I find that gardening has unsurpassed advantages for the study of
natural history; and some scientific facts have come under my
own observation, which cannot fail to interest naturalists and
un-naturalists in about the same degree. Much, for instance, has been
written about the toad, an animal without which no garden would be
complete. But little account has been made of his value: the beauty of
his eye alone has been dwelt on; and little has been said of his mouth,
and its important function as a fly and bug trap. His habits, and even
his origin, have been misunderstood. Why, as an illustration, are toads
so plenty after a thunder-shower? All my life long, no one has been able
to answer me that question. Why, after a heavy shower, and in the midst
of it, do such multitudes of toads, especially little ones, hop about on
the gravel-walks? For many years, I believed that they rained down; and
I suppose many people think so still. They are so small, and they
come in such numbers only in the shower, that the supposition is not
a violent one. “Thick as toads after a shower,” is one of our
best proverbs. I asked an explanation 'of this of a thoughtful
woman,--indeed, a leader in the great movement to have all the toads hop
in any direction, without any distinction of sex or religion. Her reply
was, that the toads come out during the shower to get water. This,
however, is not the fact. I have discovered that they come out not to
get water. I deluged a dry flower-bed, the other night, with pailful
after pailful of water. Instantly the toads came out of their holes in
the dirt, by tens and twenties and fifties, to escape death by drowning.
The big ones fled away in a ridiculous streak of hopping; and the little
ones sprang about in the wildest confusion. The toad is just like any
other land animal: when his house is full of water, he quits it. These
facts, with the drawings of the water and the toads, are at the service
of the distinguished scientists of Albany in New York, who were so much
impressed by the Cardiff Giant.
The domestic cow is another animal whose ways I have a chance to study,
and also to obliterate in the garden. One of my neighbors has a cow, but
no land; and he seems desirous to pasture her on the surface of the
land of other people: a very reasonable desire. The man proposed that he
should be allowed to cut the grass from my grounds for his cow. I knew
the cow, having often had her in my garden; knew her gait and the size
of her feet, which struck me as a little large for the size of the body.
Having no cow myself, but acquaintance with my neighbor's, I told him
that I thought it would be fair for him to have the grass. He was,
therefore, to keep the grass nicely cut, and to keep his cow at home. I
waited some time after the grass needed cutting; and, as my neighbor
did not appear, I hired it cut. No sooner was it done than he promptly
appeared, and raked up most of it, and carried it away. He had evidently
been waiting that opportunity. When the grass grew again, the neighbor
did not appear with his scythe; but one morning I found the cow tethered
on the sward, hitched near the clothes-horse, a short distance from
the house. This seemed to be the man's idea of the best way to cut the
grass. I disliked to have the cow there, because I knew her inclination
to pull up the stake, and transfer her field of mowing to the garden,
but especially because of her voice. She has the most melancholy “moo” I
ever heard. It is like the wail of one uninfallible, excommunicated, and
lost. It is a most distressing perpetual reminder of the brevity of life
and the shortness of feed. It is unpleasant to the family. We sometimes
hear it in the middle of the night, breaking the silence like a
suggestion of coming calamity. It is as bad as the howling of a dog at a
funeral.
I told the man about it; but he seemed to think that he was not
responsible for the cow's voice. I then told him to take her away; and
he did, at intervals, shifting her to different parts of the grounds in
my absence, so that the desolate voice would startle us from unexpected
quarters. If I were to unhitch the cow, and turn her loose, I knew where
she would go. If I were to lead her away, the question was, Where? for
I did not fancy leading a cow about till I could find somebody who
was willing to pasture her. To this dilemma had my excellent neighbor
reduced me. But I found him, one Sunday morning,--a day when it would
not do to get angry, tying his cow at the foot of the hill; the beast
all the time going on in that abominable voice. I told the man that I
could not have the cow in the grounds. He said, “All right, boss;” but
he did not go away. I asked him to clear out. The man, who is a French
sympathizer from the Republic of Ireland, kept his temper perfectly. He
said he wasn't doing anything, just feeding his cow a bit: he wouldn't
make me the least trouble in the world. I reminded him that he had been
told again and again not to come here; that he might have all the grass,
but he should not bring his cow upon the premises. The imperturbable man
assented to everything that I said, and kept on feeding his cow. Before
I got him to go to fresh scenes and pastures new, the Sabbath was almost
broken; but it was saved by one thing: it is difficult to be emphatic
when no one is emphatic on the other side. The man and his cow have
taught me a great lesson, which I shall recall when I keep a cow. I can
recommend this cow, if anybody wants one, as a steady boarder, whose
keeping will cost the owner little; but, if her milk is at all like her
voice, those who drink it are on the straight road to lunacy.
I think I have said that we have a game-preserve. We keep quails, or try
to, in the thickly wooded, bushed, and brushed ravine. This bird is
a great favorite with us, dead or alive, on account of its tasteful
plumage, its tender flesh, its domestic virtues, and its pleasant
piping. Besides, although I appreciate toads and cows, and all that sort
of thing, I like to have a game-preserve more in the English style.
And we did. For in July, while the game-law was on, and the
young quails were coming on, we were awakened one morning by
firing,--musketry-firing, close at hand. My first thought was, that war
was declared; but, as I should never pay much attention to war declared
at that time in the morning, I went to sleep again. But the occurrence
was repeated,--and not only early in the morning, but at night. There
was calling of dogs, breaking down of brush, and firing of guns. It is
hardly pleasant to have guns fired in the direction of the house, at
your own quails. The hunters could be sometimes seen, but never caught.
Their best time was about sunrise; but, before one could dress and get
to the front, they would retire.
One morning, about four o'clock, I heard the battle renewed. I sprang
up, but not in arms, and went to a window. Polly (like another 'blessed
damozel') flew to another window,--
“The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of heaven,”
and reconnoitered from behind the blinds.
“The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers,”
when an armed man and a legged dog appeared in the opening. I was
vigilantly watching him.
.... “And now
She spoke through the still weather.”
“Are you afraid to speak to him?” asked Polly.
Not exactly,
....“she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.
“Stung by this inquiry, I leaned out of the window till
“The bar I leaned on (was) warm,”
and cried,-- “Halloo, there! What are you doing?”
“Look out he don't shoot you,” called out Polly from the other window,
suddenly going on another tack.
I explained that a sportsman would not be likely to shoot a gentleman in
his own house, with bird-shot, so long as quails were to be had.
“You have no business here: what are you after?” I repeated.
“Looking for a lost hen,” said the man as he strode away.
The reply was so satisfactory and conclusive that I shut the blinds and
went to bed.
But one evening I overhauled one of the poachers. Hearing his dog in the
thicket, I rushed through the brush, and came in sight of the hunter
as he was retreating down the road. He came to a halt; and we had some
conversation in a high key. Of course I threatened to prosecute him. I
believe that is the thing to do in such cases; but how I was to do it,
when I did not know his name or ancestry, and couldn't see his face,
never occurred to me. (I remember, now, that a farmer once proposed to
prosecute me when I was fishing in a trout-brook on his farm, and asked
my name for that purpose.) He said he should smile to see me prosecute
him.
“You can't do it: there ain't no notice up about trespassing.”
This view of the common law impressed me; and I said,
“But these are private grounds.”
“Private h---!” was all his response.
You can't argue much with a man who has a gun in his hands, when you
have none. Besides, it might be a needle-gun, for aught I knew. I gave
it up, and we separated.
There is this disadvantage about having a game preserve attached to your
garden: it makes life too lively.