interested in getting at the mode of expression in the family, and I
listened on every occasion. One day two doves alighted over my head when
I was sitting perfectly still, and I distinctly heard very low talk,
like that of my lost baby; there was, in addition, a note or two like
the coo, but exceedingly low. I could not have heard a sound ten feet
from the tree, nor if I had been stirring myself. I observed also that a
dove can fly in perfect silence; and, moreover, that the whistle of the
wings sometimes continues after the bird has become still. I heard the
regular coo--the whole four-note performance--both in a whisper and in
the ordinary tone, and the latter, though right over my head, sounded a
mile away. At the end of my month's study I was convinced that the dove
is far from being a silent bird; on the contrary, he is quite a talker,
with the "low, sweet voice" so much desired in other quarters. And
further, that the whistling is not produced wholly (if at all) by the
wings, and it is a gross injustice to assert that he is not capable of
expressing himself at all times and seasons.
BESIDE THE GREAT SALT LAKE.
Up!--If thou knew'st who calls
To twilight parks of beach and pine
High o'er the river intervals,
Above the plowman's highest line,
Over the owner's farthest walls!
Up! where the airy citadel
O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell!
EMERSON.
XVIII.
IN A PASTURE.
The word "pasture," as used on the shore of the Great Salt Lake, conveys
no true idea to one whose associations with that word have been formed
in States east of the Rocky Mountains. Imagine an extensive inclosure on
the side of a mountain, with its barren-looking soil strewn with rocks
of all sizes, from a pebble to a bowlder, cut across by an irrigating
ditch or a mountain brook, dotted here and there by sage bushes, and
patches of oak-brush, and wild roses, and one has a picture of a Salt
Lake pasture. Closely examined, it has other peculiarities. There is no
half way in its growths, no shading off, so to speak, as elsewhere; not
an isolated shrub, not a solitary tree, flourishes in the strange soil,
but trees and shrubs crowd together as if for protection, and the clump,
of whatever size or shape, ends abruptly, with the desert coming up to
its very edge. Yet the soil, though it seems to be the driest and most
unpromising of baked gray mud, needs nothing more than a little water,
to clothe itself luxuriantly; the course of a brook or even an
irrigating ditch, if permanent, is marked by a thick and varied border
of greenery. What the poor creatures who wandered over those dreary
wastes could find to eat was a problem to be solved only by close
observation of their ways.
"H. H." said some years ago that the magnificent yucca, the glory of the
Colorado mesas, was being exterminated by wandering cows, who ate the
buds as soon as they appeared. The cattle of Utah--or their owners--have
a like crime to answer for; not only do they constantly feed upon
rose-buds and leaves, notwithstanding the thorns, but they regale
themselves upon nearly every flower-plant that shows its head; lupines
were the chosen dainty of my friend's horse. The animals become expert
at getting this unnatural food; it is curious to watch the deftness with
which a cow will go through a currant or gooseberry bush, thrusting her
head far down among the branches, and carefully picking off the tender
leaves, while leaving the stems untouched, and the matter-of-course way
in which she will bend over and pull down a tall sapling, to despoil it
of its foliage.
In a pasture such as I have described, on the western slope of one of
the Rocky Mountains, desolate and forbidding though it looked, many
hours of last summer's May and June "went their way," if not
"As softly as sweet dreams go down the night,"
certainly with interest and pleasure to two bird-students whose ways I
have sometimes chronicled.
Most conspicuous, as we toiled upward toward our breezy pasture, was a
bird whose chosen station was a fence--a wire fence at that. He was a
tanager; not our brilliant beauty in scarlet and black, but one far more
gorgeous and eccentric in costume, having, with the black wings and tail
of our bird, a breast of shining yellow and a cap of crimson. His
occupation on the sweet May mornings that he lingered with us, on his
way up the mountains for the summer, was the familiar one of getting his
living, and to that he gave his mind without reserve. Not once did he
turn curious eyes upon us as we sauntered by or rested awhile to watch
him. Eagerly his pretty head turned this way and that, but not for us;
it was for the winged creatures of the air he looked, and when one that
pleased his fancy fluttered by he dashed out and secured it, returning
to a post or the fence just as absorbed and just as eager for the next
one. Every time he alighted it was a few feet farther down the fence,
and thus he worked his way out of our sight, without seeming aware of
our existence.
