SHARP-TAILED GROUSE—BALD-HEADED EAGLE—MOSQUITOS—LAGOMYS MINIMUS
(NOV. SP.)—HUMMINGBIRDS—UROTRICHUS.
The Sharp-tailed Grouse (_Pediocætes Phasianellus_, Baird; _Tetrao
Phasianellus_, Linn.; _Centrocercus Phasianellus_, Jardine; _Phasianus
Columbianus_, Ord.)—_Specific characters_: The tail consists of
eighteen feathers—prevailing colours black, white, and umber-yellow;
the back marked with transverse bars, the wings with round conspicuous
white spots—under pure white; the breast and sides thickly marked with
V-shaped blotches of dark-brown; length about 18·00; wing, 8·50; tail,
5·23 inches.
This beautiful bird is alike estimable, whether we consider him in
reference to his field qualities (therein being all a grouse ought to
be, rising with a loud rattling whirr, and going off straight as an
arrow, lying well to dogs, and frequenting open grassy prairies), or
viewed as a table dainty, when bowled over and grilled. Though his
flesh is brown, yet for delicacy of flavour—game in every sense of
the word—I’ll back him against any other bird in the Western wilds.
This grouse appears to replace the Prairie-hen (_Cupidonia cupido_) on
all the prairies west of the Rocky Mountains. By the fur-traders it
is called the ‘spotted chicken’; for all grouse, by the traders and
half-breeds, are called chickens! and designated specifically by either
habit or colour—such as blue chickens, wood chickens, white chickens
(ptarmigan), &c. &c.; the _skis-kin_ of the Kootanie Indians.
[Illustration: THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE
(Pediocætes phasianellus).]
The tail is cuneate and graduated, and about two-thirds the length
of the wing; the central pair, considerably longer than the rest,
terminate in a point—hence the name _sharp-tailed_.
The singular mixture of colours (white, black, and brownish-yellow),
the dark blotches, transverse bars, and V-shaped marks of dark-brown,
exactly resemble the ground on which the bird is destined to pass
its life. The ochreish-yellow angular twigs and dead leaves of the
Artemisia, or wild-sage; the sandy soil, dried and bleached to a
dingy-white; the brown of the withered bunch-grass; the weather-beaten
fragments of rock, clad in liveries of sombre-coloured lichens,
admirably harmonise with the colours in which Nature has wisely robed
this feathered tenant of the wilderness.
Often, when the sharp crack of the gun, and the _ping_ of the
fatal leaden messengers, has rung the death-peal of one of these
prairie-chiefs, I have watched the whirring wing drop powerless, and
the arrowy flight stop in mid-career, and, with a heavy thud, the bird
come crashing down. Rushing to pick him up, and keeping my eye steadily
on the spot where he fell, I have felt a little mystified at not seeing
my friend: here he fell, I am quite sure; so I trudge up and down,
circle round and round, until a slight movement—an effort to run, or
a dying struggle—attracts my attention, and then I find I have been
the whole time close to the fallen bird. But so closely do the back
and outspread wings resemble the dead foliage and sandy soil, that it
is almost impossible for the most practised eye to detect these birds
when crouching on the ground; and there can be no doubt that it as
effectually conceals them from birds of prey.
This bird is abundantly distributed on the western slope of the
Rocky Mountains, ranging right and left of the Boundary-line, the
49th parallel of north latitude. It is particularly abundant on the
tobacco-plains near the Kootanie river, round the Osoyoos lakes, and in
the valley of the Columbia.
I have never seen this grouse on the western side of the Cascade range.
This bird is also found in the Red River settlements, in the north
of Minnesota, as well as on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, and on the
Mackenzie river. Mr. Ross notes it as far north as the Arctic Circle.
Of the different species of grouse I met with in my rambles (described
in vol. ii.) not one has come so often under my observation as this,
the sharp-tailed grouse. Its favourite haunt is on open grassy
plains,—in the morning keeping itself concealed in the thick long
grass, but coming in about midday to the streams to drink, and dust
itself in the sandy banks; it seldom goes into the timber, and, if it
does, always remains close to the prairie, never retiring into the
depths of the forest.
They lay their eggs on the open prairie, in a tuft of grass, or by the
foot of a small hillock; nesting early in the spring, and laying from
twelve to fourteen eggs. The nest is a hole scratched out in the earth,
a few grass-stalks and root-fibres laid carelessly and loosely over the
bottom; the eggs are of a dark rusty-brown, with small splashes or
speckles of darker brown thickly spattered over them.
After nesting-time, they first appear in coveys or broods about the
middle of August; the young birds are then about three parts grown,
strong on the wing, and afford admirable sport. At this time they
live by the margins of small streams, where there is thin timber and
underbrush, with plenty of sandy banks to dust in. About the middle of
September and on into October they begin to pack; first two or three
coveys get together, then flock joins flock, until they gradually
accumulate into hundreds. On the first appearance of snow they begin
to perch, settling on high dead pine-trees, the _dead_ branches being
a favourite locality; or, should there be any farms, they pitch round
on the top of the snake-fences. At the Hudson’s Bay trading-post at
Fort Colville there were large wheat-stubbles; in these, after the
snow fell, they assembled in vast numbers. Wary and shy they are now,
and most difficult to get at; the cause being, I apprehend, the snow
rendering every moving thing so conspicuous, it is next to impossible
for dogs to hunt them.
Their food in the summer consists principally of berries—the snowberry
(_Symphoricarpos racemosus_), and the bearberry (_Arctostaphylos
uva-ursi_). The leaves of this latter plant are used to a great extent,
both by Indians and traders, to mix with or use instead of tobacco, and
called _kini-kinick_; the leaves being dried over the fire, and rubbed
up in the hand to powder, and smoked in a pipe. The wild roseberries
(_Rosa blanda_ and _Rosa mirantha_), and many others, usually
designated huckleberries, constitute the food generally consumed by
these birds during summer and autumn; although I have often found
quantities of wheat-grains and larvæ of insects, grass-seeds, and small
wild flowers in their crops. Their thickly-feathered feet enable them
to run upon the snow with ease and celerity, and they dig holes and
burrow underneath it much after the fashion of the ptarmigan.
