call than anything else I know. It makes things much simpler to
understand, when you are camped deep in the wilderness, and the night
falls, and out of the misty darkness under the farther shore comes a
wild shivering call that makes one's nerves tingle till he finds out
about it--_Where are you? O where are you?_ That is just like Hukweem.
Sometimes, however, he varies the cry, and asks very plainly: "Who are
you? O who are you?" There was a loon on the Big Squattuk lake, where
I camped one summer, which was full of inquisitiveness as a blue jay.
He lived alone at one end of the lake, while his mate, with her brood
of two, lived at the other end, nine miles away. Every morning and
evening he came close to my camp--very much nearer than is usual, for
loons are wild and shy in the wilderness--to cry out his challenge.
Once, late at night, I flashed a lantern at the end of the old log
that served as a landing for the canoes, where I had heard strange
ripples; and there was Hukweem, examining everything with the greatest
curiosity.
Every unusual thing in our doings made him inquisitive to know all
about it. Once, when I started down the lake with a fair wind, and a
small spruce set up in the bow of my canoe for a sail, he followed me
four or five miles, calling all the way. And when I came back to camp
at twilight with a big bear in the canoe, his shaggy head showing over
the bow, and his legs up over the middle thwart, like a little old
black man with his wrinkled feet on the table, Hukweem's curiosity
could stand it no longer. He swam up within twenty yards, and circled
the canoe half a dozen times, sitting up straight on his tail by a
vigorous use of his wings, stretching his neck like an inquisitive
duck, so as to look into the canoe and see what queer thing I had
brought with me.
He had another curious habit which afforded him unending amusement.
There was a deep bay on the west shore of the lake, with hills rising
abruptly on three sides. The echo here was remarkable; a single shout
brought a dozen distinct answers, and then a confusion of tongues as
the echoes and re-echoes from many hills met and mingled. I discovered
the place in an interesting way.
One evening at twilight, as I was returning to camp from exploring the
upper lake, I heard a wild crying of loons on the west side. There
seemed to be five or six of the great divers, all laughing and
shrieking like so many lunatics. Pushing over to investigate, I
noticed for the first time the entrance to a great bay, and paddled up
cautiously behind a point, so as to surprise the loons at their game.
For they play games, just as crows do. But when I looked in, there was
only one bird, Hukweem the Inquisitive. I knew him instantly by his
great size and beautiful markings. He would give a single sharp call,
and listen intently, with head up, swinging from side to side as the
separate echoes came ringing back from the hills. Then he would try
his cackling laugh, _Ooo-áh-ha-ha-ha-hoo, ooo-áh-ha-ha-ha-hoo_, and as
the echoes began to ring about his head he would get excited, sitting
up on his tail, flapping his wings, cackling and shrieking with glee
at his own performance. Every wild syllable was flung back like a shot
from the surrounding hills, till the air seemed full of loons, all
mingling their crazy cachinnations with the din of the chief
performer. The uproar made one shiver. Then Hukweem would cease
suddenly, listening intently to the warring echoes. Before the
confusion was half ended he would get excited again, and swim about in
small circles, spreading wings and tail, showing his fine feathers as
if every echo were an admiring loon, pleased as a peacock with himself
at having made such a noise in a quiet world.
There was another loon, a mother bird, on a different lake, whose two
eggs had been carried off by a thieving muskrat; but she did not know
who did it, for Musquash knows how to roll the eggs into water and
carry them off, before eating, where the mother bird will not find the
shells. She came swimming down to meet us the moment our canoe entered
the lake; and what she seemed to cry was, "Where are they? O where are
they?" She followed us across the lake, accusing us of robbery, and
asking the same question over and over.
But whatever the meaning of Hukweem's crying, it seems to constitute a
large part of his existence. Indeed, it is as a cry that he is chiefly
known--the wild, unearthly cry of the wilderness night. His education
for this begins very early. Once I was exploring the grassy shores of
a wild lake when a mother loon appeared suddenly, out in the middle,
with a great splashing and crying. I paddled out to see what was the
matter. She withdrew with a great effort, apparently, as I approached,
still crying loudly and beating the water with her wings. "Oho," I
said, "you have a nest in there somewhere, and now you are trying to
get me away from it." This was the only time I have ever known a loon
to try that old mother bird's trick. Generally they slip off the nest
while the canoe is yet half a mile away, and swim under water a long
distance, and watch you silently from the other side of the lake.
