II

A fertile race, a fertile nature, swarm in these islands. The climate is

a kind of prolonged May, and a vernal lustiness and raciness are

characteristic of all the prevailing forms. Life is rank and full.

Reproduction is easy. There is plenty of sap, plenty of blood. The salt

of the sea prickles in the veins; the spawning waters have imparted

their virility to the land. 'Tis a tropical and an arctic nature

combined, the fruitfulness of one and the activity of the other.

The national poet is Shakespeare. In him we get the literary and

artistic equivalents of this teeming, racy, juicy land and people. It

needs just such a soil, just such a background, to account for him. The

poetic value of this continence on the one hand, and of this riot and

prodigality on the other, is in his pages.

The teeming human populations reflect only the general law: there is the

same fullness of life in the lower types, the same push and hardiness.

It is the opinion of naturalists that the prevailing European forms are

a later production than those of the southern hemisphere or of the

United States, and hence, according to Darwin's law, should be more

versatile and dominating. That this last fact holds good with regard to

them, no competent observer can fail to see. When European plants and

animals come into competition with American, the latter, for the most

part, go to the wall, as do the natives in Australia. Or shall we say

that the native species flee before the advent of civilization, the

denuding the land of its forests, and the European species come in and

take their place? Yet the fact remains, that that trait or tendency to

persist in the face of obstacles, to hang on by tooth and nail, ready in

new expedients, thriving where others starve, climbing where others

fall, multiplying where others perish, like certain weeds, which if you

check the seed, will increase at the root, is more marked in the forms

that have come to us from Europe than in the native inhabitants. Nearly

everything that has come to this country from the Old World has come

prepared to fight its way through and take possession. The European or

Old World man, the Old World animals, the Old World grasses and grains,

and weeds and vermin, are in possession of the land, and the native

species have given way before them. The honey-bee, with its greed, its

industry, and its swarms, is a fair type of the rest. The English house

sparrow, which we were at such pains to introduce, breeds like vermin

and threatens to become a plague in the land. Nearly all our troublesome

weeds are European. When a new species gets a foothold here, it spreads

like fire. The European rats and mice would eat us up, were it not for

the European cats we breed. The wolf not only keeps a foothold in old

and populous countries like France and Germany, but in the former

country has so increased of late years that the government has offered

an additional bounty upon their pelts. When has an American wolf been

seen or heard in our comparatively sparsely settled Eastern or Middle

States? They have disappeared as completely as the beavers. Yet is it

probably true that, in a new country like ours, a tendency slowly

develops itself among the wild creatures to return and repossess the

land under the altered conditions. It is so with the plants, and

probably so with the animals. Thus, the chimney swallows give up the

hollow trees for the chimneys, the cliff swallows desert the cliffs for

the eaves of the barns, the squirrels find they can live in and about

the fields, etc. In my own locality, our native mice are becoming much

more numerous about the buildings than formerly; in the older settled

portions of the country, the flying squirrel often breeds in the houses;

the wolf does not seem to let go in the West as readily as he did in the

East; the black bear is coming back to parts of the country where it had

not been seen for thirty years.

I noticed many traits among the British animals and birds that looked

like the result both of the sharp competition going on among themselves

in their crowded ranks and of association with man. Thus, the partridge

not only covers her nest, but carefully arranges the grass about it so

that no mark of her track to and fro can be seen. The field mouse lays

up a store of grain in its den in the ground, and then stops up the

entrance from within. The woodcock, when disturbed, flies away with one

of her young snatched up between her legs, and returns for another and

another. The sea-gulls devour the grain in the fields; the wild ducks

feed upon the oats; the crows and jackdaws pull up the sprouts of the

newly-planted potatoes; the grouse, partridges, pigeons, fieldfares,

etc., attack the turnips; the hawk frequently snatches the wounded game

from under the gun of the sportsman; the crows perch upon the tops of

the chimneys of the houses; in the East the stork builds upon the

housetops, in the midst of cities; in Scotland the rats follow the birds

and the Highlanders to the herring fisheries along the coast, and

disperse with them when the season is over; the eagle continues to breed

in the mountains with the prize of a guinea upon every egg; the rabbits

have to be kept down with nets and ferrets; the game birds--grouse,

partridges, ducks, geese--continue to swarm in the face of the most

inveterate race of sportsmen under the sun, and in a country where it is

said the crows destroy more game than all the guns in the kingdom.