During the two winters we spent at Colville, flocks of these birds
congregated about the corn-stacks and hayricks at our mule-camp, and at
the Hudson’s Bay trading-post, Fort Colville. The temperature at that
time was often down to 29° and 30° below zero, and the snow three feet
deep; yet these birds did not at all appear to suffer from such intense
cold, and were strong, wild, and fat during the entire winter, which
lasted from October until near April before the snow entirely cleared.
In this valley (the Colville valley) the Commissioner and myself had,
I think, as brisk and nice a bit of shooting as I ever enjoyed. If I
remember aright, it was towards the end of September, and the birds
had packed. We rode down one clear bright morning, about six miles, to
the Horse-Guards. Do not at once hastily imagine any analogy between
Colville valley and Whitehall. The heavy man, with his heavy boots,
heavy sword, heavy dress, heavy walk, and heaviest of all heavy
horses—so conspicuous a feature in our London sights—is represented
here by the genuine savage, thin and lissom as an eel; his equipment
a whip, a lasso, a scalping-knife, and sometimes a trade-gun; a pad
his saddle, and the bands of horses, some two hundred in number, his
charge. A stream of cold clear water rambles quietly down the hillside;
and as the hills are thickly dotted with bunch-grass, affording most
glorious pasturage, the Hudson’s Bay fort horses are always pastured
here, and guarded by Indians; hence comes the name—‘the Horse-Guards.’
The Colville valley is, roughly speaking, about thirty miles long, the
hills on one side being densely studded with pine-trees, and on the
other quite clear of timber, but thickly clothed up to their rounded
summits with the bunch-grass. This is a peculiar kind of grass, that
grows in tufts, and its fattening qualities are truly wonderful.
The little stream at the Horse-Guards has on either side of it a belt
of thin brush, and in this, and in the long grass close to the stream,
we found the sharp-tailed grouse. There were hundreds of them—up they
went, and, right and left, down they came again! It might have been
the novelty of the scene, causing an undue anxiety and excitement,
or perhaps it was the liver, or powder, or something else—who knows
what?—but this I do know, that neither of us shot our best, but we
made a glorious bag nevertheless. They rise with a loud rattling
noise, and utter a peculiar cry, like ‘chuck, chuck, chuck,’ rapidly
and shrilly repeated. On first rising the wings are moved with great
rapidity, but after getting some distance off they sail along, the
wings being almost quiescent.
They pair very early in the spring, long before the snow has gone
off the ground, and their love-meetings are celebrated in a somewhat
curious fashion. By the half-breeds and fur-traders these festivities
are called chicken or pheasant dances. I was lucky enough to be
present at several of these balls whilst at Fort Colville. Their usual
time of assembling is about sunrise, and late in the afternoon; they
select a high round-topped mound; and often, ere the fair are wooed and
won, and the happy couple start on their domestic cares, the mound is
trampled and beaten bare as a road.
I had often longed to be present at one of these chicken-dances; and it
so happened that, riding up into the hills early one spring morning, my
most ardent wishes were fully realised. The peculiar ‘chuck-chuck’ came
clear and shrill upon the crisp frosty air, and told me a dance was
afoot. I tied up my horse and my dog, and crept quietly along towards
the knoll from whence the sound appeared to come. Taking advantage of
some rocks, I weazled myself along, and, without exciting observation,
gained the shelter of an old pine-stump close to the summit of a
hillock; and there, sure enough, the ball was at its height.
Reader, can you go back to the days of your first pantomime, your first
Punch-and-Judy, or bring to your remembrance the fresh, bounding,
joyous delight that you felt in the days of your youth, when you had
before your eyes some long and deeply-wished-for novelty? If you
can, you will be able to imagine my childish pleasure when looking
for the first time on a chicken-dance. There were about eighteen or
twenty birds present on this occasion, and it was almost impossible to
distinguish the males from the females, the plumage being so nearly
alike; but I imagined the females were the passive ones. The four
birds nearest to me were head to head, like gamecocks in fighting
attitude—the neck-feathers ruffed up, the little sharp tail elevated
straight on end, the wings dropped close to the ground, but keeping up
by a rapid vibration a continued throbbing or drumming sound.
They circled round and round each other in slow waltzing-time, always
maintaining the same attitude, but never striking at or grappling with
each other; then the pace increased, and one hotly pursued the other
until he faced about, and _tête-à-tête_ went waltzing round again;
then they did a sort of ‘Cure’ performance, jumping about two feet
into the air until they were winded; and then they strutted about and
‘struck an attitude,’ like an acrobat after a successful tumble. There
were others marching about, with their tails and heads as high as
they could stick them up, evidently doing the ‘heavy swell;’ others,
again, did not appear to have any well-defined ideas what they ought
to do, and kept flying up and pitching down again, and were manifestly
restless and excited—perhaps rejected suitors contemplating something
desperate. The music to this eccentric dance was the loud ‘chuck-chuck’
continuously repeated, and the strange throbbing sound produced by the
vibrating wings. I saw several balls after this, but in every one the
same series of strange evolutions were carried out.
In reference to this bird’s adaptability to acclimatisation in our own
country, it appears to me to be most admirably fitted for our hill and
moorland districts. It is very hardy, capable of bearing a temperature
of 30° to 33° below zero; feeds on seeds, berries, and vegetable
matter—in every particular analogous to what it could find in our own
hill-country; a good breeder, having usually from twelve to fourteen
young at a brood; nests early, and would come to shoot about the same
time as our own grouse. Snow does not hurt them in the slightest
degree; they burrow into it, and feed on what they can find underneath
it. The two specimens in the British Museum I shot in the Colville
valley; they are male and female, in winter plumage; and anyone, who
may feel an interest in getting these birds brought home, may there
see for himself what fine handsome creatures they are.
