does but slay the enemies which would perish of themselves. It kills
especially the ephemera, whose existence was already measured by that
of the flower, or the leaf with which it was bound up. But, before
dying, the prescient atom assures the safety of its posterity; it finds
for it an asylum, conceals and carefully deposits its future, the germ
of its reproduction. As eggs, as larvæ, or in their own shapes, living,
mature, armed, these invisible creatures sleep in the bosom of the
earth, awaiting their opportunity. Is she immovable, this earth? In
the meadows I see her undulate--the black miner, the mole, continues
her labours. At a higher elevation, in the dry grounds, stretch the
subterranean granaries, where the philosophical rat, on a good pile of
corn, passes the season in patience.
All this life breaks forth at spring-time. From high, from low, on the
right, on the left, these predatory tribes, _échelonned_ by legions
which succeed one another and relieve one another each in its month,
in its day--the immense, the irresistible conscription of nature--will
march to the conquest of man's works. The division of labour is
perfect. Each has his post marked out, and will make no mistake. Each
will go straight to his tree or his plant. And such will be their
tremendous numbers, that not a leaf but will have its legion.
What wilt thou do, poor man? How wilt thou multiply thyself? Hast thou
wings to pursue them? Hast thou even eyes to see them? Thou mayest kill
them at thy pleasure; their security is complete: kill, annihilate
millions; they live by thousands of millions! Where thou triumphest by
sword and fire, burning up the plant itself, thou hearest all around
the light whirring of the great army of atoms, which gives no heed to
thy victory, and destroys unseen.
Listen. I will give thee two counsels. Weigh them, and adopt the wiser.
The first remedy for this, if you resolve upon fighting your foe, is
to poison everything. Steep your seeds in sulphate of copper; put your
barley under the protection of verdigris. This the foe is unprepared
for; it disconcerts him. If he touches it, he dies or sickens. You,
also, it is true, are scarcely flourishing; your adventurous stratagem
may help the plagues which devastate our era. Happy age! The benevolent
labourer poisons at the outset; this copper-coloured corn, handed over
to the baker, ferments with the sulphate; a simple and agreeable means
of "raising" the light _pâte_, to which, perhaps, people would object.
No; adopt a better course than this. Take your side. Before so many
enemies it is no shame to fall back. Let things go, and fold your
arms. Rest, and look on. Be like that brave man who, on the eve of
Waterloo, wounded and prostrate, contrived to lift himself up and scan
the horizon; but he saw there Blucher, and the great cloud of the black
army. Then he fell back, exclaiming, "They are too many!"
And how much more right have you to say so! You are alone against the
universal conspiracy of life. You also may exclaim, "They are too many!"
You insist. See here these fields so full of inspiring hope; see the
humid pastures where I might please myself with watching the cattle
lost among the thick herbage. Let us lead thither the herds!
They are expected. Without them what would become of those living
clouds of insects which love nothing but blood? The blood of the ox
is good; the blood of man is better. Enter; seat yourself in their
midst; you will be well received, for you are their banquet. These
darts, these horns, these pincers, will find an exquisite delicacy in
your flesh; a sanguinary orgie will open on your body for the frantic
dance of this famished host, which will not relax at least from want;
you shall see more than one fall away, and die of the intoxicating
fountain which he had opened with his dart. Wounded, bleeding, swollen
with puffed-up sores, hope for no repose. Others will come, and again
others, for ever, and without end. For if the climate is less severe
than in the zones of the South, in revenge, the eternal rain--that
ocean of soft warm water incessantly flooding our meadows--hatches in a
hopeless fecundity those nascent and greedy lives, which are impatient
to rise, to be born, and to finish their career by the destruction of
superior existences.
I have seen, not in the marshes, but on the western heights, those
pleasant verdurous hills, clothed with woods or meadows--I have seen
the pluvial waters repose for lack of outlet; and then, when evaporated
by the sun's rays, leave the earth covered with a rich and abundant
animal production--slugs, snails, insects of a myriad species, all
people of terrible appetite, born with sharp teeth, with formidable
apparatus, and ingenious machines of destruction. Powerless against
the irruption of an unexpected host which crawled, stirred, ascended,
penetrated, had almost eaten up ourselves, we contended with them
through the agency of some brave and voracious fowls, which never
counted their enemies, and did not criticise, but swallowed them. These
Breton and Vendean fowls, inspired with the genius of their country,
made their campaign so much the more successfully, because each waged
war in its own manner. The _black_, the _gray_, and the _egg-layer_
(such were their military titles), marched together in close array,
and recoiled not a step; the _dreamer_ or _philosopher_ preferred
skirmishing by himself (_chouanner_), and accomplished much more work.
