repeatedly, I received nothing like an answer. Downy or logcock or
goldenwing, a woodpecker is an independent chap that I have never been
able to call fairly; not even in spring, when he is all ears for a mate
or a rival. Like many other birds, he will come quickly to an excited
and deceptive squeaking between my fingers, but to my best drumming he
remains deaf or indifferent.
“Ye haven’t the right combination, b’y,” said Bob when I gave over my
fruitless attempt, and using his hunting knife as a hammer he began
talking woodpecker-talk on a dry stub. At his first _tunk-a-tunk_
(which was not like the call we had just heard) the answer came back
like an echo, and when he varied his note the woodpecker came speeding
across the lake. He could do that almost any time when woodpeckers were
talking, as he could excite a red squirrel into emotional fits by his
gibbering; but he abused me when I told him the truth, that it was not
his secret combination of raps but the fellow feeling he put into it
which brought the woodpeckers.
Still more amusing have been my efforts to make talk with the timber
wolves. The dog wolf has a tremendous voice for occasions, and his
pack has several distinct calls, challenge, trail yelp, rallying cry,
lunatic baying of the moon; but though I seem to recognize these when
I hear them, and to imitate them closely enough to deceive some ears,
it is seldom that I can put into my voice the true wolf quality which
brings an answer. For in the woods, as elsewhere, “the tone makes the
music”; it is tone quality rather than any sound or combination of
sounds, the feeling behind a cry rather than the cry itself, which
appeals to moose or owl or any other wild beast or bird you happen to
be calling.
One still, winter night I stood in front of my “Commoosie” and
repeatedly gave the gray wolf’s challenge. That wolves were within
hearing I was quite sure, having crossed the fresh trail of a pack at
sundown; but none made answer. Then old Noel stirred and came forth
from his blanket. “Hwolf don’ spik dat way; he spik dis way,” he said,
and gave a howl so nearly like mine that no ordinary ear could detect
the difference. Something was in his voice, however, some primal or
animal quality which a wolf understood; for hardly had his howl gone
forth when it was flung back eagerly from the woods behind us; and when
the Indian changed his howl to a whimper, he had wolves answering from
three different directions.
The point is, that when one opens his ears to the medley of calls that
enliven the day or the night, he receives many an invitation which
beforetime had passed over his head unheeded. Around your summer camp,
for example, red squirrels are the most numerous and, as you think,
the most familiar of animals; but did you ever attempt to interpret
the astonishing variety of sounds which a squirrel uses habitually in
the way of speech? Until you do that, Meeko the mischief-maker is a
stranger to you, dwelling far on the other side of an unbridged gulf.
I do not mean that Meeko or any other animal has a language, for that
is a doubtful matter; but all wild creatures communicate with others
of their kind; and even when alone an animal is like a child in that
he has changing moods or emotions which he expresses very plainly by
modulations of his voice. So these familiar squirrels, which you hear
about your camp, are not jabbering idiotically or without meaning. When
angry they scold; when surprised they snicker; at other times they
fling jest or repartee or abuse at one another, their voices changing
noticeably with their changing moods. Now and then, as you follow
Meeko to see what he is doing, he utters a long, vibrant and exultant
call, in sheer delight at being alive, you think; or he stops short
in a gambol and puzzles you by sitting very still, very attentive,
with his nose pressed against a branch between his paws. Gone suddenly
are all his jeers, his exultations, his mischief-making; he has a
sober, introspective air, as if trying to remember something, or as if
listening to what his other self might be saying.
If you watch Meeko’s eye at such a moment, noting its telltale lights,
you will have a different opinion of his silence. He is listening,
indeed, but to something so fine or distant that he cannot be quite
sure what it is, or rather what it says. Therefore does he use the
branch as a sounding board, pressing nose or teeth against it to catch
the faint vibrations in a way to help his ears, just as woodpeckers
use their tongues for the same purpose of better hearing. There! you
hear the sound faintly now, and Meeko hears it distinctly enough to
understand it, if one may judge by his actions. It comes from another
squirrel out yonder, a truculent fellow, who is proclaiming his
heretical opinion to the universe, and to this little dogmatist in
particular.
