disappear before my eyes, he suddenly burst out with the strange call I
had heard. It was clearly a cry of joy, of welcome, for out of the
water, up on to the ledge beside him, scrambled at that moment a
grown-up ouzel. He gave one poke into the wide-open mouth of the infant,
then slipped back into the water, dropped down a foot or more, climbed
out upon another little shelf in the rock, and in a moment the song
arose. I watched the singer closely. The notes were so low and so
mingled with the roar of the brook that even then I should not have been
certain he was uttering them if I had not seen his throat and mouth
distinctly. The song was really exquisite, and as much in harmony with
the melody of the stream as the voice of the English sparrow is with the
city sounds among which he dwells, and the plaintive refrain of the
meadow-lark with the low-lying, silent fields where he spends his days.
But little cared baby ouzel for music, however ravishing. What to his
mind was far more important was food,--in short, worms. His pretty
begging continued, and the daring notion of attempting a perilous
journey over the foot of water that separated him from his papa plainly
entered his head. He hurried back and forth on the brink with growing
agitation, and was seemingly about to plunge in, when the singer again
entered the water, brought up another morsel, and then stood on the
ledge beside the eager youngling, "dipping" occasionally himself, and
showing every time he winked--as did the little one, also--snowy-white
eyelids, in strange contrast to the dark slate-colored plumage.
This aesthetic manner of discharging family duties, alternating food for
the body with rapture of the soul, continued for some time, probably
until the young bird had as much as was good for him; and then supplies
were cut off by the peremptory disappearance of the purveyor, who
plunged with the brook over the edge of a rock, and was seen no more.
A little later a grown bird appeared, that I supposed at first was the
returning papa, but a few moments' observation convinced me that it was
the mother; partly because no song accompanied the work, but more
because of the entirely different manners of the new-comer. Filling the
crop of that importunate offspring of hers was, with this Quaker-dressed
dame, a serious business that left no time for rest or recreation. Two
charmed hours I sat absorbed, watching the most wonderful evolutions one
could believe possible to a creature in feathers.
At the point where this little drama was enacted, the brook rushed over
a line of pebbles stretching from bank to bank, lying at all angles and
of all sizes, from six to ten inches in diameter. Then it ran five or
six feet quietly, around smooth rocks here and there above the water,
and ended by plunging over a mass of bowlders to a lower level. The bird
began by mounting one of those slippery rounded stones, and thrusting
her head under water up to her shoulders. Holding it there a few
seconds, apparently looking for something, she then jumped in where the
turmoil was maddest, picked an object from the bottom, and, returning to
the ledge, gave it to baby.
The next moment, before I had recovered from my astonishment at this
feat of the ouzel, she ran directly up the falls (which, though not
high, were exceedingly lively), being half the time entirely under
water, and exactly as much at her ease as if no water were there; though
how she could stand in the rapid current, not to speak of walking
straight up against it, I could not understand.
Often she threw herself into the stream, and let it carry her down, like
a duck, a foot or two, while she looked intently on the bottom, then
simply walked up out of it on to a stone. I could see that her plumage
was not in the least wet; a drop or two often rested on her back when
she came out, but it rolled off in a moment. She never even shook
herself. The food she brought to that eager youngling every few minutes
looked like minute worms, doubtless some insect larvae.
Several times this hard-working mother plunged into the brook where it
was shallow, ran or walked down it, half under water, and stopped on the
very brink of the lower fall, where one would think she could not even
stand, much less turn back and run up stream, which she did freely. This
looked to me almost as difficult as for a man to stand on the brink of
Niagara, with the water roaring and tumbling around him. Now and then
the bird ran or flew up, against the current, and entirely under water,
so that I could see her only as a dark-colored moving object, and then
came out all fresh and dry beside the baby, with a mouthful of food. I
should hardly dare to tell this, for fear of raising doubts of my
accuracy, if the same thing had not been seen and reported by others
before me. Her crowning action was to stand with one foot on each of two
stones in the middle and most uproarious part of the little fall, lean
far over, and deliberately pick something from a third stone.