A superb black cat, the companion of their solitude, studied daily the
track of the field mouse and the lizard, hunted the wasp, devoured the
Spanish fly, always at some distance in advance of the respectful hens.
[Illustration]
One word more in reference to them, and one regret. Our business
being finished, we prepared for our departure. But what would become
of _them_? Given to a friend, they would assuredly be eaten. We
deliberated long. Then, coming to a vigorous decision, according to
the ancient creed of savage tribes, who believed that it was sweetest
to die by the hands of those we love, and thought that by eating their
heroes they themselves became heroic, we made of them, not without
lamentation, a funereal banquet.
It is a truly grand spectacle to see descend--one might almost say from
heaven--against this frightful swarming of the universal monster-birth
which awakens in the spring, hissing, whirring, croaking, buzzing,
in its huge hunger, the universal saviour, in a hundred forms and a
hundred legions, differing in arms and character, but all endowed with
wings, all sharing a seeming privilege of ubiquity.
[Illustration]
To the universal presence of the insect, to its ubiquity of numbers,
responds that of the bird, of his swiftness, of his wing. The great
moment is that when the insect, developing itself through the heat,
meets the bird face to face; the bird multiplied in numbers; the bird
which, having no milk, must feed at this very moment a numerous family
with her living prey. Every year the world would be endangered if the
bird could suckle, if its aliment were the work of an individual, of a
stomach. But see, the noisy, restless brood, by ten, twenty, or thirty
little bills, cry out for their prey; and the exigency is so great,
such the maternal ardour to respond to this demand, that the desperate
tomtit, unable to satisfy its score of children with three hundred
caterpillars a day, will even invade the nests of other birds and pick
out the brains of their young.
From our windows, which opened on the Luxemburg, we observed every
winter the commencement of this useful war of the bird against the
insect. We saw it in December inaugurate the year's labour. The honest
and respectable household of the thrush, which one might call the
leaf-lifter (_tourne-feuilles_), did their work by couples; when the
sunshine followed rain, they visited the pools, and lifted the leaves
one by one, with skill and conscientiousness, allowing nothing to pass
which had not been attentively examined.
Thus, in the gloomiest months, when the sleep of nature so closely
resembles death, the bird continued for us the spectacle of life. Even
among the snow, the thrush saluted us when we arose. During our grave
winter walks we were always accompanied by the wren, with its golden
crest, its short, quick song, its soft and flute-like recall. The more
familiar sparrows appeared on our balconies; punctual to the hour, they
knew that twice a-day their meal would be ready for them, without any
peril to their freedom.
For the rest, the honest labourers, on the arrival of spring, scrupled
to ask our aid. As soon as their young were able to fly, they joyously
brought them to our windows, as if to thank and bless us.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: LABOUR--THE WOODPECKER.]
[Illustration]
LABOUR.
THE WOODPECKER.
Among the calumnies of which birds have been made the victims, none
is more absurd than to say, as it has been said, that the woodpecker,
when burrowing among the trees, selects the robust and healthy trunks,
those that offer the greatest difficulties, and must increase his toil.
Common sense plainly shows that the poor animal, living upon worms and
insects, will seek the infirm, the rotten trees, those offering the
least resistance, and promising, moreover, the most abundant prey. The
persistent hostility which he wages against the destructive tribes
that would corrupt the vigorous trunk, is a signal service rendered to
man. The State owes him, if not the appointment, at least the honorary
title, of Conservator of the Forests. But what is the fact? That for
all his reward, ignorant officials have often set a price upon his
head!
