conclusion when you look frankly upon the natural world. The very
attitude or visible expression of birds or beasts when you meet them in
their native woods, feeding, playing, resting, seeking their mates, or
roving freely with their little ones (all pleasurable matters,
constituting nine-tenths or more of animal existence), is enough in
itself to refute the absurd notion of a general reign of terror in
nature. If you are wise, therefore, you will get rid of that prejudice,
or at least hold it in abeyance till the animals themselves teach you
how senseless it is. To go out obsessed with the notion of fear is to
blind your eyes to the great comedy of the woods.
The second thing to know, and to remember when you go forth to see, is
that sensitive creatures dislike to be watched, and become uneasy when
they find a pair of eyes intently fixed upon them. You yourself retain
something of this ancient animal inheritance, it seems, since there is
nothing which more surely excites alarm if you are timid, or challenge
if you are well balanced, or anger if you have a fighting spirit, than
to have a stranger watching your every move while you go about your
lawful affairs. The fact that you cannot word a reason for your alarm
or challenge or anger makes you all the more certain that you have an
unanswerable reason; which is your inborn right to be let alone.
This natural and inalienable right (which society curbs for its own
protection, and reform societies trample on for their peculiar
pleasure) may help you to understand why the animal becomes alarmed
when he finds you watching him closely. He desires above all things
else, above his dinner even, to be let alone; and your eye may as
surely disturb his peace, his self-possession, his sense of security,
as any gun you may shoot at him or any fire you may kindle in his
fragrant domain.
You have but to think a moment in order to understand why even your
look may be too disturbing. When a beast of prey sees a buck that he
wants to catch, what is his invariable mode of procedure? First he
hides, then he creeps or skulks or waits, all the while keeping his
eyes fastened upon his victim, watching every move with fierce
intensity till the moment comes to spring. It follows, naturally
enough, that when the same beast of prey finds other eyes fixed upon
himself, he knows well what the look means, that a rush will swiftly
follow; and he anticipates the rush by taking to his heels. Or the
buck, having once escaped the charge of a hunting beast, will remember
his experience the next time he finds himself an object of scrutiny,
and will flee from it as from any other discomfort.
Whether this action is the result of instinctive or deductive knowledge
is here of no consequence: let the psychologists pick a bone over it.
Since we have in our heads a strong aversion to being observed too
closely, we are probably facing an instinct, which is stronger in the
brute than in the man; but it is the fact, not the explanation thereof,
which is important. The simple fact is, that wild birds and beasts will
not endure watching; and you begin to sympathize with their notion when
you mark the eyes of a stalking cat, with their terrible fire just
before she springs. There is always more or less of that fire in a
watchful eye; you may see it glow or blaze under a man’s narrowed lids
before he takes quick action; and it is the kindling of that dangerous
light which a sensitive creature expects and avoids when he finds you
watching him.
Did you ever follow an old cock-partridge in the woods with intent to
kill him? If so, you have a living picture of the truth I have
explained theoretically. Near our towns the partridge (ruffed grouse)
is very wild, taking wing at your approach; but in the deep woods he is
almost fearless. Even when you stumble into a flock of the birds,
frightening them out of their calm, they are apt to flit into the trees
and remain absolutely motionless. They are then hard to find, so well
do they blend with their background; and if they are young birds, they
will hold still after you discover them. Since they were helpless
chicks they have trusted to quietness to conceal them; it serves them
very well, much better than running away from stronger enemies; and the
habit is strong upon them, as upon young ducks and other game-birds
before they have learned to trust their wings. But when you stumble
upon an old cock-grouse you meet a bird that has added experience to
instinct, and that knows when to move as well as when to sit still. He
dodges out of sight as you raise your rifle; as you follow him he
bursts away on whirring wings and slants up into a tree in a distant
part of the wood. Marking where he lights, you try to find him,
cat-footing around his perch, peering into every tree-top, putting a
“crik” in the back of your neck. For a half-hour, it may be, you search
for him in vain; suddenly there he is, and—b’r-r-r-r! he is gone. The
odd thing is that he sits still so long as you cannot find him; not a
feather stirs or a foot shifts or an eyelid blinks even when your
glance roves blindly over him; you may give him up and go away, leaving
him motionless; but the instant you see him he seems to know it, and in
that instant he is off. This is not a single or an accidental but a
typical experience; any woodsman who has hunted ruffed grouse with a
rifle will smile as he tells you, “That’s true; but I can’t explain
it.”
