day upon the marsh, even if he had never seen these birds before, that
they could not have been bred here. For however
candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
the marsh may seem to one coming suddenly from the wooded uplands, it will
not let one enter far without the consciousness that silence and secrecy
lie deeper here than in the depths of the forest glooms. The true birds of
the marsh, those that feed and nest in the grass, have the spirit of the
great marsh-mother. The sandpiper is not her bird. It belongs to the
shore, living almost exclusively along sandy, pebbly margins, the margins
of any, of almost every water, from Delaware Bay to the tiny bubbling
spring in some Minnesota pasture. Neither is the killdeer her bird. The
upland claims it, plover though it be. A barren, stony hillside, or even a
last year's corn-field left fallow, is a better-loved breast to the
killdeer than the soft brooding breast of the marsh. There are no
grass-birds so noisy as these two. Both of them lay their eggs in pebble
nests; and both depend largely for protection upon the harmony of their
colors with the general tone of their surroundings.
I was still within sound of the bleating killdeers when a rather large,
greenish-gray bird flapped heavily but noiselessly from a muddy spot in
the grass to the top of a stake and faced me. Here was a child of the
marsh. Its bolt-upright attitude spoke the watcher in the grass; then as
it stretched its neck toward me, bringing its body parallel to the ground,
how the shape of the skulker showed! This bird was not built to fly nor to
perch, but to tread the low, narrow paths of the marsh jungle, silent,
swift, and elusive as a shadow.
It was the clapper-rail, the "marsh-hen." One never finds such a
combination of long legs, long toes, long neck and bill, with this long
but heavy hen-like body, outside the meadows and marshes. The grass ought
to have been alive with the birds: it was breeding-time. But I think the
high tides must have delayed them or driven them elsewhere, for I did not
find an egg, nor hear at nightfall their colony-cry, so common at dusk and
dawn in the marshes just across on the coast about Townsend's Inlet. There
at sunset in nesting-time one of the rails will begin to call--a loud,
clapping roll; a neighbor takes it up, then another and another, the
circle of cries widening and swelling until the whole marsh is a-clatter.
Heading my way with a slow, labored stroke came one of the fish-hawks. She
was low down and some distance away, so that I got behind a post before
she saw me. The marsh-hen spied her first, and dropped into the grass. On
she came, her white breast and belly glistening, and in her talons a big
glistening fish. It was a magnificent catch. "Bravo!" I should have
shouted--rather I shouldn't; but here she was right over me, and the
instinct of the boy, of the savage, had me before I knew, and leaping out,
I whirled my cap and yelled to wake the marsh. The startled hawk jerked,
keeled, lifted with a violent struggle, and let go her hold. Down fell the
writhing, twisting fish at my feet. It was a splendid striped bass,
weighing at least four pounds, and still live enough to flop.
I felt mean as I picked up the useless thing and looked far away to the
great nest with its hungry young. I was no better than the bald eagle, the
lazy robber-baron, who had stolen the dinner of these same young hawks the
day before.
Their mother had been fishing up the river and had caught a tremendous
eel. An eel can hold out to wriggle a very long time. He has no vitals.
Even with talon-tipped claws he is slippery and more than a clawful; so
the old hawk took a short cut home across the railroad-track and the
corner of the woods where stands the eagle tree.
She could barely clear the tree-tops, and, with the squirming of the eel
about her legs, had apparently forgotten that the eagle lived along this
road, or else in her struggle to get the prize home she was risking the
old dragon's being away. He was not away. I have no doubt that he had been
watching her all the time from some high perch, and just as she reached
the open of the railroad-track, where the booty would not fall among the
trees, he appeared. His first call, mocking, threatening, commanding, shot
the poor hawk through with terror. She screamed; she tried to rise and
escape; but without a second's parley the great king drove down upon her.
She dropped the fish, dived, and dodged the blow, and the robber, with a
rushing swoop that was glorious in its sweep, in its speed and ease,
caught the eel within a wing's reach of me and the track.
I did not know what to do with my spoil. Somewhat relieved, upon looking
around, to find that even the marsh-hen had not been an eye-witness to my
knightly deed, I started with the fish and my conscience toward the
distant nest, determined to climb into it and leave the catch with the
helpless, dinnerless things for whom it was intended.