All this was no show performance, even no frolic, on the part of the
ouzel,--it was simply her every-day manner of providing for the needs of
that infant; and when she considered the duty discharged for the time,
she took her departure, very probably going at once to the care of a
second youngster who awaited her coming in some other niche in the
rocks.
Finding himself alone again, and no more dainties coming his way, the
young dipper turned for entertainment to the swift-running streamlet. He
went down to the edge, stepping easily, never hopping; but when the
shallow edge of the water ran over his pretty white toes, he hastily
scampered back, as if afraid to venture farther. The clever little rogue
was only coquetting, however, for when he did at last plunge in he
showed himself very much at home. He easily crossed a turbulent bit of
the brook, and when he was carried down a little he scrambled without
trouble up on a stone. All the time, too, he was peering about after
food; and in fact it was plain that his begging was a mere pretense,--he
was perfectly well able to look out for himself. Through the whole of
these scenes not one of the birds, old or young, had paid the slightest
attention to me, though I was not ten feet from them.
During the time I had been so absorbed in my delightful study of
domestic life in the ouzel family, the other interesting resident of the
canyon--the elusive canyon wren--had been forgotten. Now, as I noticed
that the day was waning, I thought of him again, and, tearing myself
away from the enticing picture, leaving the pretty baby to his own
amusements, I returned to the famous Pillars, and planted myself before
my rock, resolved to stay there till the bird appeared.
No note came to encourage me, but, gazing steadily upward, after a time
I noticed something that looked like a fly running along the wall.
Bringing my glass to my eyes, I found that it was a bird, and one of the
white-throated family I so longed to see. She--for her silence and her
ways proclaimed her sex--was running about where appeared to be nothing
but perpendicular rock, flirting her tail after the manner of her race,
as happy and as unconcerned as if several thousand feet of sheer cliff
did not stretch between her and the brook at its foot. Her movements
were jerky and wren-like, and every few minutes she flitted into a tiny
crevice that seemed, from my point of view, hardly large enough to admit
even her minute form. She was dressed like the sweet singer of
yesterday, and the door she entered so familiarly was the same I had
seen him interested in. I guessed that she was his mate.
The bird seemed to be gathering from the rock something which she
constantly carried into the hole. Possibly there were nestlings in that
snug and inaccessible home. To discover if my conjectures were true, I
redoubled my vigilance, though it was neck-breaking work, for so narrow
was the canyon at that point that I could not get far enough away for a
more level view.
Sometimes the bustling little wren flew to the top of the wall, about
twenty feet above her front door, as it looked to me (it may have been
ten times that). Over the edge she instantly disappeared, but in a few
minutes returned to her occupation on the rock. Upon the earth beneath
her sky parlor she seemed never to turn her eyes, and I began to fear
that I should get no nearer view of the shy cliff-dweller.
Finally, however, the caprice seized the tantalizing creature of
descending to the level of mortals, and the brook. Suddenly, while I
looked, she flung herself off her perch, and fell--down--down--down--
disappearing at last behind a clump of weeds at the bottom. Was she
killed? Had she been shot by some noiseless air-gun? What had become
of the tiny wren? I sprang to my feet, and hurried as near as the
intervening stream would allow, when lo! there she was, lively and fussy
as ever, running about at the foot of the cliff, searching, searching
all the time, ever and anon jumping up and pulling from the rock
something that clung to it.
When the industrious bird had filled her beak with material that stuck
out on both sides, which I concluded to be some kind of rock moss, she
started back. Not up the face of that blank wall, loaded as she was,
but by a strange path that she knew well, up which I watched her wending
her way to her proper level. This was a cleft between two solid bodies
of rock, where, it would seem, the two walls, in settling together for
their lifelong union, had broken and crumbled, and formed between them a
sort of crack, filled with unattached bowlders, with crevices and
passages, sometimes perpendicular, sometimes horizontal. Around and
through these was a zigzag road to the top, evidently as familiar to
that atom of a bird as Broadway is to some of her fellow-creatures, and
more easily traversed, for she had it all to herself.
