[Illustration]
Do my dear little friends want to hear a word more about our country
neighbors? Since we wrote about them, we have lived in the same place
more than a year, and perhaps some of you may want to know whether old
Unke or little Cri-cri have ever come up to sit under the lily-leaves
by the fountain, or Master Furry-toes, the flying squirrel, has amused
himself in pattering about the young lady’s chamber o’ nights? I am sorry
to say that our country neighbors have entirely lost the neighborly,
confiding spirit that they had when we first came and settled in the
woods.
Old Unke has distinguished himself on moonlight nights in performing
bass solos in a very deep, heavy voice, down in the river, but he
has never hopped his way back into that conservatory from which he
was disgracefully turned out at the point of Mr. Fred’s cane. He has
contented himself with the heavy musical performances I spoke of, and I
have fancied they sounded much like “Won’t come any more,—won’t come any
more,—won’t come any more!”
Sometimes, strolling down to the river, we have seen his solemn green
spectacles emerging from the tall water-grasses, as he sat complacently
looking about him. Near by him, spread out on the sunny bottom of the
pool, was a large flat-headed water-snake, with a dull yellow-brown back
and such a swelled stomach that it was quite evident he had been making
his breakfast that morning by swallowing some unfortunate neighbor like
poor little Cri-cri. This trick of swallowing one’s lesser neighbors
seems to prevail greatly among the people who live in our river. Mr.
Water-snake makes his meal on little Mr. Frog, and Mr. Bullfrog follows
the same example. It seems a sad state of things; but then I suppose all
animals have to die in some way or other, and perhaps, if they are in the
habit of seeing it done, it may appear no more to a frog to expect to be
swallowed some day, than it may to some of us to die of a fever, or be
shot in battle, as many a brave fellow has been of late.
We have heard not a word from the woodchucks. Ever since we violated
the laws of woodland hospitality by setting a trap for their poor old
patriarch, they have very justly considered us as bad neighbors, and
their hole at the bottom of the garden has been “to let,” and nobody
as yet has ventured to take it. Our friends the muskrats have been
flourishing, and on moonlight nights have been swimming about, popping up
the tips of their little black noses to make observations.
But latterly a great commotion has been made among the amphibious tribes,
because of the letting down of the dam which kept up the water of the
river, and made it a good, full, wide river. When the dam was torn down
it became a little miserable stream, flowing through a wide field of
muddy bottom, and all the secrets of the under-water were disclosed. The
white and yellow water-lily roots were left high and dry up in the mud,
and all the muskrat holes could be seen plainer than ever before; and the
other day Master Charlie brought in a fish’s nest which he had found in
what used to be deep water.
“A fish’s nest!” says little Tom; “I didn’t know fishes made nests.” But
they do, Tommy; that is, one particular kind of fish makes a nest of
sticks and straws and twigs, plastered together with some kind of cement,
the making of which is a family secret. It lies on the ground like a
common bird’s-nest turned bottom upward, and has a tiny little hole in
the side for a door, through which the little fishes swim in and out.
[Illustration]
The name of the kind of fish that builds this nest I do not know; and if
the water had not been drawn off, I should not have known that we had any
such fish in our river. Where we found ours the water had been about
five feet above it. Now, Master Tom, if you want to know more about
nest-building fishes, you must get your papa and mamma to inquire and see
if they cannot get you some of the little books on fishes and aquariums
that have been published lately. I remember to have read all about these
nests in one of them, but I do not remember either the name of the book
or the name of the fish, and so there is something still for you to
inquire after.
I am happy to say, for the interest of the water-lilies and the muskrats
and the fishes, that the dam has only been torn down from our river for
the purpose of making a new and stronger one, and that by and by the
water will be again broad and deep as before, and all the water-people
can then go on with their housekeeping just as they used to do,—only I
am sorry to say that one fish family will miss their house, and have to
build a new one; but if they are enterprising fishes they will perhaps
make some improvements that will make the new house better than the old.
As to the birds, we have had a great many visits from them. Our house has
so many great glass windows, and the conservatory windows in the centre
of it being always wide open, the birds seem to have taken it for a piece
of out-doors, and flown in. The difficulty has been, that, after they
had got in, there appeared to be no way of making them understand the
nature of glass, and wherever they saw a glass window they fancied they
could fly through; and so, taking aim hither and thither, they darted
head first against the glass, beating and bruising their poor little
heads without beating in any more knowledge than they had before. Many a
poor little feather-head has thus fallen a victim to his want of natural
philosophy, and tired himself out with beating against window-panes,
till he has at last fallen dead. One day we picked up no less than three
dead birds in different parts of the house. Now if it had only been
possible to enlighten our feathered friends in regard to the fact that
everything that is transparent is not air, we would have summoned a bird
council in our conservatory, and explained matters to them at once and
altogether. As it is, we could only say, “Oh!” and “Ah!” and lament, as
we have followed one poor victim after another from window to window, and
seen him flutter and beat his pretty senseless head against the glass,
frightened to death at all our attempts to help him.
