THE CUCKOOS & THE OUTWITTED COW-BIRD

[Illustration]

How has that "blessed bird" and "sweet messenger of spring," the

"cuckoo," imposed upon the poetic sensibilities of its native land!

And what _is_ this cuckoo which has thus bewitched all the poets? What

is the personality behind that "wandering voice?" What the

distinguishing trait which has made this wily attendant on the spring

notorious from the times of Aristotle and Pliny? Think of "following the

cuckoo," as Logan longed to do, in its "annual visit around the globe,"

a voluntary witness and accessory to the blighting curse of its vagrant,

almost unnatural life! No, my indiscriminate bards; on this occasion we

must part company. I cannot "follow" your cuckoo--except with a gun,

forsooth--nor welcome your "darling of the spring," even though he were

never so captivating as a songster.

[Illustration]

The song and the singer are here identical and inseparable, to my

prosaic and rational senses; for does not that "blithe new-comer," as

Tennyson says, "tell his name to all the hills"--"_Cuck_oo! _Cuck_oo!"

The poet of romance is prompted to draw on his imagination for his

facts, but the poet of nature must first of all be true, and

incidentally as beautiful and good as may be; and a half-truth or a

truth with a reservation may be as dangerous as falsehood. The poet who

should so paint the velvety beauty of a rattlesnake as to make you long

to coddle it would hardly be considered a safe character to be at large.

Likewise an ode to the nettle, or to the autumn splendor of the

poison-sumac, which ignored its venom would scarcely be a wise botanical

guide for indiscriminate circulation among the innocents. Think, then,

of a poetic eulogium on a bird of which the observant Gilbert could have

written:

"This proceeding of the cuckoo, of dropping its eggs as it were by

chance, is such a monstrous outrage on maternal affection, one of the

first great dictates of nature, and such a violence on instinct, that

had it only been related of a bird in the Brazils or Peru, it would

never have merited our belief.... She is hardened against her young ones

as though they were not hers.... 'Because God hath deprived her of

wisdom, neither hath He imparted to her understanding.'"

America is spared the infliction of this notorious "cuckoo." Its nearest

congeners, our yellow-billed and black-billed cuckoos, while suggesting

their foreign ally in shape and somewhat in song, have mended their

ways, and though it is true they make a bad mess of it, they at least

try to build their own nest, and rear their own young with tender

solicitude. The nest is usually so sparse and flimsy an affair that you

can see through its coarse mesh of sticks from below, the fledglings

lying as on a grid-iron or toaster; and it is, moreover, occasionally

so much higher in the centre than at the sides that the chicks tumble

out of bed and perish. Still, it _is_ a beginning in the right

direction.

[Illustration]

Yes, it would appear that our American cuckoo is endeavoring to make

amends for the sins of its ancestors; but, what is less to its credit,

it has apparently found a scapegoat, to which it would ever appear

anxious to call our attention, as it stammers forth, in accents of

warning, "c, c, cow, cow, cow! cowow, cowow!" It never gets any further

than this; but doubtless in due process of vocal evolution we shall yet

hear the "bunting," or "black-bird," which is evidently what he is

trying to say.

Owing to the onomatopoetic quality of the "kow, kow, kow!" of the bird,

it is known in some sections as the "kow-bird," and is thus confounded

with the _real_ cow-bird, and gets the credit of her mischief, even as

in other parts of the country, under the correct name of "cuckoo," it

bears the odium of its foreign relative.

For though we have no disreputable cuckoo, ornithologically speaking,

let us not congratulate ourselves too hastily. We have his counterpart

in a black sheep of featherdom which vies with his European rival in

deeds of cunning and cruelty, and which has not even a song to recommend

him--no vocal accomplishment which by the greatest of license could

prompt a poet to exclaim,

"I hear thee and rejoice,"

without having his sanity called in question.

The cow-blackbird, it is true, executes a certain guttural performance

with its throat--though apparently emanating from a gastric

source--which some ornithologists dignify by the name of "song." But it

is safe to affirm that with this vocal resource alone to recommend him

he or his kind would scarcely have been known to fame. The bird has yet

another lay, however, which has made it notorious. Where is the nest of

song-sparrow, or Maryland yellow-throat, or yellow warbler, or chippy,

that is safe from the curse of the cow-bird's blighting visit?

And yet how few of us have ever seen the bird to recognize it, unless

perchance in the occasional flock clustering about the noses and feet of

browsing kine and sheep, or perhaps perched upon their backs, the glossy

black plumage of the males glistening with iridescent sheen in the

sunshine.

"Haow them blackbirds doos love the smell o' thet caow's breath!" said

an old dame to me once in my boyhood. "I don't blame um: I like it

myself." Whether it was this same authority who was responsible for my

own similar early impression I do not know, but I do recall the surprise

at my ultimate discovery that it was alone the quest of insects that

attracted the birds.

[Illustration]

Upon the first arrival of the bird in the spring an attentive ear might

detect its discordant voice, or the chuckling note of his mischievous

spouse and accomplice, in the great bird medley; but later her crafty

instinct would seem to warn her that silence is more to her interest in

the pursuit of her wily mission. In June, when so many an ecstatic

love-song among the birds has modulated from accents of ardent love to

those of glad fruition, when the sonnet to his "mistress's eyebrow" is

shortly to give place to the lullaby, then, like the "worm i' the bud,"

the cow-bird begins her parasitical career. How many thousands are the

bird homes which are blasted in her "annual visit?"

Stealthily and silently she pries among the thickets, following up the

trail of warbler, sparrow, or thrush like a sleuth-hound. Yonder a tiny

yellow-bird with a jet-black cheek flits hither with a wisp of dry grass

in her beak, and disappears in the branches of a small tree close to my

studio door. Like the shadow of fate the cow-bird suddenly appears, and

has doubtless soon ferreted out her cradle.

In a certain grassy bank not far from where I am writing, at the foot of

an unsuspecting fern, a song-sparrow has built her nest. It lies in a

hollow among the dried leaves and grass, and is so artfully merged with

its immediate surroundings that even though you know its precise

location it still eludes you. Only yesterday the last finishing-touches

were made upon the nest, and this morning, as I might have anticipated

from the excess of lisp and twitter of the mother bird, I find the first

pretty brown-spotted egg.

Surely our cow-bird has missed this secret haunt on her rounds. Be not

deceived! Within a half-hour after this egg was laid the sparrow and its

mate, returning from a brief absence to view their prize, discover two

eggs where they had been responsible for but one. The prowling foe had

already discovered their secret; for she, too, is "an attendant on the

spring," and had been simply biding her time. The parent birds once out

of sight, she had stolen slyly upon the nest, and after a very brief

interval as slyly retreated, leaving her questionable compliments,

presumably with a self-satisfied chuckle. The intruded egg is so like

its fellow as to be hardly distinguishable except in its slightly larger

size. It is doubtful whether the sparrow, in particular, owing to this

similarity, ever realizes the deception. Indeed, the event is possibly

considered a cause for self-congratulation rather than otherwise--at

least, until her eyes are opened by the fateful _dénouement_ of a few

weeks later. And thus the American cow-bird outcuckoos the cuckoo as an

"attendant on the spring," taking her pick among the nurseries of

featherdom, now victimizing the oriole by a brief sojourn in the

swinging hammock in the elm, here stopping a moment to leave her charge

to the care of an indigo-bird, to-morrow creeping through the grass to

the secreted nest of the Maryland yellow-throat, or Wilson's thrush, or

chewink. And, unaccountable as it would appear, here we find the same

deadly token safely lodged in the dainty cobweb nest of the vireo, a

fragile pendent fabric hung in the fork of a slender branch which in

itself would barely appear sufficiently strong to sustain the weight of

a cow-bird without emptying the nest.

Indeed, the presence of this intruded egg, like that of the European

cuckoo in similar fragile nests, has given rise to the popular belief

that the bird must resort to exceptional means in these instances. Sir

William Jardine, for instance, in an editorial foot-note in one of

Gilbert White's pages, remarks:

"It is a curious fact, and one, I believe, not hitherto noticed by

naturalists, that the cuckoo deposits its egg in the nests of the

titlark, robin, and wagtail by means of its foot. If the bird sat on the

nest while the egg was laid, the weight of its body would crush the nest

and cause it to be forsaken, and thus one of the ends of Providence

would be defeated. I have found the eggs of the cuckoo in the nest of a

white-throat, built in so small a hole in a garden wall that it was

absolutely impossible for the cuckoo to have got into it."

In the absence of substantiation, this, at best, presumptive evidence is

discounted by the well-attested fact that the cuckoo has frequently been

shot in the act of carrying a cuckoo's egg in its mouth, and there is on

record an authentic account of a cuckoo which was observed through a

telescope to lay her egg on a bank, and then take it in her _bill_ and

deposit it in the nest of a wagtail.