I am still carrying that fish. How seldom we are able to restore the bare
exaction, to say nothing of the fourfold! My tree was harder to climb than
Zacchæus's. Mine was an ancient white oak, with the nest set directly upon
its dead top. I had stood within this very nest twelve years before; but
even with the help of my conscience I could not get into it now. Not that
I had grown older or larger. Twelve years do not count unless they carry
one past forty. It was the nest that had grown. Gazing up at it, I readily
believed the old farmer in the Zane's house who said it would take a pair
of mules to haul it. He thought it larger than one that blew down in the
marsh the previous winter, which made three cart-loads.
One thinks of Stirling and of the castles frowning down upon the Rhine as
he comes out of the wide, flat marsh beneath this great nest, crowning
this loftiest eminence in all the region. But no château of the Alps, no
beetling crag-lodged castle of the Rhine, can match the fish-hawk's nest
for sheer boldness and daring. Only the eagles' nests upon the fierce
dizzy pinnacles in the Yosemite surpass the home of the fish-hawk in
unawed boldness. The aery of the Yosemite eagle is the most sublimely
defiant of things built by bird, or beast, or man.
A fish-hawk will make its nest upon the ground, or a hummock, a stump, a
buoy, a chimney--upon anything near the water that offers an adequate
platform; but its choice is the dead top of some lofty tree where the
pathway for its wide wings is open and the vision range is free for miles
around.
How dare the bird rear such a pile upon so slight and towering a support!
How dare she defy the winds, which, loosened far out on the bay, come
driving across the cowering, unresisting marsh! She is too bold sometimes.
I have known more than one nest to fall in a wild May gale. Many a nest,
built higher and wider year after year, while all the time its dead
support has been rotting and weakening, gets heavy with the wet of winter,
and some night, under the weight of an ice-storm, comes crashing to the
earth.
Yet twelve years had gone since I scaled the walls and stood within this
nest; and with patience and hardihood enough I could have done it again
this time, no doubt. I remember one nest along Maurice River, perched so
high above the gums of the swamp as to be visible from my home across a
mile of trees, that has stood a landmark for the oystermen this score of
years.
The sensations of my climb into this fish-hawk's nest of the marsh are
vivid even now. Going up was comparatively easy. When I reached the forks
holding the nest, I found I was under a bulk of sticks and corn-stalks
which was about the size of an ordinary haycock or an unusually large
wash-tub. By pulling out, pushing aside, and breaking off the sticks, I
worked a precarious way through the four feet or more of debris and
scrambled over the edge. There were two eggs. Taking them in my hands, so
as not to crush them, I rose carefully to my feet.
Upright in a hawk's nest! Sixty feet in the air, on the top of a gaunt old
white oak, high above the highest leaf, with the screaming hawks about my
head, with marsh and river and bay lying far around! It was a moment of
exultation; and the thrill of it has been transmitted through the years.
My body has been drawn to higher places since; but my soul has never
quite touched that altitude again, for I was a boy then.
Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the abyss of mortal terror than
followed with my turning to descend. I looked down into empty air. Feet
foremost I backed over the rim, clutching the loose sticks and feeling for
a foothold. They snapped with the least pressure; slipped and fell if I
pushed them, or stuck out into my clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my
hands pulled out, my feet broke through under me, and for an instant I
hung at the side of the nest in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my
blouse as I slipped.
There is a special Providence busy with the boy.
This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than a nest; it was a castle in
very truth, in the sheltering crevices of whose uneven walls a small
community of purple grackles lived. Wedged in among the protruding sticks
was nest above nest, plastering the great pile over, making it almost
grassy with their loose flying ends. I remember that I counted more than
twenty of these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the tree, and that
I destroyed several in breaking my way up the face of the structure.
Do the blackbirds nest here for the protection afforded by the presence of
the hawks? Do they come for the crumbs which fall from these great
people's table? Or is it the excellent opportunity for social life offered
by this convenient apartment-house that attracts?