Many of the wild birds, when incubating, will allow themselves to be

touched by the hand. The fox frequently passes the day under some

covered drain or under some shelving bank near the farm buildings. The

otter, which so long ago disappeared from our streams, still holds its

own in Scotland, though trapped and shot on all occasions. A mother

otter has been known boldly to confront a man carrying off her young.

Thomas Edward, the shoemaker-naturalist of Aberdeen, relates many

adventures he had during his nocturnal explorations with weasels,

polecats, badgers, owls, rats, etc., in which these creatures showed

astonishing boldness and audacity. On one occasion, a weasel actually

attacked him; on another, a polecat made repeated attempts to take a

moor-hen from the breast pocket of his coat while he was trying to

sleep. On still another occasion, while he was taking a nap, an owl

robbed him of a mouse which he wished to take home alive, and which was

tied by a string to his waistcoat. He says he has put his walking stick

into the mouth of a fox just roused from his lair, and the fox worried

the stick and took it away with him. Once, in descending a precipice, he

cornered two foxes upon a shelf of rock, when the brutes growled at him

and showed their teeth threateningly. As he let himself down to kick

them out of his way, they bolted up the precipice over his person. Along

the Scottish coast, crows break open shell-fish by carrying them high in

the air and letting them drop upon the rocks. This is about as

thoughtful a proceeding as that of certain birds of South Africa, which

fly amid the clouds of migrating locusts and clip off the wings of the

insects with their sharp beaks, causing them to fall to the ground,

where they are devoured at leisure. Among the Highlands, the eagles live

upon hares and young lambs; when the shepherds kill the eagles, the

hares increase so fast that they eat up all the grass, and the flocks

still suffer.

The scenes along the coast of Scotland during the herring-fishing, as

described by Charles St. John in his "Natural History and Sport in

Moray," are characteristic. The herrings appear in innumerable shoals,

and are pursued by tens of thousands of birds in the air, and by the

hosts of their enemies of the deep. Salmon and dog-fish prey upon them

from beneath; gulls, gannets, cormorants, and solan geese prey upon them

from above; while the fishermen from a vast fleet of boats scoop them up

by the million. The birds plunge and scream, the men shout and labor,

the sea is covered with broken and wounded fish, the shore exhales the

odor of the decaying offal, which also attracts the birds and the

vermin; and, altogether, the scene is thoroughly European. Yet the

herring supply does not fail; and when the shoals go into the lochs, the

people say they contain two parts fish to one of water.

One of the most significant facts I observed while in England and

Scotland was the number of eggs in the birds'-nests. The first nest I

saw, which was that of the meadow pipit, held six eggs; the second,

which was that of the willow warbler, contained seven. Are these British

birds, then, I said, like the people, really more prolific than our own?

Such is, undoubtedly, the fact. The nests I had observed were not

exceptional; and when a boy told me he knew of a wren's nest with

twenty-six eggs in it, I was half inclined to believe him. The common

British wren, which is nearly identical with our winter wren, often does

lay upward of twenty eggs, while ours lays five or six. The long-tailed

titmouse lays from ten to twelve eggs; the marsh tit, from eight to ten;

the great tit, from six to nine; the blue-bonnet, from six to eighteen;

the wryneck, often as many as ten; the nuthatch, seven; the brown

creeper, nine; the kinglet, eight; the robin, seven; the flycatcher,

eight; and so on,--all, or nearly all, exceeding the number laid by

corresponding species in this country. The highest number of eggs of the

majority of our birds is five; some of the wrens and creepers and

titmice produce six, or even more; but as a rule one sees only three or

four eggs in the nests of our common birds. Our quail seems to produce

more eggs than the European species, and our swift more.