There is no evidence to warrant a similar resource in our cow-bird,

though the inference would often appear irresistible, did we not know

that Wilson actually saw the cow-bird in the act of laying in the

diminutive nest of a red-eyed vireo, and also in that of the bluebird.

And what is the almost certain doom of the bird-home thus contaminated

by the cow-bird?

[Illustration]

The egg is always laid betimes, and is usually the first to hatch, the

period of incubation being a day or two less than that of the eggs of

the foster-parent. And woe be to the fledglings whom fate has associated

with a young cow-bird! He is the "early bird that gets the worm." His is

the clamoring red mouth which takes the provender of the entire family.

It is all "grist into his mill," and everything he eats seems to go to

appetite--his bedfellows, if not thus starved to death, being at length

crushed by his comparatively ponderous bulk, or ejected from the nest

to die. It is a pretty well established fact that the cuckoo of Europe

deliberately ousts its companion fledglings--a fact first noted by the

famous Dr. Jenner. And Darwin has even asserted that the process of

anatomical evolution has especially equipped the young cuckoo for such

an accomplishment--a practice in which some accommodating philosophic

minds detect the act of "divine beneficence," in that "the young cuckoo

is thus insured sufficient food, and that its foster-brothers thus

perish before they have acquired much feeling."

The following account, written by an eye-witness, bears the stamp of

authenticity, and is furthermore re-enforced by a careful and most

graphic drawing made on the spot, which I here reproduce, and fully

substantiates the previous statement by Dr. Jenner. The scene of the

tragedy was the nest of a pipit, or titlark, on the ground beneath a

heather-bush. When first discovered it contained two pipit's eggs and

the egg of a cuckoo.

"At the next visit, after an interval of forty-eight hours," writes Mrs.

Blackburn, "we found the young cuckoo alone in the nest, and both the

young pipits lying down the bank, about ten inches from the margin of

the nest, but quite lively after being warmed in the hand. They were

replaced in the nest beside the cuckoo, which struggled about till it

got its back under one of them, when it climbed backward directly up the

open side of the nest and pitched the pipit from its back on to the

edge. It then stood quite upright on its legs, which were straddled wide

apart, with the claws firmly fixed half-way down the inside of the nest,

and, stretching its wings apart and backward, it elbowed the pipit

fairly over the margin so far that its struggles took it down the bank

instead of back into the nest. After this the cuckoo stood a minute or

two feeling back with its wings, as if to make sure that the pipit was

fairly overboard, and then subsided into the bottom of the nest.

"I replaced the ejected one and went home. On returning the next day,

both nestlings were found dead and cold out of the nest.... But what

struck me most was this: the cuckoo was perfectly naked, without a

vestige of a feather, or even a hint of future feathers; its eyes were

not yet opened, and its neck seemed too weak to support the weight of

the head. The pipit had well-developed quills on the wings and back, and

had bright eyes, partially open, yet they seemed quite helpless under

the manipulations of the cuckoo, which looked a much less developed

creature. The cuckoo's legs, however, seemed very muscular; and it

appeared to feel about with its wings, which were absolutely

featherless, as with hands, the spurious wing (unusually large in

proportion) looking like a spread-out thumb."

Considering how rarely we see the cow-bird in our walks, her merciless

ubiquity is astonishing. It occasionally happens that almost every nest

I meet in a day's walk will show the ominous speckled egg. In a single

stroll in the country I have removed eight of these foreboding tokens of

misery. Only last summer I discovered the nest of a wood-sparrow in a

hazel-bush, my attention being attracted thither by the parent bird

bearing food in her beak. I found the nest occupied, appropriated,

monopolized, by a cow-bird fledgling--a great, fat, clamoring lubber,

completely filling the cavity of the nest, the one diminutive, puny

remnant of the sparrow's offspring being jammed against the side of the

nest, and a skeleton of a previous victim hanging among the branches

below, with doubtless others lost in the grass somewhere in the near

neighborhood, where they had been removed by the bereaved mother. The

ravenous young parasite, though not half grown, was yet bigger by

nearly double than the foster-mother. What a monster this! The "Black

Douglass" of the bird home; a blot on Nature's page!

As in previous instances, observing that the interloper had a voice

fully capable of making his wants known, I gave the comfortable little

beast ample room to spread himself on the ground, and let the lone

little starveling survivor of the rightful brood have his cot all to

himself.

And yet, as I left the spot, I confess to a certain misgiving, as the

pleading chirrup of the ousted fledgling followed me faintly and more

faintly up the hill, recalling, too, the many previous similar acts of

mine--and one in particular, when I had slaughtered in cold blood two of

these irresponsibles found in a single nest. But sober second thought

evoked a more philosophic and conscientious mood, the outcome of which

leading, as always, to a semi-conviction that the complex question of

reconciliation of duty and humanity in the premises was not thus easily

disposed of, considering, as I was bound to do, the equal innocence of

the chicks, both of which had been placed in the nest in obedience to a

natural law, which in the case of the cow-bird was none the less a

divine institution because I failed to understand it. Such is the

inevitable, somewhat penitent conclusion which I always arrive at on the

cow-bird question; and yet my next cow-bird fledgling will doubtless

follow the fate of all its predecessors, the reminiscent qualms of

conscience finding a ready philosophy equal to the emergency; for if,

indeed, this parasite of the bird home _be_ a factor in the divine plan

of Nature's equilibrium, looking towards the survival of the fittest and

the regulation of the sparrow and small-bird population, which we must

admit, how am I to know but that this righteous impulse of the human

animal is not equally a divine, as it is certainly a natural institution

looking to the limitations of the cow-bird? One June morning, a year or

two ago, I heard a loud squeaking, as of a young bird in the grass near

my door, and, on approaching, discovered the spectacle of a cow-bird,

almost full-fledged, being fed by its foster-mother, a chippy not more

than half its size, and which was obliged to stand on tiptoe to cram the

gullet of the parasite.

The victims of the cow-bird are usually, as in this instance, birds of

much smaller size, the fly-catchers, the sparrows, warblers, and vireos,

though she occasionally imposes on larger species, such as the orioles

and the thrushes. The following are among its most frequent dupes,

given somewhat in the order of the bird's apparent choice: song-sparrow,

field-sparrow, yellow warbler, chipping-sparrow, other sparrows,

Maryland yellow-throat, yellow-breasted chat, vireos, worm-eating

warbler, indigo-bird, least-flycatcher, bluebird, Acadian flycatcher,

Canada flycatcher, oven-bird, king-bird, cat-bird, phoebe, Wilson's

thrush, chewink, and wood-thrush.

But one egg is usually deposited in a single nest; the presence of two

eggs probably indicates, as in the case of the European cuckoo, the

visits of two cow-birds rather than a second visit from the same

individual--the presence of two cow-bird chicks of equal size being

rather a proof of this than otherwise, in that kind Nature would seem to

have accommodated the bird with an exceptional physiological resource,

which matures its eggs at intervals of three or more days, as against

the daily oviposition of its dupes, thus giving it plenty of time to

make its search and take its pick among the bird-homes. Whether the

process of evolution has similarly equipped our cow-bird I am not aware;

but the vicious habits of the two birds are so identical that the same

accommodating functional conditions might reasonably be expected. It is,

indeed, an interesting fact well known to ornithologists that our own

American cuckoos, both the yellow-billed and black-billed, although

rudimentary nest-builders, still retain the same exceptional interval in

their egg-laying as do their foreign namesake. The eggs are laid from

four days to a week apart, instead of daily, as with most birds, their

period of perilous nidification on that haphazard apology of a nest

being thus possibly prolonged to six weeks. Thus we find, in

consequence, the anomalous spectacle of the egg and full-grown chick,

and perhaps one or two fledglings of intermediate stages of growth,

scattered about at once, helter-skelter, in the same nest. Only two

years ago I discovered such a nest not a hundred feet from my house,

containing one chick about two days old, another almost full-fledged,

while a fresh-broken egg lay upon the ground beneath. Such a household

condition would seem rather demoralizing to the cares of incubation, and

doubtless the addled or ousted egg is a frequent episode in our cuckoo's

experience.

It is an interesting question which the contrast of the American and

European cuckoo thus presents. Is the American species a degenerate or a

progressive nest-builder? Has she advanced in process of evolution from

a parasitical progenitor building no nest, or is the bird gradually

retrograding to the evil ways of her notorious namesake?

The evidence of this generic physiological peculiarity in the intervals

of oviposition, taken in consideration with the fact of the rudimentary

nest, would seem to indicate the retention of a now useless

physiological function, and that the bird is thus a reformer who has

repudiated the example of her ancestors, and has henceforth determined

to look after her own babes.