The purple grackles are a garrulous, gossipy set, as every one knows. They
are able-bodied, not particularly fond of fish, and inclined to seek the
neighborhood of man, rather than to come out here away from him. They make
very good American rooks. So I am led to think it is their love of
"neighboring" that brings them about the hawk's nest. If this surmise is
correct, then the presence of two families of English sparrows among them
might account for there being only eight nests now, where a decade ago
there were twenty.
I was amused--no longer amazed--at finding the sparrows here. The seed of
these birds shall possess the earth. Is there even now a spot into which
the bumptious, mannerless, ubiquitous little pleb has not pushed himself?
If you look for him in the rain-pipes of the Fifth Avenue mansions, he is
there; if you search for him in the middle of the wide, silent salt-marsh,
he is there; if you take--but it is vain to take the wings of the morning,
or of anything else, in the hope of flying to a spot where the stumpy
little wings of the English sparrow have not already carried him.
There is something really admirable in the unqualified sense of ownership,
the absolute want of diffidence, the abiding self-possession and coolness
of these birds. One cannot measure it in the city streets, where everybody
jostles and stares. It can be appreciated only in the marsh: here in the
silence, the secrecy, the withdrawing, where even the formidable-looking
fiddler-crabs shy and sidle into their holes as you pass; here, where the
sparrows may perch upon the rim of a great hawk's nest, twist their necks,
ogle you out of countenance, and demand what business brought you to the
marsh.
I hunted round for a stone when one of them buttonholed me. He wasn't
insolent, but he was impertinent. The two hawks and the blackbirds flew
off as I came up; but the sparrows stayed. They were the only ones in
possession as I moved away; and they will be the only ones in possession
when I return. If that is next summer, then I shall find a colony of
twenty sparrow families around the hawk's nest. The purple grackles will
be gone. And the fish-hawks? Only the question of another year or so when
they, too, shall be dispossessed and gone. But where will they go to
escape the sparrows?
III
From a mile away I turned to look back at the "cripple" where towered the
tall white oak of the hawks. Both birds were wheeling about the castle
nest, their noble flight full of the freedom of the marsh, their piercing
cries voicing its wildness. And how free, how wild, how untouched by human
hands the wide plain seemed! Sea-like it lay about me, circled southward
from east to west with the rim of the sky.
I moved on toward the bay. The sun had dropped to the edge of the marsh,
its level-lined shafts splintering into golden fire against the curtained
windows of the lighthouse. It would soon be sunset. For some time there
had been a quiet gurgling and lisping down in the grass, but it had meant
nothing, until, of a sudden, I heard the rush of a wave along the beach:
the tide was coming in. And with it came a breeze, a moving, briny,
bay-cooled breeze that stirred the grass with a whisper of night.
Once more I had worked round to the road. It ran on ahead of me, up a
bushy dune, and forked, one branch leading off to the lighthouse, the
other straight out to the beach, out against the white of the breaking
waves.
The evening purple was deepening on the bay when I mounted the dune. Bands
of pink and crimson clouded the west, a thin cold wash of blue veiled the
east; and overhead, bayward, landward, everywhere, the misting and the
shadowing of the twilight.
Between me and the white wave-bars at the end of the road gleamed a patch
of silvery water--the returning tide. As I watched, a silvery streamlet
broke away and came running down the wheel track. Another streamlet,
lagging a little, ran shining down the other track, stopped, rose, and
creeping slowly to the middle of the road, spread into a second gleaming
patch. They grew, met--and the road for a hundred feet was covered with
the bay.
As the crimson paled into smoky pearl, the blue changed green and gold,
and big at the edge of the marsh showed the rim of the moon.
Weird hour! Sunset, moonrise, flood-tide, and twilight together weaving
the spell of the night over the wide waking marsh. Mysterious, sinister
almost, seemed the swift, stealthy creeping of the tide. It was
surrounding and crawling in upon me. Already it stood ankle-deep in the
road, and was reaching toward my knees, a warm thing, quick and moving. It
slipped among the grasses and into the holes of the crabs with a smothered
bubbling; it disturbed the seaside sparrows sleeping down in the sedge and
kept them springing up to find new beds. How high would it rise? Behind me
on the road it had crawled to the foot of the dune. Would it let me
through to the mainland if I waited for the flood?