The wren flew about three feet to the first step of her upward passage,
then ran and clambered nearly all the rest of the way, darting behind
jutting rocks and coming out the other side, occasionally flying a foot
or two; now pausing as if for an observation, jerking her tail upright
and letting it drop back, wren-fashion, then starting afresh, and so
going on till she reached the level of her nest, when she flew across
the (apparent) forty or fifty feet, directly into the crevice. In a
minute she came out, and without an instant's pause flung herself down
again.
I watched this curious process very closely. The wren seemed to close
her wings; certainly she did not use them, nor were they in the least
spread that I could detect. She came to the ground as if she were a
stone, as quickly and as directly as a stone would have fallen; but just
before touching the ground she spread her wings, and alighted lightly on
her feet. Then she fell to her labor of collecting what I suppose was
nesting material, and in a few minutes started up again by the
roundabout road to the top. Two hours or more, with gradually stiffening
neck, I spent with the wren, while she worked constantly and silently,
and not once during all that time did the singer appear.
What the scattering parties of tourists, who from time to time passed
me, thought of a silent personage sitting in the canyon alone, staring
intently up at a blank wall of rock, I did not inquire. Perhaps that she
was a verse-writer seeking inspiration; more likely, however, a harmless
lunatic musing over her own fancies.
I know well what I thought of them, from the glimpses that came to me as
I sat there; some climbing over the sharp-edged rocks, in tight boots,
delicate kid gloves, and immaculate traveling costumes, and panting for
breath in the seven thousand feet altitude; others uncomfortably seated
on the backs of the scraggy little burros, one of whom was so interested
in my proceedings that he walked directly up and thrust his long,
inquiring ears into my very face, spite of the resistance of his rider,
forcing me to rise and decline closer acquaintance. One of the
melancholy procession was loaded with a heavy camera, another equipped
with a butterfly net; this one bent under the weight of a big basket of
luncheon, and that one was burdened with satchels and wraps and
umbrellas. All were laboriously trying to enjoy themselves, but not one
lingered to look at the wonder and the beauty of the surroundings. I
pitied them, one and all, feeling obliged, as no doubt they did, to "see
the sights;" tramping the lovely canyon to-day, glancing neither to right
nor left; whirling through the Garden of the Gods to-morrow; painfully
climbing the next day the burro track to the Grave, the sacred point
where
"Upon the wind-blown mountain spot
Chosen and loved as best by her,
Watched over by near sun and star,
Encompassed by wide skies, she sleeps."
Alas that one cannot quote with truth the remaining lines!
"And not one jarring murmur creeps
Up from the plain her rest to mar."
For now, at the end of the toilsome passage, that place which should be
sacred to loving memories and tender thoughts, is desecrated by placards
and picnickers, defaced by advertisements, strewn with the
wrapping-paper, tin cans, and bottles with which the modern
globe-trotter marks his path through the beautiful and sacred scenes in
nature.[1]
In this uncomfortable way the majority of summer tourists spend day
after day, and week after week; going home tired out, with no new idea
gained, but happy to be able to say they have been here and there,
beheld this canyon, dined on that mountain, drank champagne in such a
pass, and struggled for breath on top of "the Peak." Their eyes may
indeed have passed over these scenes, but they have not _seen_ one
thing.
Far wiser is he (and more especially she) who seeks out a corner obscure
enough to escape the eyes of the "procession," settles himself in it,
and spends fruitful and delightful days alone with nature; never hasting
nor rushing; seeing and studying the wonders at hand, but avoiding
"parties" and "excursions;" valuing more a thorough knowledge of one
canyon than a glimpse of fifty; caring more to appreciate the beauties of
one mountain than to scramble over a whole range; getting into such
perfect harmony with nature that it is as if he had come into possession
of a new life; and from such an experience returning to his home
refreshed and invigorated in mind and body.
Such were my reflections as the sun went down, and I felt, as I passed
out through the gate, that I ought to double my entrance fee, so much
had my life been enriched by that perfect day alone in Cheyenne Canyon.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Since the above was written, I am glad to learn that,
because of this vandalism, the remains of "H. H." have been removed to
the cemetery at Colorado Springs.]