I went back and hunted awhile for the nest among the bogs of a little
bay; then left the search to investigate a strange call that sounded
continuously farther up the shore. It came from some hidden spot in
the tall grass, an eager little whistling cry, reminding me somehow of
a nest of young fish-hawks.
As I waded cautiously among the bogs, trying to locate the sound, I
came suddenly upon the loon's nest--just the bare top of a bog, where
the mother bird had pulled up the grass and hollowed the earth enough
to keep the eggs from rolling out. They were there on the bare ground,
two very large olive eggs with dark blotches. I left them undisturbed
and went on to investigate the crying, which had stopped a moment as I
approached the nest.
Presently it began again behind me, faint at first, then louder and
more eager, till I traced it back to Hukweem's household. But there
was nothing here to account for it, only two innocent-looking eggs on
top of a bog. I bent over to examine them more closely. There, on the
sides, were two holes, and out of the holes projected the points of
two tiny bills. Inside were two little loons, crying at the top of
their lungs, "Let me out! O let me out! It's hot in here. Let me
out--_Oooo-eee! pip-pip-pip_!"
But I left the work of release to the mother bird, thinking she knew
more about it. Next day I went back to the place, and, after much
watching, saw two little loons stealing in and out among the bogs,
exulting in their freedom, but silent as two shadows. The mother bird
was off on the lake, fishing for their dinner.
Hukweem's fishing is always an interesting thing to watch.
Unfortunately he is so shy that one seldom gets a good opportunity.
Once I found his favorite fishing ground, and came every day to watch
him from a thicket on the shore. It was of little use to go in a
canoe. At my approach he would sink deeper and deeper in the water, as
if taking in ballast. How he does this is a mystery; for his body is
much lighter than its bulk of water. Dead or alive, it floats like a
cork; yet without any perceptible motion, by an effort of will
apparently, he sinks it out of sight. You are approaching in your
canoe, and he moves off slowly, swinging his head from side to side so
as to look at you first with one eye, then with the other. Your canoe
is swift; he sees that you are gaining, that you are already too near.
He swings on the water, and sits watching you steadily. Suddenly he
begins to sink, deeper and deeper, till his back is just awash. Go a
little nearer, and now his body disappears; only his neck and head
remain above water. Raise your hand, or make any quick motion, and he
is gone altogether. He dives like a flash, swims deep and far, and
when he comes to the surface will be well out of danger.
If you notice the direction of his bill as it enters the water, you
can tell fairly well about where he will come up again. It was
confusing at first, in chasing him, to find that he rarely came up
where he was expected. I would paddle hard in the direction he was
going, only to find him far to the right or left, or behind me, when
at last he showed himself. That was because I followed his body, not
his bill. Moving in one direction, he will turn his head and dive.
That is to mislead you, if you are following him. Follow his bill, as
he does himself, and you will be near him when he rises; for he rarely
turns under water.
With two good men to paddle, it is not difficult to tire him out.
Though he swims with extraordinary rapidity under water--fast enough
to follow and catch a trout--a long deep dive tires him, and he must
rest before another. If you are chasing him, shout and wave your hat
the moment he appears, and paddle hard the way his bill points as he
dives again. The next time he comes up you are nearer to him. Send him
down again quick, and after him. The next time he is frightened to see
the canoe so close, and dives deep, which tires him the more. So his
disappearances become shorter and more confused; you follow him more
surely because you can see him plainly now as he goes down. Suddenly
he bursts out of water beside you, scattering the spray into your
canoe. Once he came up under my paddle, and I plucked a feather from
his back before he got away.
This last appearance always scares him out of his wits, and you get
what you have been working hard for--a sight of Hukweem getting under
way. Away he goes in a smother of spray, beating the water with his
wings, kicking hard to lift himself up; and so for a hundred yards,
leaving a wake like a stern-wheel steamer, till he gathers headway
enough to rise from the water.
