to catch a thing which ran away, instead of asking where it came from;
but the veterans received the tale in grim silence. One told me that I
had surely seen a “sidehill garger”; another wished he could have seen
it, too; the rest pestered me unmercifully about the beast all winter.
One of them is now in his dotage; but he never meets me without asking,
“Son, did that ’ere fox really run arter that chunk of wood you hove at
him?” And when I answer, “Yes, he did, and caught it,” he says, “Well,
well, well!” in a way to indicate that he has been straining at that
gnat for forty years. Heaven only knows how many fox-hunting camels he
has swallowed in the interim.
One Saturday morning (a glorious day it was, with all signs pointing to
a good fox run) I went early to the gully, crossed it, and hid where
I had a view up or down the stream. Several times during the day I
heard hounds in the offing, but the chase did not head in my direction.
When the winter sunset came, and an owl began to hoot in the darkening
woods, it was time for a hungry boy to go home.
The next time I had better luck. From some hills far away the hoot of
hounds came clear and sweet through the still air; then the flat report
of a gun, a brief silence, a renewed clamor, and my ears began to
tingle as the hunt drew my way, louder and louder. Suddenly there was a
flash of ruddy color, warm and brilliant on the snow; the fox appeared
on the farther side of the gully, slipped over the edge at a slow trot,
and disappeared among the vines.
I was watching the stream keenly when the same flash of color caught
my eye, again on the other side, but some fifty yards above where the
fox had vanished. He bounded lightly up the steep bank, sprang to the
level above, listened a moment to the dogs, ran along the edge a short
distance, dropped down into the vines, came up quickly, and scuttled
back again in another place. There were fleeting glimpses of orange
fur as he dodged here or there, now near the stream, now among the
thickest vines; then he tiptoed up and stood alert in the open, at
the precise spot, apparently, where he had first entered the gully.
After cocking his ears once more at the increasing clamor of hounds,
he headed back toward them into the woods; and I had the impression
that he was carefully stepping in his own footprints, back-tracking, as
many hunted creatures do. So he went, cat-footedly at first, then in
swift jumps, till he came to a huge tree that had been twisted off by a
gale, leaving a slanting stub some fifteen feet high. Here Eleemos took
a flying leap at the stub, scrambled up it with almost the ease of a
squirrel, and disappeared into the top.
[Illustration: “_He scrambled up it with almost the ease of a squirrel
and disappeared into the top._”]
The hounds were by this time close at hand. A wild burst of music
preceded them as they rushed into sight, heads up, giving tongue at
every jump, and followed the hot trail headlong over the gully’s edge
into the vines. Evidently the fox had run about most liberally there;
in a moment the bounds were tangled in a pretty crisscross, lost all
sense of direction, and broke out in lamentation. Most of them went
threshing about the gully till the delicate fox trail was covered by a
maze of dog tracks; but one old fellow, who had been through the same
mill before, lay down in an open spot and rolled about on his back, his
feet in the air, as if to say, “Well, here’s the end of this chase.”
Another veteran with furrowed face and a deep, sad voice (it was Roby
again), managed to nose out half the puzzle, for he came creeping up
over the edge of the gully at the point where the fox had first leaped
out; but there he ran up and down, up and down, finding plenty of fresh
scent everywhere without being able to follow it to any end except the
empty vines. Another hound, a youngster with a notion in his head that
anything which runs must go ahead, plunged into the stream, swam it,
and went casting about the woods on the farther side.
Meanwhile there was a stir, the ghost of a motion, in the leaning stub.
Over the top of it came two furry ears, then a pointed nose and a
bright yellow eye. The fox was there, watching every play of the game
with intense interest; and in his cocked ears, his inquisitive nose,
his wrinkling eyebrows, were the same lively expressions that you see
in the face of a fox when he is hunting mice, and thinks he hears one
rustling about in the frozen grass.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PLAYERS IN SABLE
In severe weather, when snow lay deep on the silent fields, a few crows
would enter the yard in view of my birds’ table, sitting aloof in trees
where they could view the feast, but making no attempt to join it. I
did not then know that crows are nest-robbers, like the jay, or that
the smallest bird at the table was ready to bristle his feathers if one
of the black bandits approached too near.
