I came to Washington to live in the fall of 1863, and, with the
exception of a month each summer spent in the interior of New York,
have lived here ever since.
I saw my first novelty in Natural History the day after my arrival.
As I was walking near some woods north of the city, a grasshopper of
prodigious size flew up from the ground and alighted in a tree. As I
pursued him, he proved to be nearly as wild and as fleet of wing as a
bird. I thought I had reached the capital of grasshopperdom, and that
this was perhaps one of the chiefs or leaders, or perhaps the great
High Cock O'lorum himself, taking an airing in the fields. I have
never yet been able to settle the question, as every fall I start up a
few of these gigantic specimens, which perch on the trees. They are
about three inches long, of a gray striped or spotted color, and have
quite a reptile look.
The greatest novelty I found, however, was the superb autumn weather,
the bright, strong, electric days, lasting well into November, and the
general mildness of the entire winter. Though the mercury occasionally
sinks to zero, yet the earth is never so seared and blighted by the
cold but that in some sheltered nook or corner signs of vegetable life
still remain, which on a little encouragement even asserts itself. I
have found wild flowers here every month of the year; violets in
December, a single houstonia in January (the little lump of earth upon
which it stood was frozen hard), and a tiny weed-like plant, with a
flower almost microscopic in its smallness, growing along graveled
walks and in old plowed fields in February. The liverwort sometimes
comes out as early as the first week in March, and the little frogs
begin to pipe doubtfully about the same time. Apricot-trees are
usually in bloom on All-Fool's Day and the apple-trees on May Day. By
August, mother hen will lead forth her third brood, and I had a March
pullet that came off with a family of her own in September. Our
calendar is made for this climate. March is a spring month. One is
quite sure to see some marked and striking change during the first
eight or ten days. This season (1868) is a backward one, and the
memorable change did not come till the 10th.
Then the sun rose up from a bed of vapors, and seemed fairly to
dissolve with tenderness and warmth. For an hour or two the air was
perfectly motionless, and full of low, humming, awakening sounds. The
naked trees had a rapt, expectant look. From some unreclaimed common
near by came the first strain of the song sparrow; so homely, because
so old and familiar, yet so inexpressibly pleasing. Presently a full
chorus of voices arose, tender, musical, half suppressed, but full of
genuine hilarity and joy. The bluebird warbled, the robin called, the
snowbird chattered, the meadowlark uttered her strong but tender note.
Over a deserted field a turkey buzzard hovered low, and alighted on a
stake in the fence, standing a moment with outstretched, vibrating
wings till he was sure of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding day. Roads
becoming dry in many places, and looking so good after the mud and the
snow. I walk up beyond the boundary and over Meridian Hill. To move
along the drying road and feel the delicious warmth is enough. The
cattle low long and loud, and look wistfully into the distance. I
sympathize with them. Never a spring comes but I have an almost
irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadic or migrating instinct or
reminiscence stirs within me. I ache to be off.
As I pass along, the high-bole calls in the distance precisely as I
have heard him in the North. After a pause he repeats his summons.
What can be more welcome to the ear than these early first sounds!
They have such a margin of silence!
One need but pass the boundary of Washington city to be fairly in the
country, and ten minutes' walk in the country brings one to real
primitive woods. The town has not yet overflowed its limits like the
great Northern commercial capitals, and Nature, wild and unkempt,
comes up to its very threshold, and even in many places crosses it.