IN THE MIDDLE COUNTRY.
For all the woods are shrill with stress of song,
Where soft wings flutter down to new-built nests,
And turbulent sweet sounds are heard day long,
As of innumerable marriage feasts.
CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH.
VIII.
AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
Four o'clock in the morning is the magical hour of the day. I do not
offer this sentiment as original, nor have I the slightest hope of
converting any one to my opinion; I merely state the fact.
For years I had known it perfectly well; and fortified by my knowledge,
and bristling with good resolutions, I went out every June determined to
rise at that unnatural hour. Nothing is easier than to get up at four
o'clock--the night before; but when morning comes, the point of view is
changed, and all the arguments that arise in the mind are on the other
side; sleep is the one thing desirable. The case appeared hopeless.
Appeals from Philip drunk (with sleep) to Philip sober did not seem to
avail; for whatever the latter decreed, the former would surely disobey.
But last June I found my spur; last summer I learned to get up with
eagerness, and stay up with delight. This was effected by means of an
alarm, set by the evening's wakefulness, that had no mercy on the
morning's sleepiness. The secret is--a present interest. What may be
going on somewhere out of sight and hearing in the world is a matter of
perfect indifference; what is heard and seen at the moment is an
argument that no one can resist.
I got my hint by the accident of some shelled corn being left on the
ground before my window, and so attracting a four o'clock party,
consisting of blackbirds, blue jays, and doves. I noticed the corn, but
did not think of the pleasure it would give me, until the next morning,
when I was awakened about four o'clock by loud and excited talk in
blackbird tones, and hurried to the window, to find that I had half the
birds of the neighborhood before me.
Most in number, and most noisy, were the common blackbirds, who just at
that time were feeding their young in a grove of evergreens back of the
house, where they had set up their nurseries in a crowd, as is their
custom. It is impossible to take this bird seriously, he is so
irresistibly ludicrous. His manners always suggest to me the peculiar
drollery of the negro; one of the old-fashioned sort, as we read of him,
and I promised myself some amusement from the study of him at short
range; I was not disappointed.
My greeting as I took my seat at the open window, unfortunately without
blinds to screen me, was most comical. A big pompous fellow turned his
wicked-looking white eye upon me, drew himself into a queer humped-up
position, with all his feathers on end, and apparently by a strong
effort _squeezed_ out a husky and squeaky, yet loud cry of two notes,
which sounded exactly like "Squee-gee!"
I was so astounded that I laughed in his face; at which he repeated it
with added emphasis, then turned his back on me, as unworthy of notice
away up in my window, and gave his undivided attention to a specially
large grain of corn which had been unearthed by a meek-looking neighbor,
and appropriated by him, in the most lordly manner. His bearing at the
moment was superb and stately in a degree of which only a bird who walks
is capable; one cannot be dignified who is obliged to hop.
I thought his greeting was a personal one to show contempt--which it did
emphatically--to the human race in general, and to me in particular, but
I found later that it was the ordinary blackbird way of being offensive;
it was equivalent to "Get out!" or "Shut up!" or some other of the curt
and rude expressions in use by bigger folk than blackbirds.
If a bird alighted too near one of these arrogant fellows on the ground,
he was met with the same expletive, and if he was about the same size
he "talked back." The number and variety of utterances at their command
was astonishing; I was always being surprised with a new one. Now a
blackbird would fly across the lawn, making a noise exactly like a boy's
tin trumpet, and repeating it as long as he was within hearing,
regarding it, seemingly, as an exceptionally great feat. Again one would
seize a kernel of corn, burst out with a convulsive cry, as if he were
choking to death, and fly off with his prize, in imminent danger of his
life, as I could not but feel.
The second morning a youngster came with his papa to the feast, and he
was droller, if possible, than his elders. He followed his parent
around, with head lowered and mouth wide open, fairly bawling in a loud
yet husky tone.
The young blackbird does not appear in the glossy suit of his parents.
His coat is rusty in hue, and his eye is dark, as is proper in youth. He
is not at all backward in speaking his mind, and his sole desire at this
period of his life being food, he demands it with an energy and
persistence that usually insures success.