As to the humming-birds, their number has been infinite. Just back of
the conservatory stands an immense, high clump of scarlet sage, whose
brilliant flowers have been like a light shining from afar, and drawn to
it flocks of these little creatures; and we have often sat watching them
as they put their long bills into one scarlet tube after another, lifting
themselves lightly off the bush, poising a moment in mid-air, and then
dropping out of sight.
They have flown into the conservatory in such numbers that, had we
wished to act over again the dear little history of our lost pet, Hum,
the son of Buz, we should have had plenty of opportunities to do it.
Humming-birds have been for some reason supposed to be peculiarly wild
and untamable. Our experience has proved that they are the most docile,
confiding little creatures, and the most disposed to put trust in us
human beings of all birds in the world.
More than once this summer has some little captive exhausted his
strength flying hither and thither against the great roof window of the
conservatory, till the whole family was in alarm to help. The Professor
himself has left his books, and anxiously flourished a long cobweb broom
in hopes to bring the little wanderer down to the level of open windows,
while every other member of the family ran, called, made suggestions,
and gave advice, which all ended in the poor little fool’s falling flat,
in a state of utter exhaustion, and being picked up in some lady’s
pocket-handkerchief.
Then has been running to mix sugar and water, while the little crumb of a
bird has lain in an apparent swoon in the small palm of some fair hand,
but opening occasionally one eye, and then the other, dreamily, to see
when the sugar and water was coming, and gradually showing more and more
signs of returning life as it appeared. Even when he had taken his drink
of sugar and water, and seemed able to sit up in his warm little hollow,
he has seemed in no hurry to flee, but remained tranquilly looking about
him for some moments, till all of a sudden, with one whirr, away he goes,
like a flying morsel of green and gold, over our heads—into the air—into
the tree-tops. What a lovely time he must have of it!
One rainy, windy day, Miss Jenny, going into the conservatory, heard a
plaintive little squeak, and found a poor humming-bird, just as we found
poor little Hum, all wet and chilled, and bemoaning himself, as he sat
clinging tightly upon the slenderest twig of a grape-vine. She took him
off, wrapped him in cotton, and put him in a box on a warm shelf over
the kitchen range. After a while you may be sure there was a pretty
fluttering in the box. Master Hum was awake and wanted to be attended to.
She then mixed sugar and water, and, opening the box, offered him a drop
on her finger, which he licked off with his long tongue as knowingly as
did his name-sake at Rye Beach. After letting him satisfy his appetite
for sugar and water, as the rain was over and the sun began to shine,
Miss Jenny took him to the door, and away he flew.
These little incidents show that it would not ever be a difficult matter
to tame humming-birds,—only they cannot be kept in cages; a sunny room
with windows defended by mosquito-netting would be the only proper cage.
The humming-bird, as we are told by naturalists, though very fond of the
honey of flowers, does not live on it entirely, or even principally.
It is in fact a little fly-catcher, and lives on small insects; and a
humming-bird never can be kept healthy for any length of time in a room
that does not admit insects enough to furnish him a living. So you see it
is not merely toads, and water-snakes, and such homely creatures, that
live by eating other living beings,—but even the fairy-like and brilliant
humming-bird.
The autumn months are now coming on (for it is October while I
write),—the flowers are dying night by night as the frosts grow
heavier,—the squirrels are racing about, full of business, getting in
their winter’s supply of nuts; everything now is active and busy among
our country neighbors. In a cottage about a quarter of a mile from us, a
whole family of squirrels have made the discovery that a house is warmer
in winter than the best hollow tree, and so have gone in to a chink
between the walls, where Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel can often be heard late at
night chattering and making quite a family fuss about the arrangement of
their household goods for the coming season. This is all the news about
the furry people that I have to give you. The flying squirrel I have not
yet heard from,—perhaps he will appear yet as the weather gets colder.
Old Master Boohoo, the owl, sometimes goes on at such a rate on moonlight
nights in the great chestnut-trees that overhang the river, that, if you
did not know better, you might think yourself miles deep in the heart of
a sombre forest, instead of being within two squares’ walk of the city
lamps. We never yet have caught a fair sight of him. At the cottage we
speak of, the chestnut-trees are very tall, and come close to the upper
windows; and one night a fair maiden, going up to bed, was startled
by a pair of great round eyes looking into her window. It was one of
the Boohoo family, who had been taken with a fit of grave curiosity
about what went on inside the cottage, and so set himself to observe.
We have never been able to return the compliment by looking into their
housekeeping, as their nests are very high up in the hollows of old
trees, where we should not be likely to get at them.
If we hear anything more from any of these neighbors of ours, we will let
you know. We have all the afternoon been hearing a great screaming among
the jays in the woods hard by, and I think we must go out and see what is
the matter. So good by.