There is all the difference between taking a walk simply for exercise,
for some special errand, or to enjoy conversation with one's friends,
and the sort of quiet observant stroll I am going to ask my kind readers
to take with me to-day.
This beautiful world is full of wonders of every kind, full of evidences
of the Great Creator's wisdom and skill in adapting each created thing
to its special purpose. The whole realm of nature is meant, I believe,
to _speak to us_, to teach us lessons in parables--to lead our hearts
upward to God who made us and fitted us also for our special place in
creation.
In the nineteenth Psalm David speaks of the two great books God has
given us for our instruction. In the first six verses he speaks of the
teachings of the book of nature and the rest of the Psalm deals with the
written Word of God.
We acknowledge and read the Scriptures as the book which reveals the
will of God and His wondrous works for the welfare of mankind, but how
many fail to give any time or thought to reading the book of nature!
Thousands may travel and admire beautiful scenery, and derive a certain
amount of pleasure from nature, just glancing at each object, but really
observing nothing, and thus failing to learn any of the lessons this
world's beauty is intended to teach, they might almost as well have
stayed at home save for the benefit of fresh air and change of scene.
The habit of minute and careful observation is seldom taught in
childhood, and is not very likely to be gained in later life when the
mind is filled with other things. Yet if natural objects are presented
attractively to the young, how quickly they are interested! Question
after question is asked, and unconsciously a vast amount of information
may be conveyed to an intelligent child's mind by a simple, happy little
chat about some bird or insect. This is _admirably_ shown in a chapter
on Education in the Life of Mrs. Sewell. I would strongly urge every
mother to read and follow the advice there given.
We will now start for our garden walk. We have not taken many steps
before we are led to pause and inquire why there should be little
patches of grey-looking mud in the small angles of the brickwork of the
house. Opening one of the patches with a penknife we find a hollow cell,
and in it some green caterpillars just alive but not able to crawl. Now
I see that the cell is the work of one of the solitary mason wasps; she
brings the material, forms the cell, and when nearly finished lays her
egg at the bottom and provides these half-killed caterpillars as food
for the young grub when it is hatched, and by the time they are eaten
the grub becomes a pupa and then hatches into a young wasp to begin life
on its own account. One day I saw a bee go into a hole in the brickwork
of the house, and getting my net I waited to capture it; after about
five minutes the bee came out and flew into the net. It proved to be a
solitary mason bee, and was doubtless forming a place to lay its egg,
only, unlike the wasp, she would give the young grub pollen from the
stamens of flowers to feed upon instead of green caterpillars. I
remember seeing a mass of clay which had been formed into a wasp's nest
by one of the solitary species, under the flap of a pembroke table in an
unused room. A maid in dusting lifted up the flap, and down fell a
quantity of fine, dry mud with young grubs in it which would soon have
hatched into wasps, and revealed their rather strange nesting-place. I
have in my collection a very interesting hornet's nest, which was being
constructed in the hollow of an old tree. I happened to notice a hornet
fly into the opening, and, looking in, there was a small beginning of a
nest. It hung from a kind of stalk and consisted of only eight cells,
each having an egg at the bottom. I captured the two hornets, and though
I watched for a long time no others ever came, so I imagine they were
the founders of what would have been a colony in due time.
But we have been kept a long time engaged with these mason wasps. Let us
start for our walk. As we take our way through the garden we cannot help
noticing the happy songs of the different birds, all in full activity
preparing their nests, carolling to their mates or seeking food for the
little ones. There is a loud tapping noise as we pass an old fir-tree,
but no bird is to be seen, so we go round to the other side and trace
the noise to a small hole near which a quantity of congealed turpentine
shows that the bark has been pierced by a woodpecker and the sap is
oozing out. I rap outside the hole and in a minute the grey head of a
nuthatch appears. He is evidently chiselling out a "highly desirable
residence" for his summer quarters in this cosy nook, and the hole being
so small he will not need to get clay to reduce the size of the opening
and plaster in his mate, which is said to be the curious habit of this
bird. Do you see that hole about forty feet up the stem of the beech
opposite? A nuthatch built there six years ago; I often watched him
going in and out, and heard his peculiar cry as he brought food for his
mate and her young ones. Next year that lodging was taken by a
starling, who reared a brood there. The year after the nuthatch had it,
and then a jackdaw built there; and each year I always feel interested
to see who the lodgers are going to be.
When I was rearing the wild ducks already described, a weasel used often
to be prowling near the coop, and when frightened retreated in this
direction. It happened one day I was walking softly on the grass and saw
the weasel playing and frisking at the root of that young tree; one
seldom has such an opportunity of seeing it, for it is very shy and has
wonderfully quick hearing. It was seeking about in the grass, leaping
here and there, snuffing the wind, with its snake-like, wicked-looking
head raised to see over the grass stems, and thus at last it caught
sight of me, and in a second it darted into the hole you see there, and
I thus learnt where he lived, but I have not been able to trace his
history any further at present.