For several days, while the crows grew pinched, I waited expectantly
for hunger to tame them, only to learn that a crow never ventures into
a flock of smaller birds, being absurdly afraid of their quickness of
wing and temper. Then, because any hungry thing always appealed to me,
I spread a variety of food, scraps of meat and the entrails of fish or
fowl, on a special table at a distance; but the crows would not go near
it, probably thinking it some new device to insnare them. They have
waged a long battle with the farmer, and the battle has bred in them a
suspicion that not even hunger can heal. As a last resort, I scattered
food carelessly on the snow, and within the hour the hungry fellows
were eating it. Their first meal was a revelation to me; no gobbling or
quarreling, but a stately and courteous affair of very fine manners.
Nor have I ever seen a crow do anything to belie that first impression.
Among the scraps was some field corn, dry and hard from the crib; but
the canny birds knew too much to swallow the grain whole, ravenous
though they were. Green or soft corn they will eat with gusto, but
ripened field corn calls for proper treatment. Each crow would take
a single kernel (never more than that at one time) to a flat rock on
the nearest wall, and there, holding the kernel between the toes of a
foot, would strike it a powerful blow with his pointed beak. I used
to tremble for his toes, remembering my own experience with hammer or
hatchet; but every crow proved himself a good shot. Occasionally a
descending beak might glance from the outer edge of a kernel, sending
it spinning out from under the crow’s foot; whereupon he hopped nimbly
after it and brought it back to the block. After a trial or two he
would hit it squarely in the “eye”; it would fly into bits, and he
would gather up every morsel before going back for a fresh supply.
Once when a hungry crow splintered a kernel in this way, I saw a piece
fly to the feet of another crow, who bent his head to eat it as the
owner came running up. The two bandits bumped together; but instead of
fighting over the titbit, as I expected, they drew back quickly with a
sense of “Oh, excuse me!” in their nodding heads and half-spread wings.
Then they went through a little comedy of manners, “After you, my dear
Alphonse” or “You first, my dear Gaston,” till they settled the order
of precedence in some way of their own, when the owner ate his morsel
and went back to the wall to find the rest of the fragments.
Watching these crows, with their sable dress and stately manners, it
was hard to imagine them off their dignity; but I soon learned that
they are rare comedians, that they spend more time in play or mere
fooling than any other wild creature of my acquaintance, excepting
only the otters. I have repeatedly watched them play games, somewhat
similar in outward appearance to games that boys used to play in
country school yards, and once I witnessed what seemed to be a good
crow joke. Indeed, so sociable are they, so dependent on one another
for amusement, that a solitary crow is a great rarity at any season.
Twice have I seen a white crow (an albino), but never a crow living by
himself.
The joke, or what looked like a joke, occurred when I was a small boy.
I was eating my lunch in a shady spot at the edge of a berry pasture
when a young crow appeared silently in a pine tree, only a few yards
away. A deformed tree it was, with a splintered top. In the distance
a flock of crows were calling idly, and the youngster seemed to cock
his ears to listen. Presently he set up a distressed wailing, which
the flock answered on the instant. When a flurry of wings leaped into
sight above the trees, the youngster dodged into the splintered pine,
and remained there while a score of his fellows swept back and forth
over him, and then went to search a grove of pines beyond. When they
flew back across the berry pasture, and only an occasional _haw_ came
from the distance, the young crow came out and set up another wail; and
again the flock went clamoring all over the place without finding where
he was hidden.
The play ended in an uproar, as such affairs commonly end among the
crows; but whether the uproar spelled anger or hilarity would be hard
to tell. The youngster had called and hidden several times; each time
the flock returned in great excitement, circled over the neighborhood,
and straggled back to the place whence they had come. Then one crow
must have hidden and watched, I think, for he came with a rush behind
the youngster, and caught him in the midst of his wailing. A sharp
signal brought the flock straight to the spot, and with riotous
_haw-hawing_ they chased the joker out of sight and hearing.