But then comes the question—how are they to be obtained, and how
brought to England? I do not imagine it would be a very difficult or
expensive matter; the young birds in May could be easily obtained, at
any point up the Columbia river, by employing the Indians to bring them
to the riverside; and once on board steamer, they could be as easily
fed as fowls. The great difficulty _I_ have always had is in bringing
the young birds from the interior to a vessel; they always die when
transported on the backs of animals, however carefully packed. The
continued jerking motion given to birds packed on the back of a mule or
horse as he walks along has, according to my experience, been the sole
cause of their dying ere you could reach water-carriage; but the fact
of their being so close to water as they are along the Columbia river,
would render their being brought home a very easy task.
THE BALD-HEADED EAGLE (_Haliactus leucocephalus_) is seen but seldom,
as during its breeding-time it retires into the hills, and usually
chooses a lofty pine as its nesting-place. Two of them had a nest near
the Chilukweyuk lake, which was quite inaccessible, of immense size,
and built entirely of sticks—the same nest being invariably used
year after year by the same pair of birds. Their food consists mainly
of fish, and it is a curious sight to watch an eagle plunge into the
water, seize a heavy salmon, and rise with it without any apparent
difficulty. Both the osprey and bald-headed eagle fish with their
claws, never, as far as I have observed them, striking at a fish with
the beak; during winter they collect, young and old together, round the
Sumass lake; and as the cold becomes intense, they sit three and four
on the limb of a pine-tree, or in a semi-stupid state, all their craft
and courage gone, blinking and drowsy as an owl in daytime.
I have often, when walking under the trees where these half-torpid
monarchs of the air sit side by side, fired and knocked one out from
betwixt its neighbours, without causing them the slightest apparent
alarm; three I picked up one morning frozen stiff as marble, having
fallen dead from off their perch.
Why birds so powerfully winged should prefer to remain where the
winters are sufficiently intense to freeze them to death, rather
than go southward, where food is equally abundant, is a mystery I am
unable to explain. Towards the fall of the year, when the hunting and
fishing-grounds of the Old-man (_Sea-la-ca_, as the Indians designate
the eagle, on account of its _white head_) grow scant of game, hunger
prompts them to be disagreeably bold. Constantly a fat mallard, that
I had taken a vast amount of trouble to stalk, was pounced upon by a
watchful eagle, and borne off, ere the report of my gun was lost in
the hills, or the smoke had cleared away; indeed, I have sometimes
given the robber the benefit of a second barrel, as punishment for
his thievery. Numberless ducks have been lost to me in this way. This
eagle is by far the most abundant of the falcon tribe in British
Columbia, and always a conspicuous object in ascending a river; he is
seated on the loftiest tree or rocky pinnacle, and soars off circling
round, screaming like a tortured demon, as if in remonstrance at such
an impudent intrusion into its solitudes. The adult plumage is not
attained until the fourth year from the nest.
MOSQUITOS (_Culex pinguis_, nov. sp.)—Reader, if you have never been
in British Columbia, then, I say, you do not know anything about insect
persecution; neither can you form the faintest idea of the terrible
suffering foes so seemingly insignificant as the bloodthirsty horsefly
(_Tabanus_), the tiny burning fly (beulot or sand-fly of the trappers),
and the well-known and deservedly-hated _mosquito_, are capable of
inflicting.
A wanderer from my boyhood, I have met with these pests in various
parts of our globe—in the country of Czernomorzi, among the Black Sea
Cossacks, on the plains of Troy, up on Mount Olympus, amid the gorgeous
growths of a tropical forest, where beauty and malaria, twin brothers,
walk hand-in-hand—away in the deep dismal solitudes of the swamps on
the banks of the Mississippi, on the wide grassy tracts of the Western
prairies, and on the snow-clad summits of the Rocky Mountains.
Widely remote and singularly opposite as to climate as are these varied
localities, yet, as these pests are there in legions, I imagined that I
had endured the maximum of misery they were capable of producing. I was
mistaken; all my experience, all my vaunted knowledge of their numbers,
all I had seen and suffered, was as nothing to what I subsequently
endured. On the Sumass prairie, and along the banks of the Fraser
river, the mosquitos are, as a Yankee would say, ‘a caution.’
In the summer our work, that of cutting the Boundary-line, was along
the low and comparatively flat land intervening between the seaboard
and the foot of the Cascade Mountains. Our camp was on the Sumass
prairie, and was in reality only an open patch of grassy land, through
which wind numerous streams from the mountains, emptying themselves
into a large shallow lake, the exit of which is into the Fraser by a
short stream, the Sumass river.
In May and June this prairie is completely covered with water. The
Sumass river, from the rapid rise of the Fraser, reverses its course,
and flows back into the lake instead of out of it. The lake fills,
overflows, and completely floods the lower lands. On the subsidence
of the waters, we pitched our tents on the edge of a lovely stream.
Wildfowl were in abundance; the streams were alive with fish; the mules
and horses revelling in grass kneedeep—we were in a second Eden!
We had enjoyed about a week at this delightful camp, when the mosquitos
began to get rather troublesome. We knew these most unwelcome visitors
were to be expected, from Indian information. I must confess I had a
vague suspicion that the pests were to be more dreaded than we were
willing to believe; for the crafty redskins had stages erected, or
rather fastened to stout poles driven like piles into the mud at the
bottom of the lake. To these large platforms over the water they all
retire, on the first appearance of the mosquitos.
In about four or five days the increase was something beyond all
belief, and really terrible. I can convey no idea of the numbers,
except by saying they were in dense clouds truly, and not figuratively,
a thick fog of mosquitos. Night or day it was just the same; the hum
of these bloodthirsty tyrants was incessant. We ate them, drank them,
breathed them; nothing but the very thickest leathern clothing was of
the slightest use as a protection against their lancets. The trousers
had to be tied tightly round the ankle, and the coat-sleeve round the
wrist, to prevent their getting in; but if one more crafty than the
others found out a needle-hole, or a thin spot, it would have your
blood in a second. We lighted huge fires, fumigated the tents, tried
every expedient we could think of, but all in vain. They seemed to be
quite happy in a smoke that would stifle anything mortal, and, what was
worse, they grew thicker every day.
Human endurance has its limits. A man cannot stand being eaten alive.