Did you see that snake? We have many of them on the common, and they
often cross my path in the garden. Happily there are not many of the
venomous kind: they are smaller than this one, and have a V-shaped mark
on the head. One day in August I was sitting by the open French window
in the drawing-room when one of these harmless snakes came close to me,
looked up at me, putting its quivering little tongue in and out. I
suppose it decided that I could be trusted, for it glided in and coiled
itself round upon my dress skirt and seemed to go to sleep. I let it
stay a good while, but fearing some one might be frightened at seeing it
there, I reached my parasol and with the hooked handle softly took up
the snake and laid it on the grass-plat outside thinking it would go
away--but no, it only turned round and came back and coiled itself up in
the same place. I found it did not mind being touched, so I stroked it
and made it creep all its length through my hand--not a very pleasant
sensation, but a curious experience rarely to be met with. When the
cold, clammy creature had passed out of my hand it threw out a most
disgusting odour, of which I had often read. I imagine it was offended
at my touching it and did this in self-defence. I had at last to carry
it a long distance to ensure it should not return to the room again.
Some years ago I was witness to the mode in which a snake pursues its
victim. A large frog leaped upon the gravel walk before the windows,
crying piteously like a child and taking rapid leaps; a moment after a
large snake appeared swiftly pursuing the frog. At last it reached it,
and gave it a bite which broke its back, and then, being alarmed, it
darted away amongst some rock-work, leaving the frog in a dying state.
This bank we are passing is a favourite winter retreat for female humble
bees. Early in the autumn they begin to scoop out a little tunnel in
this grassy slope, and when it is deep enough to protect them from the
frost they retire into it, and pushing up the earth behind them close up
the entrance of the hole, and there lie dormant until the warmth of
spring tempts them to come out. Then they may be found in great numbers
on the early sallow, and other tree-blossoms, recruiting their strength,
while they seek a place in some hedge-bank wherein to found a new
colony.
The Carder bee forms its nest on the ground and makes a roof of
interwoven moss, from which it takes its name. I once gathered the moss
from such a nest by chance and saw the little mass of cells with honey
in them. I went away, meaning to examine it more closely on my return,
but a crow in the apple-tree overhead chanced to spy the nest and made
off with it in his beak before I could rescue the honey store of the
poor little bees I had so unwittingly injured.
That old tree-stump is being gradually carried away by wasps. The wood
is just sufficiently decayed to afford the material of which they make
their nests. You see there are several wasps busily rasping pieces of
the rotten wood into convenient-sized morsels, which they can carry to
the nest, there to be masticated into the papery layers of which the
outer walls of the nest are formed. This walk used to have a row of
grand old silver firs of great height, but each winter some of them have
been blown down till only a few are left.
Some years since I noticed at the root of one of them a pile of fine
sawdust more than a foot high, and found that some wood wasps were
busily engaged in excavating the interior of the tree and forming
tunnels in which to lay their eggs. I watched them for half an hour and
found that every half-minute a wasp went in at the aperture carrying a
blue-bottle or some kind of fly in its mandibles. Next day I took a
friend to see the wasps, and while watching them the wind caused the
immense tree-stem to sway to and fro from its base as if in the act of
falling, and on examination we found it was only held in its place by a
small portion of root, and though the branches were green, it must have
been hollow and dead inside, which appears to be the way in which silver
firs decay, and the wasps had found it out and made a delightful home in
the rotten wood. With some difficulty the great tree was safely taken
down, and then it was a most curious sight to see the endless chambers
and galleries made in the stem, all tenanted by young wasp-grubs and
half-dead flies; and all the summer they were being hatched in countless
numbers. The view over our common is lovely from this point; it is
golden with rich yellow gorse, giving cover to innumerable rabbits,
which find their way into our garden in spite of wire fences and all
that the gardener can do to keep them out. One clever little mother
rabbit made her burrow deep down in a heap of sawdust close to the
stable. My coachman put his arm down to the bottom of the hole and
brought out a little grey furred creature, kicking and screaming with
wonderful vigour in spite of its tender years. The nest was allowed to
remain, and in a few days the mother removed her brood to a hole at the
root of a bushy stone-pine, where the little ones frisked in and out and
looked so pretty that I was won over to allow them to stay, and, by
netting round the tree, we formed a miniature warren for the young
family; but I fear that in course of time we may bitterly repent this
step, and the numbers may increase to such an extent that pinks and
lobelia may become things of the past and the rabbit warren may have to
be abolished.
A fox is sometimes seen and hunted in these parts. One surprised me by
leaping upon the window-sill and looking into the drawing-room. At first
I could not think what it was. It had been dug out of its hole; its fur
was muddy and torn, its eyes piteous in their expression, and when it
ran slowly on I saw it was very lame. I ran to the window to let it in,
but though it leaped up to each window in succession, they all happened
to be shut, and I was quite grieved to think the poor, weary creature
could find no shelter. I am no admirer of field-sports. I think they
give rise to the utmost cruelty to the creatures hunted and shot, to the
horses and dogs employed; and to witness torture inflicted on
unoffending animals cannot but have a debasing effect on the human mind.