Then this superabundance of eggs is protected by such warm and compact

nests. The nest of the willow warbler, to which I have referred, is a

kind of thatched cottage upholstered with feathers. It is placed upon

the ground, and is dome-shaped, like that of our meadow mouse, the

entrance being on the side. The chaffinch, the most abundant and

universal of the British birds, builds a nest in the white thorn that is

a marvel of compactness and neatness. It is made mainly of fine moss and

wool. The nest of Jenny Wren, with its dozen or more of eggs, is too

perfect for art, and too cunning for nature. Those I saw were placed

amid the roots of trees on a steep bank by the roadside. You behold a

mass of fine green moss set in an irregular framework of roots, with a

round hole in the middle of it. As far in as your finger can reach, it

is exquisitely soft and delicately modeled. When removed from its place,

it is a large mass of moss with the nest at the heart of it.

Then add to these things the comparative immunity from the many dangers

that beset the nests of our birds,--dangers from squirrels, snakes,

crows, owls, weasels, etc., and from violent storms and tempests,--and

one can quickly see why the British birds so thrive and abound. There is

a chaffinch for every tree, and a rook and a starling for every square

rod of ground. I think there would be still more starlings if they could

find places to build, but every available spot is occupied; every hole

in a wall, or tower, or tree, or stump; every niche about the farm

buildings; every throat of the grinning gargoyles about the old churches

and cathedrals; every cranny in towers and steeples and castle parapet,

and the mouth of every rain-spout and gutter in which they can find a

lodgment.

The ruins of the old castles afford a harbor to many species, the most

noticeable of which are sparrows, starlings, doves, and swallows.

Rochester Castle, the main tower or citadel of which is yet in a good

state of preservation, is one vast dove-cote. The woman in charge told

me there were then about six hundred doves there. They whitened the air

as they flew and circled about. From time to time they are killed off

and sent to market. At sundown, after the doves had gone to roost, the

swifts appeared, seeking out their crannies. For a few moments the air

was dark with them.

Look also at the rooks. They follow the plowmen like chickens, picking

up the grubs and worms; and chickens they are, sable farm fowls of a

wider range. Young rooks are esteemed a great delicacy. The

four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie, and set before the king, of

the nursery rhyme, were very likely four-and-twenty young rooks.

Rook-pie is a national dish, and it would seem as if the young birds are

slaughtered in sufficient numbers to exterminate the species in a few

years. But they have to be kept under, like the rabbits; inasmuch as

they do not emigrate, like the people. I had heard vaguely that our

British cousins eschewed all pie except rook-pie, but I did not fully

realize the fact till I saw them shooting the young birds and shipping

them to market. A rookery in one's grove or shade-trees may be quite a

source of profit. The young birds are killed just before they are able

to fly, and when they first venture upon the outer rim of the nest or

perch upon the near branches. I witnessed this chicken-killing in a

rookery on the banks of the Doon. The ruins of an old castle crowned the

height overgrown with forest trees. In these trees the rooks nested,

much after the fashion of our wild pigeons. A young man with a rifle was

having a little sport by shooting the young rooks for the gamekeeper.

There appeared to be fewer than a hundred nests, and yet I was told that

as many as thirty dozen young rooks had been shot there that season.

During the firing the parent birds circle high aloft, uttering their

distressed cries. Apparently, no attempt is made to conceal the nests;

they are placed far out upon the branches, several close together,

showing as large dense masses of sticks and twigs. Year after year the

young are killed, and yet the rookery is not abandoned, nor the old

birds discouraged. It is to be added that this species is not the

carrion crow, like ours, though so closely resembling it in appearance.

It picks up its subsistence about the fields, and is not considered an

unclean bird. The British carrion crow is a much more rare species. It

is a strong, fierce bird, and often attacks and kills young lambs or

rabbits.

What is true of the birds is true of the rabbits, and probably of the

other smaller animals. The British rabbit breeds seven times a year, and

usually produces eight young at a litter; while, so far as I have

observed, the corresponding species in this country breeds not more than

twice, producing from three to four young. The western gray rabbit is

said to produce three or four broods a year of four to six young. It is

calculated that in England a pair of rabbits will, in the course of four

years, multiply to one million two hundred and fifty thousand. If

unchecked for one season, this game would eat the farmers up. In the

parks of the Duke of Hamilton, the rabbits were so numerous that I think

one might have fired a gun at random with his eyes closed and knocked

them over. They scampered right and left as I advanced, like leaves

blown by the wind. Their cotton tails twinkled thicker than fireflies in

our summer night. In the Highlands, where there were cultivated lands,

and in various other parts of England and Scotland that I visited, they

were more abundant than chipmunks in our beechen woods. The revenue

derived from the sale of the ground game on some estates is an

important item. The rabbits are slaughtered in untold numbers throughout

the island. They shoot them, and hunt them with ferrets, and catch them

in nets and gins and snares, and they are the principal game of the

poacher, and yet the land is alive with them. Thirty million skins are

used up annually in Great Britain, besides several million hare skins.