The woods, which I soon reach, are stark and still. The signs of
returning life are so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but there
is a fresh, earthy smell in the air, as if something had stirred here
under the leaves. The crows caw above the wood, or walk about the
brown fields. I look at the gray silent trees long and long, but they
show no sign. The catkins of some alders by a little pool have just
swelled perceptibly; and, brushing away the dry leaves and débris on a
sunny slope, I discover the liverwort just pushing up a fuzzy, tender
sprout. But the waters have brought forth. The little frogs are
musical. From every marsh and pool goes up their shrill but pleasing
chorus. Peering into one of their haunts, a little body of
semi-stagnant water, I discover masses of frogs' spawn covering the
bottom. I take up great chunks of the cold, quivering jelly in my
hands. In some places there are gallons of it. A youth who accompanies
me wonders if it would not be good cooked, or if it could not be used
as a substitute for eggs. It is a perfect jelly, of a slightly milky
tinge, thickly imbedded with black spots about the size of a small
bird's eye. When just deposited it is perfectly transparent. These
hatch in eight or ten days, gradually absorb their gelatinous
surroundings, and the tiny tadpoles issue forth.
In the city, even before the shop-windows have caught the inspiration,
spring is heralded by the silver poplars which line all the streets
and avenues. After a few mild, sunshiny March days, you suddenly
perceive a change has come over the trees. Their tops have a less
naked look. If the weather continues warm, a single day will work
wonders. Presently each tree will be one vast plume of gray, downy
tassels, while not the least speck of green foliage is visible. The
first week of April these long mimic caterpillars lie all about the
streets and fill the gutters.
The approach of spring is also indicated by the crows and buzzards,
which rapidly multiply in the environs of the city, and grow bold and
demonstrative. The crows are abundant here all winter, but are not
very noticeable except as they pass high in air to and from their
winter quarters in the Virginia woods. Early in the morning, as soon
as it is light enough to discern them, there they are, streaming
eastward across the sky, now in loose, scattered flocks, now in thick
dense masses, then singly and in pairs or triplets, but all setting in
one direction, probably to the waters of eastern Maryland. Toward
night they begin to return, flying in the same manner, and directing
their course to the wooded heights on the Potomac, west of the city.
In spring these diurnal mass movements cease; the clan breaks up, the
rookery is abandoned, and the birds scatter broadcast over the land.
This seems to be the course everywhere pursued. One would think that,
when food was scarcest, the policy of separating into small bands or
pairs, and dispersing over a wide country, would prevail, as a few
might subsist where a larger number would starve. The truth is,
however, that, in winter, food can be had only in certain clearly
defined districts and tracts, as along rivers and the shores of bays
and lakes.
A few miles north of Newburgh, on the Hudson, the crows go into winter
quarters in the same manner, flying south in the morning and returning
again at night, sometimes hugging the hills so close during a strong
wind as to expose themselves to the clubs and stones of schoolboys
ambushed behind trees and fences. The belated ones, that come laboring
along just at dusk, are often so overcome by the long journey and the
strong current that they seem almost on the point of sinking down
whenever the wind or a rise in the ground calls upon them for an extra
effort.
The turkey buzzards are noticeable about Washington as soon as the
season begins to open, sailing leisurely along two or three hundred
feet overhead, or sweeping low over some common or open space where,
perchance, a dead puppy or pig or fowl has been thrown. Half a dozen
will sometimes alight about some object out on the commons, and, with
their broad dusky wings lifted up to their full extent, threaten and
chase each other, while perhaps one or two are feeding. Their wings
are very large and flexible, and the slightest motion of them, while
the bird stands upon the ground, suffices to lift its feet clear.
Their movements when in the air are very majestic and beautiful to the
eye, being in every respect identical with those of our common hen or
red-tailed hawk. They sail along in the same calm, effortless,
interminable manner, and sweep around in the same ample spiral. The
shape of their wings and tail, indeed their entire effect against the
sky, except in size and color, is very nearly the same as that of the
hawk mentioned. A dozen at a time may often be seen high in air,
amusing themselves by sailing serenely round and round in the same
circle.
They are less active and vigilant than the hawk; never poise
themselves on the wing, never dive and gambol in the air, and never
swoop down upon their prey; unlike the hawks also, they appear to have
no enemies. The crow fights the hawk, and the kingbird and the crow
blackbird fight the crow; but neither takes any notice of the buzzard.
He excites the enmity of none, for the reason that he molests none.