With the original presumed object of this remarkable prolonged interval

in egg-laying now removed, the period will doubtless be reduced through

gradual evolution to accommodate itself to the newly adopted conditions.

The week's interval, taken in connection with the makeshift nest or

platform of sticks, is now a disastrous element in the life of the bird.

Such of the cuckoos, therefore, as build the more perfect nests, or lay

at shortest intervals, will have a distinct advantage over their less

provident fellows, and the law of heredity will thus insure the

continual survival of the fittest.

The cuckoo is not alone among British birds in its intrusion on other

nests. Many other species are occasionally addicted to the same

practice, though such acts are apparently accidental rather than

deliberate, so far as parasitical intent is concerned. The lapse is

especially noticeable among such birds as build in hollow trees and

boxes, as the woodpeckers and wagtails. Thus the English starling will

occasionally impose upon and dispossess the green woodpecker. In the

process of nature in such cases the stronger of the two birds would

retain the nest, and thus assume the duties of foster-parent. Starting

from this reasonable premise concerning the prehistoric cuckoo, it is

not difficult to see how natural selection, working through ages of

evolution by heredity, might have developed the habitual resignation of

the evicted bird, perhaps to the ultimate entire abandonment of the

function of incubation. Inasmuch as "we have no experience in the

creation of worlds," we can only presume.

Indeed, the similarities and contrasts afforded by a comparison of the

habits of all these birds--European cuckoo, American cuckoo, and

cow-bird--afford an interesting theme for the student of evolution. What

is to be the ultimate outcome of it all? for the murderous cuckoo must

be considered merely as an innocent factor in the great scheme of

Nature's equilibrium, in which the devourer and the parasite would seem

to play the all-important parts, the present example being especially

emphasized because of its conspicuousness and its violence to purely

human sentiment. The parasite would often seem to hold the balance of

power.

[Illustration]

Jonathan Swift's epitome of the subject, if not specifically true, is at

least correct in its general application:

"A flea

Has smaller fleas that on him prey;

And these have smaller still to bite 'em;

And so proceed _ad infinitum_."

Even the tiny egg of a butterfly has its ichneumon parasite, a

microscopic wasp, which lays its own egg within the larger one, which

ultimately hatches a wasp instead of the baby caterpillar.

But who ever heard of anything but good luck falling to the lot of

cow-bird or cuckoo, except as its blighting course is occasionally

arrested by the outraged human? They always find a feathered nest.

In this connection it is interesting to note certain developments in

bird life upon the lines of which evolution might work with

revolutionary effect. Most of our birds are helpless and generally

resigned victims to the cow-bird, but there are indications of

occasional effective protest among them. Thus the little Maryland

yellow-throat, according to various authorities, often ousts the

intruded egg, and its broken remains are also occasionally seen on the

ground beneath the nests of the cat-bird and the oriole. The red-eyed

vireo, on the other hand, though having apparently an easier task than

the latter, in the lesser depth of her pensile nest, commonly abandons

it altogether to the unwelcome speckled ovum--always, I believe, if the

cow-bird has anticipated her own first egg.

[Illustration]

But we have a more remarkable example of opposition in the resource of

the little yellow warbler, which I have noted as one of the favorite

dupes of the cow-bird--a deliberate, intelligent, courageous defiance

and frequent victory which are unique in bird history, and which, if

through evolutionary process they became the fashion in featherdom,

would put the cow-bird's mischief greatly at a discount. The identity

of this pretty little warbler is certainly familiar to most observant

country dwellers, even if unknown by name, though its golden-yellow

plumage faintly streaked with dusky brown upon the breast would

naturally suggest its popular title of "summer yellow-bird." It is one

of the commonest of the _mnio-tiltidæ_, or wood-warblers, though more

properly a bird of the copse and shrubbery than of the woods.

[Illustration]

This nest is a beautiful piece of bird architecture. In a walk in search

of one only a day or two ago I procured one, which is now before me. It

was built in the fork of an elder-bush, to which it was moored by strips

of fine bark and cobweb, its downy bulk being composed by a fitted mass

of fine grass, willow cotton, fern wood, and other similar ingredients.

It is about three inches in depth, outside measurement. But this depth

greatly varies in different specimens. Our next specimen may afford

quite a contrast, for the yellow warbler occasionally finds it to her

interest to extend the elevation of her dwelling to a remarkable height.

On page 50 is shown one of these nests, snugly moored in the fork of a

scrub apple-tree. Its depth from the rim to the base, viewed from the

outside, is about five inches, at least two inches longer than necessity

would seem to require, and apparently with a great waste of material in

the lower portion, as the hollow with the pretty spotted eggs is of only

the ordinary depth of about two inches, thus hardly reaching half-way to

the base. Let us examine it closely. There certainly is a suspicious

line or division across its upper portion, about an inch below the rim,

and extending more or less distinctly completely around the nest. By a

very little persuasion with our finger-tip the division readily yields,

and we discover the summit of the nest to be a mere rim--a top story, as

it were--with a full-sized nest beneath it as a foundation. Has our

warbler, then, come back to his last year's home and fitted it up anew

for this summer's brood? Such would be a natural supposition, did we not

see that the foundation is as fresh in material as the summit. Perhaps,

then, the bird has already raised her first spring brood, and has simply

extended her May domicile, and provided a new nursery for a second

family. But either supposition is quickly dispelled as we further

examine the nest; for in separating the upper compartment we have just

caught a glimpse of what was, perhaps only yesterday, the hollow of a

perfect nest; and, what is more to the point of my story, the hollow

contains an egg--perhaps two, in which case they will be very

dissimilar, one of delicate white with faint spots of brown on its

larger end, the putting of the warbler, the other much larger, with its

greenish surface entirely speckled with brown, and which, if we have had

any experience in bird-nesting, we immediately recognize as the

mischievous token of the cow-bird. We have discovered a most interesting

curiosity for our natural-history cabinet--the embodiment of a

presumably new form of intelligence in the divine plan looking to the

survival of the fittest. It is not known how many years or centuries it

has taken the little warbler to develop this clever resource to outwit

the cow-bird. It is certain, however, that the little mother has got

tired of being thus imposed upon, and is the first of her kind on record

which has taken these peculiar measures for rising above her besetting

trouble.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Who can tell what the future may develop in the nests of other birds

whose homes are similarly invaded? I doubt not that this crying cow-bird

and cuckoo evil comes up as a matter of consideration in bird councils.

The two-storied nest may yet become the fashion in featherdom, in which

case the cow-bird and European cuckoo would be forced to build nests of

their own or perish.

But have we fully examined this nest of our yellow warbler? Even now the

lower section seems more bulky than the normal nest should be. Can we

not trace still another faint outline of a transverse division in the

fabric, about an inch below the one already separated? Yes; it parts

easily with a little disentangling of the fibres, and another spotted

egg is seen within. A three-storied nest! A nest full of

stories--certainly. I recently read of a specimen containing four

stories, upon the top of which downy pile the little warbler sat like

Patience on a monument, presumably smiling at the discomfiture of the

outwitted cow-bird parasite, who had thus exhausted her powers of

mischief for the season, and doubtless convinced herself of the folly of

"putting all her eggs in one basket."

[Illustration]

When we consider the life of the cow-bird, how suggestive is this

spectacle which we may see every year in September in the chuckling

flocks massing for their migration, occasionally fairly blackening the

trees as with a mildew, each one the visible witness of a double or

quadruple cold-blooded murder, each the grim substitute for a whole

annihilated singing family of song-sparrow, warbler, or thrush! What a

blessing, at least humanly speaking, could the epicurean population _en

route_ in the annual Southern passage of this dark throng only learn

what a surpassing substitute they would prove--on toast--for the

bobolinks which as "reed-birds" are sacrificed by the thousands to the

delectable satisfaction of those "fine-mouthed and daintie wantons who

set such store by their tooth"!

And what the cow-bird is, so is the Continental "cuckoo." Shall we not

discriminate in our employment of the superlative? What of the throstle

and the lark? Shall we still sing--all together:

"O cuckoo! I hear thee and rejoice!

Thrice welcome darling of the spring."

_DOOR-STEP NEIGHBORS_

[Illustration]

How little do we appreciate our opportunities for natural observation!