After that first start there is no sign of awkwardness. His short
wings rise and fall with a rapidity that tries the eye to follow, like
the rush of a coot down wind to decoys. You can hear the swift, strong
beat of them, far over your head, when he is not calling. His flight
is very rapid, very even, and often at enormous altitudes. But when he
wants to come down he always gets frightened, thinking of his short
wings, and how high he is, and how fast he is going. On the ocean, in
winter, where he has all the room he wants, he sometimes comes down in
a great incline, miles long, and plunges through and over a dozen
waves, like a dolphin, before he can stop. But where the lake is
small, and he cannot come down that way, he has a dizzy time of it.
Once, on a little lake in September, I used to watch for hours to get
a sight of the process. Twelve or fifteen loons were gathered there,
holding high carnival. They called down every migrating loon that
passed that way; their numbers increased daily. Twilight was the
favorite time for arriving. In the stillness I would hear Hukweem far
away, so high that he was only a voice. Presently I would see him
whirling over the lake in a great circle.--"Come down, O come down,"
cry all the loons. "I'm afraid, _ooo-ho-ho-ho-ho-hoooo-eee_, I'm
afraid," says Hukweem, who is perhaps a little loon, all the way from
Labrador on his first migration, and has never come down from a height
before. "Come on, O come _oh-ho-ho-ho-ho-hon_. It won't hurt you; we
did it; come on," cry all the loons.
Then Hukweem would slide lower with each circle, whirling round and
round the lake in a great spiral, yelling all the time, and all the
loons answering. When low enough, he would set his wings and plunge
like a catapult at the very midst of the assembly, which scattered
wildly, yelling like schoolboys--"Look out! he'll break his neck;
he'll hit you; he'll break your back if he hits you."--So they
splashed away in a desperate fright, each one looking back over his
shoulder to see Hukweem come down, which he would do at a terrific
pace, striking the water with a mighty splash, and shooting half
across the lake in a smother of white, before he could get his legs
under him and turn around. Then all the loons would gather round him,
cackling, shrieking, laughing, with such a din as the little loon
never heard in his life before; and he would go off in the midst of
them, telling them, no doubt, what a mighty thing it was to come down
from so high and not break his neck.
A little later in the fall I saw those same loons do an astonishing
thing. For several evenings they had been keeping up an unusual racket
in a quiet bay, out of sight of my camp. I asked Simmo what he thought
they were doing.--"O, I don' know, playin' game, I guess, jus' like
one boy. Hukweem do dat sometime, wen he not hungry," said Simmo,
going on with his bean-cooking. That excited my curiosity; but when I
reached the bay it was too dark to see what they were playing.
One evening, when I was fishing at the inlet, the racket was different
from any I had heard before. There would be an interval of perfect
silence, broken suddenly by wild yelling; then the ordinary loon talk
for a few minutes, and another silence, broken by a shriller outcry.
That meant that something unusual was going on, so I left the trout,
to find out about it.
When I pushed my canoe through the fringe of water-grass on the point
nearest the loons, they were scattered in a long line, twelve or
fifteen of them, extending from the head of the bay to a point nearly
opposite me. At the other end of the line two loons were swimming
about, doing something which I could not make out. Suddenly the loon
talk ceased. There may have been a signal given, which I did not hear.
Anyway, the two loons faced about at the same moment and came tearing
down the line, using wings and feet to help in the race. The upper
loons swung in behind them as they passed, so as to watch the finish
better; but not a sound was heard till they passed my end of the line
in a close, hard race, one scarcely a yard ahead of the other, when
such a yelling began as I never heard before. All the loons gathered
about the two swimmers; there was much cackling and crying, which grew
gradually quieter; then they began to string out in another long line,
and two more racers took their places at one end of it. By that time
it was almost dark, and I broke up the race trying to get nearer in my
canoe so as to watch things better. Twice since then I have heard
from summer campers of their having seen loons racing across a lake. I
have no doubt it is a frequent pastime with the birds when the summer
cares for the young are ended, and autumn days are mellow, and fish
are plenty, and there are long hours just for fun together, before
Hukweem moves southward for the hard solitary winter life on the
seacoast.