It was this little comedy which taught me how easily crows can be
called, and I began to have no end of fun with them. In the spring
when they were mating, or in autumn when immense flocks gathered
in preparation for sending the greater part of their number to the
seacoast for winter, I had only to hide and imitate the distressed
call I had heard, and presto! a flock of excited crows would be
clamoring over my head. Yet I noticed this peculiarity: at times every
crow within hearing would come to my first summons; while at other
times they would bide in their trees or hold steadily on their way,
answering my call, but paying no further attention to it. I mark that
crows still act in the same puzzling way, now coming instantly, again
holding aloof; but what causes one or the other action, aside from mere
curiosity, I have never learned. In the northern wilderness, where
crows are comparatively scarce, it is almost impossible to call them
at any season. They live there in small family groups, each holding its
own bit of territory; and apparently they know each voice so perfectly
that they recognize my imposture on the instant.
Whenever the “civilized” crows found me, after hearing my invitation,
they rarely seemed to associate me with the crow talk they had just
heard; for they would go searching elsewhere, and would readily come to
my call in another part of the wood. If I were well concealed, and they
found nothing to account for the disturbance, most of the flock would
go about their affairs; but some were almost sure to wait near at hand
for hours, apparently standing guard over the place where I had been
calling.
Once at midday I called a large flock to a thicket of scrub pine, and
resolved to see the end of the adventure. Though they circled over me
again and again, they learned nothing; for I kept well hidden, and a
crow will not enter thick scrub where he cannot use his wings freely.
Late in the afternoon it set in to rain, and I thought that the crows
were all gone away, since they paid no more attention to my calling;
but the first thing I saw when my head came out of the scrub was a
solitary crow on guard. He was on the tip of a hickory tree, hunched up
in the rain, and he gave one derisive _haw_ as I appeared. From behind
came an answering _haw_, and I had a glimpse of another crow that had
evidently been keeping watch over the other side of the thicket.
Next I discovered that my dignified crows are always ready for fun
at the expense of other birds or beasts, and especially do they
make holiday of an owl whenever they have the luck to find one
asleep for the day. To wake him up, berate him, and follow him with
peace-shattering clamor from one retreat to another, seems to furnish
them unfailing entertainment. I have watched them many times when they
were pestering an owl or a hawk or a running fox, and once I saw them
square themselves for all the indignity they had suffered at the beaks
of little birds by paying it back with interest to a bald eagle. These
last were certainly making a picnic of their rare occasion; never again
have I seen crows so crazily happy, or a free eagle so helpless and so
furious.
It was on the shore of a river, near the sea, in midwinter. The eagle
may have come down to earth after a dead fish, unmindful of crows that
were ranging about; but I think it more likely that they had cornered
him in an unguarded moment, as they are themselves often cornered by
sparrows or robins. Have you seen a crowd of small birds chivvy a crow
that they catch in the open, whirling about his slow flight till they
drive him to cover and sit around him, scolding him violently for all
the nests he has robbed; while he cowers in the middle of the angry
circle, very uncomfortable where he is, but afraid to move lest he
bring another tempest around his ears? That is how the lordly eagle now
stood on the open shore, twisting his head uneasily, his eyes flashing
impotent fury. Around him in a jubilant circle were half-a-hundred
crows, some watchfully silent, some jeering; and behind him on a rock
perched one glossy old bandit, his head cocked for trouble, his eye
shining. “Oh, if I could only grip some of you!” said the eagle. “If I
could only get these” (working his great claws) “into your black hides!
If I could once get aloft, where I could use my--”
He crouched suddenly and sprang, his broad wings threshing heavily.
“Haw! haw! To him, my bullies!” yelled the old crow on the rock,
hurling himself into the air, shooting over the eagle and ripping a
white feather from the royal neck. In a flash the whole rabble was
over and around the laboring lord of the air, pecking at his head,
interfering with his flight, making a din to crack his ears. He stood
it for a turbulent moment, then dropped, and the jeering circle closed
around him instantly. He was a thousand times more powerful, more
dangerous than any crow; but they were smaller and quicker than he, and
they knew it, and he knew it. That was the comedy of what might have
been imagined a tragical situation.