Even under the most apparently discouraging and commonplace environment,

what a neglected harvest! A back-yard city grass-plot, forsooth, what an

invitation! Yet there is one interrogation to which the local naturalist

is continually called to respond. If perchance he dwells in Connecticut,

how repeatedly is he asked, "Don't you find your particular locality in

Connecticut a specially rich field for natural observation?" The

botanist of New Jersey or the ornithologist of Esopus-on-Hudson is

expected to give an affirmative reply to similar questions concerning

his chosen hunting-grounds, if, indeed, he does not avail himself of

that happy aphorism with which Gilbert White was wont to instruct his

questioners concerning the natural-history harvest of his beloved

Selborne: "That locality is always richest which is most observed."

The arena of the events which I am about to describe and picture

comprised a spot of almost bare earth less than one yard square, which

lay at the base of the stone step to my studio door in the country.

The path leading to the studio lay through a tangle of tall grass and

weeds, with occasional worn patches showing the bare earth. As it

approached the door-step the surface of the ground was quite clean and

baked in the sun, and barely supported a few scattered, struggling

survivors of the sheep's-sorrel, silvery cinquefoil, ragweed, various

grasses, and tiny rushes which rimmed the border. Sitting upon this

threshold stone one morning in early summer, I permitted my eyes to scan

the tiny patch of bare ground at my feet, and what I observed during a

very few moments suggested the present article as a good piece of

missionary work in the cause of nature, and a suggestive tribute to the

glory of the commonplace. The episodes which I shall describe represent

the chronicle of a single day--in truth, of but a few hours in that

day--though the same events were seen in frequent repetition at

intervals for months. Perhaps the most conspicuous objects--if, indeed,

a hole can be considered an "object"--were those two ever-present

features of every trodden path and bare spot of earth anywhere,

ant-tunnels and that other circular burrow, about the size of a quill,

usually associated, and which is also commonly attributed to the ants.

As I sat upon my stone step that morning, I counted seven of these

smooth clean holes within close range, three of them hardly more than an

inch apart. They penetrated beyond the vision, and were evidently very

deep. Knowing from past experience the wary tenant which dwelt within

them, I adjusted myself to a comfortable attitude, and remaining

perfectly motionless, awaited developments. After a lapse of possibly

five minutes, I suddenly discovered that I could count but five holes;

and while recounting to make sure, moving my eyes as slowly as possible,

my numeration was cut short at four. In another moment two more had

disappeared, and the remaining two immediately followed in obscurity,

until no vestige of a hole of any kind was to be seen. The ground

appeared absolutely level and unbroken. Were it not for the circular

depression, or "door-yard," around each hole, their location would,

indeed, have been almost impossible. A slight motion of one of my feet

at this juncture, however, and, presto! what a change! Seven black

holes in an instant! And now another wait of five minutes, followed by

the same hocus-pocus, and the black spots, one by one, vanishing from

sight even as I looked upon them. But let us keep perfectly quiet this

time and examine the suspected spots more carefully. Locating the

position of the hole by the little circular "door-yard," we can now

certainly distinguish a new feature, not before noted, at the centre of

each--two sharp curved prongs, rising an eighth of an inch or more above

the surface and widely extended.

[Illustration]

What a danger signal to the creeping insect innocent in its

neighborhood! How many a tragedy in the bug world has been enacted in

these inviting, clean-swept little door-yards--these pitfalls, so

artfully closed in order that their design may be the more surely

effective. As I have said, these tunnels are commonly called

"ant-holes," perhaps with some show of reason. It is true that ants

occasionally are seen to go into them, but not by their own choice,

while the most careful observer will wait in vain to see the ant come

out again. Here at the edge of the grass we see one approaching now--a

big red ant from yonder ant-hill. He creeps this way and that, and anon

is seen trespassing in the precincts of the unhealthy court. He crosses

its centre, when, click! and in an instant his place knows him no more,

and a black hole marks the spot where he met his fate, which is now

being duly celebrated in a supplementary fête several inches

belowground.

A poor unfortunate green caterpillar, which, with a very little forcible

persuasion in the interest of science, was induced to take a short-cut

across this nice clean space of earth to the clover beyond, was the next

martyr to my passion for original observation. He might have pursued his

even course across the arena unharmed, but he too persisted in

trespassing, and suddenly was seen to transform from a slow creeping

laggard into the liveliest acrobat, as he stood on his head and

apparently dived precipitately into the hole which suddenly appeared

beneath him. A certain busy fly made itself promiscuous in the

neighborhood, more than once to the demoralization of my necessary

composure, as it crept persistently upon my nose. What was my delight

when I observed the fickle insect in curious contemplation of a pair of

calipers at the centre of one of the little courts! But, whether from

past experience or innate philosophy in the insect I know not, the

pronged hooks, though coming together with a click once or twice at the

near proximity of the tempter, failed in their opportunity, and the

trap was soon seen carefully set again, flush with the ground at the

mouth of the burrow.

The contrast of these clean-swept door-yards with the mound of débris of

the ants suggested an investigation of the comparative methods of

burrowing and the disposal of the excavated material. Here is a hole

evidently some inches in depth; what, then, has become of the earth

removed? Suiting action to the thought, I swept into the openings of two

or three of the holes quite a quantity of loose earth scraped from the

close vicinity, and thus completely obliterated the opening of burrow,

door-yard and all.

I awaited in vain any sign of returning activity at the surface, and, my

patience being somewhat taxed, I entered my studio, where I remained for

a quarter of an hour, perhaps. Upon stealing cautiously to the doorway,

I observed all the obliterated holes had reappeared, and upon taking

once more my original position I was soon rewarded with a demonstration

of the method of excavation. After a moment or two a pellet of earth

seemed suddenly to rise from within the cavity, and when arrived at the

level of the ground was suddenly shot forth a distance of five or six

inches, as though thrown from a tiny round flat shovel, which suddenly

flashed from the opening, and as quickly retired to its depths, though

not without a momentary display of two curved prongs and a formidable

show of spider-like legs.

After a short lapse of time the act was repeated, this time a tiny stone

being brought to the surface, and, after a brief pause at the doorway,

was jerked to a distance as from a catapult. I now concluded to try the

power of this propelling force, and taking a small stone, about

three-quarters of an inch in length and a quarter-inch in thickness,

laid it over the mouth of the tunnel. A few minutes passed, when I

noticed a slight motion in the stone, immediately followed by a forcible

ejectment, which threw it nearly an inch, the propelling instrument

retiring so quickly into the burrow beneath as to scarce afford a

glimpse. The stone appeared almost to have jumped voluntarily.

For an hour or more the bombardment of pellets and small stones

continued from the mouth of the pit, until a small pile of the spent

ammunition had accumulated at several inches distance, and at length the

hole entirely disappeared, the earth in its vicinity presenting an

apparently level surface--an armed peace, in truth, with the two touchy

curved calipers on duty, as already described.

[Illustration]

Following the hint of past experience, I concluded to explore the depths

of one of these tunnels, especially as I desired a specimen of the wily

tenant for portraiture; and it is, indeed, an odd fish that one may land

on the surface if he be sufficiently alert in his angling. No hook or

bait is required in this sort of fishing. Taking a long culm of

timothy-grass, I inserted the tip into the burrow. It progressed without

impediment two, three, six, eight inches, and when at the depth of about

ten inches appeared to touch bottom, which in this kind of angling is

the signal for a "strike" and the landing of the game. Instantly

withdrawing the grass culm, I found my fish at its tip, from which he

quickly dropped to the ground. His singular identity is shown in my

illustration--an uncouth nondescript among grubs. His body is whitish

and soft, with a huge hump on the lower back armed with two small hooks.

His enormous head is now seen to be apparently circular in outline, and

we readily see how perfectly it would fill the opening of the burrow

like an operculum. But a close examination shows us that this operculum

is really composed of two halves, on two separate segments of the body,

the segment at the extremity only being the true head, armed with its

powerful, sharp, curved jaws. As he lies there sprawling on his six

spider-like legs, we may now easily test the skill of his trap, and gain

some idea of his voracious personality.

If with the point of our knife-blade, holding it in the direction of the

insect's body, we now touch its tail, what a display of vehement

acrobatics! Instantly the agile body is bent backward in a loop, while

the teeth fasten to the knife-blade with an audible click. If our

finger-tip is substituted for the steel, the force of the stroke and the

prick and grip of the jaws are unpleasantly perceptible.

In order to fully comprehend the make-up of this curious cave-dweller we

must turn biologists for the moment. He must be considered from the

evolutionary stand-point, or at least from the stand-point of

comparative anatomy.

The first discovery that we make is that as we now see him he is

crawling on his back--a fact which seems to have escaped his biographers

heretofore. It is, in truth, the underside of his head which is

uppermost at the mouth of the burrow, and his six zigzag legs are

distorted backward to enable him to keep this contrary position. And

what a hideous monster is this, whose flat, metallic, dirt-begrimed face

stares skyward from this circular burrow! Well might it strike terror to

the heart of the helpless insect which should suddenly find himself

confronted by the motionless stare of these four cruel, glistening black

eyes! But he is now a "fish out of water," and is about as helpless,

nature never having intended him to be seen outside of his burrow--at

least, in this present form. There he dwells, setting his circular trap

at the mouth of his pitfall, and waiting for the voluntary sacrifice of

his insect neighbors to fill his maw.

