lake. I could hear five at one time, _thump, thump, thump, thump,
thr-r-r-r-r-r-rr_. It was a homely, welcome sound. As I returned to
camp at twilight, along the shore of the lake, the frogs also were in
full chorus. The older ones ripped out their responses to each other
with terrific force and volume. I know of no other animal capable of
giving forth so much sound, in proportion to its size, as a frog. Some
of these seemed to bellow as loud as a two-year-old bull. They were of
immense size, and very abundant. No frog-eater had ever been there.
Near the shore we felled a tree which reached far out in the lake.
Upon the trunk and branches the frogs had soon collected in large
numbers, and gamboled and splashed about the half-submerged top, like
a parcel of school-boys, making nearly as much noise.
After dark, as I was frying the fish, a panful of the largest trout
was accidentally capsized in the fire. With rueful countenances we
contemplated the irreparable loss our commissariat had sustained by
this mishap; but remembering there was virtue in ashes, we poked the
half-consumed fish from the bed of coals and ate them, and they were
good.
We lodged that night on a brush-heap and slept soundly. The green,
yielding beech-twigs, covered with a buffalo robe, were equal to a
hair mattress. The heat and smoke from a large fire kindled in the
afternoon had banished every "no-see-em" from the locality, and in the
morning the sun was above the mountain before we awoke.
I immediately started again for the inlet, and went far up the stream
toward its source. A fair string of trout for breakfast was my reward.
The cattle with the bell were at the head of the valley, where they had
passed the night. Most of them were two-year-old steers. They came up to
me and begged for salt, and scared the fish by their importunities.
We finished our bread that morning, and ate every fish we could catch,
and about ten o'clock prepared to leave the lake. The weather had been
admirable, and the lake was a gem, and I would gladly have spent a
week in the neighborhood; but the question of supplies was a serious
one, and would brook no delay.
When we reached, on our return, the point where we had crossed the
line of marked trees the day before, the question arose whether we
should still trust ourselves to this line, or follow our own trail
back to the spring and the battlement of rocks on the top of the
mountain, and thence to the rock where the guide had left us. We
decided in favor of the former course. After a march of three quarters
of an hour the blazed trees ceased, and we concluded we were near the
point at which we had parted with the guide. So we built a fire, laid
down our loads, and cast about on all sides for some clew as to our
exact locality. Nearly an hour was consumed in this manner and without
any result. I came upon a brood of young grouse, which diverted me for
a moment. The old one blustered about at a furious rate, trying to
draw all attention to herself, while the young ones, which were unable
to fly, hid themselves. She whined like a dog in great distress, and
dragged herself along apparently with the greatest difficulty. As I
pursued her, she ran very nimbly, and presently flew a few yards.
Then, as I went on, she flew farther and farther each time, till at
last she got up, and went humming through the woods as if she had no
interest in them. I went back and caught one of the young, which had
simply squatted close to the leaves. I took it up and set it on the
palm of my hand, which it hugged as closely as if still upon the
ground. I then put it in my coatsleeve, when it ran and nestled in my
armpit.
When we met at the sign of the smoke, opinions differed as to the most
feasible course. There was no doubt but that we could get out of the
woods; but we wished to get out speedily and as near as possible to
the point where we had entered. Half ashamed of our timidity and
indecision, we finally tramped away back to where we had crossed the
line of blazed trees, followed our old trail to the spring on the top
of the range, and, after much searching and scouring to the right and
left found ourselves at the very place we had left two hours before.
Another deliberation and a divided council. But something must be
done. It was then mid-afternoon, and the prospect of spending another
night on the mountains, without food or drink, was not pleasant. So we
moved down the ridge. Here another line of marked trees was found, the
course of which formed an obtuse angle with the one we had followed.