It would be high tide at nine o'clock. Finding a mound of sand on the
shore that the water could hardly cover, I sat down to watch the
tide-miracle; for here, surely, I should see the wonder worked, so wide
was the open, so full, so frank the moon.
In the yellow light I could make out the line of sentinel trees across the
marsh, and off on the bay a ship, looming dim in the distance, coming on
with wind and tide. There were no sounds except the long regular wash of
the waves, the stir of the breeze in the chafing sedges, and the creepy
stepping of the water weaving everywhere through the hidden paths of the
grass. Presently a night-hawk began to flit about me, then another and
another, skimming just above the marsh as silent as the shadows. What was
that? Something moved across the moon. In a moment, bat-like and huge
against the great yellow disk, appeared a marsh-owl. He was coming to look
at me. What was I that dared remain abroad in the marsh after the rising
of the moon? that dared invade this eery realm, this night-spread,
tide-crept, half-sealand where he was king? How like a goblin he seemed! I
thought of Grendel, and listened for the splash of the fen-monster's steps
along the edge of the bay. But only the owl came. Down, down, down he
bobbed, till I could almost feel the fanning of his wings. How silent! His
long legs hung limp, his body dangled between those soft wide wings within
reach of my face. Yet I heard no sound. Mysterious creature! I was glad
when he ceased his ghostly dance about me and made off.
It was nine o'clock. The waves had ceased to wash against the sand, for
the beach was gone; the breeze had died away; the stir of the water in the
grass was still. Only a ripple broke now and then against my little
island. The bay and the marsh were one.
How still the plains of the waters be!
The tide is in his ecstasy.
The tide is at his highest height:
And it is night.
CALICO AND THE KITTENS
[Illustration]
CALICO AND THE KITTENS
One spring day I found myself the sole help of two blind, naked
infants--as near a real predicament as a man could well get. What did it
matter that they had long tails and were squirrels? They were infants just
the same; and any kind of an infant on the hands of any mere man is a real
tragedy.
As I looked at the two callow things in the grass, a dismay and weak
helplessness quite overcame me. The way they squirmed and shivered and
squeaked worked upon me down even to my knees. I felt sick and foolish.
Both of their parents were dead. Their loose leaf-nest overhead had been
riddled with shot. I had climbed up and found them; I had brought them
down; I must--feed them! The other way of escape were heathen.
But how could I feed them? Nipples, quills, spoons--none of them would fit
these mites of mouths. What a miserable mother I was! How poorly equipped
for foundlings! They were dying for lack of food; and as they pawed about
and whimpered in my hands I devoutly wished the shot had put them all out
of misery together. I was tempted to turn heathen and despatch them.
Unhappy but resolute, I started homeward, determined to rear those
squirrels, if it could be done. On my way I remembered--and it came to me
with a shock--that one of my neighbor's cats had a new batch of kittens.
They were only a few days old. Might not Calico, their mother, be induced
to adopt the squirrels!
Nothing could be more absurd. The kittens were three times larger than the
squirrels. Even had they been the same size, did I think the old
three-colored cat could be fooled? that she might not know a kitten of
hers from some other mother's--squirrel? I was desperate indeed. Calico
was a hunter. She had eaten more gray squirrels, perhaps, than I had ever
seen. She would think I had been foraging for her--the mother of seven
green kittens!--and would take my charges as titbits. Still I was
determined to try.
My neighbor's kittens were enough and to spare. One of Calico's last
year's lot still waited a good home; and here were seven more to be cared
for. Might not two of these be spirited away, far away; the two squirrels
substituted, and the old cat be none the wiser?
I went home by way of my neighbor's, and found Calico in the basement
curled up asleep with her babies. She roused and purred questioningly as
we bent over the basket, and watched with concern, but with no anxiety, as
two of her seven were lifted out and put inside a hat upon a table. She
was perfectly used to having her kittens handled. True, strange things had
happened to them. But that was long ago; and there had been so very many
kittens that no one mother could remember about them all. She trusted
us--with an ear pricked and eyes watchful. But they were safe, and in a
prideful, self-conscious, young-mother way she began to wash the five.