Twice, while I watched, the eagle tried to escape, and twice the crows
chivvied him down to earth, the only place where he is impotent.
Then he gave up all thought of the blue sky and freedom, standing
majestically on his dignity, his eyes half closed, as if the sight
of such puny babblers wearied him. But under the narrowed lids was a
fierce gleam that kept his tormentors at a safe distance. Then a man
with a gun blundered upon the stage, and spoiled the play.
One day, as I watched a crowd of crows yelling themselves hoarse
over an owl, an idea fell upon me with the freshness, the delight of
inspiration. In the barn was a dilapidated stuffed owl, once known in
the house as Bunsby, which had been gathering dust for many seasons.
Somehow, for some occult reason, people never throw a stuffed bird on
the rubbish heap, where it belongs; when they can stand its ugliness
no longer, they store it away in barn or attic till they can give it
as a precious thing to some beaming naturalist. Bunsby was in this
unappreciated stage when I rescued him. With some filched hairpins
I poked him together, so as to make him more presentable; gave him
a glass eye, the only one I could find, and sewed up the other in a
grotesque wink. Then I perched him in the woods, where the crows,
coming blithely to my call, proceeded to give him a hazing.
Thereafter, when I heard crows playing, I sometimes used Bunsby to
raise a terrible pother among them. By twos or threes they would come
streaming in from all directions till the trees were full of them, all
vociferating at once, hurling advice at one another or insults at the
solemn caricature. Once a more venturesome crow struck a blow with his
wing as he shot past (an accident, I think), which knocked Bunsby from
his upright balance and dignity. He was an absurd figure at any time,
and now with one wing flapping and one foot in the air he was clean
ridiculous; but the crows evidently thought they had him groggy at
last, and let loose a tumult of whooping.
Another day, when some clamoring crows would pay no attention to my
call, I stole through the woods in their direction till I reached the
edge of an upland pasture, where a score of the birds were deeply
intent on some affair of their own. On the ground, holding the center
of the stage, was a small crow that either could not or would not fly,
and was acting very queerly. At times he would stand drooping, while
a circle of crows waited for his next move in profound silence. After
keeping them expectant awhile, he would stretch his neck and say,
_ker-aw! kerrrr-aw!_ an odd call, like the cry of a rooster when he
spies a hawk, such as I had never before heard from a crow. Instantly
from the waiting circle a crow would step briskly up to the invalid, if
such he was, and feel him all over, rubbing a beak down from shoulder
to tail and going around to repeat on the other side. This rubbing,
or whatever it was, would last several seconds, while not a sound was
heard; then the investigator would fly to a cedar bush and begin a
violent harangue, bobbing his head and striking the branches as he
talked. The other crows would apparently listen, then break out in what
seemed noisy approval or opposition, and fly wildly about the field.
After circling for a time, their tongues clamorous, they would gather
around the odd one on the ground, hush their jabber, and the silent
play or investigation would begin all over again.
Whether this were another comedy or something deeper I cannot say.
Crows do not act in this noisy, aimless way when they find a wounded
member of the flock. I have watched them when they gathered to a
wing-broken or dying crow, and while some perched silent in the trees
a few others were beside the stricken one, seemingly trying to find
out what he wanted. An element of play is suggested by the fact that,
when I showed myself, the small crow on the ground flew away with the
others. Moreover, I have repeatedly seen crows go through a somewhat
similar performance, with alternate silence and yelling, when they
were listening to a performer, as I judge, who was clucking or barking
or making some other sound that crows ordinarily cannot make. As you
may learn by keeping tame crows, a few of these sable comedians have
ability to imitate other birds or beasts. I have heard from them, early
and late, a variety of calls from a deep whistle to a gruff bark, and
have noticed that, when one of the mimics chances to display his gift
in the woods, he has what appears to be a circle of applauding crows
close about him.
On the other hand, I once saw a pack of wolves on the ice of a northern
lake acting in a way which strongly reminded me of the crows in the
upland pasture; and these wolves were certainly not playing or fooling.