But this uncouth shape, which so courts obscurity, is not always thus so

reasonably retiring. A few glass tumblers inverted above as many of

these larger holes during the summer will intercept the winged sprite

into which he is shortly to be transfigured--a brilliant metallic-hued

beetle, perhaps flashing with bronzy gold or glittering like an

emerald--the beautiful _cicindela_, or tiger-beetle, known to the

entomologist as the most agile winged among the coleopterous tribe;

known to the populace, perhaps, simply as a bright glittering fly that

revels in the hot summer sands of the sea-shore or dusty country road,

making its short spans of glittering flight from the very feet of the

observer.

[Illustration]

If we capture one of them with our butterfly-net he will be found to

bear a general resemblance to the portrait here indicated--a

slender-legged, proportionably large-headed beetle, with formidable jaws

capable of wide extension, and re-enforced by an insatiate carnivorous

hunger inherited from his former estate.

It will thus be seen that all the holes which we observe in the ground

are not ant-holes; nor, indeed, are they monopolized by the

tiger-beetles. There were other tunnels which I saw dug in my square

yard of earth on that morning, which, while not of quite such depth,

represented equally deep-laid plans.

While observing my cicindelas on that morning, my attention was at

length diverted by an old friend of mine, who gave promise of much

entertainment--a tiny black wasp, whose restless, rapid, zigzag,

apparently aimless wanderings over the ground brought him into continual

danger of contact with the snatching jaws of the cave-dwelling tiger,

from which, however, he somehow escaped, though I distinctly heard the

occasional clicking of the eager jaws.

[Illustration]

With short abrupt flights or agile runs of a few inches, accompanied by

nervous periodic flirts of the folded wings, the insect had covered

pretty much of the ground in a short time, until she at length appeared

to have discovered the object of her search, as she withdrew from

beneath a sorrel leaf a big fat spider several times as large as

herself. Its legs were folded beneath its body, and it was perfectly

plain that this was not the first time that it had been in the toils of

the wasp, which had evidently stung it into submission and stupor some

minutes previous. Tugging bravely at her charge, the little black Amazon

dragged her burden nimbly over the ground, pulling it after her in

entire disregard of obstacles, now this way, now that, with the same

exasperating disregard of eternity which she at first displayed, and at

length deposited it on the top of a little flat weed, where it was

left, while for five minutes more she pursued the same zigzag,

apparently senseless meandering over the entire field of earth. Now she

seems again to stumble upon her neglected prey, and taking it once more

in her formidable jaws, she lugs it again for a long helter-skelter

jaunt, this time depositing it in the neighborhood of a hole, which at

first sight might have been considered an "ant-hole," from the débris

which lay scattered about in its vicinity. After considerable needless

delay, she is seen for once motionless, so far as her legs are

concerned, but with her head over the tunnel, while, with flipping wings

and rapidly waving antennæ, she investigates its depths. Satisfied that

all is well, she again reaches her drowsy spider, by a tangled circuit

of about a quarter of a mile--wasp measurement--and taking the victim in

her teeth for the third time, finally succeeds in reaching the burrow,

into which, without a particle of ceremony, she instantly retreats,

dragging her helpless burden after her. Both wasp and spider are soon

out of sight, and so remain perhaps for a space of two minutes, when the

tips of the nervous antennæ appear at the doorway and the wasp emerges.

What now follows is most curious and interesting. With an energy and

directness in striking contrast to her previous proceedings, she

proceeds to fill the cavity, biting the earth with her mandibles, and

with her spiked legs kicking and shoving in the loose soil thus

collected, ever and anon backing up to the hole and inserting the tip of

her tail to force down the mass. As the filling is nearly completed,

with the fore feet and jaws the surrounding earth is scraped for

material, which she immediately proceeds to pack by a rhythmic tamping

motion of the tail, until, at the end of five minutes, perhaps, the

ground-level is finally reached, the surface smoothed, and no sign

remains to mark the grave of the stupefied spider victim.

[Illustration]

Not an hour after this episode I was treated to another of even more

interest. As I took my seat upon the door-step I started into flight a

big black wasp, upon whose doings I had evidently been intruding.

This wasp was much larger than the one just described, being about an

inch in length. Its wings were pale brown and its body jet-black, with

sundry small yellowish spots about the thorax. But its most conspicuous

feature, and one which would ever fix the identity of the creature, was

the long, slender, wire-like waist, occupying a quarter of the length of

its entire body.

In a moment or two the wasp had returned, and stood at the mouth of the

shallow pit. Eying me intently for a space, and satisfied that there was

nothing to fear, she dived into the hollow and began to excavate,

turning round and round as she gnawed the earth at the bottom, and

shovelling it out with her spiked legs. Now and then she would back out

of the burrow to reconnoitre, and her alert attitude at such times was

very amusing--her antennæ drooping towards the burrow and in incessant

motion; the abdomen on its long wire stem bobbing up and down at regular

intervals, accompanied by a flipping motion of the wings; the short fore

legs, one or both, upraised with comical effect.

[Illustration]

As the tunnel was deepened a new method of excavation was employed. It

has now reached a depth of an inch, only the extremity of the insect's

body appearing, and the two hindermost legs clinging to surrounding

earth for purchase. The deep digging is now accompanied by a continual

buzzing noise, resembling that produced by a bluebottle fly held captive

between one's fingers. At intervals of about ten or fifteen seconds the

wasp would quickly back out of the burrow, bringing a load of sand,

which it held between the back of the jaws and its thorax, sustained at

the sides by the two upraised fore legs. After a moment's pause with

this burden, the insect would make a sudden short darting flight of a

foot or more in a quick circuit, hurling the sand a yard or more distant

from the burrow. At the end of about fifteen minutes the burrow was sunk

to the depth of an inch and a half, the wasp entirely disappearing, and

indicated only by the continuous buzzing.

At this time, the luncheon hour having arrived, I was obliged to pause

in my investigations, and in order to be able to locate the burrow in

the event of its obliteration by the wasp before my return, I scratched

a circle in the hard dirt, the hole being at its exact centre.

[Illustration]

Upon my return, an hour later, I was met with a surprise. The ways of

the digger-wasps of various species were familiar, but I now noted a

feature of wasp-engineering which indeed seems to await its chronicler,

as I find no mention of it by the wasp-historians.

At the exact centre of my circle, in place of a cavity, I now found a

tiny pile of stones, supported upon a small stick and fragment of leaf,

which had been first drawn across the opening.

This was evidently a mere temporary protection of the burrow, I

reasoned, while the digger had departed in search of prey, and my

surmise was soon proved to be correct, as I observed the wasp, with

bobbing abdomen and flipping wings, zigzagging about the vicinity.

Presently disappearing beneath a small plantain leaf, she quickly

emerged, drawing behind her not a spider, as in the case of her smaller

predecessor, but a big green caterpillar, nearly double her own length,

and as large around as a slate-pencil--a peculiar, pungent,

waspy-scented species of "puss-moth" larva, which is found on the elm,

and with which I chanced to be familiar.

The victim being now ready for burial, the wasp sexton proceeded to open

the tomb. Seizing one stone after another in her widely opened jaws,

they were scattered right and left, when, with apparent ease and prompt

despatch, the listless larva was drawn towards the burrow, into whose

depths he soon disappeared. Then, after a short and suggestive

interval, followed the emergence of the wasp, and the prompt filling in

of the requisite earth to level the cavity, much as already described,

after which the wasp took wing and disappeared, presumably bent upon a

repetition of the performance elsewhere. But she had not simply buried

this caterpillar victim, nor was the caterpillar dead, for these wasp

cemeteries are, in truth, living tombs, whose apparently dead inmates

are simply sleeping, narcotized by the venom of the wasp sting, and thus

designed to afford fresh living food for the young wasp grub, into whose

voracious care they are committed.

By inserting my knife-blade deep into the soil in the neighborhood of

this burrow I readily unearthed the buried caterpillar, and disclosed

the ominous egg of the wasp firmly imbedded in its body. The hungry

larva which hatches from this egg soon reaches maturity upon the

all-sufficient food thus stored, and before many weeks is transformed to

the full-fledged, long-waisted wasp like its parent.