But the woodpecker would be no true type of the workman if he were
not calumniated and persecuted. His modest guild, spread over the two
worlds, serves, teaches, and edifies man. His garb varies; but the
common sign by which he may be recognized is the scarlet hood with
which the good artisan generally covers his head, his firm and solid
skull. His special tool, which is at once pickaxe and auger, chisel
and plane, is his square-fashioned bill. His nervous limbs, armed with
strong black nails of a sure and firm grasp, seat him securely on
his branch, where he remains for whole days, in an awkward attitude,
striking always from below upwards. Except in the morning, when he
bestirs himself, and stretches his limbs in every direction, like all
superior workmen, who allow a few moments' preparation in order not to
interrupt themselves afterwards, he digs and digs throughout a long
day with singular perseverance. You may hear him still later, for he
prolongs his work into the night, and thus gains some additional hours.
His constitution is well adapted for so laborious a life. His muscles,
always stretched, render his flesh hard and leathery. The vesicle of
the gall, in him very large, seems to indicate a bilious disposition,
eager and violent in work, but otherwise by no means choleric.
Necessarily the opinions which men have pronounced on this singular
being are widely different. They have judged this great worker well or
ill, according as they have esteemed or despised work, according as
they themselves have been more or less laborious, and have regarded a
sedentary and industrious life as cursed or blessed by Heaven.
It has often been questioned whether the woodpecker was gay or
melancholy, and various answers have been given--perhaps all equally
good--according to species and climate. I can easily believe that
Wilson and Audubon, who chiefly refer to the golden-winged woodpecker
of the Carolinas, on the threshold of the Tropics, have found him very
lively and restless; this woodpecker gains his livelihood without toil
in a genial country, rich in insects; his curved elegant beak, less
rugged than the beak of our species, seems to indicate that he works
in less rebellious woods. But the woodpecker of France and Germany,
compelled to pierce the bark of our ancient European oaks, possesses
quite a different instrument--a hard, strong, and heavy bill. It is
probable that he devotes more hours to his toil than his American
congener. He is, as a labourer, bound by hard conditions, working more
and earning less. In dry seasons especially, his lot is wretched; his
prey flies from him, and retires to an extreme distance, in search of
moisture. Therefore he invokes the rain, with constant cry: "_Plieu!
Plieu!_" It is thus that the common people interpret his note; in
Burgundy he is called _The Miller's Procurer_; woodpecker and miller,
if the rain should not descend, would stand still and run the risk of
starving.
[Illustration]
One eminent ornithologist, Toussenel, an excellent and ingenious
observer, seems to me mistaken in his judgment of the woodpecker's
character, when he pronounces him a lively bird. For on what grounds?
On the amusing curvets in which he indulges to gain the heart of his
love. But who among us, or among more serious beings, in such a case,
does not do the same? He calls him also a tumbler and a clown, because
at his appearance he wheeled round rapidly. For a bird whose powers of
flight are very limited, it was perhaps the wisest course to adopt,
especially in the presence of such an admirable shot. And this proved
his good sense. A vulgar sportsman, the woodpecker, which knows the
coarseness of his flesh, would have suffered to approach him. But in
the presence of such a connoisseur and so keen a friend of birds,
he had great cause for fear, lest he should be impaled to adorn his
collection.
I beg this illustrious writer to consider also the moral habitudes
and disposition which would be acquired from such continuous toil.
The _papillonne_ counts for nothing here, and the length of such
working-days far exceeds the convenient limit of what Fourier calls
agreeable labour. The woodpecker toils alone and on his own account;
undoubtedly he makes no complaint; he feels that it is for his interest
to work hard and to work long. Firm on his robust legs, though in a
painful attitude, he remains at his post all day, and even far into the
night. Is he happy? I believe so. Gay? I doubt it. Melancholy? By no
means. The passionate toil which renders us so grave, compensates by
driving away sorrow.
The unintelligent artisan, or the poor over-wrought slave, whose only
idea of happiness lies in immobility, would not fail to see in a
life of such assiduity the malediction of Fate. The artisans of the
German towns assert that he is a baker, who, in the indolent ease of
his counting-house, starved the poor, deceived them, sold them false
weight. And now, as a punishment, he works, they say, and must work
until the day of judgment, living on insects only.
A poor and unmeaning explanation! I prefer the old Italian fable:
Picus, son of Time or Saturn, was an austere hero, who scorned the
deceitful love and illusions of Circe. To avoid her, he took to himself
wings, and flew into the forest. If he bears no longer a human figure,
he has--what is better--a foreseeing and prophetic genius; he knows
that which is to come, he sees that which is to be.