In making close acquaintance with them, one cannot help longing to
prescribe to the whole blackbird family something to clear their
bronchial tubes; every tone is husky, and the student involuntarily
clears his own throat as he listens.
I was surprised to find the blackbirds so beautiful. When the sun was
near setting, and struck across the grass its level rays, they were
really exquisite; their heads a brilliant metallic blue, and all back of
that rich bronze or purple, all over as glossy as satin. The little
dames are somewhat smaller, and a shade less finely dressed than their
bumptious mates; but that does not make them meek--far from it! and they
are not behind their partners in eccentric freaks. Sometimes one would
apparently attempt a joke by starting to fly, and passing so near the
head of one of the dignitaries on the ground that he would involuntarily
start and "duck" ingloriously. On one occasion a pair were working
peaceably together at the corn, when she flirted a bit of dirt so that
it flew toward him. He dashed furiously at her. She gave one hop which
took her about a foot away, and then it appeared that she coveted a
kernel of corn that was near him when the offense was given, for she
instantly jumped back and pounced upon it as if she expected to be
annihilated. He ran after her and drove her off, but she kept her prize.
Eating one of those hard grains was no joke to anybody without teeth,
and it was a serious affair to one of the blackbirds. He took it into
his beak, dropped both head and tail, and gave his mind to the cracking
of the sweet morsel. At this time he particularly disliked to be
disturbed, and the only time I saw one rude to a youngster was when
struggling with this difficulty. While feeding the nestlings, they broke
the kernels into bits, picked up all the pieces, filling the beak the
whole length, and then flew off with them.
But they were not always allowed to keep the whole kernel. They were
generally attended while on the ground by a little party of thieves,
ready and waiting to snatch any morsel that was dropped. These were, of
course, the English sparrows. They could not break corn, but they liked
it for all that, so they used their wits to secure it, and of sharpness
these street birds have no lack. The moment a blackbird alighted on the
grass, a sparrow or two came down beside him, and lingered around,
watching eagerly. Whenever a crumb dropped, one rushed in and snatched
it, and instantly flew from the wrath to come.
The sparrows had not been at this long before some of the wise
blackbirds saw through it, and resented it with proper spirit. One of
them would turn savagely after the sparrow who followed him, and the
knowing rascal always took his departure. It was amusing to see a
blackbird working seriously on a grain, all his faculties absorbed in
the solemn question whether he should succeed in cracking his nut, while
two or three feathered pilferers stood as near as they dared, anxiously
waiting till the great work should be accomplished, the hard shell
should yield, and some bits should fall.
About five days after the feast was spread, the young came out in force,
often two of them following one adult about on the grass, running after
him so closely that he could hardly get a chance to break up the kernel;
indeed, he often had to fly to a tree to prepare the mouthfuls for them.
The young blackbird has not the slightest repose of manner; nor, for
that matter, has the old one either. The grown-ups treated the young
well, almost always; they never "squee-gee'd" at them, never touched
them in any way, notwithstanding they were so insistent in begging that
they would chase an adult bird across the grass, calling madly all the
time, and fairly force him to fly away to get rid of them.
Once two young ones got possession of the only spot where corn was left,
and so tormented their elders who came that they had to dash in and
snatch a kernel when they wanted one. One of the old ones danced around
these two babies in a little circle a foot in diameter, the infants
turning as he moved, and ever presenting open beaks to him. It was one
of the funniest exhibitions I ever saw. After going around half a dozen
times, the baffled blackbird flew away without a taste.
When the two had driven every one else off the ground by their
importunities, one of them plucked up spirit to try managing the corn
for himself. Like a little man he stopped bawling, and began exercising
his strength on the sweet grain. Upon this his neighbor, instead of
following his example, began to beg of him! fluttering his wings,
putting up his beak, and almost pulling the corn out of the mouth of the
poor little fellow struggling with his first kernel!
Sometimes a young one drove his parent all over a tree with his
supplications. Higher and higher would go the persecuted, with his
tormentor scrambling, and half flying after, till the elder absolutely
flew away, much put out.