One of the pack had just been hit by a bullet, which came at long range
from a hidden rifle, against a wind that blew all sound of the report
away, and the wounded brute did not know what was suddenly the matter
with him. When he was silent, the other wolves would watch or follow
him in silence. When he raised his head to whine, as he several times
did, instantly a wolf or two would come close to nose him all over, and
then all the wolves would run about with muzzles lifted to the sky in
wild howling.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WOLVES AND WOLF TALES
There must be something in a wolf which appeals powerfully to the
imagination; otherwise there would be no proper wolf stories. You shall
understand that “something” if ever you are alone in the winter woods
at night, and suddenly from the trail behind you comes a wolf outcry,
savage and exultant. There is really no more danger in such a cry than
in the clamor of dogs that bay the moon; but, whether it be due to the
shadow-filled woods or the remembrance of old nursery tales or the
terrible voice of the beast, no sooner does that fierce howling shake
your ears than your imagination stirs wildly, your heels also, unless
you put a brake on them.
Therefore it befalls, whenever I venture to say, that wolves do not
chase men, that some fellow appears with a story to contradict me.
Indeed, I contradict myself after a fashion, for I was once rushed by a
pack of timber wolves; but that was pure comedy in the end, while the
man with a wolf tale always makes a near-tragedy of it. Like this, from
a friend who once escaped by the skin of his teeth from a wolf pack:
“It happened out in Minnesota one winter, when I was a boy. The season
was fearfully bitter, and the cold had brought down from the north a
pest of wolves, big, savage brutes that killed the settlers’ stock
whenever they had a chance. We often heard them at night, and it was
hard to say whether we were more scared when we heard them howling
through the woods or when we didn’t hear them, but knew they were
about. Nobody ventured far from the house after dark that winter, I can
tell you; not unless he had to.”
Here, though I am following my friend intently, I must jot down a
mental note that all good wolf stories are born of just such an
atmosphere. They are like trout eggs, which hatch only in chilly water.
But let the tale go on:
“Well, father and I were delayed by a broken sled one afternoon, and
it was getting dusky when we started on our way home. And a mighty
lonely way it was, with nothing but woods, snow, frozen ponds, and one
deserted shack on the ten-mile road. This winter road ran five or six
miles through solid forest; then to save rough going it cut across a
lake and through a smaller patch of woods, coming out by the clearing
where our farm was. I remember vividly the night, so still, so moonlit,
so killing-cold. I can hear the sled runners squealing in the snow, and
see the horses’ breath in spurts of white rime.
“We came through the first woods all right, hurrying as much as we
dared with a light load, and were slipping easily over the ice of the
lake when--_Woooo!_ a wolf howled like a lost soul in the woods behind
us. I pricked up my ears at that; so did the horses; but before we
could catch breath there came an uproar that bristled the hair under
our caps. It sounded as if a hundred wolves were yelling all at once;
they were right on our trail, and they were coming.
“Father gave just one look behind; then he lashed the horses. They were
nervous, and they jumped in the traces, jerking the sled along at a
gallop. Only speed and marvelous good luck kept us from upsetting; for
there was no pole to steady the sled, only tugs and loose chains, and
it slithered over the bare spots like a mad thing. Flying lumps of ice
from the horses’ hoofs blinded or half stunned us; all the while we
could hear a devilish uproar coming nearer and nearer.
“That rush over the ice was hair-raising enough, but worse was waiting
for us on the rough trail. We were dreading it; at least I was, for I
knew the horses could never keep up the pace, when we hit the shore of
the lake, and hit it foul. The sled jumped in the air and came bang-up
against a stump, splintering a runner. I was pitched off on my head;
but father flew out like a cat and landed at the horses’ bridles. He
had his hands full, too. Before I was on my feet I heard him shouting,
‘Where are you, son? Unhitch! unhitch!’ Almost as quick as I can tell
it we had freed the horses, leaped for their backs, and started up the
road on the dead run. I was ahead, father pounding along behind, and
behind him the howling.