A very grave opinion upon the woodpecker is pronounced by the Indians
of North America. These heroes discern very clearly that the woodpecker
himself was a hero. They are partial to wearing the head of one which
they name "the wiry-billed woodpecker," and believe that his ardour and
courage will pass into them. A well-founded belief, as experience has
shown. The puniest heart must feel strengthened which sees ever present
before it this eloquent symbol, saying: "I shall be like it in strength
and constancy."
Only it should be noted that, if the woodpecker be a hero, he is the
peaceful hero of labour. He asks nothing more. His beak, which might be
very formidable, and his powerful spurs, are nevertheless prepared for
everything else but combat. His toil so completely absorbs him, that no
competition could stimulate him to fight. It engulfs him, requires of
him all the exertion of his faculties.
[Illustration]
Varied and complex is his work. At first the skilful forester, full
of tact and experience, tests his tree with his hammer--I mean his
beak. He listens, as the tree resounds, to what it has to say, to what
there is within it. The process of auscultation, but recently adopted
in medicine, has been the woodpecker's leading act for some thousands
of years. He interrogates, sounds, detects by his ear the cavernous
voids which the substance of the tree presents. Such an one, sound
and vigorous in appearance, which, on account of its gigantic size,
has been marked out for the shipwright's axe, the woodpecker, by his
peculiar skill, condemns as worm-eaten, rotten, sure to fail in the
most fatal manner possible, to bend in construction, or to spring a
leak and so produce a wreck.
The tree thoroughly tested, the woodpecker selects it for himself, and
establishes himself upon it; there he will exercise his art. The trunk
is hollow, therefore rotten, therefore populous; a tribe of insects
inhabits it. You must strike at the gate of the city. The citizens in
wild tumult attempt to escape, either through the walls of the city,
or below, through the drains. Sentinels should be posted; but in their
default the solitary besieger watches, and from moment to moment looks
behind to snap up the passing fugitives, making use, for this purpose,
of an extremely long tongue, which he darts to and fro like a miniature
serpent. The uncertainty of the sport, and the hearty appetite which it
stimulates, fill him with passion; his glance pierces through bark and
wood; he is present amidst the terrors and the counsels of his enemies.
Sometimes he descends very suddenly, in alarm lest a secret issue
should save the besieged.
A tree externally sound, but rotten and corrupt within, is a terrible
image for the patriot who dreams over the destinies of cities. Rome,
at the epoch when the republic begun to totter, feeling itself like to
such a tree, trembled one day as a woodpecker alighted on the tribunal
in open forum, under the very hand of the prætor. The people were
profoundly moved, and revolved the gloomiest thoughts. But the augurs,
who had been summoned, arrived: if the bird escaped with impunity,
the republic would perish; if he remained, he threatened only him who
held the bird in his hand--the prætor. This magistrate, who was Ælius
Tubero, killed the bird immediately, died soon afterwards, and the
republic endured six centuries longer.
This is grand, not ridiculous. It endured through this noble appeal to
the citizen's devotion. It endured through this silent response given
to it by a great heart. Such actions are fertile; they make men and
heroes; they prolong the life of states.
To return to our bird: this workman, this solitary, this sublime
prophet does not escape the universal law. Twice a-year he grows
demented, throws off his austerity, and, shall it be said, becomes
ridiculous. Happy he among men who plays the fool but twice a-year!
Ridiculous! He is not so because he loves, but because he loves
comically. Gorgeously arrayed, and in his finest plumage, relieving
his somewhat sombre garb by his beautiful scarlet _grecque_, he whirls
round his lady-love; and his rivals do the same.
But these innocent workers, designed for the most serious
labours--strangers to the arts of the fashionable world, to the graces
of the humming-birds--know not in what way to manifest their duty, and
present their very humble homage but by the most uncouth curvettings.
Uncouth at least in our opinion; they are scarcely so in the eyes of
the object of these attentions. They please her, and this is all that
is needed. The queen's choice declared, no battle can take place.
Admirable are the manners of these good and worthy workmen. The others
retire aggrieved, but with delicacy cherish religiously the right of
liberty.