A third bit of woods lore, of which we shall presently make good use,
is that natural birds and animals have a lively interest in every new
or strange thing they meet. Far from being occupied in a constant
struggle for existence, as the books misinform us, their lives are full
of leisure; they have plentiful hours for rest or play or roving, and
in these idle times they get most of their fun out of life by indulging
their curiosity. I fancy that in this respect, also, most people are
still natural creatures, seeing that men or women in a crowd are as
easily set to stretching their necks as any flock of ducks or band of
caribou.
So strong is the animal’s inquisitive instinct (for it surely is an
instinct, the basis of all education, and without it we should be
fools, learning nothing) that he will readily give over his play or
even his feeding to investigate any new thing which catches his
attention. I speak now not of fearsome things, which may properly alarm
the wood folk, but of pretty or harmless or attractive things, such as
the repeated flash of a looking-glass or the rhythmic swing of a
handkerchief or a whistled tune, which commonly bring wild creatures
nearer with forward-set ears and eyes with questions in them. In a
word, so far as I have observed birds and beasts, their first or
natural attitude toward every new object, unless it be raising fearful
smells or moving toward them with hostile intent, is invariably one of
curiosity rather than of fear.
One proof of this universal trait, to me, is that when I approach wild
animals carelessly they often run away; but of the hundreds that have
approached me when I was quiet in the woods, every one without
exception showed plainly by his action that he was keen to find out who
or what I might be. Young animals are more inquisitive than old, having
everything to learn, and they are easily attracted; but age cannot
stale the wonder of the world for them, and I have never chanced to
meet an old doe, no, nor a tough old bull moose, that did not come near
to question me if the chance were given. Of the larger wood folk
Mooween the bear is perhaps the least inquisitive; yet once an old bear
came so close to me, his eyes a question and his nose an exclamation
point, that I could have touched him before his curiosity was
satisfied; and several times, when I have been watching the
berry-fields, a bear and her cubs have noticed some slight motion of
mine and have left their feast of blueberries to approach rather too
near for my comfort. At close quarters an old she-bear is a little
uncertain. Commonly she runs away in sudden panic; but should you get
between her and her cub, and the piggish little fellow squeal out as if
frightened or hurt, she may fly into a fury and become dangerous to a
man unarmed.
The obvious thing to do, in view of what has been learned, is to hold
physically and mentally still when you meet a wild animal, and so take
advantage of his curiosity. That is very easy when he happens to find
you at rest, for then he is bound to find out something about you
before he goes; but even when he catches you afoot you may still have a
fair chance if you stop in your tracks and move no muscle while he is
looking. Remember that so long as you are motionless you puzzle him;
that you should advance only when his head is turned away, and that you
should never move directly at any animal, but to one side, as if you
would give him plenty of room in passing. If you must change your
position or attitude while he is looking, move gently and very slowly,
avoiding every appearance of haste or nervousness. If he vanishes after
one keen look, be sure he is a veteran that has seen men before, and
bide still where you are. The chances are ten to one that no sooner
does he think himself hidden than he will turn to have another look at
you. It is always in your favor, since you have the better eyes, that
an animal has the habit of concealment, and so long as you pretend not
to see him he is very apt to think himself unseen.