Of all the loons that cried out to me in the night, or shared the
summer lakes with me, only one ever gave me the opportunity of
watching at close quarters. It was on a very wild lake, so wild that
no one had ever visited it before in summer, and a mother loon felt
safe in leaving the open shore, where she generally nests, and placing
her eggs on a bog at the head of a narrow bay. I found them there a
day or two after my arrival.
I used to go at all hours of the day, hoping the mother would get used
to me and my canoe, so that I could watch her later, teaching her
little ones; but her wildness was unconquerable. Whenever I came in
sight of the nest-bog, with only the loon's neck and head visible,
standing up very straight and still in the grass, I would see her slip
from the nest, steal away through the green cover to a deep place, and
glide under water without leaving a ripple. Then, looking sharp over
the side into the clear water, I would get a glimpse of her, just a
gray streak with a string of silver bubbles, passing deep and swift
under my canoe. So she went through the opening, and appeared far out
in the lake, where she would swim back and forth, as if fishing, until
I went away. As I never disturbed her nest, and always paddled away
soon, she thought undoubtedly that she had fooled me, and that I knew
nothing about her or her nest.
Then I tried another plan. I lay down in my canoe, and had Simmo
paddle me up to the nest. While the loon was out on the lake, hidden
by the grassy shore, I went and sat on a bog, with a friendly alder
bending over me, within twenty feet of the nest, which was in plain
sight. Then Simmo paddled away, and Hukweem came back without the
slightest suspicion. As I had supposed, from the shape of the nest,
she did not sit on her two eggs; she sat on the bog instead, and
gathered them close to her side with her wing. That was all the
brooding they had, or needed; for within a week there were two bright
little loons to watch instead of the eggs.
After the first success I used to go alone and, while the mother bird
was out on the lake, would pull my canoe up in the grass, a hundred
yards or so below the nest. From here I entered the alders and made
my way to the bog, where I could watch Hukweem at my leisure. After a
long wait she would steal into the bay very shyly, and after much fear
and circumspection glide up to the canoe. It took a great deal of
looking and listening to convince her that it was harmless, and that I
was not hiding near in the grass. Once convinced, however, she would
come direct to the nest; and I had the satisfaction at last of
watching a loon at close quarters.
She would sit there for hours--never sleeping apparently, for her eye
was always bright--preening herself, turning her head slowly, so as to
watch on all sides, snapping now and then at an obtrusive fly, all in
utter unconsciousness that I was just behind her, watching every
movement. Then, when I had enough, I would steal away along a caribou
path, and push off quietly in my canoe without looking back. She saw
me, of course, when I entered the canoe, but not once did she leave
the nest. When I reached the open lake, a little searching with my
glass always showed me her head there in the grass, still turned in my
direction apprehensively.
I had hoped to see her let the little ones out of their hard shell,
and see them first take the water; but that was too much to expect.
One day I heard them whistling in the eggs; the next day, when I
came, there was nothing to be seen on the nest-bog. I feared that
something had heard their whistling and put an untimely end to the
young Hukweems while mother bird was away. But when she came back,
after a more fearful survey than usual of the old bark canoe, two
downy little fellows came bobbing to meet her out of the grass, where
she had hidden them and told them to stay till she came back.
It was a rare treat to watch them at their first feeding, the little
ones all eagerness, bobbing about in the delight of eating and the
wonder of the new great world, the mother all tenderness and
watchfulness. Hukweem had never looked to me so noble before. This
great wild mother bird, moving ceaselessly with marvelous grace about
her little ones, watching their play with exquisite fondness, and
watching the great dangerous world for their sakes, now chiding them
gently, now drawing near to touch them with her strong bill, or to rub
their little cheeks with hers, or just to croon over them in an
ecstasy of that wonderful mother love which makes the summer
wilderness beautiful,--in ten minutes she upset all my theories, and
won me altogether, spite of what I had heard and seen of her
destructiveness on the fishing grounds. After all, why should she not
fish as well as I? And then began the first lessons in swimming and
hiding and diving, which I had waited so long to see.
