty: for the life of us, we could not help
remembering their family name and connections; we thought of those
disagreeable gentlemen the anacondas, the rattlesnakes, and the
copper-heads, and all of that bad line, immediate family friends of the
old serpent to whom we are indebted for all the mischief that is done in
this world. So we were quite apprehensive when we saw how our new
neighbourhood was infested by them, until a neighbour calmed our fears by
telling us that snakes always crawled out of their holes to sun
themselves in the spring, and that in a day or two they would all be
gone.
So it proved. It was evident they were all out merely to do their spring
shopping, or something that serves with them the same purpose that spring
shopping does with us; and where they went afterwards we do not know.
People speak of snakes’ holes, and we have seen them disappearing into
such subterranean chambers; but we never opened one to see what sort of
underground housekeeping went on there. After the first few days of
spring, a snake was a rare visitor, though now and then one appeared.
One was discovered taking his noontide repast one day in a manner which
excited much prejudice. He was, in fact, regaling himself by sucking
down into his maw a small frog, which he had begun to swallow at the
toes, and had drawn about half down. The frog, it must be confessed,
seemed to view this arrangement with great indifference, making no
struggle, and sitting solemnly, with his great unwinking eyes, to be
sucked in at the leisure of his captor. There was immense sympathy,
however, excited for him in the family circle; and it was voted that a
snake which indulged in such very disagreeable modes of eating his dinner
was not to be tolerated in our vicinity. So I have reason to believe
that that was his last meal.
Another of our wild woodland neighbours made us some trouble. It was no
other than a veritable woodchuck, whose hole we had often wondered at
when we were scrambling through the underbrush after spring flowers. The
hole was about the size of a peck-measure, and had two openings about six
feet apart. The occupant was a gentleman we never had had the pleasure
of seeing, but we soon learned his existence from his ravages in our
garden. He had a taste, it appears, for the very kind of things we
wanted to eat ourselves, and helped himself without asking. We had a row
of fine, crisp heads of lettuce, which were the pride of our gardening,
and out of which he would from day to day select for his table just the
plants we had marked for ours. He also nibbled our young beans; and so
at last we were reluctantly obliged to let John Gardiner set a trap for
him. Poor old simple-minded hermit, he was too artless for this world!
He was caught at the very first snap, and found dead in the trap,—the
agitation and distress having broken his poor woodland heart, and killed
him. We were grieved to the very soul when the poor fat old fellow was
dragged out, with his useless paws standing up stiff and imploring. As
it was, he was given to Denis, our pig, which, without a single scruple
of delicacy, ate him up as thoroughly as he ate up the lettuce.
This business of eating, it appears, must go on all through creation. We
eat ducks, turkeys, and chickens, though we don’t swallow them whole,
feathers and all. Our four-footed friends, less civilized, take things
with more directness and simplicity, and chew each other up without
ceremony, or swallow each other alive. Of these unceremonious habits we
had other instances.
Our house had a central court on the southern side, into which looked the
library, dining-room, and front hall, as well as several of the upper
chambers. It was designed to be closed in with glass, to serve as a
conservatory in winter; and meanwhile we had filled it with splendid
plumy ferns, taken up out of the neighbouring wood. In the centre was a
fountain surrounded by stones, shells, mosses, and various water-plants.
We had bought three little goldfish to swim in our basin; and the spray
of it, as it rose in the air and rippled back into the water, was the
pleasantest possible sound of a hot day. We used to lie on the sofa in
the hall, and look into the court, and fancy we saw some scene of
fairy-land, and water-sprites coming up from the fountain. Suddenly a
new-comer presented himself,—no other than an immense bull-frog, that had
hopped up from the neighbouring river, apparently with a view to making a
permanent settlement in and about our fountain. He was to be seen, often
for hours, sitting reflectively on the edge of it, beneath the broad
shadow of the calla-leaves. When sometimes missed thence, he would be
found under the ample shield of a great bignonia, whose striped leaves
grew hard by.
The family were prejudiced against him. What did he want there? It was
surely some sinister motive impelled him. He was probably watching for
an opportunity to gobble up the goldfish. We took his part, however, and
strenuously defended his moral character, and patronized him in all ways.
We gave him the name of Unke, and maintained that he was a
well-conducted, philosophical old water-sprite, who showed his good taste
in wanting to take up his abode in our conservatory. We even defended
his personal appearance, praised the invisible-green coat which he wore
on his back, and his gray vest, and solemn gold spectacles; and though he
always felt remarkably slimy when we touched him, yet, as he would sit
still and allow us to stroke his head and pat his back, we concluded his
social feelings might be warm, notwithstanding a cold exterior. Who
knew, after all, but he might be a beautiful young prince, enchanted
there till the princess should come to drop the golden ball into the
fountain, and so give him a chance to marry her and turn into a man
again? Such things, we are credibly informed, are matters of frequent
occurrence in Germany. Why not here?