It was utterly impossible to work; one’s whole time was occupied in
slapping viciously at face, head, and body, stamping, grumbling, and
savagely slaughtering hecatombs of mosquitos. Faces rapidly assumed an
irregularity of outline anything but consonant with the strict lines
of beauty; each one looked as if he had gone in for a heavy fight, and
lost. Hands increased in size with _painful_ rapidity, and—without
intending a slang joke—one was in a _k-nobby_ state from head to heel.
The wretched mules and horses were driven wild, racing about like mad
animals, dashing into the water and out again, in among the trees; but,
go where they would, their persecutors stuck to them in swarms. The
poor dogs sat and howled piteously, and, prompted by a wise instinct to
avoid their enemies, dug deep holes in the earth; and backing in lay
with their heads at the entrance, whining, snapping, and shaking their
ears, to prevent the mosquitos from getting in at them.
There was no help for it—our camp had to be abandoned; we were
completely vanquished and driven away—the work of about a hundred men
stopped by tiny flies. Our only chance of escape was to retire into the
hills, and return to complete our work late in the autumn, when they
disappear. Hard wind is the only thing that quells them; but it simply
drives them into the grass, to return on its lulling, if possible, more
savagely hungry. Quaint old Spenser knew this; he says, speaking of
gnats:—
No man nor beast may rest or take repast
For their sharp sounds and noyous injuries,
Till the fierce northern wind with blustering blast
Doth blow them quite away, and in the ocean cast.
My notebook, as I open it now, is a mausoleum of scores of my enemies;
there they lay, dry and flat; round some of them a stain of blood tells
how richly they merited their untimely end.
One thing has always puzzled me in the history of these ravenous
cannibals—what on earth can they get to feed on, when there are no men
or animals? I brought home specimens, of course; and I am by no means
sure I feel any great pleasure in finding my foe to be a new species,
but it is, and named _Culex pinguis_, because it was fatter and rounder
than any of its known brethren.
The habits of this new mosquito are, in every detail, the same as all
the known species. The female lays her eggs, which are long and oval
in shape, in the water; then aided by her hind-legs, she twists about
the eggs, and tightly glues them together, into a very beautiful little
boat-shaped bundle, that floats and drifts about in the water. In sunny
weather the eggs are speedily hatched, and the larvæ lead an aquatic
life. They are very active, diving to the bottom with great rapidity,
and as quickly ascending to the surface to breathe; the respiratory
organs being situated near the tail, on the eighth segment of the
abdomen, they hang, as it were, in the water, head downwards. After
shifting the skin three or four times, they change into the pupa form,
in which state they move about, even more actively than before, aided
by the tail, and two organs like paddles, attached to it. In this stage
of their existence they never feed (I only wish they would always
remain in this harmless condition); and although they still suspend
themselves in the water, the position is reversed, the breathing organs
being now placed on the chest.
The final change to the perfect or winged state is most curious, and
well worth careful attention. The pupa-case splits from end to end;
and, looking moist and miserable, with crumpled wings, the little
fly floats on its previous home, an exquisite canoe of Nature’s own
contriving. A breeze of wind sufficient to ripple the water is fatal
to it now, as shipwreck is inevitable; but if all is calm and conducive
to safety, the little fly dries, the wings expand, it inhales the air,
and along with it strength and power to fly; then bidding goodbye
to the frail barque, wings its way to the land, and begins a war of
persecution.
Mosquitos never venture far over the water after once quitting their
skin-canoe: this fact the wily savage has taken advantage of. During
‘the reign of terror’ the Indians never come on shore if they can help
it; and if they do, they take good care to flog every intruder out of
the canoes before reaching the stage.
These stages, each with a family of Indians living on them, have a
most picturesque appearance. The little fleet of canoes are moored
to the poles, and the platform reached by a ladder made of twisted
cedar-bark. Often have I slept on these stages among the savages, to
avoid being devoured. But I am not quite sure if one gains very much
by the change: in the first place, if you are restless, and roll about
in your sleep, you stand a very good chance of finding yourself soused
in the lake. The perfumes—varied but abundant—that regale your nose
are not such as are wafted from ‘tropic isles’ or ‘Araby the blest.’ I
shall not shock my fair readers with any comparison—you must imagine
it is not agreeable. Dogs also live on these platforms; for the Indian
dog is always with his master, sharing bed as well as board. These
canine favourites are not exempt from persecutors; like the giant of
old, they at once ‘smell the blood of an Englishman,’ and will have
some; but, after all, the night steals away, you know not how, until
the dawn, blushing over the eastern hilltops, rouses all the dreaming
world—except mosquitos, that never sleep.
On the eastern side of the Cascades the scenery and general physical
condition of the country materially changes, and the _Tabanus_ and
burning-fly become the ruling persecutors.
_Lagomys minimus_ (Lord, sp. nov.)—The Commissioner, myself, a few
men, and a small train of pack-mules, set out to visit some of the
stations on the Boundary-line, east of the Cascades. Our route lay
along the valley of the Shimilkameen river, to strike Ashtnolow, a
tributary that led up into the mountains, the course of which we were
to follow as far as practicable. We had a delightful trip, through a
district indescribably lovely.
There is a wild and massive grandeur about the eastern side of the
Cascades, unlike the scenery of the west or coast slope, which is
densely wooded. Here it was like riding through a succession of parks,
covered with grass and flowers of varied species.
We reached the junction of the two streams, and camped, just as the
sun, disappearing behind the western hills, tinted with purple twilight
the ragged peaks of the rocks that shut us in on every side. Scarce a
sound of bird or beast disturbed the silence of the forest, and save
the babble of the stream, as it rippled over the shingle, all nature
was soon hushed in deathlike sleep. I could dimly make out in the
fading light the grim hills we had to climb, towering up like mighty
giants; the clear white snow, covering their summits, contrasted
strangely with the sombre pine-trees, thickly covering the lower
portion of the mountains.
We had a stiff climb before us, and my hopes were high in expectation
of bowling over big-horn (_Ovis montana_) and ptarmigan. For some
distance we scrambled up the sides of the brawling torrent, whose
course, like true love, was none of the smoothest, being over and among
vast fragments of rock, that everywhere covered the hillside. From
amidst these relics of destruction grew the Douglas pine and ponderous
cedar (_Thuja gigantea_). Here the ascent was easy enough, but on
reaching a greater altitude, the climbing became anything but a joke.