The crow has an old grudge against the hawk, because the hawk robs the
crow's nest and carries off his young; the kingbird's quarrel with the
crow is upon the same grounds. But the buzzard never attacks live
game, or feeds upon new flesh when old can be had.
In May, like the crows, they nearly all disappear very suddenly,
probably to their breeding-haunts near the seashore. Do the males
separate from the females at this time, and go by themselves? At any
rate, in July I discovered that a large number of buzzards roosted in
some woods near Rock Creek, about a mile from the city limits; and, as
they do not nest anywhere in this vicinity, I thought they might be
males. I happened to be detained late in the woods, watching the nest
of a flying squirrel, when the buzzards, just after sundown, began to
come by ones and twos and alight in the trees near me. Presently they
came in greater numbers, but from the same direction, flapping low
over the woods, and taking up their position in the middle branches.
On alighting, each one would blow very audibly through his nose, just
as a cow does when she lies down; this is the only sound I have ever
heard the buzzard make. They would then stretch themselves, after the
manner of turkeys, and walk along the limbs. Sometimes a decayed
branch would break under the weight of two or three, when, with a
great flapping, the would take up new positions. They continued to
come till it was quite dark, and all the trees about me were full. I
began to feel a little nervous, but kept my place. After it was
entirely dark and all was still, I gathered a large pile of dry leaves
and kindled it with a match, to see what they would think of a fire.
Not a sound was heard till the pile of leaves was in full blaze, when
instantaneously every buzzard started. I thought the treetops were
coming down upon me, so great was the uproar. But the woods were soon
cleared, and the loathsome pack disappeared in the night.
About the 1st of June I saw numbers of buzzards sailing around over
the great Falls of the Potomac.
A glimpse of the birds usually found here in the latter part of winter
may be had in the following extract, which I take from my diary under
date of February 4th:--
"Made a long excursion through the woods and over the hills. Went
directly north from the Capitol for about three miles. The ground bare
and the day cold and sharp. In the suburbs, among the scattered Irish
and negro shanties, came suddenly upon a flock of birds, feeding about
like our northern snow buntings. Every now and then they uttered a
piping, disconsolate note, as if they had a very sorry time of it.
They proved to be shore larks, the first I had ever seen. They had the
walk characteristic of all larks; were a little larger than the
sparrow; had a black spot on the breast, with much white on the under
parts of their bodies. As I approached them the nearer ones paused,
and, half squatting, eyed me suspiciously. Presently, at a movement of
my arm, away they went, flying exactly like the snow bunting, and
showing nearly as much white." (I have since discovered that the shore
lark is a regular visitant here in February and March, when large
quantities of them are shot or trapped, and exposed for sale in the
market. During a heavy snow I have seen numbers of them feeding upon
the seeds of various weedy growths in a large market-garden well into
town.) "Pressing on, the walk became exhilarating. Followed a little
brook, the eastern branch of the Tiber, lined with bushes and a rank
growth of green-brier. Sparrows started out here and there, and flew
across the little bends and points. Among some pines just beyond the
boundary, saw a number of American goldfinches, in their gray winter
dress, pecking the pinecones. A golden-crowned kinglet was there also,
a little tuft of gray feathers, hopping about as restless as a spirit.
Had the old pine-trees food delicate enough for him also? Farther on,
in some low open woods, saw many sparrows,--the fox, white-throated,
white-crowned, the Canada, the song, the swamp,--all herding together
along the warm and sheltered borders. To my surprise, saw a chewink
also, and the yellow-rumped warbler. The purple finch was there
likewise, and the Carolina wren and brown creeper. In the higher,
colder woods not a bird was to be seen. Returning, near sunset, across
the eastern slope of a hill which overlooked the city, was delighted
to see a number of grass finches or vesper sparrows,--birds which
will be forever associated in my mind with my father's sheep pastures.
They ran before me, now flitting a pace or two, now skulking in the
low stubble, just as I had observed them when a boy."