The disproportion in the sizes of the predatory wasps and their insect

prey is indeed astonishing. The great sand-hornet selects for its most

frequent victim the buzzing cicada, or harvest-fly, an insect much

larger than itself, and which it carries off to its long sand tunnels

by short flights from successive elevated points, such as the limbs of

trees and summits of rocks, to which it repeatedly lugs its clumsy prey.

In the present instance the contrast between the slight body of the wasp

and the plump dimensions of the caterpillar was even more marked, and I

determined to ascertain the proportionate weight of victor and victim.

Constructing a tiny pair of balances with a dead grass stalk, thread,

and two disks of paper, I weighed the wasp, using small square pieces of

paper of equal size as my weights. I found that the wasp exactly

balanced four of the pieces. Removing the wasp and substituting the

caterpillar, I proceeded to add piece after piece of the paper squares

until I had reached a total of twenty-eight, or seven times the number

required by the wasp, before the scales balanced. Similar experiments

with the tiny black wasp and its spider victim showed precisely the same

proportion, and the ratio was once increased eight to one in the

instance of another species of slender orange-and-black-bodied digger

which I subsequently found tugging its caterpillar prey upon my

door-step patch.

[Illustration]

The peculiar feature of the piling of stones above the completed burrow

was not a mere individual accomplishment of my wire-waisted wasp. On

several occasions since I have observed the same manoeuvre, which is

doubtless the regular procedure with this and other species. The smaller

orange-spotted wasp just alluded to indicated to me the location of her

den by pausing suggestively in front of a tiny cairn. In this instance a

small flat stone, considerably larger than the tunnel, had been laid

over the opening, and the others piled upon it. On two occasions I have

surprised this same species of wasp industriously engaged in the

selection of a suitable flat foundation-stone with which to cover her

burrow: her widely extended slender jaws enable her to grasp a pebble

nearly a third of an inch in width.

In my opening vignette I have indicated two other door-step neighbors

which bore my industrious wasps company in their arena of one square

yard. To the left, surrounding a grass stem, will be seen an object

which is unpleasantly familiar to most country folks--that salivary mass

variously known by the libellous names of "snake-spit," "cow-spit,"

"cuckoo-spit," "toad-spit," and "sheep-spit," or the inelegant though

expressive substitute of "gobs." The foam-bath pavilion of the

"spume-bearer," with his glittering, bubbly domicile of suds, is

certainly familiar to most of my readers; but comparatively few, I find,

have cared to investigate the mysterious mass, or to learn the identity

of the proprietor of the foamy lavatory.

The common name of "cow-spit," with the implied indignity to our "rural

divinity," becomes singularly ludicrous when we observe not only the

frequent generous display of the suds samples, thousands upon thousands

in a single small meadow, but the further fact that each mass is so

exactly landed upon the central stalk of grass or other plant--"spitted"

through its centre, as it were. The true expectorator is within, laved

in his own home-made suds. If we care to blow or scrape off the bubbles,

we readily disclose him--- a green speckled bug, about a third of an

inch in length in larger specimens, with prominent black eyes, and

blunt, wedge-shaped body.

[Illustration]

In the appended sketch I have indicated two views of him, back and

profile, creeping upon a grass stalk. A glance at the insect tells the

entomologist just where to place him, as he is plainly allied to the

cicadæ, and thus belongs to the order _Hemiptera_, or family of "bugs,"

which implies, among other things, that the insect possesses a "beak for

sucking." To what extent this tiny soaker is possessed of such a beak

may be inferred from the amount of moisture with which he manages to

inundate himself, which has all been withdrawn from the stem upon which

he has fastened himself, and finally exuded from the pores of his body.

This is the spume-bearer, _Aprophora_, in his first or larval estate,

which continues for a few weeks only. Erelong he will graduate from

these ignominious surroundings, and we shall see quite another sort of

creature--an agile, pretty atom, one of which I have indicated in

flight, its upper wings being often brilliantly colored, and re-enforced

by a pair of hind feet which emulate those of the flea in their powers

of jumping, which agility has won the insect the popular name of

"froghopper." They abound in the late summer meadow, and hundreds of

them may be captured by a few sweeps of a butterfly-net among the grass.

My other remaining claimant for notice, shown upon the plant at the

right margin of page 60, is a modest and inconspicuous individual, and

might readily escape attention, save that a more intent observer might

possibly wonder at the queer little tubular pinkish blossoms upon the

plant--a rush--while a keen-eyed botanist would instantly challenge the

right of a _juncus_ to such a tubular blossom at all, especially at

seed-time, and thus investigate. But the entomologist will probably

classify this peculiar blossom at a glance, from its family resemblance

to other specimens with which he is familiar. He will know, for

instance, that this is a sort of peripatetic or nomadic blossom that

will travel about on the plant, with which its open end will always

remain in close contact. Many of the individuals are seen apparently

growing upright out of the rounded seed-pod of the rush; and when the

pink or speckled tube finally concludes to take up its travels, a clean

round hole marks the spot of its tarrying, and an empty globular shell

tells the secret of this brief attachment.

For this petal-like tube, so commonly to be seen upon the little rush of

our paths, is, in truth, a tiny silken case enclosing the body of a

small larva--a diminutive psychid, or sack-bearer, which I have not

chanced to see described. Only the head and six prolegs of the occupant

ever emerge from its case. Dragging its house along upon the plant, it

attaches the open mouth of the sack close to the green seed-pod, after

which the shell is gnawed through at the point of contact, and the young

seeds devoured at pleasure, when a new journey is made to the next

capsule, and thus until the maturity of the larva. At this time the

case is about half an inch in length. It is now firmly attached to the

plant. The opening is completely spun over with silk, and the case

becomes a cocoon for the winter; and a few of these September cocoons

are well worth gathering, if only to see the queer little moth which

will emerge from them the following spring.

[Illustration]

_A QUEER LITTLE FAMILY ON THE BITTERSWEET_

[Illustration]

In a recent half-hour's relaxation, while comfortably stretched in my

hammock upon the porch of my country studio, I was surprised with a

singular entertainment. I soon found myself most studiously engaged.

Entwining the corner post of the piazza, and extending for some distance

along the eaves, a luxuriant vine of bittersweet had made itself at

home. The currant-like clusters of green fruits, hanging in pendent

clusters here and there, were now nearly mature, and were taking on

their golden hue, and the long, free shoots of tender growth were

reaching out for conquest on right and left in all manner of graceful

curves and spirals. Through an opening in this shadowy foliage came a

glimpse of the hill-side slope across the valley upon whose verge my

studio is perched, and as my eye penetrated this pretty vista it was

intercepted by what appeared to be a shadowed portion of a rose branch

crossing the opening and mingling with the bittersweet stems. In my idle

mood I had for some moments so accepted it without a thought, and would

doubtless have left the spot with this impression had I not chanced to

notice that this stem, so beset with conspicuous thorns, was not

consistent in its foliage. My suspicions aroused, I suddenly realized

that my thorny stem was in truth merely a bittersweet branch in

masquerade, and that I had been "fooled" by a sly midget who had been an

old-time acquaintance of my boyhood, but whom I had long neglected.

Every one knows the climbing-bittersweet, or "waxwork" (_Celastrus

scandens_), with its bright berries hanging in clusters in the autumn

copses, each yellow berry having now burst open in thin sections and

exposed the scarlet-coated seeds. Almost any good-sized vine, if

examined early in the months of July and August, will show us the

thorns, and more sparingly until October, and queer thorns they are,

indeed! Here an isolated one, there two or three together, or perhaps a

dozen in a quaint family circle around the stem, their curved points

all, no matter how far separated, inclined in the same direction, as

thorns properly should be. Let us gently invade the little colony with

our finger-tip. Touch one never so gently and it instantly disappears.

Was ever thorn so deciduous? And now observe its fellows. Here one

slowly glides up the stem; another in the opposite direction; another

sideways. In a moment more the whole family have entirely disappeared,

as if by hocus-pocus, until we discover, by a change of our point of

view, that they have all congregated on the opposite side of the stem,

with an agility which would have done credit to the proverbial gray

squirrel.

This animated thorn is about a quarter of an inch long, and dark brown

in color, with two yellowish spots on the edge of its back.

Nor is this all the witchery of this bittersweet thorn. It is well worth

our further careful study. Seen collectively, the thorny rose branch is

instantly suggested, but occasionally, when we observe a single isolated

specimen, especially in the month of July, he will certainly masquerade

in an entirely new guise. Look! quick. Turn your magnifier hither on

this green shoot. No thorn this. Is it not rather a whole covey of

quail, mother and young creeping along the vine? Who would ever have

thought of a thorn! Turning now to our original group, how perfectly do

they take the hint, for are they not a family of tiny birds with long

necks and swelling breasts and drooping tails, verily like an autumn

brood of "Bob Whites"?

