The woods in the older parts of our country possess scarcely a trait of
the primeval forest. The oldest trees have a comparatively youthful
appearance, and are pygmies in girth beside the decaying stumps of their
giant ancestors. They are not so shagged with moss nor so scaled with
lichens. The forest floor has lost its ancient carpet of ankle-deep moss
and the intricate maze of fallen trees in every stage of decay, and
looks clean-swept and bare. The tangle of undergrowth is gone, many of
the species which composed it having quite disappeared, as have many of
the animals that flourished in the perennial shade of the old woods.
If in their season one sees and hears more birds among their lower
interlaced branches, he is not likely to catch sight or sound of many of
the denizens of the old wilderness. No startled deer bounds away before
him, nor bear shuffles awkwardly from his feast of mast at one's
approach, nor does one's flesh creep at the howl of the gathering wolves
or the panther's scream or the rustle of his stealthy footsteps.
But as you saunter on your devious way you may hear a rustle of quick
feet in the dry leaves and a sharp, insistent cry, a succession of
short, high-pitched clucks running into and again out of a querulous
"_ker-r-r-r_," all expressing warning as much as alarm. Your ears guide
your eyes to the exact point from which the sounds apparently come, but
if these are not keen and well trained they fail to detach any animate
form from the inanimate dun and gray of dead leaves and underbrush.
With startling suddenness out of the monotony of lifeless color in an
eddying flurry of dead leaves, fanned to erratic flight by his
wing-beats, the ruffed grouse bursts into view, in full flight with the
first strokes of his thundering pinions, and you have a brief vision of
untamed nature as it was in the old days. On either side of the
vanishing brown nebula the ancient mossed and lichened trunks rear
themselves again, above it their lofty ramage veils the sky, beneath it
lie the deep, noiseless cushion of moss, the shrubs and plants that the
old wood rangers knew and the moose browsed on, and the tangled trunks
of fallen trees. You almost fancy that you hear the long-ago silenced
voices of the woods, so vividly does this wild spirit for an instant
conjure up a vision of the old wild world whereof he is a survival.
Acquaintance with civilized man has not tamed him, but has made him the
wilder. He deigns to feed upon apple-tree buds and buckwheat and
woodside clover, not as a gift, but a begrudged compensation for what
you have taken from him, and gives you therefor not even the thanks of
familiarity; and notwithstanding his acquaintance with generations of
your race he will not suffer you to come so near to him as he would your
grandfather.
If, when the leaves are falling, you find him in your barnyard, garden,
or out-house, or on the porch, do not think he has any intention of
associating with you or your plebeian poultry. You can only wonder where
he found refuge from the painted shower when all his world was wooded.
If he invites your attendance at his drum solo, it is only to fool you
with the sight of an empty stage, for you must be as stealthy and
keen-eyed as a lynx to see his proud display of distended ruff and wide
spread of barred tail and accelerated beat of wings that mimic thunder,
or see even the leafy curtain of his stage flutter in the wind of his
swift exit.
How the definite recognition of his motionless form evades you, so
perfectly are his colors merged into those of his environment, whether
it be in the flush greenness of summer, the painted hues of autumn or
its later faded dun and gray, or in the whiteness of winter. Among one
or the other he is but a clot of dead leaves, a knot upon a branch, the
gray stump of a sapling protruding from the snow, or, covered deep in
the unmarked whiteness, he bursts from it like a mine exploded at your
feet, leaving you agape till he has vanished from your sight and your
ears have caught the last flick of his wings against the dry branches.
In May, his mate sits on her nest, indistinguishable among the brown
leaves and gray branches about her. Later, when surprised with her
brood, how conspicuous she makes herself, fluttering and staggering
along the ground, while her callow chicks, old in cunning though so
lately their eyes first beheld the world, scatter in every direction
like a shattered globule of quicksilver and magically disappear where
there is no apparent hiding-place. Did they con the first lesson of
safety in the dark chamber of the egg, or absorb it with the warmth of
the brooding breast that gave them life?
Listen, and out of the silence which follows the noisy dispersion of the
family hear the low sibilant voice of the mother calling her children to
her or cautioning them to continued hiding. Perhaps you may see her,
alertly skulking among the underbrush, still uttering that tender,
persuasive cry, so faint that the chirp of a cricket might overbear it.
Scatter her brood when the members are half grown and almost as strong
of wing as herself, and you presently hear her softly calling them and
assuring them of her continued care.
Among many things that mark the changing season, is the dispersion of
this wildwood family. Each member is now shifting for itself in matters
of seeking food, safety, pleasure, and comfort. You will come upon one
in the ferny undergrowth of the lowland woods where he is consorting
with woodcock, frighten another from his feast on the fence-side
elderberries, scare one in the thick shadows of the evergreens, another
on the sparsely wooded steep of a rocky hillside, and later hear the
drum-beat of a young cock that the soft Indian summer has fooled into
springtime love-making, and each has the alertness that complete
self-dependence has enforced.
Still, you may come upon them gathered in social groups, yet each going
his own way when flushed. Upon rare occasions you may surprise a grand
convention of all the grouse of the region congregated on the sunny lee
of a hillside. It is a sight and sound to remember long, though for the
moment you forget the gun in your hands, when by ones, twos, and dozens
the dusky forms burst away up wind, down wind, across wind, signalling
their departure with volleys of intermittent and continuous thunder. Not
many times in your life will you see this, yet, if but once, you will be
thankful that you have not outlived all the old world's wildness.