Watch Meeko now; see his silent absorption change to violent rage. He
barks; he seems to curse in his own way; he springs up and down on
the same spot, like a boastful Quebec lumberman who jumps on his hat
to work himself up to the fighting pitch. Out of breath, he stops a
moment to listen, to ascertain whether he has silenced his opponent. A
jeer floats in from the distance. Meeko says, “Kilch-kilch! I’ll show
that impostor; I’ll teach him a lesson,” and away he goes headlong.
To follow him is to witness a characteristic squirrel argument, a
challenge, a rush, an upset, a furious chase up and down the swaying
branches, till your head grows dizzy in following it. And then one
long, triumphant yell to proclaim that another heresy is silenced
forever.
Many times I have thus watched Meeko as he listened to something I
could not at first hear; and almost invariably, when I have followed
his rush, I have found him either berating some passing animal much
bigger than himself or engaged in a hurry-scurry kind of argument with
another squirrel.
Once I saw that the fellow who dared dispute Meeko’s doctrine was a
very little squirrel, not big enough to hold opinion of his own, much
less to challenge a quidnunc. He was bowled over at the first charge,
and fell to the ground, where he darted off at top speed, doubling
and dodging here, there, anywhere for a quiet life. Hot at his heels
followed the irate Meeko, berating him like a pirate, giving him no
chance to retract his impudence. The little fellow whisked up a tree
at last, and squirmed into a knothole that seemed too small for any
squirrel. Meeko was so close behind that nose met tail; but wriggle
as he would, he could not get halfway into the knothole. It was an
impossible squeeze for a squirrel of his bulk. As he worked and scolded
himself into a passion, every now and then came a hollow, muffled
snicker from within the doorway, which seemed to drive Meeko frantic.
He gave up the attempt after a time, and headed down the tree,
threatening vengeance as he went. Before he was halfway to the ground
the little fellow put his head out and repeated his original opinion,
which started the explosive argument all over again. Eight times, while
I watched, Meeko went away fuming, after vainly trying to force himself
into the knothole; and every time Meekosis, as Simmo calls the little
squirrel, came to the doorway to jibe at him, bringing him back in a
fury that ran the gamut from volubility to speechlessness. The comedy
was still running when lengthening shadows called me away to the trout
pool, where my supper needed catching.
That same pool recalls another wood-folk comedy, none the less amusing
because two of the actors were serious as owls when they played it
out. Simmo, the Indian, and I were on our homeward way through the
wilderness when we came to a beautiful place on the river, and camped
there, day after heavenly day, until my vacation drew to an end. Then,
because trout were plentiful at the mouth of a cold brook, I broke my
rule of catching only enough for my table, and decided to take a few
good fish as a thank-offering to some people who had been kind to me, a
stranger. Two mornings and evenings I whipped the pools, ignoring small
rises, striking only at the big fellows; and at dusk of the second day
I packed away my catch and my rod with a sigh of heartfelt content.
It was my last fishing for the year. There were only fifteen fish to
show for it; but they weighed full thirty pounds, all clean, silvery,
beautiful trout. Each one was wiped dry for keeping, wrapped separately
in dried moss, and set away under a rock by a cold spring.
Early next morning Simmo went to fetch one of the trout for breakfast.
I was stirring the fire when I heard him calling, “Come here! Oh,
by cosh, come here!” and ran to find him standing open-mouthed over
the storehouse, his eyes like gimlets, a blank, utterly bewildered
expression spread all over his dark face. There was not a fish left,
and not a sign on the hard soil to tell who had taken them.
We gave up the puzzle and went back to a meager breakfast, wagging our
heads soberly. A bear or a lynx would have left plenty of signs for
us to read. As we were eating, I saw a mink dodging along the shore,
humping his back in true weasel fashion, as if in a great hurry. He
disappeared under a root, all but his tail, and seemed to be very busy
about something. When he backed out he was dragging a big trout.
“Das de feller! Cheokhes steal-um,” yelled Simmo, all excitement,
and away he went on the jump. Startled by the thumping behind him,
Cheokhes dropped his fish and took to the river, leaving a V-shaped
wake trailing behind him as he forged away.