It kept on the top of the ridge for perhaps a mile, when it entirely
disappeared, and we were as much adrift as ever. Then one of the party
swore on oath, and said he was going out of those woods, hit or miss,
and wheeling to the right, instantly plunged over the brink of the
mountain. The rest followed, but would fain have paused and ciphered
away at their own uncertainties, to see if a certainty could not be
arrived at as to where we would come out. But our bold leader was
solving the problem in the right way. Down and down and still down we
went, as if we were to bring up in the bowels of the earth. It was by
far the steepest descent we had made, and we felt a grim satisfaction
in knowing that we could not retrace our steps this time, be the issue
what it might. As we paused on the brink of a ledge of rocks, we
chanced to see through the trees distant cleared land. A house or barn
also was dimly descried. This was encouraging; but we could not make
out whether it was on Beaver Kill or Mill Brook or Dry Brook, and did
not long stop to consider where it was. We at last brought up at the
bottom of a deep gorge, through which flowed a rapid creek that
literally swarmed with trout. But we were in no mood to catch them,
and pushed on along the channel of the stream, sometimes leaping from
rock to rock, and sometimes splashing heedlessly through the water,
and speculating the while as to where we would probably come out. On
the Beaver Kill, my companions thought; but, from the position of the
sun, I said, on the Mill Brook, about six miles below our team; for I
remembered having seen, in coming up this stream, a deep, wild valley
that led up into the mountains, like this one. Soon the banks of the
stream became lower, and we moved into the woods. Here we entered upon
an obscure wood-road, which presently conducted us into the midst of a
vast hemlock forest. The land had a gentle slope, and we wondered why
the lumbermen and barkmen who prowl through these woods had left this
fine tract untouched. Beyond this the forest was mostly birch and
maple.
We were now close to the settlement, and began to hear human sounds.
One rod more, and we were out of the woods. It took us a moment to
comprehend the scene. Things looked very strange at first; but quickly
they began to change and to put on familiar features. Some magic
scene-shifting seemed to take place before my eyes, till, instead of
the unknown settlement which I at first seemed to look upon there
stood the farm-house at which we had stopped two days before, and at
the same moment we heard the stamping of our team in the barn. We sat
down and laughed heartily over our good luck. Our desperate venture
had resulted better than we had dared to hope, and had shamed our
wisest plans. At the house our arrival had been anticipated about this
time, and dinner was being put upon the table.
It was then five o'clock, so that we had been in the woods just
forty-eight hours; but if time is only phenomenal, as the philosophers
say, and life only in feeling, as the poets aver, we were some months,
if not years, older at that moment than we had been two days before.
Yet younger too,--though this be a paradox,--for the birches had
infused into us some of their own suppleness and strength.
[Illustration: Bluebird.]
THE BLUEBIRD.
When Nature made the bluebird she wished to propitiate both the sky
and the earth, so she gave him the color of the one on his back and
the hue of the other on his breast, and ordained that his appearance
in spring should denote that the strife and war between these two
elements was at an end. He is the peace-harbinger; in him the
celestial and terrestrial strike hands and are fast friends. He means
the furrow and he means the warmth; he means all the soft, wooing
influences of the spring on the one hand, and the retreating footsteps
of winter on the other.
It is sure to be a bright March morning when you first hear his note;
and it is as if the milder influences up above had found a voice and
let a word fall upon your ear, so tender is it and so prophetic, a
hope tinged with a regret.
"_Bermuda! Bermuda! Bermuda!_" he seems to say, as if both invoking
and lamenting, and behold! Bermuda follows close, though the little
pilgrim may be only repeating the tradition of his race, himself
having come only from Florida, the Carolinas, or even from Virginia,
where he has found his Bermuda on some broad sunny hill-side thickly
studded with cedars and persimmon trees.
In New York and in New England the sap starts up in the sugar-maple the
very day the bluebird arrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith. The
bird is generally a mere disembodied voice; a rumor in the air for two
or three days before it takes visible shape before you. The males are
the pioneers, and come several days in advance of the females. By the
time both are here and the pair have begun to prospect for a place to
nest, sugar-making is over, the last vestige of snow has disappeared,
and the plow is brightening its mould-board in the new furrow.