By-and-by there came to our fountain another visitor,—a frisky, green
young frog of the identical kind spoken of by the poet:—
“There was a frog lived in a well,
Rig dum pully metakimo.”
This thoughtless, dapper individual, with his bright green coat, his
faultless white vest, and sea-green tights, became rather the popular
favourite. He seemed just rakish and gallant enough to fulfil the
conditions of the song:—
“The frog he would a-courting ride,
With sword and pistol by his side.”
This lively young fellow, whom we shall call Cri-Cri, like other frisky
and gay young people, carried the day quite over the head of the solemn
old philosopher under the calla-leaves. At night, when all was still, he
would trill a joyous little note in his throat, while old Unke would
answer only with a cracked guttural more singular than agreeable; and to
all outward appearance the two were as good friends as their different
natures would allow.
One day, however, the conservatory became the scene of a tragedy of the
deepest dye. We were summoned below by shrieks and howls of horror. “Do
pray come down and see what this vile, nasty, horrid old frog has been
doing!” Down we came; and there sat our virtuous old philosopher, with
his poor little brother’s hind legs still sticking out of the corner of
his mouth, as if he were smoking them for a cigar, all helplessly
palpitating as they were. In fact, our solemn old friend had done what
many a solemn hypocrite before has done,—swallowed his poor brother, neck
and crop,—and sat there with the most brazen indifference, looking as if
he had done the most proper and virtuous thing in the world.
Immediately he was marched out of the conservatory at the point of a
walking-stick, and made to hop down to the river, into whose waters he
splashed, and we saw him no more. We regret to say that the popular
indignation was so precipitate in its results; otherwise the special
artist who sketched Hum, the son of Buz, intended to have made a sketch
of the old villain, as he sat with his luckless victim’s hind legs
projecting from his solemn mouth. With all his moral faults, he was a
good sitter, and would probably have sat immovable any length of time
that could be desired.
Of other woodland neighbours there were some which we saw occasionally.
The shores of the river were lined here and there with the holes of the
muskrats; and in rowing by their settlements, we were sometimes strongly
reminded of them by the overpowering odour of the perfume from which they
get their name. There were also owls, whose nests were high up in some
of the old chestnut-trees. Often in the lonely hours of the night we
could hear them gibbering with a sort of wild, hollow laugh among the
distant trees. But one tenant of the woods made us some trouble in the
autumn. It was a little flying-squirrel, who took to making excursions
into our house in the night season, coming down the chimney into the
chambers, rustling about among the clothes, cracking nuts or nibbling at
any morsels of anything that suited his fancy. For a long time the
inmates of the rooms were awakened in the night by mysterious noises,
thumps, and rappings, and so lighted candles, and searched in vain to
find whence they came; for the moment any movement was made, the rogue
whipped up the chimney, and left us a prey to the most mysterious alarms.
What could it be?
But one night our fine gentleman bounced in at the window of another
room, which had no fireplace; and the fair occupant, rising in the night,
shut the window, without suspecting that she had cut off the retreat of
any of her woodland neighbours. The next morning she was startled by
what she thought a gray rat running past her bed. She rose to pursue
him, when he ran up the wall, and clung against the plastering, showing
himself very plainly a gray flying-squirrel, with large, soft eyes, and
wings which consisted of a membrane uniting the fore paws to the hind
ones, like those of a bat. He was chased into the conservatory, and a
window being opened, out he flew upon the ground, and made away for his
native woods, and thus put an end to many fears as to the nature of our
nocturnal rappings.
So you see how many neighbours we found by living in the woods, and,
after all, no worse ones than are found in the great world.
_THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF LITTLE WHISKEY_.
AND now, at the last, I am going to tell you something of the ways and
doings of one of the queer little people, whom I shall call Whiskey.
You cannot imagine how pretty he is. His back has the most beautiful
smooth shining stripes of reddish brown and black, his eyes shine like
bright glass beads, and he sits up jauntily on his hind quarters, with
his little tail thrown over his back like a ruffle.
And where does he live? Well, “that is telling,” as we children say. It
was somewhere up in the mountains of Berkshire, in a queer, quaint,
old-fashioned garden, that I made Mr. Whiskey’s acquaintance.
Here there lives a young parson, who preaches every Sunday in a little
brown church, and during week-days goes through all these hills and
valleys, visiting the poor, and gathering children into Sunday schools.
His wife is a very small-sized lady—not much bigger than you, my little
Mary—but very fond of all sorts of dumb animals; and by constantly
watching their actions and ways, she has come to have quite a strange
power over them, as I shall relate.