“Keep still, Simmo; let’s watch him,” I cautioned, and we both sat
motionless on the bank; but not till the Indian had made sure of a more
ample breakfast. His fingers were hooked into the gills of the big
trout, his face a study in satisfaction.
The mink circled uneasily a few moments; then he whirled and headed for
us, wiggling his pointed nose as he smelled the fish. Simmo was sitting
with elbows on knees, the trout hanging down between, when the nervy
little beast crossed over my foot, grabbed his prize, and attempted to
drag it out of the Indian’s hand.
“By cosh, now, das too cheeky!” said Simmo, and with the tail of the
trout he batted Cheokhes over the head. Away he went with a screech and
a show of sharp teeth; but in a moment he was back again, and twice
attempted to get possession of what he considered his property. Then,
as Simmo grew impatient and batted the little thief coming and going,
he made off indignantly with an air of, “Well, I know where to find
a better one.” Following him up, I took away from him another trout,
which he dragged from a pile of drift stuff, and after some search I
unearthed two more which he had hidden under a pine stump.
That was all we ever found of our fine catch, and I am still wondering
what a creature not much bigger than a rat expected to do with thirty
pounds of fresh fish. Indeed, from his unprejudiced viewpoint, what
should anybody expect to do with them? They belonged first of all to
the river, and then to any light-footed fellow who could appreciate
their flavor. But Simmo was wrathy. As we paddled downriver that day,
he talked of mink and white men’s children, and read me a little homily
on the vice of stealing.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HEALTH AND A DAY
“Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors
ridiculous.”--EMERSON.
During the night I had been up to watch Tookhees playing in the
moonlight. Tookhees is the wood mouse, a dainty and a pretty creature,
who is happily ignorant that he is an important item in nature’s food
supply. He and his fellows have a way of amusing themselves, as I
judge, by creeping up one slope of my tent and tumbling or sliding down
the other; and before they come together for play, if such it be, you
will hear them drumming in all directions, signaling and answering by
tapping on the ground. The wood mice ran away when Kook’skoos, “the
mother of the moon,” began a doleful hooting to her owlets; then
through the light, dreamless sleep of the woodsman came the first
chirping of awakened birds. My day had begun; expectantly I came forth
to enjoy its uncovenanted mercies.
Killooleet the white-throated sparrow was already singing, and though
his voice was a bit rusty, as it always is when summer wanes, there
was yet gladness in it. You will hear it said that birds sing only in
nesting time; but the saying comes of late sleeping. When dawn comes
with its rosy invitation to a new day, birds at any season seem to feel
the old _Sursum Corda_, and are impelled to some joyous expression.
Though the springtime was long past, a score of warblers and thrushes
were ringing their matins, and among them one shy wood thrush sent
forth a heavenly note, beautiful and solemn, as from a silver flute.
Then a jay cried _thief! thief!_ seeming different from other birds in
that he called attention to himself, while they were content to herald
the morning. From a hollow cedar behind my tent a red squirrel began
to snicker; on the lake shore a kingfisher raised his _Jubilate_; as I
listened to the medley of awakening life a word of Anne Bradstreet came
into my head:
I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad cricket bear a second part;
They kept one tune and played on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little art.
Most of Anne’s poetry was rather “punk,” to be sure, but here her
feeling was excellent; so from primeval woods I sent greeting across
the centuries to the Colonial singer who had lived in their shadow,
and was first to put our New World nature to melody. Then, to keep
proper company with her and all glad creatures, I joined the chorus
with “From All That Dwell Below the Skies.” The grand old hymn needs a
church organ and ten-thousand voices; but I must sing it softly for two
reasons: because some sleepers in camp regarded early rising as a sign
of lunacy; and because others might wake up and ask where I was going,
or whether they might not go with me. And I did not yet know where I
was going. I had picked this day for a “good lonesome,” to go where I
listed, and perhaps to grow better acquainted with God and Nature by
meeting them in solitude face to face.
As the canoe glided from the landing there was a faint stir in the
mist, which hung low over all the lake. Out of the mist came first a
thrush song, then a glow of soft color, like mother-of-pearl, finally
something dark and solid, which turned into the crown of a mighty pine
as I approached. Its stem was hidden under a white veil, as was the
island on which it grew; but its topmost branches spread lightly over
the sea of cloud, like the wings of a floating raven.