The bluebird enjoys the preëminence of being the first bit of color
that cheers our northern landscape. The other birds that arrive about
the same time--the sparrow, the robin, the phoebe-bird--are clad in
neutral tints, gray, brown, or russet; but the bluebird brings one of
the primary hues and the divinest of them all.
This bird also has the distinction of answering very nearly to the
robin-redbreast of English memory, and was by the early settlers of
New England christened the blue-robin.
It is a size or two larger, and the ruddy hue of its breast does not
verge so nearly on an orange, but the manners and habits of the two
birds are very much alike. Our bird has the softest voice, but the
English redbreast is much the most skilled musician. He has indeed a
fine, animated warble, heard nearly the year through about English
gardens and along the old hedge-rows, that is quite beyond the compass
of our bird's instrument. On the other hand, our bird is associated
with the spring as the British species cannot be, being a winter
resident also, while the brighter sun and sky of the New World has
given him a coat that far surpasses that of his transatlantic cousin.
It is worthy of remark that among British birds there is no _blue_-bird.
The cerulean tint seems much rarer among the feathered tribes there than
here. On this continent there are at least three species of the common
bluebird, while in all our woods there is the blue jay and the
indigo-bird,--the latter so intensely blue as to fully justify its name.
There is also the blue grossbeak, not much behind the indigo-bird in
intensity of color; and among our warblers the blue tint is very common.
It is interesting to know that the bluebird is not confined to any one
section of the country; and that when one goes west he will still have
this favorite with him, though a little changed in voice and color,
just enough to give variety without marring the identity.
The western bluebird is considered a distinct species, and is perhaps a
little more brilliant and showy than its Eastern brother; and Nuttall
thinks its song is more varied, sweet, and tender. Its color approaches
to ultramarine, while it has a sash of chestnut-red across its
shoulders,--all the effects, I expect, of that wonderful air and sky of
California, and of those great western plains; or if one goes a little
higher up into the mountainous regions of the West he finds the Arctic
bluebird, the ruddy brown on the breast changed to greenish-blue, and
the wings longer and more pointed; in other respects not differing much
from our species.
The bluebird usually builds its nest in a hole in a stump or stub, or
in an old cavity excavated by a woodpecker, when such can be had; but
its first impulse seems to be to start in the world in much more
style, and the happy pair make a great show of house-hunting about the
farm-buildings, now half persuaded to appropriate a dove-cot, then
discussing in a lively manner a last year's swallow's nest, or
proclaiming with much flourish and flutter that they have taken the
wren's house, or the tenement of the purple martin; till finally
nature becomes too urgent, when all this pretty make-believe ceases,
and most of them settle back upon the old family stumps and knot-holes
in remote fields, and go to work in earnest.
In such situations the female is easily captured by approaching very
stealthily and covering the entrance to the nest. The bird seldom
makes any effort to escape, seeing how hopeless the case is, and
keeps her place on the nest till she feels your hand closing around
her. I have looked down into the cavity and seen the poor thing
palpitating with fear and looking up with distended eyes, but never
moving till I had withdrawn a few paces; then she rushes out with a
cry that brings the male on the scene in a hurry. He warbles and lifts
his wings beseechingly, but shows no anger or disposition to scold and
complain like most birds. Indeed, this bird seems incapable of
uttering a harsh note, or of doing a spiteful, ill-tempered thing.
The ground-builders all have some art or device to decoy one away from
the nest, affecting lameness, a crippled wing, or a broken back,
promising an easy capture if pursued. The tree-builders depend upon
concealing the nest or placing it beyond reach. But the bluebird has
no art either way, and its nest is easily found.