[Illustration]

But the little harlequin is as wary a bird as he was a thorn! No sooner

do we touch his head with our finger than with an audible "click" he is

off on a most agile jump, which he extends with buzzing wings, and is

even now perhaps aping a thorn among a little group of his fellows

somewhere among the larger bittersweet branches.

It is only as we capture one of the little protean acrobats between our

finger-tips and examine him with a magnifier that we can really make

"head or tail" of his queer anatomy. Even thus enlarged it is difficult

to get entirely rid of the idea of a bird. I have shown a group of the

insects in various attitudes, the position of the eyes alone serving as

a starting-point for our comprehension of his singular make-up. The tall

neck-like or thorn-like prominence is then seen to be a mere elongated

helmet, which is prolonged into a steep angle behind, so as to cover the

back of the creature like a peaked roof, a feature from which the

scientific name of this particular group of insects is derived,

_Membracis_, meaning sharp-edged, the sides of the slope being covered

by the close-fitting wings, which, though apparently compact with the

body of the insect, are nevertheless always available for instant and

most agile flight. We now discover two pairs of stout legs just beneath

the edge of the wings, a third more slender pair being concealed behind,

ready for immediate use in association with these buzzing wings when the

whim of the midget prompts it to leap.

[Illustration]

This insect is the tree-hopper, and is but one of many equally curious

and mimetic species to be found among the smaller branches of various

trees and shrubs.

Our largest membracis is to be seen--with difficulty--on the terminal

twigs of the locust-tree, its outlines so exactly imitating the thorny

growths of the branch as to escape detection even by the closest

scrutiny. Another remarkable species is a protégé of the oak, so closely

simulating the warty bark of the smaller branches upon which it is

found that our eyes may rest upon it repeatedly without recognizing it.

The life history of these singular insects is quite similar, and is soon

told. The membracis belongs to the tribe of "Bugs," Hemiptera, which

implies that it possesses a beak instead of jaws, by which it sucks the

sap of plants, precisely like the aphis, or plant-louse. This tiny beak

we can readily distinguish bent beneath the body of our bittersweet

hopper. Inserting it deep into the succulent bark, the parasite remains

for hours as motionless as the thorn it imitates, the lower outline of

its body hugging close against the bark. The curious suggestion of the

thorn is produced not only by the outline, but by the curious fact that

the hopper never sits _across_ the twig, but always in the direction of

its length; and, what is more, the projecting point of the thorax is

always directed towards the end of the branch, or direction of growth.

It is no easy thing even for the casual botanist to determine this nice

point in a given segment of a bittersweet branch placed in his hand, the

position of the chance leaf or leaf scar being his only guide. But the

_Membracis binotata_ rarely--indeed never, so far as I have

examined--makes a mistake. Thus the wandering spray of bittersweet,

recurve and twist upon itself as it may, will always disclose the

little hopper or colony of them headed for its tip.

[Illustration]

But I have omitted to mention one singular feature which is the usual

accompaniment of my group of hoppers, and is, indeed, the most

conspicuous sign of their presence on any given shrub. In the cut below

I have indicated a short section of a bittersweet branch as it commonly

appears, the twig apparently beset with tiny tufts of cotton,

occasionally so numerous as to present a continuous white mass, usually

on the lower side of the branch, where its direction is horizontal. They

are thus easily seen from below, and a closer examination will always

reveal one or more of the black animated thorns in their immediate

vicinity, suggesting the responsible source. These tufts are pure

white, a little over an eighth of an inch in length, and semicircular in

vertical outline. The natural presumption is the idea of maternity, the

mother hopper guarding her bundles of white eggs, or her infant hoppers,

perhaps, snugly tucked up in their downy swaddling-clothes. But a closer

examination completely dispels this illusion. Instead of the supposed

fluffy cotton, we now discover the white substance to be of firm though

somewhat sticky consistency, its surface, moreover, beautifully ridged

from base to summit in parallel rounded flutings, which meet and

interfold like a braid along the summit. If with a sharp knife we now

cut downward through and across the mass, we find our tuft to be a mere

frothy shell containing two hollow compartments, with a thin central

partition extending through the whole length of the cavity. But there is

no sign of an egg or other life to be disclosed anywhere, either in its

substance or its concealment. What, then, is the office of this tiny

fragile house of congealed foam, with its snowy aerated structure, its

double arched chambers, its corrugated walls and ceilings, and missing

tenant or host? Such was the riddle which it propounded to me, and

guided by some previous knowledge of the habits of allied insects, I

was soon enabled to witness a solution of at least a part of its

mystery.

This little thorn-like tree-hopper and all of its queer harlequin tribe

are near relatives to the buzzing cicada, or harvest-fly, whose whizzing

din in the dog-days has won it the popular misnomer of "locust."

To the average listener this insect is a mere "wandering voice and a

mystery," and its singular form, wide prominent eyes, glassy wings, and

double drums are always a surprise to the tyro who first identifies the

grotesque as his well-known "locust." Its musical accomplishments during

this brief period of its life are known to all, but few have cared to

interest themselves in the early history of the singer, ere it perfected

its musical resources "for the delight of man." But the naturalist, and

especially the arboriculturist and fruit-grower, know to their cost of

other tricks of the cicada, or rather of Mrs. Cicada, immortalized by

Zenarchus the Rhodian as his "noiseless wife"--

"Happy the cicadas' lives,

Since they all have noiseless wives."

I have alluded to the egg of the cicada "inserted in the bark of a

twig." This act is accomplished by a knife-like ovipositor, which

literally gouges a deep gash into the tender wood of various twigs, a

number of the eggs being implanted in its depths, often causing the

death of the branch. Shortly after hatching, the young cicadas leap for

the ground, and burrowing beneath the surface, remain for a period

varying from three to seventeen years, according to the species, to

complete their transformations. Now the habits of my little tree-hopper

are somewhat modelled after its big cousin. Knowing that the little

insect was provided with a keen-edged ovipositor, and was in the habit

of thrusting its tiny eggs beneath the bark, and realizing, too, that

these strange tufts were of course in some way connected with the

maternal instinct, I was led to investigate. Selecting a branch where

the tufts and hoppers seemed most prolific, I brought my

magnifying-glass to bear upon them at a respectful distance. Was ever

actual thorn more motionless or non-committal than most of these?--their

under surfaces hugging close against the bark, their telltale feet

closely withdrawn, and all their pointed helmets inclined in the same

parallel direction. One after another of the sly little family was

examined without a revelation. Not until I had reached the upper limit

of the group did I get any encouragement. Here I discovered one of the

midgets in a new position, its pointed helmet inclined farther downward,

and its other extremity correspondingly raised, so that I could see

beneath its body. I now observed what at first appeared to be the hind

leg of the farther side of the body protruding beneath, but in another

moment noted my error, and saw that its sharp point had penetrated the

bark, into which it soon sank quite deeply, and I realized that the

ovipositor was now conducting its tiny eggs into the cambium layer of

the bark. Without waiting for this particular individual to finish her

labors, which might be extended for hours for aught I knew, I turned my

glass upon its nearest neighbor, and a most accommodating specimen she

proved, disclosing all the mysteries of the little froth house, its

strange material, and unique method of construction. What I saw reminded

me irresistibly of the technique of the cake-frosting art of the fancy

baker, with its flowing tube of white condiment, and its following

tracery of questionable design in high relief. This accommodating

specimen had apparently just completed her egg-laying, or had perhaps

just filled one nest; and while her attitude was precisely similar to

that of her neighbor, I noticed a tiny ball of glistening froth at the

tip of the ovipositor. This was attached to the bark by a touch, and

from this starting-point the construction of the glistening house was

continued, the apex of the ovipositor pouring out its endless puffy roll

of aerated cement, which seemed to set as soon as laid.

And what a convenient implement this for a froth-house builder who is

compelled to work behind her back--mortar-feeder, trowel, darby,

compass, and level all in one! Beginning with the first touch of the

cement, the flowing point describes a very small half-circle to the

right, again meeting the bark. It is now carried inward and upward,

describing a very close circle with scarcely any space intervening, a

similar circle being repeated on the left side. A new tier is then begun

in the same manner, only this time a little larger in the sweep, and

leaving a perceptible opening at the right as the central wall is

carried upward with slightly decreased material. Returning down the

central wall again, the white coil is carried to the left along the

bark, and up again on the other outer edge, until it once more meets its

fellow at the ridge-pole, where the two coils appear to interlock as in

a braid. And thus the little builder continues, enlarging the cavity

with each circuit, until the full height is reached, and then decreasing

proportionately until the glistening braided dome is tapered off again

against the bark.