Doubling the point on which the pine stood sentinel, I used my sounding
line to locate a channel that wound deeply amid shoals and gravel bars.
I had discovered this channel one day when swimming; and it seemed,
now that fish had retired to deep water, the likeliest place for a
big trout on the entire lake. Under the shroud of mist the water lay
dreamy, placid, formless, giving no hint of what it concealed save in
one spot on the edge of the outermost shoal. There, as if indeed all
things were foreordained, tiny ripples and splashes kept the surface
in commotion. It was a school of fresh-water smelts, darting about or
leaping into the air to escape the rush of feeding fish below. Suddenly
came a plunge, a swirl; a mottled back rolled into sight among the
smelts.
“Aha! I knew I’d catch a big one here this morning,” I thought, thus
deceiving myself again; for I did not know anything of the kind. I
was merely exalting hope above experience, which is the everlasting
occupation of all fishermen.
Close beside the shoaling smelts I lowered my killick, and turned
overboard from my bucket a dozen minnows that were plainly in need
of fresher water. Soon two delicately curving rods were out, one
swinging its shining lure close to bottom for fat or lazy fellows, the
other holding a lively red-fin near the surface. Then, my part being
properly played, I leaned back against an air-cushion in heavenly
content. Once more I was fishing, my companions the bird songs and the
awakening day.
He who counts time in such a place is no philosopher, and therefore
no fisherman. I had waited an hour or a minute, one being short as
the other to him who is sure of a bite, when the slender tip of a rod
arched sharply, once, twice, and again. A moment’s wait, because fish
that refuse a fly are slow about a minnow; then I struck, and was fast
to something that seemed charged with electricity. He was netted after
a heart-kindling struggle filled by hopes, thrills, anxieties, with one
awful sinking moment when the line slacked and I could not feel his
tugging. There he was, safe in the canoe, a firm-fleshed, deep-bodied,
five-pound trout, his olive back mottled as if by the ripples under
which he had lived, his sheeny sides flecked with flaming crimson.
I was feasting my eyes on the trout, the beauty and goodly size of him,
and was humming the Doxology, when the other rod rattled on the thwart,
and its tip ducked out of sight under water. Another age of thrills,
livelier but shorter than the last; then a big whitefish--a rare catch
here, and a delicious _bonne bouche_ anywhere--is placed tenderly in
his box of moss. He flaunts blue and silver as his colors; they form
airy contrast to the deeper hues of the gorgeous trout.
I am admiring the splendid catch as I reel in my lines and turn
overboard the remaining minnows. There are more fish under those
darting smelts, perhaps much larger fish; but enough is plenty for one
morning. I shall come again. The pine, which is still my only visible
landmark, begins to hide his crown. The mist is rising, and glowing
in the east with a gorgeous promise. “I shall hide these fish in the
Indian spring,” I tell myself, “and begin another day before the sun
rises.”
The Indian spring is on the mainland, halfway up a hardwood ridge. Out
of it flows a run, mossy and ice-cold, a perfect place for storing
fish; and the run joins a little brook that goes singing down to the
lake. As I follow up this brook, brushing the moist ferns, inhaling the
fragrance of balsam and hemlock, there is a swift movement ahead. Here
or there I have glimpse of an arched back, and down the bank of the
stream comes a mink on the jump, wiggling his pointed nose as he smells
my fish. Then I change my mind about storing the catch, since to hide
it here is to lose it. Once I left two grilse and a salmon of fifteen
pounds in a spring brook, and when I returned I found only mink tracks.
How the little beast could get away with that salmon without leaving a
trail for me to follow is still a mystery. I think he floated him down
the brook, as a beaver handles a heavy log.
The mink darts up to my foot and rests a paw upon it before he begins
to suspect something wrong in the motionless figure with two big fish
hanging beside it. He goes away unwillingly, still wiggling his nose;
and I make my way back to camp, and hang the fish where the cook must
see them when he comes to get breakfast for the lazy ones. I shall miss
the transient flavor of that whitefish; but I have something better,
the lasting taste of catching him. Then I slip away, leaving the
campers fast asleep. Their day has not yet begun; mine stretches away
in both directions into endless vistas.