Later I saw her bring little fish, which she had slightly wounded,
turn them loose in shallow water, and with a sharp cluck bring the
young loons out of their hiding, to set them chasing and diving wildly
for their own dinners. But before that happened there was almost a
tragedy.
One day, while the mother was gone fishing, the little ones came out
of their hiding among the grasses, and ventured out some distance into
the bay. It was their first journey alone into the world; they were
full of the wonder and importance of it. Suddenly, as I watched, they
began to dart about wildly, moving with astonishing rapidity for such
little fellows, and whistling loudly. From the bank above, a swift
ripple had cut out into the water between them and the only bit of bog
with which they were familiar. Just behind the ripple were the sharp
nose and the beady eyes of Musquash, who is always in some mischief of
this kind. In one of his prowlings he had discovered the little brood;
now he was manœuvering craftily to keep the frightened youngsters
moving till they should be tired out, while he himself crept carefully
between them and the shore.
Musquash knows well that when a young loon, or a shelldrake, or a
black duck, is caught in the open like that, he always tries to get
back where his mother hid him when she went away. That is what the
poor little fellows were trying to do now, only to be driven back and
kept moving wildly by the muskrat, who lifted himself now and then
from the water, and wiggled his ugly jaws in anticipation of the
feast. He had missed the eggs in his search; but young loon would be
better, and more of it.--"There you are!" he snapped viciously,
lunging at the nearest loon, which flashed under water and barely
escaped.
I had started up to interfere, for I had grown fond of the little wild
things whose growth I had watched from the beginning, when a great
splashing began on my left, and I saw the old mother bird coming like
a fury. She was half swimming, half flying, tearing over the water at
a great pace, a foamy white wake behind her.--"Now, you little
villain, take your medicine. It's coming; it's coming," I cried
excitedly, and dodged back to watch. But Musquash, intent on his evil
doing (he has no need whatever to turn flesh-eater), kept on viciously
after the exhausted little ones, paying no heed to his rear.
Twenty yards away the mother bird, to my great astonishment, flashed
out of sight under water. What could it mean! But there was little
time to wonder. Suddenly a catapult seemed to strike the muskrat from
beneath and lift him clear from the water. With a tremendous rush and
sputter Hukweem came out beneath him, her great pointed bill driven
through to his spine. Little need of my help now. With another
straight hard drive, this time at eye and brain, she flung him aside
disdainfully and rushed to her shivering little ones, questioning,
chiding, praising them, all in the same breath, fluttering and
cackling low in an hysteric wave of tenderness. Then she swam twice
around the dead muskrat and led her brood away from the place.
Perhaps it was to one of those same little ones that I owe a service
for which I am more than grateful. It was in September, when I was at
a lake ten miles away--the same lake into which a score of frolicking
young loons gathered before moving south, and swam a race or two for
my benefit. I was lost one day, hopelessly lost, in trying to make my
way from a wild little lake where I had been fishing, to the large
lake where my camp was. It was late afternoon. To avoid the long hard
tramp down a river, up which I had come in the early morning, I
attempted to cut across through unbroken forest without a compass.
Traveling through a northern forest in summer is desperately hard
work. The moss is ankle deep, the underbrush thick; fallen logs lie
across each other in hopeless confusion, through and under and over
which one must make his laborious way, stung and pestered by hordes of
black flies and mosquitoes. So that, unless you have a strong instinct
of direction, it is almost impossible to hold your course without a
compass, or a bright sun, to guide you.
I had not gone half the distance before I was astray. The sun was long
obscured, and a drizzling rain set in, without any direction whatever
in it by the time it reached the underbrush where I was. I had begun
to make a little shelter, intending to put in a cheerless night there,
when I heard a cry, and looking up caught a glimpse of Hukweem
speeding high over the tree-tops. Far down on my right came a faint
answering cry, and I hastened in its direction, making an Indian
compass of broken twigs as I went along. Hukweem was a young loon, and
was long in coming down. The crying ahead grew louder. Stirred up from
their day rest by his arrival, the other loons began their sport
earlier than usual. The crying soon became almost continuous, and I
followed it straight to the lake.