Do the fortunate suitor and his fair one, think you, air their idle
loves wandering through the forests? Not at all. They instantly begin
to work. "Show me thy talents," says she, "and let me see that I have
not deceived myself." What an opportunity for an artist! She inspires
his genius. From a carpenter he becomes a joiner, a cabinet-maker;
from a cabinet-maker, a geometer! The regularity of forms, that divine
rhythm, appears to him in love.
It is exactly the renowned history of the famous blacksmith of Anvers,
Quintin Matsys, who loved a painter's daughter, and who, to win her
love, became the greatest painter of Flanders in the sixteenth century.
"Of Vulcan swart, love an Apelles made."
(D'un noir Vulcain, l'amour fit un Appelle).
Thus, one morning the woodpecker develops into the sculptor. With
severe precision, the perfect roundness which the compass might give,
he hollows out the graceful vault of a superb hemisphere. The whole
receives the polish of marble and ivory. All kinds of hygienic and
strategic precautions are not wanting. A narrow winding entry, whose
slope inclines outwards that the water may not penetrate, favours the
defence; it suffices for one head and one courageous bill to close it.
What heart could resist all these toils? Who would not accept this
artist, this laborious purveyor for domestic wants, this intrepid
defender? Who would not believe herself able to accomplish in safety,
behind the generous rampart of this devoted champion, the delicate
mystery of maternity?
[Illustration]
So she resists no longer, and behold the pair installed! There is
wanting now but a nuptial chant (Hymen! O Hymeneæ!) It is not the
woodpecker's fault if Nature has denied to his genius the muse of
melody. At least, in his harsh voice one cannot mistake the impassioned
accents of the heart.
May they be happy! May a young and amiable generation spring into life,
and mature under their eyes! Birds of prey shall not easily penetrate
here. Only grant that the serpent, the frightful black serpent, may
never visit this nest! Oh, that the child's rough hand may not cruelly
crush its sweet hope! And, above all, may the ornithologist, the friend
of birds, keep afar from this spot!
If persevering toil, ardent love of family, heroic defence of liberty,
could impose respect and arrest the cruel hand of man, no sportsman
would touch this noble bird. A young naturalist, who smothered one
in order to impale it, has told me that he sickened of the brutal
struggle, and suffered a keen remorse; it seemed to him as if he had
committed an assassination.
Wilson appears to have felt an analogous impression. "The first time,"
says he, "that I observed this bird, in North Carolina, I wounded him
slightly in the wing, and when I caught him he gave a cry exactly
like an infant's, but so loud and lamentable that my frightened horse
nearly threw me off. I carried him to Wilmington: in passing through
the streets, the bird's prolonged cries drew to the doors and windows
a crowd of people, especially of women, filled with alarm. I continued
my route, and, on entering the court of the hotel, met the master of
the house and a crowd of people, alarmed at what they heard. Judge how
this alarm increased when I asked for what was needed both by my child
and myself. The master remained pale and stupid, and the others were
dumb with astonishment. After having amused myself at their expense for
a minute or two, I revealed my woodpecker, and a burst of universal
laughter echoed around. I ascended with it to my chamber, where I left
it while I paid attention to my horse's wants. I returned at the end of
an hour, and, on opening the door, heard anew the same terrible cry,
which this time appeared to originate in grief at being discovered in
his attempts to escape. He had climbed along the window almost to the
ceiling, immediately above which he had begun to excavate. The bed was
covered with large pieces of plaster, the laths of the ceiling were
exposed for an area of nearly fifteen square inches, and a hole through
which you could pass your thumb was already formed in the skylight;
so that, in the space of another hour, he would certainly have
succeeded in effecting an opening. I fastened round his neck a cord,
which I attached to the table, and left him--I wanted to preserve him
alive--while I went in search of food. On returning, I could hear that
he had resumed his labours, and on my entrance saw that he had nearly
destroyed the table to which he had been fastened, and against which he
had directed all his wrath. When I wished to take a sketch, he cut me
several times with his beak, and displayed so noble and so indomitable
a courage that I was tempted to restore him to his native forests. He
lived with me nearly three days, refusing all food, and I was present
at his death with sincere regret."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE SONG.]
[Illustration]
THE SONG.