We at last reached a level plateau near the summit, and lay down on
the soft mossy grass, near a stream that came trickling down from the
melting snow.
Close to my couch was a talus of broken granite, that Old Time and the
Frost King between them had crumbled away from a mass of rocks above.
As I contemplated this heap of rocks, a cry like a plaintive whistle
suddenly attracted my attention; it evidently came from amongst the
stones. I listened and kept quiet. Again and again came the whistle,
but nowhere could I see the whistler. A slight movement at length
betrayed him, and I could clearly make out a little animal sitting bolt
upright, like a begging-dog, his seat a flat stone in the middle of the
heap.
I had a load of small-shot in one barrel, intended for ptarmigan;
raising my gun slowly and cautiously to my shoulder, I fired as I lay
on the ground. The sharp ringing crack as I touched the trigger—the
first, perhaps, that had ever awoke the echoes of the mountain—was the
death-knell of the poor little musician.
I picked him up, and imagine my delight when for the first time I held
a new _Lagomys_ in my hand. Having made out what he was, the next thing
to be done was to watch for others—to find out what they did, and how
they passed the time in their stony citadel. I had not long to wait;
they soon came peeping slily out of their hiding-places, and, inferring
safety from silence, sat upon the stones and cheerily chorused to each
other. The least noise, and the whistle was sounded sharper and more
shrill—the danger-signal, when one and all took headers among the
stones.
I soon observed they were busy at work, carrying in dry grass,
fir-fronds, roots, and moss, and constructing a nest in the clefts
between the stones, clearly for winter-quarters. The nests were of
large size, some of them consisting of as much material as would fill a
good-sized basket. One nest was evidently the combined work of several
little labourers, and destined for their joint habitation.
There were no provisions stored away, neither do I think they garner
any for winter use, but simply hibernate in the warm nest; which, of
course, is thickly covered with snow during the intense cold of these
northern latitudes, thus more effectually preventing radiation and
waste of animal heat. Their food consists entirely of grass, which
they nibble much after the fashion of our common rabbit. They never
burrow or dig holes in the ground, but pass their lives among the loose
stones. Who can fail to trace the evidence of Divine care in colouring
the fur of this defenceless creature in a garb exactly resembling the
grey lichen-covered fragments amongst which he is destined to pass
his life? So closely does the animal approximate in appearance to an
angular piece of rock when sitting up, that unless he moves it takes
sharp eyes to see him; and the cry or whistle is so deceptive that I
imagined it far distant, when the animal was close to me.
The species described and figured by Sir John Richardson—F.B.A., plate
19, _Lepus (Lagomys) princeps_, the little Chief Hare—I first saw at
Chilukweyuk lake, and next on the trail leading from Fort Hope, on the
Fraser river, to Fort Colville. The little fellows were in a narrow
gorge, as well as among loose stones. It was about the same date as
in the preceding year that I had seen _Lagomys minimus_ making its
nest; but here not a trace of nest could I see, nor any evidence of
an attempt to make one. I soon after returned again by the same trail.
The snow having now fallen to the depth of about six inches, completely
covering up the rocks and stones, all the animals had disappeared; and
although I searched most carefully, there was not a hole or track in
the snow, to show they had ever left their quarters to feed or wander
about.
As it was quite impossible a nest could have been made in the interim,
it is perfectly certain they hibernate in holes without a nest; whereas
_Lagomys minimus_, living at a much greater altitude, makes a nest to
sleep through the winter.
_Lagomys minimus_ (Lord, sp. nov.).—SP. CHAR.: Differs from _Lepus
(Lagomys) princeps_ of Sir J. Richardson (F.B.A., vol. i. p. 227,
pl. 19) in being much smaller. Predominant colour of back dark-grey,
tinged faintly with umber-yellow,—more vivid about the shoulders,
but gradually shading off on the sides and belly to dirty-white; feet
white, washed over with yellowish-brown; ears large, black inside, the
outer rounded margin edged with white; eye very small, and intensely
black; whiskers long, and composed of about an equal number of white
and black hairs.
Measurement: Head and body, 6½ inches; head, 2 inches; nose to
auditory opening, 1¼ inch; height of ear from behind, 1 inch.
The skull differs in being generally smaller; the cranial portion of
the skull in its superior outline is much narrower and smoother. The
nasal bones are shorter and broader, and rounded at their posterior
articulation, instead of being deeply notched, as in _L. princeps_.
Distance from anterior molar to incisors much less; auditory bullæ much
smaller. Incisors shorter and straighter, and very deeply grooved on
the anterior surface. Molars smaller, but otherwise similar in form.
Length of skull, 1¼ inch.
General differences from _Lagomys princeps_:—First, in being smaller,
1½ inch shorter in total length; the ear, measured from behind, ¼
inch shorter; the colour generally darker, especially the lower third
of the back. Secondly, in the _structural_ differences of the skull;
for although these differences are not prominent or well-defined, yet
they are unquestionable specific variations. Thirdly, in the habit of
constructing a nest of hay for the winter sleep, and in living at a
much greater altitude.
There is a strange indescribable delight in discovery, and in finding
animals for the first time in their native haunts, animals that before
one had vaguely heard or only read of; thus digging, as it were, from
Nature’s exhaustless mine, fresh wonders of Divine handiwork on which
eye had not before gazed.
_Hummingbirds._—Hummingbirds, and the wild tangled loveliness of
tropical vegetation, appear to be so closely linked together, that we
are apt to think the one essential to the existence of the other.
We naturally (at least I did in my earlier days) associate these
tiniest gems of the feathered creation with glowing sunshine, gorgeous
flowers, grotesque orchids—palms, plaintains, bananas, and blacks.
This is all true enough, and if we take that large slice of the
American continent betwixt the Amazon, the Rio Grande, and the Gila
(embracing Guiana, New Granada, Central America, Mexico, and the
West Indian islands), as the home of hummingbirds, we shall pretty
truthfully define, what is usually assumed to be, the geographical
range of this group—a group entirely confined to America. Within the
above limits, the great variety of species, the most singular in form
and brilliant in plumage, are met with.
Gazing on these gems of the air, one would suppose that Nature had
exhausted all her skill in lavishly distributing the richest profusion
of colours, and in exquisitely mingling every imaginable tint and
shade, to adorn these diminutive creatures, in a livery more lustrously
brilliant than was ever fabricated by the loom, or metal-worker’s
handicraft.
[Illustration: NORTH-WESTERN HUMMINGBIRDS.]
But away from the tropics and its feathered wonders, to the wild
solitudes of the Rocky Mountains,—it is there I want you in
imagination to wander with me, and to picture to yourself, which you
can easily do if you possess a naturalist’s love of discovery, the
delight I experienced when, for the first time, I saw hummingbirds up
in the very regions of the ‘Ice King.’
Early in the month of May, when the sun melts down the doors of snow
and ice, and sets free imprisoned nature, I was sent ahead of the
astronomical party employed in making the Boundary-line to cut out a
trail, and bridge any streams too deep to ford. The first impediment
met with was at the Little Spokan river,—little only as compared with
the Great Spokan, into which it flows. The larger stream leads from the
western slope of the Rocky Mountains, and flows on to join the Columbia.
It was far too deep to be crossed by any expedient short of bridging;
so a bridge had to be built, an operation involving quite a week’s
delay. The place chosen, and the men set to work, my leisure time was
devoted to collecting.
The snow still lingered in large patches about the hollows and
sheltered spots. Save a modest violet or humble rock-blossom, no flower
had ventured to open its petals, except the brilliant pink _Ribes_, or
flowering currant, common in every English cottage-garden.
Approaching a large cluster of these gay-looking bushes, my ears were
greeted with a sharp thrum—a sound I knew well—from the wings of
a hummingbird, as it darted past me. The name by which these birds
are commonly known has arisen from the noise produced by the wings
(very like the sound of a driving-belt used in machinery, although of
course not nearly so loud), whilst the little creature, poised over
a flower, darts its slender beak deep amidst the corolla—not to sip
nectar, in my humble opinion, but to capture drowsy insect revellers,
that assemble in these attractive drinking-shops, and grow tipsy on
the sweets gratuitously provided for them. Soon a second whizzed by
me, and others followed in rapid succession; and, when near enough to
see distinctly, the bushes seemed literally to gleam with the flashing
colours of swarms (I know no better word) of hummingbirds surrounding
the entire clump of _Ribes_.
‘From flower to flower, where wild bees flew and sung,
As countless, small, and musical as they
Showers of bright hummingbirds came down, and plied
The same ambrosial task with slender bill,
Extracting honey hidden in those bells
Whose richest blossoms grew pale beneath their blaze,
Of twinkling winglets hov’ring o’er their petals,
Brilliant as rain-drops when the western sun
Sees his own miniature beams in each.’
Seating myself on a log, I watched this busy assemblage for some time.
They were all male birds, and two species were plainly discernible.
Chasing each other in sheer sport, with a rapidity of flight and
intricacy of evolution impossible for the eye to follow—through
the bushes, and over the water, everywhere—they darted about like
meteors. Often meeting in mid-air, a furious battle would ensue; their
tiny crests and throat-plumes erect and blazing, they were altogether
pictures of the most violent passions. Then one would perch himself
on a dead spray, and leisurely smooth his ruffled feathers, to be
suddenly rushed at and assaulted by some quarrelsome comrade. Feeding,
fighting, and frolicking seemed to occupy their entire time. I daresay
hard epithets will be heaped upon me,—cruel man, hard-hearted savage,
miserable destroyer, and similar epithets,—when I confess to shooting
numbers of these burnished beauties. Some of them are before me at
this moment as I write; but what miserable things are these stuffed
remains, as compared to the living bird! The brilliant crests are rigid
and immoveable; the throat-feathers, that open and shut with a flash
like coloured light, lose in the stillness of death all those charms so
beautiful in life; the tail, clumsily spread, or bent similar to the
abdomen of a wasp about to sting, no more resembles the same organ in
the live bird, than a fan of peacock’s feathers is like to the expanded
tail of that bird when strutting proudly in the sun.
It is useless pleading excuses; two long days were occupied in shooting
and skinning. The two species obtained on this occasion were the
Red-backed Hummingbird (_Selasphorus rufus_), often described as the
Nootka Hummingbird, because it was first discovered in Nootka Sound,
on the west side of Vancouver Island; the other, one of the smallest
known species, called Calliope. This exquisite little bird is mainly
conspicuous for its frill of minute pinnated feathers encircling
the throat, of most delicate magenta tint, which can be raised or
depressed at will. Prior to my finding it in this remote region, it was
described as being entirely confined to Mexico.
About a week had passed away; the bridge was completed, during which
time the female birds had arrived; and, save a stray one now and then,
not a single individual of that numerous host that had gathered round
the _Ribes_ was to be seen. They cared nothing for the gun, and would
even dash at a dead companion as it lay on the grass; so I did not
drive them away, but left them to scatter of their own free will.
My next camping-place was on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains,
near a lake, by the margin of which grew some cottonwood trees (_Salix
scouleriana_), together with the alder (_Alnus oregona_), and the sweet
or black birch (_Betula leuta_). My attention was called to the latter
tree by observing numbers of wasps, bees, and hornets swarming round
its trunk. The secret was soon disclosed: a sweet gummy sap was exuding
plentifully from splits in the bark, on which hosts of insects, large
and small, were regaling themselves. As the sap ran down over the bark,
it became very sticky, and numbers of small winged insects, pitching on
it, were trapped in a natural ‘catch-’em-alive-O.’
Busily occupied in picking off these captives were several very
sombre-looking hummingbirds. They poised themselves just as the others
did over the flowers, and deftly nipped, as with delicate forceps, the
helpless insects. I soon bagged one, and found I had a third species,
the Black-throated Hummingbird (_Trochilus Alexandri_). Were any proof
needed to establish the fact of Hummingbirds being insect-feeders, this
should be sufficient. I saw the bird, not only on this occasion but
dozens of times afterwards, pick the insect from off the tree, often
killing it in the act; and found the stomach, on being opened, filled
with various species of winged insects.
The habits of the three species differ widely. The Red-backed
Hummingbird loves to flit over the open prairies, stopping at every
tempting flower, to catch some idler lurking in its nectar-cells.
Building its nest generally in a low shrub, and close to the
rippling stream, it finds pleasant music in its ceaseless splash.
Minute Calliope, on the other hand, prefers rocky hillsides at great
altitudes, where only pine-trees, rock-plants, and an alpine flora
‘struggle for existence.’ I have frequently killed this bird above the
line of perpetual snow. Its favourite resting-place is on the extreme
point of a dead pine-tree, where, if undisturbed, it will sit for
hours. The site chosen for the nest is usually the branch of a young
pine; artfully concealed amidst the fronds at the very end, it is
rocked like a cradle by every passing breeze.
The Black-throated Hummingbird lingers around lakes, pools, and swamps
where its favourite trapping-tree grows. I have occasionally, though
very rarely, seen it hovering over flowers; this, I apprehend, is
only when the storehouse is empty, and the sap too dry to capture the
insects. They generally build in the birch or alder, selecting the fork
of a branch high up.
All hummingbirds, as far as I know, lay only two eggs; the young are so
tightly packed into the nest, and fit so exactly, that if once taken
out it is impossible to replace them. Several springs succeeding my
first discovery that these hummingbirds were regular migrants to boreal
regions, I watched their arrival. We were quartered for the winter
close to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains. The winters here
vary in length, as well as in depth of snow and intensity of cold, 33°
below zero being no unfrequent register. But it did not matter whether
we had a late or early spring, the hummingbirds did not come until the
_Ribes_ opened; and in no single instance did two whole days elapse
after the blossoms expanded, but Selasphorus and Calliope arrived to
bid them welcome. The males usually preceded the females by four or
five days.
The Black-throated Hummingbird arrives about a week or ten days after
the other two. Marvellous is the instinct that guides and the power
that sustains these birds (not larger than a good sized bumblebee) over
such an immense tract of country; and even more wonderful still is
their arrival, timed so accurately, that the only flower adapted to
its wants thus early in the year opens its hoards, ready to supply the
wanderer’s necessities after so tedious a migration!
It seems to me vastly like design, and Foreseeing Wisdom, that a shrub
indigenous and widely distributed should be so fashioned as to produce
its blossoms long before its leaves; and that this very plant alone
blooms ere the snow has melted off the land, and that too at the exact
period when hummingbirds arrive. It cannot be chance, but the work
of the Almighty Architect—who shaped them both, whose handiwork we
discover at every step, and of whose sublime conceptions we everywhere
observe the manifestations in the admirably-balanced system of
creation!
The specific characters of these three species, whose northern range I
believe was first defined by myself, are briefly as follows:—
_Selasphorus rufus_ (the Nootka or Red-backed Hummingbird).—Male:
tail strong and wedge-shaped; upper parts, lower tail-coverts, and
back, cinnamon; throat coppery red, with a well-developed ruff of the
same, bordered with a white collar; tail-feathers cinnamon, striped
with purplish-brown. Female: plain, cinnamon on the back, replaced
with green; traces only of metallic feathers on the throat. Length
of male, 3·50; wing, 1·56; tail, 1·31 inches. Habitat: West coast of
North America to lat. 53° N., extending its range southward through
California, to the Rio Grande.
_Stellata Calliope._—Male: back bright-green; wings brownish; neck
with a ruff of pinnated magenta-coloured feathers, the lower ones much
elongated; abdomen whitish; length, about 2·75 inches. Female, much
plainer than the male, with only a trace of the magenta-coloured ruff.
_Trochilus Alexandri_ (Black-throated Hummingbird).—Male: tails
lightly forked, the chin and upper part of the throat velvety black
without metallic reflections, which are confined to the posterior
border of the black, and are violet, changing to steel-blue. Length,
3·30 inches. Female, without the metallic markings; tail-feathers
tipped with white. Both have the same northern and southern range as
_Selasphorus rufus_.
_Urotrichus Gibsii_, Baird (Western slope of Cascade Mountains);
_Urotrichus Talpoides_, Temminck.—This singular little animal, that
appears to be an intermediate link between the shrew and the mole,
at present is only known as an inhabitant of two parts of the world,
widely removed from each other—the one spot being the western slope
of the Cascade Mountains, in North-west America, the other Japan.
There are, as far as I know, but two specimens extant from the Cascade
Mountains—one in the Smithsonian Museum at Washington, the other a
very fine specimen that I have recently brought home, and now in the
British Museum.[7] I have carefully compared the Japanese gentleman
with his brother from the Western wilds, and can find no difference
whatever, either generically or specifically. In size, colour, shape,
and anatomical structure they are precisely alike.
The habits of the little fellow from Japan I know nothing about,
but with my friend from the North-west I am much more familiar; and
I shall endeavour to introduce him to you as lifelike as I can, from
what I have jotted down in my notebook. First, then, the Urotrichus
is an insectivorous mammal, its size that of a large shrew, about
two-and-a-quarter inches in length, exclusive of tail, which is about
an inch and a half. This tail is covered thickly with long hairs, which
at the tip end in a tuft like a fine camel’s-hair pencil, and from this
hairy tail it gets the name, _Urotrichus_.
[Illustration: THE UROTRICHUS
(Urotrichus Gibsii).]
Its colour is bluish-black when alive, but in the dried specimens
changes to sooty-brown. The hair is lustrous, and, where it reflects
the light, has a hoary appearance, and, as with the mole, it can be
smoothed in either direction; this is a wise and admirable arrangement,
as it enables the animal to back through its underground roads, as well
as to go through them head-first. Its nose or snout is very curious,
and much like that of a pig—only that it is lengthened out into a
cylindrical tube, covered with short thick hairs, and terminated in a
naked fleshy kind of bulb or gland; and this gland is pierced by two
minute holes, which are the nostrils. Each nostril has a little fold of
membrane hanging down over it like a shutter, effectually preventing
sand and minute particles of dust from getting into the nose whilst
digging.
Now this curious nasal appendage is to this miner not only an organ of
smell, but also serves the purpose of hands and eyes. His forefeet, as
I shall by-and-by show you, are wholly digging implements, and, from
their peculiar horny character, not in any way adapted to convey the
sense of touch. Eyes he has none, and but a very rudimentary form of
ear; his highly sensitive moveable nose serves him admirably in the
dark tunnels, in which his time is passed, to feel his way and scent
out the lower forms of insect life, on which he principally feeds. Had
he eyes he could not see, for the sunlight never peeps in to cheer his
subterranean home, and sound reaches not down to him. The busy hum of
insect life, and the song of feathered choristers, he hears not, so
that highly-developed hearing appendages would have been useless and
superfluous.
But his nose in every way compensates for all these apparent
deficiencies, and shows us how to be admired is Creative Goodness
in shaping and adapting the meanest and humblest of His creatures
to its habits and modes of life. His forefeet are, like the mole’s,
converted into diggers; the strong scoop-shaped nail, like a small
garden-trowel at the end of each toe, enables him to dig with wonderful
ease and celerity. The hind-feet are shaped into a kind of scraper by
the toe being curiously bent, and the length of the hind-foot is about
two-thirds more than the fore or digging hand. When I come to his
habits, as differing from the mole, I shall be able to point out the
use of this strange scraper-like form of hind-foot.
So far I have endeavoured to give you an outline of his general
personal appearance, differing from the shrew in the peculiar
arrangement of his feet, and from the mole in having a long hairy
tail. His nearest relative (if at all related) is the _Condylura_, or
Star-nosed Mole, whose nose has a fringe of star-shaped processes round
its outer edge, about twenty-two in number. The first and only place
in which I ever met this strange little fellow was on the Chilukweyuk
prairies. These large grassy openings, or prairies, are situated near
the Fraser river, on the western side of the Cascade Mountains. Small
streams wind and twist through these prairies like huge water-snakes,
widening out here and there into large glassy pools.
The scenery is romantic and beautiful beyond description. Towering up
into the very clouds, as a background, are the mighty hills of the
Cascade range, their misty summits capped with perpetual snow—their
craggy sides rent into chasms and ravines, whose depths and solitudes
no man’s foot has ever trodden, and clad up to the very snow-line with
mighty pine and cedar-trees. The Chilukweyuk river already referred
to washes one side of the prairie. Silvery-green and ever-trembling
cottonwood trees, ruddy black-birch, and hawthorn, like a girdle,
encircle the prairie, and form a border, of Nature’s own weaving, to
the brilliant carpet of emerald grass, patterned with wild flowers of
every hue and tint,—all shading pleasantly away, and losing their
brilliancy in the dark green pine-trees.
In the sandy banks on the edge of the Chilukweyuk river, and the
various little streams winding through the prairie-grass, lives the
Urotrichus. His mansion is a large hole, lined with bits of grass, and
this hole is his sleeping-room and drawing-room. A genuine bachelor,
he never dines at home. He has lots of roads tunnelled away from his
central mansion, radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel. His
tunnels are not at all like those of the mole; he never throws up
mounds or heaps of earth, in order to get rid of the surplus material
he digs out, as the mole does, but makes open cuttings at short
intervals, about four or five inches long; and now we shall see the use
of those curiously-formed scraper-like hind-feet.
As he digs out the tunnel with his trowel-hands, he throws back
the earth towards his hind-feet; these, from their peculiar shape,
enable him to back this dirt out of the hole, using them like two
scrapers—only that he pushes the dirt away, instead of pulling it
towards himself. Having backed the dirt clear of the mouth of the hole,
he throws it out over the edge of the open cutting; after having dug in
some distance—and finding, I daresay, the labour of backing-out rather
irksome—he digs up through the ground to the surface, makes another
open cutting, and then begins a new hole or tunnel, and disappears into
the earth again. When he has gone as far from his dormitory as he deems
wise, he again digs through, and clears away the rubbish. This road is
now complete, so he goes back again to his central mansion, to begin
others at his leisure.
It is very difficult to watch the movements and discover the
feeding-time, or what he feeds on, of an animal which lives almost
wholly underground in the daytime; but I am pretty sure these tunnels
are made for and used as roadways, or underground trails for the
purpose of hunting. He is a night-feeder, and exposed to terrible
perils from the various small carnivora that prowl about like bandits
in the dark—stoats, weasels, martens, and skunks. So, to avoid and
escape these enemies, he comes quietly along the subterranean roadways,
and cautiously emerging at the open cutting, feels about with his
wonderful nose; and I doubt not, guided by an acute sense of smell,
pounces upon larvæ, slugs, beetles, or any nocturnal creeping-thing he
can catch; and so traversing his different hunting-trails during the
night, manages in that way to fare sumptuously, and safe from danger.
Turning in, to sleep away his breakfast, dinner, and supper, at the
first peep of the grey morning, he dozes on, until hunger again prompts
him to make another excursion on the ‘hunting-path.’
It is scarcely possible to imagine a more skilfully-contrived
hunting-system, to avoid danger and facilitate escape, than are these
tunnel-trails with open cuttings; for the sly little hunter has, on the
slightest alarm, two means of flight at his disposal—one before and
another behind him; and the fur, as I have already mentioned, laying as
evenly when smoothed from tail to head as it does when turned in the
natural direction, enables him to turn astern, and retreat tail-first
into his hole as easily as he could go head-first.
When we contemplate this grotesque and strangely-formed little
creature, and see how wisely and wonderfully it is fashioned and
adapted to its destined place, supplying another missing link in the
great chain of Nature, we cannot but feel God’s power and omnipresence.
Feeding in the dark and living in the dark, eyes would have been
superfluous; sound, save from vibration in the earth, or when hunting
at the open cuttings, would seldom reach this tiny _hermit_; hence
the hearing organs have no external appendage for catching sounds,
and are but in a rudimentary form. Hands fashioned into marvellous
digging-tools, and hind-feet turned into scrapers, for getting rid of
the rubble dug out with the hands, and nose possessing smell and touch
in their most exquisite forms, these serve him for guides of unerring
certainty and undeviating precision through his darksome wanderings.