Some one stood between her and the hat when the kittens were lifted out
and the squirrels were put in their place. Calico did not see. For a time
she thought no more about them; she was busy washing and showing the
others. By and by it began to look as though she had forgotten that there
were more than five. She could not count. But most mothers can _number_
their children, even if they cannot count, and soon Calico began to
fidget, looking up at the hat which the hungry, motherless squirrels kept
rocking. Then she leaped out upon the floor, purring, and bounded upon the
table, going straight to the young squirrels.
There certainly was an expression of surprise and mystification on her
face as she saw the change that had come over those kittens. They had
shrunk and faded from two or three bright colors to a single pale pink.
She looked again and sniffed them. Their odor had changed, too. She turned
to the watchers about the table, but they said nothing. She hardly knew
what to think. She was half inclined to leave them and go back to the
basket, when one of the squirrels whimpered--a genuine, universal baby
whimper. That settled it. She was a mother, and whatever else these things
in the hat might be, they were babies. That was enough, especially as she
needed just this much baby here in the hat to make good what was lacking
in the basket.
With a soft, caressing purr she stepped gently into the hat, took one of
the squirrels by the neck, brought it to the edge of the table, and laid
it down for a firmer hold; then sprang lightly to the floor. Over to the
basket she walked and dropped it tenderly among her other babies. Then,
having brought the remaining one and deposited that with the same
mother-care, she got into the basket herself and curled down
contentedly--her heart all whole.
And this is how strange a thing mother-love is! The performance was
scarcely believable. Could she be so love-blind as not to see what they
were and not eat them? But when she began to lick the little interlopers
and cuddle them down to their dinner as if they were her own genuine
kittens, there could be no more doubt or fear.
The squirrels do not know to this day that Calico is not their real
mother. From the first they took her mother's milk and mother's love as
rightfully and thanklessly as the kittens, growing, not like the kittens
at all, but into the most normal of squirrels, round and fat and
splendid-tailed.
Calico clearly recognized some difference between the two kinds of
kittens, but _what_ difference always puzzled her. She would clean up a
kitten and comb it slick, then turn to one of the squirrels and wash it,
but rarely, if ever, completing the work because of some disconcerting
un-catlike antic. As the squirrels grew older they also grew friskier, and
soon took the washing as the signal for a frolic. As well try to wash a
bubble. They were bundles of live springs, twisting out of her paws,
dancing over her back, leaping, kicking, tumbling as she had never seen a
kitten do in all her richly kittened experience.
I don't know why, but Calico was certainly fonder of these two freaks than
of her own normal children. Long after the latter were weaned she nursed
and mothered the squirrels. I have frequently seen them let into the
kitchen when the old cat was there, and the moment they got through the
door they would rush toward her, dropping chestnuts or cookies by the way.
She in turn would hurry to meet them with a little purr of greeting full
of joy and affection. They were shamefully big for such doings. The
kittens had quit it long ago. Calico herself, after a while, came to feel
the impropriety of mothering these strapping young ones, and in a weak,
indulgent way tried to stop it. But the squirrels were persistent and
would not go about their business at all with an ordinary cuff. She would
put them off, run away from them, slap them, and make believe to bite; but
not until she did bite, and sharply too, would they be off. All this
seemed very strange and unnatural; yet a stranger thing happened one day,
when Calico brought in to her family a full-grown gray squirrel which she
had caught in the woods. She laid it down on the floor and called the
kittens and squirrels to gather around. They came, and as the squirrels
sniffed at the dead one on the floor there was hardly a mark of
difference in their appearance. It might have been one of Calico's own
nursing that lay there dead, so far as any one save Calico could see. And
with her the difference, I think, was more of smell than of sight. But she
knew her own; and though she often found her two out among the trees of
the yard, she never was mistaken, nor for an instant made as if to hurt
them.
Yet they could not have been more entirely squirrel had their own squirrel
mother nurtured them. Calico's milk and love went all to cat in her own
kittens, and all to squirrel in these that she adopted. No single hair of
theirs turned from its squirrel-gray to any one of Calico's three colors;
no single squirrel trait became the least bit catlike.