When once any one has seen the anguish of a deer, a fox, or hare, at the
end of the race, there can be no question about the cruelty of the
proceeding, and to one who loves every created thing as I do, it gives
the keenest pain to know how much suffering of this kind goes on during
the hunting season.[3]
[Footnote 3: I cannot resist quoting and strongly endorsing the
following lament by Mr. H. Stacy Marks, R.A., as to the way in which
birds are too frequently treated by the public at large: "Many people
regarding birds in but three aspects--as things to be either eaten,
shot, or worn.... No natural history of a bird is complete without
recording where the last specimen was shot; and should a rare bird visit
our shores, the hospitality which we accord to the foreign refugee is
denied, and it is bound to be the victim of powder and shot. The fashion
of wearing birds or their plumage as part of ladies' attire, threatens
to exterminate many beautiful species, such as the humming-birds of
South America, the glossy starlings of Africa, and the glorious Impeyan
pheasant of the Himalayas, with many other species."]
There goes a cuckoo, with quite a flight of small birds pursuing him
wherever he goes.
Small birds seem to have an intense hatred of jays and cuckoos, and will
often fly at them in the nesting season, giving them no peace till they
drive them out of the garden, knowing full well that their own broods
are often devoured by the jay, and that the cuckoo has designs upon the
nests.
Although we are some distance from home, I can show you one of my own
bees on this furze blossom. I have a hive of Swiss, or Ligurian bees,
which are said to be in some respects superior to the English species.
The honey is of excellent flavour, and the first year I had far more
honey from the Ligurian hive. I do not think any other hives of
Ligurians are kept within five miles, and, as you see, they have a band
of bright yellow on the abdomen. I can always tell my own bees when I
meet with them in my walks on the common or in the lanes. I had a rather
trying adventure with these bees last May. One Sunday evening we were
just starting for church, about half-past six, when my little niece ran
in exclaiming that there was a great bunch of bees hanging on a branch
near the hives. I knew what had happened--my very irreverent bees had
swarmed on this quiet Sunday evening, and they must be hived if
possible.
My bonnet was soon off and the bee-dress put on, and in five minutes the
bees were secured and settled into a hive. We went to church and were
not even late, but--during the first prayer I heard ominous sounds of a
furious bee under my dress; it was, fortunately, a partly transparent
material, and glancing furtively about I saw my little friend under the
skirt going up and down with an angry biz-z-z. Only the pocket-hole
could release him, so I held that safely in my hand all through the
service, lest the congregation might suffer the wrath of a furious bee,
which in truth is no light matter, for in blind fury it will rush at the
first person it meets and leave its sting in the face or hand. Happily I
succeeded in bringing the bee home again, and resolved to avoid hiving
swarms before church-time in future.
You see under the drooping boughs of the fir-tree yonder an old stone
basin, well known to all the birds in the neighbourhood, for there they
always find a supply of fresh water and food of various kinds to suit
all tastes. As it is opposite the dining-room window, it is very
interesting to see a tame jay and sundry squirrels enjoying the acorns
which were collected for them last autumn and stored up so as to keep
the basin well supplied all through the winter and spring, until other
food should be plentiful. Finches, robins, and sparrows find wheat and
crumbs to their taste, and take their daily bath not without some
squabbling as to who shall have it first--a difficulty which is
sometimes settled by a portly blackbird appearing on the scene and
scattering the smaller folk, whilst he takes his early tubbing and sends
up showers of spray in the process. Very pretty are the scenes on that
same stone basin when in early summer a mother bird brings her little
tribe of downy, chirping babes, and feeds each little gaping mouth with
some suitable morsels from the store she finds there.
A sheaf of corn in winter is also a great boon to the starved-out
birdies, when snow has long deprived them of their natural food, and the
water supply has to be often renewed on freezing days, for many a bird
dies in winter from lack of water, all its usual supplies being frozen.
The tameness of birds in severe weather is a touching sign of their
distress, and a mute appeal to us to help them.
"The fowls of heaven
Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them."
It is pleasant to think that they seldom appeal in vain. "Crumbs for the
birds" are scattered by kindly little hands everywhere in winter, and in
many a house a pet sonsie little robin is a cherished visitor, always
welcome to his small share of the good things of this life.
Our ramble might be indefinitely prolonged and still be full of interest
and instruction, but in these simple remarks enough has been shown, I
trust, to lead many to _think_ and _observe_ closely every, even the
minutest, thing that catches their attention whilst out for a ramble in
lanes and fields, even a microscopic moss upon an old wall has been
suggestive of many lovely thoughts, with which I will conclude our
ramble and this chapter.
"It was not all a tale of eld,
That fairies, who their revels held
By moonlight, in the greenwood shade
Their beakers of the moss-cups made.
The wondrous light which science burns
Reveals those lovely jewelled urns!
Fair lace-work spreads from roughest stems
And shows each tuft a mine of gems.
Voices from the silent sod,
Speaking of the Perfect God.
Fringeless, or fringed, and fringed again,
No single leaflet formed in vain;
What wealth of heavenly wisdom lies
Within one moss-cup's mysteries!
And few may know what silvery net,
Down in its mimic depths is set
To catch the rarest dews that fall
Upon the dry and barren wall.
Voices from the silent sod,
Speaking of the Perfect God."