Such a method applies particularly well to all members of the deer
family, with their insatiable curiosity; but it serves almost as well
with beasts of prey, which may be so surprised by meeting a motionless
man that they will often “point” him in a way to suggest a setter
pointing a woodcock. We think of the fox, for example, as the most
cunning of animals; like the dolls’ dressmaker in Our Mutual Friend, he
seems to be saying, “Oh, I know your tricks and your manners”; yet on a
good tracking-snow I have trailed many foxes to their day-beds, and
have found that with few exceptions they act in the same half-puzzled,
half-inquisitive way. And this is the fashion of it:
Looking far ahead on the dainty trail you suddenly catch a glimpse of
orange color, very warm against the cold whiteness of the snow, which
tells you where Eleemos the sly one, as Simmo calls him, is curled on a
warm rock or stump with the winter sunshine fair upon him. Then you
must leave the trail, as if you were not following it, and advance on
noiseless feet till the fox raises his head, when you must “freeze” in
your tracks. If he is a tramp fox (that is, one which has come hunting
here out of his own territory) or a veteran that has already seen too
much of men and their devices, he will dodge out of sight and be seen
no more; but if he is an ordinary young fox, especially a cub
weathering his first winter, he will almost certainly investigate that
odd motionless object which was not there when he went to sleep. After
“pointing” you a moment he slips into the nearest cover, not turning
his head in your direction, but watching you keenly out of the corners
of his yellow eyes. When he thinks himself hidden from your sight he
circles to get your wind; and on this side or that you will have two or
three good glimpses of him before he floats away—or seems to, so
lightly does he run—to hunt up another day-bed. Your last view of him
shows a slyly inquisitive little beast, perfectly self-possessed; but
as he disappears you notice a nervous, quivering, fluttering motion of
his great brush, which gives him away as a tail betrays a dog, and
which says that Eleemos is greatly excited or puzzled over something.
Better than roaming noisily through the woods in search of game is to
sit still and let the game come to you—an arrangement which puts you at
your ease, and at the same time encourages the animal to indulge his
curiosity without alarm. You may not see so many birds or beasts in
this way, but some of them you shall see much more intimately; and a
single inquisitive jay may teach you more of nature than all the bird
books in the world, as I have learned more of Latin humanity from
Angelo, who polishes my shoes, than from Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of
the Roman Empire. Very often, if you hold perfectly still, a wild
animal will pass down the runway close at hand without even seeing you,
and you must draw his attention by a chirp or a slight motion. Then,
when he whirls upon you in astonishment, his eyes saying that he was
never so surprised in his life, observe him casually as it were,
veiling your interest and never staring at him as if he were a wild or
strange beast, but greeting him rather as one you have long known.
At such a moment quietness is the best medicine—quietness and friendly
eyes. If the animal wavers, a low song or a whistled tune may or may
not be helpful; it depends entirely on the tune. You are to keep
physically quiet, because any sudden motion will alarm the sensitive
creature, so near is he to the unknown; and mentally quiet, because
excitement is as contagious as fear or measles, or any other disease of
mind or body. When I am alone in the woods wild animals are rarely hard
to approach, and when I am sitting quietly by a runway they show no
fear of me whatever, drawing near with questioning eyes or moving away
reluctantly; but when I take another with me, especially one who grows
excited in the presence of big game, the same animals appear
suspicious, uneasy, and end by bolting away as if we had frightened
them.
One day there came to my camp a friend who was eager to see a deer at
close range, but who was doubtful of my assurance that animals could
neither see nor smell him if he knew how to hold still. When I promised
him a deer at ten feet he jumped for his camera, saying that in such an
incredible event he would get what he had always wanted, a picture of
the graceful creature against a background of his native woods, in soft
light and shadow instead of the glaring black-and-white of a
flashlight. At that disturbing proposition all his doubts moved into
me, who have always found camera folk a fidgety folk. What with their
fussing and focusing and everlasting uneasiness over distance or time
or shutter, or something else which is never right and ready, they are
sure to bedevil any wild creature before he comes within speaking
distance; so I took my friend and his camera along without faith,
hoping for the best.
Our stand was a hardwood ridge where deer often passed on their way to
the lake, and we had been sitting there hardly an hour when I saw a
young spikebuck coming down the runway. The next moment there was a
gasping “Oh, there’s a deer!” from the man who had been warned to keep
mentally still. Then began the inevitable tinkering with the camera,
which had been thrice prepared and was still as unready as all its
kind. More than once I had sat in that precise spot while deer passed
at a distance of three or four yards without noticing me; but now the
little buck caught an uneasy motion and halted with head high and eyes
flashing. If ever there was a chance for a wonderful picture, he
offered it; but he did not like the focusing, or whatever it was, and
after endless delay the camera clicked on a white flag bobbing among
the shadows, where it looked in the negative like a smear of sunlight.