About the only enemies the sitting bird or the nest is in danger of,
are snakes and squirrels. I knew of a farm-boy who was in the habit of
putting his hand down into a bluebird's nest and taking out the old
bird whenever he came that way. One day he put his hand in, and
feeling something peculiar, withdrew it hastily, when it was instantly
followed by the head and neck of an enormous black snake. The boy took
to his heels and the snake gave chase, pressing him close till a
plowman near by came to the rescue with his ox-whip.
There never was a happier or more devoted husband than the male bluebird
is. But among nearly all our familiar birds the serious cares of life
seem to devolve almost entirely upon the female. The male is hilarious
and demonstrative, the female serious and anxious about her charge. The
male is the attendant of the female, following her wherever she goes. He
never leads, never directs, but only seconds and applauds. If his life
is all poetry and romance, hers is all business and prose. She has no
pleasure but her duty, and no duty but to look after her nest and brood.
She shows no affection for the male, no pleasure in his society; she
only tolerates him as a necessary evil, and, if he is killed, goes in
quest of another in the most business-like manner, as you would go for
the plumber or the glazier. In most cases the male is the ornamental
partner in the firm, and contributes little of the working capital.
There seems to be more equality of the sexes among the woodpeckers,
wrens, and swallows; while the contrast is greatest, perhaps, in the
bobolink family, where the courting is done in the Arab fashion, the
female fleeing with all her speed and the male pursuing with equal
precipitation; and were it not for the broods of young birds that
appear, it would be hard to believe that the intercourse ever ripened
into anything more intimate.
With the bluebirds the male is useful as well as ornamental. He is the
gay champion and escort of the female at all times, and while she is
sitting he feeds her regularly. It is very pretty to watch them
building their nest. The male is very active in hunting out a place
and exploring the boxes and cavities, but seems to have no choice in
the matter and is anxious only to please and encourage his mate, who
has the practical turn and knows what will do and what will not. After
she has suited herself he applauds her immensely, and away the two go
in quest of material for the nest, the male acting as guard and flying
above and in advance of the female. She brings all the material and
all does the work of building, he looking on and encouraging her with
gesture and song. He acts also as inspector of her work, but I fear is
a very partial one. She enters the nest with her bit of dry grass or
straw, and having adjusted it to her notion, withdraws and waits near
by while he goes in and looks it over. On coming out he exclaims very
plainly, "_Excellent! excellent!_" and away the two go again for more
material.
The bluebirds, when they build about the farm-buildings, sometimes
come in conflict with the swallows. The past season I knew a pair to
take forcible possession of the domicile of a pair of the latter--the
cliff species that now stick their nests under the eaves of the barn.
The bluebirds had been broken up in a little bird-house near by, by
the rats or perhaps a weasel, and being no doubt in a bad humor, and
the season being well advanced, they made forcible entrance into the
adobe tenement of their neighbors, and held possession of it for some
days, but I believe finally withdrew, rather than live amid such a
squeaky, noisy colony. I have heard that these swallows, when ejected
from their homes in that way by the phoebe-bird, have been known to
fall to and mason up the entrance to the nest while their enemy was
inside of it, thus having a revenge as complete and cruel as anything
in human annals.
The bluebirds and the house-wrens more frequently come into collision.
A few years ago I put up a little bird-house in the back end of my
garden for the accommodation of the wrens, and every season a pair
have taken up their abode there. One spring a pair of bluebirds looked
into the tenement and lingered about several days, leading me to hope
that they would conclude to occupy it. But they finally went away, and
later in the season the wrens appeared, and after a little coquetting,
were regularly installed in their old quarters and were as happy as
only wrens can be.
One of our younger poets, Myron Benton, saw a little bird
"Ruffled with whirlwind of his ecstasies,"
which must have been the wren, as I know of no other bird that so
throbs and palpitates with music as this little vagabond. And the pair
I speak of seemed exceptionably happy, and the male had a small
tornado of song in his crop that kept him "ruffled" every moment in
the day. But before their honeymoon was over the bluebirds returned.