This was not stupidity on the part of the crimson-head, nor was it
foolhardiness; it was simply trust in his guardian, for he had one,--one
who watched every movement of ours with close attention, whose vigilance
was never relaxed, and who appeared, when we saw her, to be above the
need of food. A plain personage she was, clad in modest, dull
yellow,--the female tanager. She was probably his mate; at any rate, she
gradually followed him down the fence, keeping fifteen or twenty feet
behind him, all the time with an eye on us, ready to give warning of the
slightest aggressive movement on our part. It would be interesting to
know how my lord behaves up in those sky-parlors where their summer
homes are made. No doubt he is as tender and devoted as most of his race
(all his race, I would say, if Mr. Torrey had not shaken our faith in
the ruby-throat), and I have no doubt that the little red-heads in the
nest will be well looked after and fed by their fly-catching papa.
Far different from the cool unconcern of the crimson-headed tanager were
the manners of another red-headed dweller on the mountain. The
green-tailed towhee he is called in the books, though the red of his
head is much more conspicuous than the green of his tail. In this bird
the high-bred repose of his neighbor was replaced by the most fussy
restlessness. When we surprised him on the lowest wire of the fence, he
was terribly disconcerted, not to say thrown into a panic. He usually
stood a moment, holding his long tail up in the air, flirted his wings,
turned his body this way and that in great excitement, then hopped to
the nearest bowlder, slipped down behind it, and ran off through the
sage bushes like a mouse. More than this we were never able to see, and
where he lived and how his spouse looked we do not know to this day.
Most interesting of the birds that we saw on our daily way to the
pasture were the gulls; great, beautiful, snowy creatures, who looked
strangely out of place so far away from the seashore. Stranger, too,
than their change of residence was their change of manners from the
wild, unapproachable sea-birds, soaring and diving, and apparently
spending their lives on wings such as the poet sings,--
"When I had wings, my brother,
Such wings were mine as thine;"
and of whose lives he further says,--
"What place man may, we claim it,
But thine,--whose thought may name it?
Free birds live higher than freemen,
And gladlier ye than we."
From this high place in our thoughts, from this realm of poetry and
mystery, to come down almost to the tameness of the barnyard fowl is a
marvelous transformation, and one is tempted to believe the solemn
announcement of the Salt Lake prophet, that the Lord sent them to his
chosen people.
The occasion of this alleged special favor to the Latter Day Saints was
the advent, about twenty years ago, of clouds of grasshoppers, before
which the crops of the Western States and Territories were destroyed as
by fire. It was then, in their hour of greatest need, when the food upon
which depended a whole people was threatened, that these beautiful
winged messengers appeared. In large flocks they came, from no one knows
where, and settled, like so many sparrows, all over the land, devouring
almost without ceasing the hosts of the foe. The crops were saved, and
all Deseret rejoiced. Was it any wonder that a people trained to regard
the head of their church as the direct representative of the Highest
should believe these to be really birds of God, and should accordingly
cherish them? Well would it be for themselves if other Christian peoples
were equally believing, and protected and cherished other winged
messengers, sent just as truly to protect their crops.
The shrewd man who wielded the destinies of his people beside the Salt
Lake secured the future usefulness of what they considered the
miraculous visitation by fixing a penalty of five dollars upon the head
of every gull in the Territory. And now, the birds having found
congenial nesting-places on solitary islands in the lake, their
descendants are so fearless and so tame that they habitually follow the
plow like a flock of chickens, rising from almost under the feet of the
indifferent horses and settling down at once in the furrow behind,
seeking out and eating greedily all the worms and grubs and larvae and
mice and moles that the plow has disturbed in its passage. The Mormon
cultivator has sense enough to appreciate such service, and no man or
boy dreams of lifting a finger against his best friend.
Extraordinary indeed was this sight to eyes accustomed to seeing every
bird who attempts to render like service shot and snared and swept from
the face of the earth. Our hearts warmed toward the "Sons of Zion," and
our respect for their intelligence increased, as we hurried down to the
field to see this latter-day wonder.