The little lady fixed her mind on Whiskey, and gave him his name without
consulting him upon the subject. She admired his bright eyes, and
resolved to cultivate his acquaintance.
By constant watching, she discovered that he had a small hole of his own
in the grass-plot a few paces from her back-door. So she used to fill
her pocket with hazel-nuts, and go out and sit in the back porch, and
make a little noise, such as squirrels make to each other, to attract his
attention.
In a minute or two up would pop the little head with the bright eyes, in
the grass-plot, and Master Whiskey would sit on his haunches and listen,
with one small ear cocked towards her. Then she would throw him a
hazel-nut, and he would slip instantly down into his hole again. In a
minute or two, however, his curiosity would get the better of his
prudence; and she, sitting quiet, would see the little brown-striped head
slowly, slowly coming up again, over the tiny green spikes of the
grass-plot. Quick as a flash he would dart at the nut, whisk it into a
little bag on one side of his jaws, which Madam Nature has furnished him
with for his provision-pouch, and down into his hole again. An
ungrateful, suspicious little brute he was too; for though in this way he
bagged and carried off nut after nut, until the patient little woman had
used up a pound of hazel-nuts, still he seemed to have the same wild
fright at sight of her, and would whisk off and hide himself in his hole
the moment she appeared. In vain she called, “Whiskey, Whiskey,
Whiskey,” in the most flattering tones; in vain she coaxed and cajoled.
No, no; he was not to be caught napping. He had no objection to
accepting her nuts, as many as she chose to throw to him; but as to her
taking any personal liberty with him, you see, it was by no means to be
thought of.
But at last patience and perseverance began to have their reward. Little
Master Whiskey said to himself, “Surely this is a nice, kind lady, to
take so much pains to give me nuts; she is certainly very considerate;”
and with that he edged a little nearer and nearer every day, until, quite
to the delight of the small lady, he would come and climb into her lap
and seize the nuts, when she rattled them there, and after that he seemed
to make exploring voyages all over her person. He would climb up and sit
on her shoulder; he would mount and perch himself on her head; and when
she held a nut for him between her teeth, he would take it out of her
mouth.
After a while he began to make tours of discovery in the house. He would
suddenly appear on the minister’s writing-table when he was composing his
Sunday sermon, and sit cocking his little pert head at him, seeming to
wonder what he was about. But in all his explorations he proved himself
a true Yankee squirrel, having always a shrewd eye on the main chance.
If the parson dropped a nut on the floor, down went Whiskey after it, and
into his provision-bag it went, and then he would look up as if he
expected another; for he had a wallet on each side of his jaws, and he
always wanted both sides handsomely filled before he made for his hole.
So busy and active and always intent on this one object was he, that
before long the little lady found he had made way with six pounds of
hazel-nuts. His general rule was to carry off four nuts at a time—three
being stuffed into the side-pockets of his jaws, and the fourth held in
his teeth. When he had furnished himself in this way, he would dart like
lightning for his hole, and disappear in a moment; but in a short time up
he would come, brisk and wide-awake, and ready for the next supply.
Once a person who had the curiosity to dig open a chipping squirrel’s
hole found in it two quarts of buckwheat, a quantity of grass-seed,
nearly a peck of acorns, some Indian corn, and a quart of walnuts; a
pretty handsome supply for a squirrel’s winter store-room—don’t you think
so?
Whiskey learned in time to work for his living in many artful ways that
his young mistress devised. Sometimes she would tie his nuts up in a
paper package, which he would attack with great energy, gnawing the
strings, and rustling the nuts out of the paper in wonderfully quick
time. Sometimes she would tie a nut to the end of a bit of twine and
swing it backward and forward over his head; and after a succession of
spry jumps, he would pounce upon it, and hang swinging on the twine, till
he had gnawed the nut away.
Another squirrel, doubtless hearing of Whiskey’s good luck, began to
haunt the same yard; but Whiskey would by no means allow him to cultivate
his young mistress’s acquaintance. No indeed! he evidently considered
that the institution would not support two. Sometimes he would appear to
be conversing with the stranger on the most familiar and amicable terms
in the back-yard; but if his mistress called his name, he would
immediately start and chase his companion quite out of sight, before he
came back to her.
So you see that self-seeking is not confined to men alone, and that
Whiskey’s fine little fur coat covers a very selfish heart.
As winter comes on, Whiskey will go down into his hole, which has many
long galleries and winding passages, and a snug little bedroom well lined
with leaves. Here he will doze and dream away his long winter months,
and nibble out the inside of his store of nuts.
If I hear any more of his cunning tricks, I will tell you of them.