The camera reminds me of another way of approaching deer, a way often
followed by summer campers; namely, by chasing the swimming animal in a
canoe. I have but one word to say of such a method, and that is, Don’t!
When a deer is crossing broad water you can get as close to him as you
will; you can take a grip on him and let him tow your canoe, as
thoughtless people sometimes do, encouraged by their guides; but I
suggest that it would be much better to shoot the creature and have
done with it.
A deer’s powers are very delicately balanced; he is nervous, high
strung, easily upset. Even on land, where he can distance you in a
moment, he begins to worry if he finds you holding steadily to his
trail; and I have known a young deer to become so flustered after he
had been jumped and followed a few times that he began to act in most
erratic fashion, and was very easily approached. When you chase him in
the water, and he finds that he cannot get away from you, he may give
up and drown, as a rabbit submits without a struggle when a weasel
rises in front of him; but a vigorous deer is more apt to become highly
excited, to struggle wildly, to waste ten times as much energy as would
keep him afloat, to jump his heart action at a dangerous rate; and then
a very little more will finish him as surely as a bullet in the brain.
Twice have I seen deer thus killed by thoughtless campers, the last
victim being a splendid buck full grown. Two men saw him swimming an
arm of Moosehead Lake, and launched a canoe with no unkinder purpose
than to turn him back to shore, so that a party of sportsmen there
might get a picture of him. The buck labored mightily; but the paddles
were swift, and wherever he turned the danger appeared close in front
of him. Suddenly he rose in the water, pawing the air, and heaved over
on his side. When the canoe reached him he was dead; and the surprising
thing is that dissection revealed no ruptured blood-vessel nor any
other visible cause of his death. It was probably a matter of heart
paralysis. Such an ending was unusual, I know; but undoubtedly many of
these overwrought animals reach shore exhausted, spent to the limit,
and lie down in the first good cover, never to rise again.
Moose and caribou are stronger swimmers than deer, and of tougher
fiber; but it is still dangerous, I think, to chase them in the water.
Once I saw a canoe following close behind a cow and a calf moose, the
canoeists yelling wildly to hurry up the pace. Had they thought to look
once into the eyes of the struggling brutes, they might have learned
something which they ought to know. As the calf lagged farther and
farther behind, the mother turned to come between him and the canoe,
and remained there trying to urge and push the little fellow along. So
they reached shallow water at last, found their footing, and plunged
into the cover. The canoe turned away, and no doubt the incident was
soon forgotten. I never saw the canoemen again, but I saw one of the
moose. A few days later, in passing through the woods on that side of
the lake, I found the calf stretched out dead where he had fallen, not
fifty yards from the water’s edge.
Perhaps another “don’t” should here be memorized for the happy occasion
when you find a fawn or a little cub in the woods, and are moved most
kindly to pet him. If the mother is half-tame, or has lived near a
clearing long enough to lose distrust of the man-scent, it may do no
harm to treat her fawn or cub as you would a puppy; but to handle any
wild little creature is to do him an injury. Until a fawn is strong
enough to travel the rough country in which he was born, the doe often
leaves him hidden in the woods, where he lies so close and still that
you may pass without seeing him. Once you discover him, however, and he
knows that he is seen, his beautiful eyes begin to question you with a
great wonder. He has no fear of you whatever (this while he is very
young, or before he begins to follow his mother); he will sometimes
follow you when you go away, and he is such a lovable creature, so
innocent and so appealing, that it is hard to keep your hands from him.
Let him sniff your palm if he will, or lick it with his rough tongue
for the faint taste of salt; but as you value his life don’t pet him or
leave the scent of you on his delicate skin. A wild mother knows her
own by the sense of smell chiefly; if she finds the startling man-scent
where she expected a familiar odor, she becomes instantly alarmed, and
then the little one is a stranger to her or a source of violent anger.