Whether the birds distinguished between "saints" and sinners, or whether
their confidence extended only to plow-boys, they would not let us come
near them. But our glasses brought them close, and we had a very good
study of them, finding exceeding interest in their ways: their quaint
faces as they flew toward us; their dignified walk; their expression of
disapproval, lifting the wings high above the back till they met; their
queer and constant cries in the tone of a child who whines; and, above
all, their use of the wonderful wings,--"half wing, half wave," Mrs.
Spofford calls them.
To rise from the earth upon these beautiful great arms, seemed to be not
so easy as it looks. Some of the graceful birds lifted them, and ran a
little before leaving the ground, and all of them left both legs
hanging, and both feet jerking awkwardly at every wing-beat, for a few
moments on starting, before they carefully drew each flesh-colored foot
up into its feather pillow,
"And gray and silver up the dome
Of gray and silver skies went sailing,"
in ever-widening circles, without moving a feather that we could
perceive. It was charming to see how nicely they folded down their
splendid wings on alighting, stretching each one out, and apparently
straightening every feather before laying it into its place.
Several hours this interesting flock accompanied the horses and man
around the field, taking possession of each furrow as it was laid open,
and chattering and eating as fast as they could; and the question
occurred to me, if a field that is thoroughly gleaned over every spring
furnishes so great a supply of creatures hurtful to vegetation, what
must be the state of grounds which are carefully protected from such
gleaning, on which no bird is allowed to forage?
As noon approached, the hour when "birds their wise siesta take,"
although the plow did not cease its monotonous round, the birds retired
in a body to the still untouched middle of the field, and settled
themselves for their "nooning," dusting themselves--their snowy
plumes!--like hens on an ash heap, sitting about in knots like parties
of ducks, preening and shaking themselves out, or going at once to
sleep, according to their several tastes. Half an hour's rest sufficed
for the more active spirits, and then they treated us, their patient
observers, to an aerial exhibition. A large number, perhaps three
quarters of the flock, rose in a body and began a spiral flight. Higher
and higher they went, in wider and wider circles, till, against the
white clouds, they looked like a swarm of midges, and against the blue
the eye could not distinguish them. Then from out of the sky dropped one
after another, leaving the soaring flock looking wonderfully ethereal
and gauzy in the clear air, with the sun above him, almost like a spirit
bird gliding motionless through the ether till he alighted at last
quietly beside his fellows on the ground. In another half hour they were
all behind the plow again, hard at work.
When we had looked our fill, we straightway sought out and questioned
some of the wise men among the "peculiar people." This is what we
learned: that when plowing is over the birds retire to their home, an
island in the lake, where, being eminently social birds, their nests are
built in a community. Their beneficent service to mankind does not end
with the plowing season, for when that is over they turn their attention
to the fish that are brought into the lake by the fresh-water streams,
at once strangled by its excess of salt, and their bodies washed up on
the shore. What would become of the human residents if that animal
deposit were left for the fierce sun to dispose of, may perhaps be
imagined. The gull should, indeed, be a sacred bird in Utah.
What drew us first to the pasture--which we came to at last--was our
search for a magpie's nest. The home of this knowing fellow is the Rocky
Mountain region, and, naturally, he was the first bird we thought of
looking for. There would be no difficulty in finding nests, we thought,
for we came upon magpies everywhere in our walks. Now one alighted on a
fence-post a few yards ahead of us, earnestly regarding our approach,
tilting upward his long, expressive tail, the black of his plumage
shining with brilliant blue reflections, and the white fairly dazzling
the eyes. Again we caught glimpses of two or three of the beautiful
birds walking about on the ground, holding their precious tails well up
from the earth, and gleaning industriously the insect life of the horse
pasture. At one moment we were saluted from the top of a tall tree, or
shrieked at by one passing over our heads, looking like an immense
dragonfly against the sky. Magpie voices were heard from morning till
night; strange, loud calls of "mag! mag!" were ever in our ears. "Oh,
yes," we had said, "we must surely go out some morning and find a nest."
First we inquired. Everybody knew where they built, in oak-brush or in
apple-trees, but not a boy in that village knew where there was a nest.