I knew something was wrong before I was up in the morning. Instead of
that voluble and gushing song outside the window, I heard the wrens
scolding and crying at a fearful rate, and on going out saw the
bluebirds in possession of the box. The poor wrens were in despair;
they wrung their hands and tore their hair, after the wren fashion,
but chiefly did they rattle out their disgust and wrath at the
intruders. I have no doubt that if it could have been interpreted it
would have proven the rankest and most voluble Billingsgate ever
uttered. For the wren is saucy, and he has a tongue in his head that
can outwag any other tongue known to me.
The bluebirds said nothing, but the male kept an eye on Mr. Wren; and
when he came too near, gave chase, driving him to cover under the
fence, or under a rubbish-heap or other object, where the wren would
scold and rattle away, while his pursuer sat on the fence or the
pea-brush waiting for him to reappear.
Days passed, and the usurpers prospered and the outcasts were
wretched; but the latter lingered about, watching and abusing their
enemies, and hoping, no doubt, that things would take a turn, as they
presently did. The outraged wrens were fully avenged. The mother
bluebird had lain her full complement of eggs and was beginning to
set, when one day, as her mate was perched above her on the barn,
along came a boy with one of those wicked elastic slings and cut him
down with a pebble. There he lay like a bit of sky fallen upon the
grass. The widowed bird seemed to understand what had happened, and
without much ado disappeared next day in quest of another mate. How
she contrived to make her wants known without trumpeting them about I
am unable to say. But I presume the birds have a way of advertising
that answers the purpose well. Maybe she trusted to luck to fall in
with some stray bachelor or bereaved male, who would undertake to
console a widow of one day's standing. I will say, in passing, that
there are no bachelors from choice among the birds; they are all
rejected suitors, while old maids are entirely unknown. There is a
Jack to every Gill; and some to boot.
The males being more exposed by their song and plumage, and by being
the pioneers in migrating, seem to be slightly in excess lest the
supply fall short, and hence it sometimes happens that a few are
bachelors perforce; there are not females enough to go around, but
before the season is over there are sure to be some vacancies in the
marital ranks, which they are called on to fill.
In the mean time the wrens were beside themselves with delight; they
fairly screamed with joy. If the male was before "ruffled with
whirlwind of his ecstasies," he was now in danger of being rent
asunder. He inflated his throat and caroled as wren never caroled
before. And the female, too, how she cackled and darted about! How
busy they both were! Rushing into the nest, they hustled those eggs
out in less than a minute, wren time. They carried in new material,
and by the third day were fairly installed again in their old
quarters; but on the third day, so rapidly are these little dramas
played, the female bluebird reappeared with another mate. Ah! how the
wren stock went down then! What dismay and despair filled again those
little breasts! It was pitiful. They did not scold as before, but
after a day or two withdrew from the garden, dumb with grief, and gave
up the struggle.
The bluebird, finding her eggs gone and her nest changed, seemed
suddenly seized with alarm and shunned the box; or else, finding she
had less need for another husband than she thought, repented her
rashness and wanted to dissolve the compact. But the happy bridegroom
would not take the hint, and exerted all his eloquence to comfort and
reassure her. He was fresh and fond, and until this bereaved female
found him I am sure his suit had not prospered that season. He thought
the box just the thing, and that there was no need of alarm, and spent
days in trying to persuade the female back. Seeing he could not be a
step-father to a family, he was quite willing to assume a nearer
relation. He hovered about the box, he went in and out, he called, he
warbled, he entreated; the female would respond occasionally and come
and alight near, and even peep into the nest, but would not enter it,
and quickly flew away again. Her mate would reluctantly follow, but he
was soon back, uttering the most confident and cheering calls. If she
did not come he would perch above the nest and sound his loudest notes
over and over again, looking in the direction of his mate and
beckoning with every motion. But she responded less and less
frequently. Some days I would see him only, but finally he gave it up;
the pair disappeared, and the box remained deserted the rest of the
summer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Sprague's Lark.]
THE INVITATION.