Once, before I learned better than to handle any helpless cub, I saw a
doe drive her own fawn roughly away from her, out of my sight and
hearing. I had petted the fawn a little (a very little, I am glad to
remember) and looked with wonder on the mother’s anger, not
understanding it till some time later, when I learned of a similar
incident with a sadder ending. Not far from my camp a sportsman with
his guide found a fawn hidden near the stream where they were fishing,
and being completely won by the beautiful innocent, as most men are,
they petted him to their hearts’ content. When an old doe, the mother
presumably, appeared heading in their direction they thoughtfully
withdrew, hiding at a distance to watch the family reunion. The doe
seemed to hasten her steps when she saw that the fawn was on his feet,
instead of lying close where she had left him; but when near him she
suddenly stiffened, with the hair bristling on her neck. Two or three
times she thrust out her nose, only to back away, and once she raised
the harsh alarm-cry that a doe utters when she smells danger. Then, as
the little fellow trotted up to her on his wabbly legs, she leaped upon
him in fury and trampled him to death.
VIII
ON KEEPING STILL
To return to our first lesson, of quietude: it was impressed upon me
unconsciously, like most good lessons, before I had any thought that I
was learning the true way of the woods. The teacher was Nature herself
(she seldom fails to quiet boy or man if left alone with him), and the
school-room was a lonely berry-pasture surrounded by pine and hardwood
forests. The berry-pickers, a happy and carefree lot, often let me go
with them while I was yet too small to find my way among the tall
swamp-blueberry bushes, and would leave me under a tree at the edge of
the woods, with an armful of berry-laden branches to keep me busy while
they wandered far away in search of the best picking. Sitting there in
the breathing solitude, occupied with the task of filling my tin cup
with berries and well content with my lot (for the woods always had a
fascination for me, and seemed most friendly when I was alone), I would
presently “feel” that something was watching me. There was never any
suggestion of fear in the impression, only an awakening to the fact
that I was not alone, that some living thing was near me. Then, as I
looked up expectantly, I would almost always find a bird slipping
noiselessly through the branches overhead, or a beastie creeping
through the cover at my side; and in his bright eyes, his shy approach,
his withdrawal to appear in another spot, I read plainly enough that he
was asking who I was or what I was doing there. And by a whistled tune
or a drumming on my cup, or by flashing a sunbeam into his eyes from a
pocket glass, I always tried to hold him as long as I could.
This curious sense or feeling of being watched, by the way, is very
real in some men, who do not regard it as a matter of chance or
imagination. I have known of two elaborate courses of “laboratory”
experiments which aimed to determine how far such a feeling is
trustworthy, and both resulted in a neutral or fifty-fifty conclusion;
but I wonder, if the experiments had been tried on Indians or natural
men under natural conditions, whether the result might not have been
quite different. The fact that the first fifty men you meet get lost or
turned around in a trackless forest is significant for the fifty, and
for the vast majority of others; but it means nothing to the one
bushman who can go where he will without thought or possibility of
being lost, because of his sure sense of direction.
So, possibly, with this feeling of being watched: it may be too
intangible for experiment, or even for definition. Many times since
childhood when I have been alone in the big woods, fishing or holding
vigil by a wilderness lake, I have the feeling, at times vaguely and
again definitely, that strange eyes were upon me. Occasionally, it is
true, I have found nothing on looking around, either because no animal
was there or because he was too well hidden to be seen; but much more
often the feeling proved true to fact—so often, indeed, that I soon
came to trust it without doubt or question, as Simmo my Indian still
does, and a few other woodsmen I have known. It is possible that one’s
ears or nose may account for the feeling; that some faint sound or odor
may make itself felt so faintly that one has the impression of life
without knowing through what channel the impression is received. Of
that I am not at all sure; at the moment it seems that some extra sense
is at work, more subtle than smell or hearing; and, whether rightly or
wrongly, it is apparently associated with the penetrating stare of an
animal’s eyes on your back.