Oh, no, not one! A man confessed to the guilty secret, and, directed by
him, we took a long walk through the village with its queer little
houses, many of them having the two front doors which tell the tale of
Mormondom within; up the long sidewalk, with a beautiful bounding
mountain brook running down the gutter, as if it were a tame irrigating
ditch, to a big gate in a "combination fence." What this latter might be
we had wondered, but relied upon knowing it when we saw it,--and we did:
it was a fence of laths held together by wires woven between them, and
we recognized the fitness of the name instantly. Then on through the
big gate, down a long lane where we ran the gauntlet of the family cows;
over or under bars, where awaited us a tribe of colts with their anxious
mammas; and at last to the tree and the nest. There our guide met us and
climbed up to explore. Alas! the nest robber had anticipated us.
Slowly we took our way home, resolved to ask no more help, but to seek
for ourselves, for the nest that is _known_ is the nest that is robbed.
So the next morning, armed with camp-chairs and alpenstocks,
drinking-cups and notebooks, we started up the mountain, where we could
at least find solitude, and the fresh air of the hills. We climbed till
we were tired, and then, as was our custom, sat down to rest and
breathe, and see who lived in that part of the world. Without thought of
the height we had reached, we turned our backs to the mountain, rising
bare and steep before us, and behold! the outlook struck us dumb.
There at our feet lay the village, smothered in orchards and
shade-trees, the locusts, just then huge bouquets of graceful bloom and
delicious odor, buzzing with hundreds of bees and humming-birds; beyond
was a stretch of cultivated fields in various shades of green and brown;
and then the lake,--beautiful and wonderful Salt Lake,--glowing with
exquisite colors, now hyacinth blue, changing in places to tender green
or golden brown, again sparkling like a vast bed of diamonds. In the
foreground lay Antelope Island, in hues of purple and bronze, with its
chain of hills and graceful sky-line; and resting on the horizon beyond
were the peaks of the grand Oquirrhs, capped with snow. Well might we
forget our quest while gazing on this impressive scene, trying to fix
its various features in our memories, to be an eternal possession.
We were recalled to the business in hand by the sudden appearance on the
top of a tree below us of one of the birds we sought. The branch bent
and swayed as the heavy fellow settled upon it, and in a moment a
comrade came, calling vigorously, and alighted on a neighboring branch.
A few minutes they remained, with flirting tails, conversing in
garrulous tones, then together they rose on broad wings, and passed
away--away over the fields, almost out of sight, before they dropped
into a patch of oak-brush. After them appeared others, and we sat there
a long time, hoping to see at least one that had its home within our
reach. But every bird that passed over turned its face to the mountains;
some seemed to head for the dim Oquirrhs across the lake, while others
disappeared over the top of the Wasatch behind us; not one paused in
our neighborhood, excepting long enough to look at us, and express its
opinion in loud and not very polite tones.
It was then and there that we noticed our pasture; the entrance was
beside us. Shall we go in? was always the question before an inclosure.
We looked over the wall. It was plainly the abode of horses, meek
work-a-day beings, who certainly would not resent our intrusion.
Oak-brush was there in plenty, and that is the chosen home of the
magpie. We hesitated; we started for the gate. It was held in place by a
rope elaborately and securely tied in many knots; but we had learned
something about the gates of this "promised land,"--that between the
posts and the stone wall may usually be found space enough to slip
through without disturbing the fastenings.
In that country no one goes through a gate who can possibly go around
it, and well is it indeed for the stranger and the wayfarer in "Zion"
that such is the custom, for the idiosyncrasies of gates were endless;
they agreed only in never fitting their place and never opening
properly. If the gate was in one piece, it sagged so that it must be
lifted; or it had lost one hinge, and fell over on the rash individual
who loosened the fastenings; or it was about falling to pieces, and must
be handled like a piece of choice bric-a-brac. If it had a latch, it
was rusty or did not fit; and if it had not, it was fastened, either by
a board slipped in to act as a bar and never known to be of proper size,
or in some occult way which would require the skill of "the lady from
Philadelphia" to undo. If it was of the fashion that opens in the
middle, each individual gate had its particular "kink," which must be
learned by the uninitiated before he--or, what is worse, she--could
pass. Many were held together by a hoop or link of iron, dropped over
the two end posts; but whether the gate must be pulled out or pushed in,
and at exactly what angle it would consent to receive the link, was to
be found out only by experience.
But not all gates were so simple even as this: the ingenuity with which
a variety of fastenings,--all to avoid the natural and obvious one of a
hook and staple,--had been evolved in the rural mind was fairly
startling. The energy and thought that had been bestowed upon this
little matter of avoiding a gate-hook would have built a bridge across
Salt Lake, or tunneled the Uintas for an irrigating ditch.
Happily, we too had learned to "slip through," and we passed the gate
with its rope puzzle, and the six or eight horses who pointed inquiring
ears toward their unwonted visitors, and hastened to get under cover
before the birds, if any lived there, should come home.
The oak-brush, which we then approached, is a curious and interesting
form of vegetation. It is a mass of oak-trees, all of the same age,
growing as close as they can stand, with branches down to the ground. It
looks as if each patch had sprung from a great fall of acorns from one
tree, or perhaps were shoots from the roots of a perished tree. The
clumps are more or less irregularly round, set down in a barren piece of
ground, or among the sage bushes. At a distance, on the side of a
mountain, they resemble patches of moss of varying shape. When two or
three feet high, one is a thick, solid mat; when it reaches an altitude
of six to eight feet, it is an impenetrable thicket; except, that is,
when it happens to be in a pasture. Horses and cattle find such scanty
pickings in the fields, that they nibble every green thing, even oak
leaves, and so they clear the brush as high as they can reach. When
therefore it is fifteen feet high, there is a thick roof the animals are
not able to reach, and one may look through a patch to the light beyond.
The stems and lower branches, though kept bare of leaves, are so close
together and so intertwined and tangled, that forcing one's way through
it is an impossibility. But the horses have made and kept open paths in
every direction, and this turns it into a delightful grove, a cool
retreat, which others appreciate as well as the makers.
Selecting a favorable-looking clump of oak-brush, we attempted to get in
without using the open horse paths, where we should be in plain sight.
Melancholy was the result; hats pulled off, hair disheveled, garments
torn, feet tripped, and wounds and scratches innumerable. Several
minutes of hard work and stubborn endurance enabled us to penetrate not
more than half a dozen feet, when we managed, in some sort of fashion,
to sit down, on opposite sides of the grove. Then, relying upon our
"protective coloring" (not evolved, but carefully selected in the
shops), we subsided into silence, hoping not to be observed when the
birds came home, for there was the nest before us.
A wise and canny builder is Madam Mag, for though her home must be large
to accommodate her size, and conspicuous because of the shallowness of
the foliage above her, it is, in a way, a fortress, to despoil which the
marauder must encounter a weapon not to be despised,--a stout beak,
animated and impelled by indignant motherhood. The structure was made of
sticks, and enormous in size; a half-bushel measure would hardly hold
it. It was covered, as if to protect her, and it had two openings under
the cover, toward either of which she could turn her face. It looked
like a big, coarsely woven basket resting in a crotch up under the
leaves, with a nearly close cover supported by a small branch above.
The sitting bird could draw herself down out of sight, or she could
defend herself and her brood, at either entrance.
In my retreat, I had noted all these points before any sign of life
appeared in the brush. Then there came a low cry of "mag! mag!" and the
bird entered near the ground. She alighted on a dead branch, which swung
back and forth, while she kept her balance with her beautiful tail. She
did not appear to look around; apparently she had no suspicions and did
not notice us, sitting motionless and breathless in our respective
places. Her head was turned to the nest, and by easy stages and with
many pauses, she made her way to it. I could not see that she had a
companion, for I dared not stir so much as a finger; but while she moved
about near the nest there came to the eager listeners on the ground low
and tender utterances in the sweetest of voices,--whether one or two I
know not,--and at last a song, a true melody, of a yearning, thrilling
quality that few song-birds, if any, can excel. I was astounded! Who
would suspect the harsh-voiced, screaming magpie of such notes! I am
certain that the bird or birds had no suspicion of listeners to the home
talk and song, for after we were discovered, we heard nothing of the
sort.