[Illustration]

Now what is the object of this frothy pavilion? The life history of the

insect, in contrast to that of the cicada, will perhaps throw a little

light on that question. In the cicada, as I have shown, the eggs are

inserted in the bark, but the young, hatching about six weeks later,

immediately forsake the parent tree and enter the ground. But the young

of our bittersweet membracis are not thus fickle, the entire life of the

insect being spent on the plant. Moreover, its eggs are laid in late

summer, and do not hatch until the following spring. What, then, is

this canopy of the tree-hopper but the provision of a thoughtful mother,

a pavilion about her offspring as a shelter through the winter storms?

In early July the tiny hoppers emerge from their egg-cases, and

presumably creep out from their luminous domicile, and later on in the

season these broods of varying numbers and all sizes are to be seen

among the young stems of the plant, their beaks inserted, their pointed

heads invariably in the same direction--towards the top of the branch.

Even though in flight one of the midgets is seen to alight in violence

to the rule, he instantly recognizes his mistake, and quickly glides

round to the orthodox position.

This curious insect is chiefly confined to the bittersweet, though he is

occasionally found in the company of a much bigger cousin of his on the

branches of the locust, where these same telltale corrugated frothy

pavilions are often seen to clothe the young twigs in their white tufts,

the similar product of the larger species, which thus also presumably

spends its entire life upon the locust-tree.

_THE WELCOMES OF THE FLOWERS_

[Illustration]

It is now some thirty years since the scientific world was startled by

the publication of that wonderful volume, "The Fertilization of

Orchids," by Charles Darwin; for though slightly anticipated by his

previous work, "Origin of Species," this volume was the first important

presentation of the theory of cross-fertilization in the vegetable

kingdom, and is the one that is primarily associated with the subject in

the popular mind. The interpretation and elucidation of the mysteries

which had so long lain hidden within those strange flowers, whose

eccentric forms had always excited the curiosity and awe alike of the

botanical fraternity and the casual observer, came almost like a divine

revelation to every thoughtful reader of his remarkable pages. Blossoms

heretofore considered as mere caprices and grotesques were now shown to

be eloquent of deep divine intention, their curious shapes a

demonstrated expression of welcome and hospitality to certain insect

counterparts upon whom their very perpetuation depended.

Thus primarily identified with the orchid, it was perhaps natural and

excusable that popular prejudice should have associated the subject of

cross-fertilization with the orchid alone; for it is even to-day

apparently a surprise to the average mind that almost any casual wild

flower will reveal a floral mechanism often quite as astonishing as

those of the orchids described in Darwin's volume. Let us glance, for

instance, at the row of stamens below (Fig. 1), selected at random from

different flowers, with one exception wild flowers. Almost everybody

knows that the function of the stamen is the secretion of pollen. This

function, however, has really no reference whatever to the external form

of the stamen. Why, then, this remarkable divergence? Here is an anther

with its two cells connected lengthwise, and opening at the sides,

perhaps balanced at the centre upon the top of its stalk or filament, or

laterally attached and continuous with it; here is another opening by

pores at the tip, and armed with two or four long horns; here is one

with a feathery tail. In another the twin cells are globular and closely

associated, while in its neighbor they are widely divergent. Another is

club-shaped, and opens on either side by one or more upraised lids; and

here is an example with its two very unequal cells separated by a long

curved arm or connective, which is hinged at the tip of its filament;

and the procession might be continued across two pages with equal

variation.

[Illustration: Fig. 1]

As far back as botanical history avails us these forms have been the

same, each true to its particular species of flower, each with an

underlying purpose which has a distinct and often simple reference to

its form; and yet, incredible as it now seems to us, the botanist of the

past has been content with the simple technical description of the

feature, without the slightest conception of its meaning, dismissing it,

perhaps, with passing comment upon its "eccentricity" or "curious

shape." Indeed, prior to Darwin's time it might be said that the flower

was as a voice in the wilderness. In 1735, it is true, faint

premonitions of its present message began to be heard through their

first though faltering interpreter, Christian Conrad Sprengel, a German

botanist and school-master, who upon one occasion, while looking into

the chalice of the wild geranium, received an inspiration which led him

to consecrate his life thence-forth to the solution of the floral

hieroglyphics. Sprengel, it may be said, was the first to exalt the

flower from the mere status of a botanical specimen.

This philosophic observer was far in advance of his age, and to his long

and arduous researches--a basis built upon successively by Andrew

Knight, Köhlreuter, Herbert, Darwin, Lubbock, Müller, and others--we owe

our present divination of the flowers.

In order to fully appreciate this present contrast, it is well to

briefly trace the progress, step by step, from the consideration of the

mere anatomical and physiological specimen of the earlier botanists to

the conscious blossom of to-day, with its embodied hopes, aspirations,

and welcome companionships.

Most of my readers are familiar with the general construction of a

flower, but in order to insure such comprehension it is well, perhaps,

to freshen our memory by reference to the accompanying diagram (Fig. 2)

of an abstract flower, the various parts being indexed.

[Illustration: Fig. 2]

The calyx usually encloses the bud, and may be tubular, or composed of

separate leaves or sepals, as in a rose. The corolla, or colored

portion, may consist of several petals, as in the rose, or of a single

one, as in the morning-glory. At the centre is the pistil, one or more,

which forms the ultimate fruit. The pistil is divided into three parts,

ovary, style, and stigma. Surrounding the pistil are the stamens, few or

many, the anther at the extremity containing the powdery pollen.

Although these physiological features have been familiar to observers

for thousands of years, the several functions involved were scarcely

dreamed of until within a comparatively recent period.

In the writings of ancient Greeks and Romans we find suggestive

references to sexes in flowers, but it was not until the close of the

seventeenth century that the existence of sex was generally recognized.

[Illustration: Fig. 3]

In 1682 Nehemias Grew announced to the scientific world that it was

necessary for the pollen of a flower to reach the stigma or summit of

the pistil in order to insure the fruit. I have indicated his claim

pictorially at A (Fig. 3), in the series of historical progression. So

radical was this "theory" considered that it precipitated a lively

discussion among the wiseheads, which was prolonged for fifty years, and

only finally settled by Linnæus, who reaffirmed the facts declared by

Grew, and verified them by such absolute proof that no further doubts

could be entertained. The inference of these early authorities regarding

this process of pollination is perfectly clear from their statements.

The stamens in most flowers were seen to surround the pistil, "and of

course the presumption was that they naturally shed the pollen upon the

stigma," as illustrated at B in my series. The construction of most

flowers certainly seemed designed to fulfil this end. But there were

other considerations which had been ignored, and the existence of color,

fragrance, honey, and insect association still continued to challenge

the wisdom of the more philosophic seekers. How remarkable were some of

those early speculations in regard to "honey," or, more properly,

nectar! Patrick Blair, for instance, claimed that "honey absorbed the

pollen," and thus fertilized the ovary. Pontidera thought that its

office was to keep the ovary in a moist condition. Another botanist

argued that it was "useless material thrown off in process of growth."

Krunitz noted that "bee-visited meadows were most healthy," and his

inference was that "honey was injurious to the flowers, and that bees

were useful in carrying it off"! The great Linnæus confessed himself

puzzled as to its function.

For a period of fifty years the progress of interpretation was

completely arrested. The flowers remained without a champion until 1787,

when Sprengel began his investigations, based upon the unsolved

mysteries of color and markings of petals, fragrance, nectar, and

visiting insects. The prevalent idea of the insect being a mere idle

accessory to the flower found no favor with him. He chose to believe

that some deep plan must lie beneath this universal association. At the

inception of this conviction he chanced to observe in the flower of the

wild geranium (_G. sylvaticum_) a fact which only an inspired vision

could have detected--that the minute hairs at the base of the petal,

while disclosing the nectar to insects, completely protected it from

rain. Investigation showed the same conditions in many other flowers,

and the inference he drew was further strengthened by the remarkable

discovery of his "honey-guides" in a long list of blossoms, by which the

various decorations of spots, rings, and converging veins upon the

petals indicated the location of the nectar.

His labors were now concentrated on the work of interpretation, until at

length his researches, covering a period of two or three years, were

given to the world. In a volume bearing the following victorious title,

"The Secrets of Nature in Forms and Fertilization of Flowers

Discovered," he presented a vast chronicle of astonishing facts. The

previous discoveries of Grew and Linnæus were right so far as they

went--viz., "the pollen must reach the stigma"--but those learned

authorities had missed the true secret of the process. In proof of which

Sprengel showed that in a great many flowers, as I have shown at C (Fig.

3), this deposit of pollen is naturally impossible, owing to the

relative position of the floral parts, and that the pollen could not

reach the stigma except by artificial aid. He then announced his

startling theory: