A WINTER IN THE SOUTH
I was wrong about the Phoebe bird;
Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard;
I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow
Came from one throat.
As the season advanced our May songs became less melodious until
finally our music was merely a metallic but pleasant, "chink, chink,"
and we knew we would soon be putting on our new fall attire, as toward
the close of the summer our family exchange their pretty
black-and-white suits, so much admired, for a becoming yellowish-brown
one. The different flocks were also now arranging for their regular
winter trip to the sunny Southland, where their winters were spent.
I was very glad to know that we bobolinks were to travel only in the
daytime, as that would afford us younger ones a better opportunity to
see the country. The return trip to the North is always made by night.
A great many people have wondered why we do this, and those who are
interested in our habits have tried to find out; but it is a secret the
birds have never yet divulged, and probably never will.
The blue jays were going to remain behind, for the winters which we
dreaded so much had no terrors for them. Sometimes when we were
preening our feathers under the radiant skies near the Southern gulf, I
thought of our old neighbors the jays, and fancied them in their bleak
Northern home flitting about in the tops of the leafless trees, swayed
by the icy winds from the upper lakes, and with perhaps but little to
eat. I would not have exchanged places with them for the world. But
my older comrades assured me the jays were not in need of my sympathy
or pity. They liked the invigorating cold and chattered merrily in the
desolate boughs and enjoyed many a nice meal from under the melting
snow. The crimson dogwood berries, standing out like rosettes of
coral, at which they liked to peck, also furnished them an aesthetic
and sumptuous feast. Much more to be dreaded than the winter's cold
was the cruel sportsman, said my comrades.
The day of our departure came. The concourse of birds setting out on
their annual journeys was immense, and oh, what joy it was to soar
aloft on buoyant pinion high up in the blue sky, over housetops and
tops of trees, skimming along above rushing waters or tranquil streams
in quiet meadows. Mere existence was a keen delight. The sense of
freedom, of lightness, of airiness, was gloriously exhilarating, a
delicious sensation known only to the feathered tribes of all God's
creation.
Our trip took us across some densely wooded mountains, where we rested
for a time. A thick undergrowth of young saplings prevented any roads,
and only occasional narrow footpaths showed that people sometimes
passed that way.
The mountain was grand in its loneliness; but doubtless was a desolate
spot to the settlers, whose cabins were scattered at long distances
from each other in the depths of the wood. I could imagine how cut off
from the whole world the women and children in these cabins would feel,
for it is natural for human beings to love society. The perpetual
stillness must have been hard to bear when months sometimes passed
away, especially in the winter season, without their getting a glimpse
of other human faces.
The mountains were full of wildcats too, which made their situation
worse, as these fierce animals were frequently known to attack men as
savagely as wolves do. One day while we were there two travelers
camped under the tree where our family was roosting. They had
evidently had a hard time making their way through the tangled
undergrowth, for as one of the men flung himself down on the ground and
stretched himself out at full length, he exclaimed peevishly:
"Well, I don't want any more such experiences. I'm dead tired; my face
is all scratched with the thorns and bushes; and I haven't seen a
newspaper for a week. If the railroad company needs any more work of
this kind done, they must get somebody else."
"Fiddle-dee-dee! You mustn't be so easily discouraged," answered the
other young man, who had already set to work scraping up dry chips and
pieces of bark to make a fire, "Think of these poor mountaineers who
stay here all their lives. Your little tramp of a few days is nothing
to what they do all the time and never think of complaining. The half
of them are too poor to own a mule. They eat hog and hominy the year
around, and are thankful to get it. Their clothes are fearfully and
wonderfully made, but for all that they don't give up and think life
isn't worth living."
As the two young fellows talked on in this strain I named them Growler
and Cheery, because the one was so determined to look on the dark side,
while the other took a cheerful view of everything. Growler continued
to lounge on the ground, looking with careless interest at Cheery, who
was preparing dinner.
The dinner was in a small tin box which he took from his coat pocket.
Opening it he disclosed some eatables very compactly put in. He took
out several articles and set them on the ground in front of him. In
the box was a bottle stoutly corked containing a dark liquid, some of
which he poured into a flat tin cup which formed a part of the lid of
the box. This he set over the fire, which by this time was snapping
cheerily.
"Come," he said. "Here's a lunch fit for a king. Get up and have your
share. Maybe when your stomach is warmed up with a few ham and mustard
sandwiches, some cheese and coffee, you'll be in better spirits. These
crackers are good eating too."
"Fit for a king, eh? Mighty poor kind of a king, I should say,"
growled Growler sarcastically; but he rose and flicked the leaves and
twigs from his clothing before he helped himself to the coffee which
was now hot.
"One cup for two people is just one too few," laughed Cheery when it
came his turn to take some. "My! but it tastes good. There's nothing
like the open air to give one an appetite."
"I don't like coffee without cream," objected Growler, chewing moodily
at his cracker.
"Well, we'll get to Girard by to-night, and then possibly we will get a
good supper."
While they were lunching I had observed another traveler slowly
approaching through the underbrush. Over one shoulder was slung a
leather strap in which were a few books. He carried a rifle, and from
his coat pocket bulged a small package. As he drew nearer the sound of
his footsteps startled Growler who nervously upset his coffee over his
shirt front.
"What d'ye suppose he is?" he asked of Cheery as the stranger
approached.
"I judge he's a parson, from the cut of his clothes," observed Cheery.
Then as the new-comer advanced he called: "Hello, friend! Who'd 'a
thought of meeting company this far back in these mountains?"
"This is only about eight miles from the town where I live," answered
the gentleman, who now seated himself near them with his back against a
tree, "I know the paths through here fairly well, for I come this way
several times through the summer. But this will be my last trip for
the season, and I'm giving a little more time to it on that account.
I've taken it somewhat leisurely to-day."
He was a delicate-looking, middle-aged man, with a mild voice and a
kind face.
"You're a drummer for a publishing house, I take it?" said Growler,
nodding toward the books in the strap. "I've just been wondering where
you'd find any buyers in these infernal woods."
The gentleman laughed. "No," said he, "this is my regular route; but
I'm not a commercial traveler in any sense. I'm a pastor at a town
near here, and I go out to these mountain families to hold services
every few weeks."
"You don't mean you foot it through these bushes and among these
wildcats to preach to the mountaineers!" exclaimed Growler in
astonishment.
"Certainly I do. These poor people would never hear the sound of the
gospel if some one did not take it to them. They have souls to be
saved, my friend. I feel it is my duty to carry the word to them. As
for the wildcats," he continued, smiling, "I have my rifle. Besides
the government offers a small bounty for every wildcat."
"Oh, yes, I see. You combine business with pleasure and have your
wildcat bounty to pay expenses as you go along--or else keep it for
pin-money," and Growler laughed good-humoredly at his own fun.
"You're the parson from St. Thomas, I judge," said Cheery.
The gentleman bowed, and said he was the pastor of that little church.
"I've heard of your mission work, and I understand you've done a great
deal of good among the mountain whites."
"How many churches have you in these mountains?" interrupted Growler.
"I have but the one church organization, for outside through the
mountains there are no churches--no buildings, no organizations.
People ten and fifteen miles apart can't very well have churches. I
visit the families. I have three on this mountain side. I am well
repaid for all the sacrifice of comfort I make, in knowing how glad
they are to have me come. To many of them I am the connecting link
with the rest of mankind. Ah! the world knows nothing of the
privations and sorrows and ignorance of many of these poor creatures!
Through the winter I am obliged to stop my visitations, but I generally
leave a few books and papers for those who can read, and pictures for
the children."
"Well, parson, I didn't know there was enough goodness in any man in
the United States to make him willing to tramp right into the wildest
part of the Allegheny. Mountains to preach the gospel to half a dozen
poor people!" exclaimed Growler, still more astonished.
"My friend," responded the gentleman earnestly, "the world is full of
Christian men and women who are trying to help others."
Just then my mother said to me, "When I hear the beautiful words that
minister speaks and see what he is doing, then indeed do I believe that
human beings have hearts."
As we resumed our journey I wondered if Growler would profit by the
sunshiny example of Cheery and the devotion of the parson of St. Thomas.
Later in our travels we came upon some old acquaintances. Our
stopping-place was near an ancient house on a mountain side. The
outlook was the grandest I had ever seen, and though I have traveled
much since then I have never found anything to exceed it in beauty. A
glistening river wound its way in a big loop at the foot of the
mountain, and beyond it lay stretched out a busy city.
A good many years before a battle had been fought on these heights,
which people still remembered and talked about. I heard them speak of
it as the "Battle above the clouds." There was still a part of a
cannon wagon in the yard which visitors came to see and examined with
much interest. They also often requested the landlady to let them look
at the walls of an old stone dairy adjoining the house, because the
soldiers had carved their names there.
To me it seemed strange that the guests would sit for hours on the long
gallery of this hotel, and go over and over the incidents of the
battle, telling where this regiment stood, or where that officer fell,
as if war and the taking of life were the most pleasant rather than the
most distressful subjects in the world. In the distance was a mammoth
field of graves, miles of graves, beautifully kept mounds under which
lay the dead heroes of that sad time.
The days up here were beautiful, but it was at night that this was a
scene of surpassing loveliness. Far below the lights of the city
glowed like spangles in the darkness. Above us was the star-encrusted
sky. It was like being suspended between a floor and a ceiling of
glittering jewels.
On this plateau grew the biggest cherry trees I ever saw, and they bore
the biggest and sweetest cherries, though I could not taste any at that
time, as the season was past. I heard the landlady complaining one day
to some of her guests that the rascally birds had hardly left her a
cherry to put up.
"The saucy little thieves! they must have eaten bushels of the finest
fruit," she said.
"And didn't you get any?" inquired a childish voice. There was
something familiar in the voice and I flew to the porch railing to see
who it was. And who should it be but dear little Marion. And there
too was her aunty, Miss Dorothy, and the professor, and in the parlor I
caught a glimpse of Miss Katie and the colonel. They were having a
pleasant vacation together.
Marion looked inquiringly into the landlady's face. No doubt she was
thinking the mountain birds were very greedy to eat up all the cherries
and not leave one for the poor woman to can.
"Our birds always eat some of our cherries too," she said, "but they
always leave us plenty."
"There were bushels left on our trees," observed the landlady's
daughter. "We had all we wanted, mother. We couldn't possibly have
used the rest if the birds had not eaten them. We had a cellar full of
canned cherries left over from the year before, you remember, and that
is the way it is nearly every year."
"Yes, yes, I know," answered her mother impatiently; "but for all that
I don't believe in letting the birds have everything."
"I never begrudge a bird what it eats," commented the professor. "Of
course you can discourage the birds, drive them off, break up their
nests, starve them out, and have a crop of caterpillars instead of
cherries. But, beg pardon, madam, maybe you don't object to
caterpillars," and he bowed low to the landlady.
The laugh was against her and I was glad of it, for I didn't consider
it either kind or polite to call us "saucy little thieves."
We were amused one morning when, flying over a piece of pretty country,
we saw a lady moving rapidly along on the red sandy path below. She
seemed to be neither exactly riding nor walking, as she was not on foot
nor had she a horse. On closer inspection it was seen that she was
propelling a strange-looking vehicle. Two of her carriage wheels were
gone, and between the remaining two the lady was perched. At sight of
it I was immediately reminded of the queer thing that Johnny Morris
rode which the admiral had described to us and called a "wheel." I
felt sure that this was the same kind of a machine. The lady looked
neither to the right nor to the left, but her glance was fixed intently
on the road before her.
Farther along another lady leaned against the fence awaiting her
approach. As she bowled along the friend asked enthusiastically: "Is
it not splendid?"
The rider called back to her: "It is grand! It is almost as if I were
flying. I know now how a bird feels."
Think of comparing the sensation produced by moving that heavy iron
machine, with the rider but three feet from the ground, to the
exhilaration felt by a bird spurning the earth and soaring on delicate
wing through the fields of heaven! It was truly laughable!
Our amusement was cut short, however, when we noticed that the lady's
hat was decorated with a dead dove.
"Can we never get away from this millinery exhibition of death?" I
exclaimed in horror.
"No," said my mother sorrowfully. "The god, Fashion, I told you of has
his slaves all over the land. We will find them wherever we go, north,
south, east, and west. No town is too small, no neighborhood too
remote, but there will be found women ready to carry out his cruel
laws."
Had we not been haunted by this vision of death which we were
constantly meeting wherever women were congregated, we might have been
happy in the fair land of rose blossoms and magnolias where we now
sojourned. The air was soft and balmy, and the atmosphere filled us
with a serene, restful languor quite new to those who had been
accustomed to the brisker habits of a colder clime. Besides the birds
there were many human visitors from the North spending the winter
months here. Some sought this warmer climate for their health, others
for pleasure, and these also soon fell into the easy-going,
happy-go-lucky ways induced by the sluggish climate.
Among the birds the waxwings most readily acquired this delightful
Southern habit of taking life easy. In fact the waxwings are inclined
to be lazy, except when they are nesting; they are the most deliberate
creatures one can find, but very foppish and neat in their dress.
Never will you find a particle of dust on their silky plumage, and the
pretty red dots on their wings and tails look always as bright as if
kept in a bandbox. They have, indeed, just reason to be proud of
themselves, for they are very beautiful.
Hunters by scores were after them with bag and gun mercilessly killing
them for the New York millinery houses. The slaughter was terrible,
and made more easy for the hunters by reason of the poor birds flocking
together so closely in such large numbers when they alighted in circles
as is their habit. As they came down in dense droves to get their
food, the red dots on their wing tips almost overlapping those of their
fellows, dozens were slain by a single shot. They were very fond of
the berries of the cedar trees, and after the other foods were gone
they hovered there in great numbers. Here too, the hunters followed
them and made awful havoc in their ranks. One man made the cruel boast
that the winter previous he had killed one thousand cedar-birds for hat
trimmings.
Many of our family had located for a time near the coast, but here too,
on these sunny plains, the death messengers followed us and slew us by
the thousands.
We learned that one bird man handled thirty thousand bird skins that
season. Another firm shipped seventy thousand to the city, and still
the market called for more and yet more. The appetite of the god could
not be appeased.
I am sure this account of the loss of bird life must have seemed
appalling to my mother, for I heard her moan sadly when it was talked
about.
It was during my stay in the Southern islands that I first saw the
white egret, whose beautiful sweeping plumes, like the silken train of
a court lady, have so long been the spoils of woman, that the bird is
almost extinct. As these magnificent feathers appear upon the bird
only through the mating and nesting season, the cruelty of the act is
still more dastardly. The attachment of the parent birds for their
young is very beautiful to witness, yet this devotion, which should be
their safeguard, is seized upon for their destruction, for so great is
the instinct of protecting love they refuse to leave their young when
danger is near, and are absolutely indifferent to their own safety.
Never shall I forget one sad incident which occurred while I was there.
Overhanging the water was an ancestral nest belonging to a family of
egrets which had occupied it for some seasons. Unlike the American
human species, in whom local attachment is not largely developed, and
who take a new house every moving day, the egret repairs and fixes over
the old house year after year, putting in a new brace there, adding
another stick here, to make it firm enough to bear the weight of the
mother and the three young birds which always comprise the brood.
The three pale-blue eggs in this nest had been duly hatched, and the
fond mother was now brooding over her darlings with every demonstration
of maternal affection. She was a beautiful creature with her graceful
movement, her train of plumes, and her long neck gracefully curved.
The quick sharp boom, boom of the guns had been echoing through the
swamp for some time, and the men were now coming nearer. The efforts
of the poor mother to shield her babies were piteous, but the hunters
did not want them. Their scant plumage is worthless for millinery
purposes. Possibly the mother might have escaped had she been willing
to leave her dear ones; but she would not desert them, and was shot in
the breast as the reward of her devotion. The nestlings were left to
starve.
Would you think the woman who wore that bunch of feathers on her bonnet
could take much pleasure in it?