Again the canoe glides into the mist, which is swaying now in fantastic
shapes, gloriously colored. To watch it is to remember Lanier’s
“Sunrise” and “Marshes of Glynn”; but life is all a poem just now, and
no one has ever written a line of it. Across the lake we go, and up
a stream where great trees bend low over feeding deer. The deer lift
their heads to point each a velvety black muzzle at our approach. From
the stream we steal into a smaller lake, profoundly still; it seems to
be sleeping under its blanket of mist, amid hills of spruce and pine.
It is beautiful here, and lonely enough to satisfy the most fastidious;
but to-day the Beyond is calling, and the spirit answers, “I come.”
Leaving the canoe overturned in a shady spot, and tapping various
pockets to be sure of compass, matches and other things needful, I take
gladly to the trail. In my hand is a cased fishing rod, at my belt a
good ax, before me a silent wilderness. The wilderness has its road,
unfortunately, and so it is not quite unspoiled; but of two things you
may be sure: you shall meet no traveler on the road, and find no inn at
the end of it.
The way leads eastward at first, following the old lumber road; then,
if one looks sharply, one may find the entrance to a blazed trapper’s
trail. At the end of that trail, I am told, is a lake of wondrous
beauty, over which hangs a tradition of trout. I have not been this way
before; the joy of Balboa and of all explorers since time began is in
the air.
The big woods are quiet, as if just awake, and fragrant with the breath
of morning. A multitude of little birds, having spent a happy summer
here, are now flocking with their young in the open places; jays are
calling loudly, and hiding things; chipmunks are busily filling their
winter bins. Even the red squirrels, most careless of wood folk, seem
to have a thought in their empty heads as they hurry about. They no
longer gather a winter store, like the chipmunk; but when abundant
autumn approaches they hide a few morsels here or there with some dim
instinct of lean days to come. One passes me in haste, as if time were
suddenly important; he is carrying something in his mouth, and I await
his return, lured by a little brook that cries its invitation to all
who are thirsty. In my heart is the old fancy, which has dwelt there
since childhood, that a brook always sings a happier song when you stop
to drink from it. Thus pleasantly to a roundelay I learn a new and
surprising thing about squirrels.
Through all forests the squirrels have regular tree-paths; they never
run blindly on a journey, but follow definite runways along the
branches, which are apparently as well known to them as are lanes or
alleys to the city gamin. Knowing this, I wait confidently for Meeko,
and presently see him coming along the path by which he disappeared.
Beyond the brook his trail leads through a spruce thicket, an unusual
course, for squirrels like open going. Examining the thicket, I find
that Meeko has recently been clearing this trail by cutting many of the
obstructing twigs. No doubt he has found an unexpected food supply,
and is using this new runway as a short cut to his cache, where he is
storing things in his usual hit-or-miss fashion.
That looks promising from such a scatter-brained creature; so I sit
down in the spruce thicket, making myself inconspicuous, to await
Meeko’s coming. His trail runs ten feet above my head; as he rushes
over it with another mouthful, he bumps into a twig that crosses
his course at an awkward angle. The bump throws him off his perfect
balance, and instantly he falls to swearing, though his full mouth
interferes with what he would like to say. He grows silent as he
examines the troublesome twig; then he rushes away as if he had made
up what he calls his mind. In a few minutes, having left his mouthful
at the cache, he reappears in the same path. He is silent now, and
look! he is not running in his wonted breakneck fashion, but following
his trail in an exploring kind of way. So he reaches the twig that
hindered him, swears at it again, and cuts it with his teeth. Resting
his chin between his forepaws, he follows the falling twig, his eyes
shining, till it strikes the ground beside me, when he snickers his
satisfaction. A motion of my head attracts his attention; he sees me
for the first time, and instantly forgets everything else. He leaves
his trail to come down where he can see better. In his eye is the
question, “Are you alive, or am I mistaken?” When I nod to him again
he breaks forth in scolding, asking who I am, demanding my business,
ordering me out, all in the same breath.