The fur is used for stuffing beds, and is also made into yarn and cloth.

But the Colorado beetle is our own, and it shows many of the European

virtues. It is sufficiently prolific and persistent to satisfy any

standard; but we cannot claim all the qualities for it till it has

crossed the Atlantic and established itself on the other side.

There are other forms of life in which we surpass the mother country. I

did not hear the voice of frog or toad while I was in England. Their

marshes were silent; their summer nights were voiceless. I longed for

the multitudinous chorus of my own bog; for the tiny silver bells of our

hylas, the long-drawn and soothing _tr-r-r-r-r_ of our twilight toads,

and the rattling drums, kettle and bass, of our pond frogs. Their insect

world, too, is far behind ours; no fiddling grasshoppers, no purring

tree-crickets, no scraping katydids, no whirring cicadas; no sounds from

any of these sources by meadow or grove, by night or day, that I could

ever hear. We have a large orchestra of insect musicians, ranging from

that tiny performer that picks the strings of his instrument so daintily

in the summer twilight, to the shrill and piercing crescendo of the

harvest-fly. A young Englishman who had traveled over this country told

me he thought we had the noisiest nature in the world. English midsummer

nature is the other extreme of stillness. The long twilight is unbroken

by a sound, unless in places by the "clanging rookery." The British

bumblebee, a hairy, short-waisted fellow, has the same soft, mellow bass

as our native bee, and his habits appear much the same, except that he

can stand the cold and the wet much better (I used to see them very

lively after sundown, when I was shivering with my overcoat on), and

digs his own hole like the rabbit, which ours does not. Sitting in the

woods one day, a bumblebee alighted near me on the ground, and, scraping

away the surface mould, began to bite and dig his way into the earth,--a

true Britisher, able to dig his own hole.

In the matter of squirrel life, too, we are far ahead of England. I

believe there are more red squirrels, to say nothing of gray squirrels,

flying squirrels, and chipmunks, within half a mile of my house than in

any county in England. In all my loitering and prying about the woods

and groves there, I saw but two squirrels. The species is larger than

ours, longer and softer furred, and appears to have little of the

snickering, frisking, attitudinizing manner of the American species. But

England is the paradise of snails. The trail of the snail is over all. I

have counted a dozen on the bole of a single tree. I have seen them

hanging to the bushes and hedges like fruit. I heard a lady complain

that they got into the kitchen, crawling about by night and hiding by

day, and baffling her efforts to rid herself of them. The thrushes eat

them, breaking their shells upon a stone. They are said to be at times a

serious pest in the garden, devouring the young plants at night. When

did the American snail devour anything, except, perhaps, now and then a

strawberry? The bird or other creature that feeds on the large black

snail of Britain, if such there be, need never go hungry, for I saw

these snails even on the tops of mountains.

The same opulence of life that characterizes the animal world in England

characterizes the vegetable. I was especially struck, not so much with

the variety of wild flowers, as with their numbers and wide

distribution. The ox-eye daisy and the buttercup are good samples of the

fecundity of most European plants. The foxglove, the corn-poppy, the

speedwell, the wild hyacinth, the primrose, the various vetches, and

others grow in nearly the same profusion. The forget-me-not is very

common, and the little daisy is nearly as universal as the grass.

Indeed, as I have already stated in another chapter, nearly all the

British wild flowers seemed to grow in the open manner and in the same

abundance as our goldenrods and purple asters. They show no shyness, no

wildness. Nature is not stingy of them, but fills her lap with each in

its turn. Rare and delicate plants, like our arbutus, certain of our

orchids and violets, that hide in the woods, and are very fastidious

and restricted in their range, probably have no parallel in England. The

island is small, is well assorted and compacted, and is thoroughly

homogeneous in its soil and climate; the conditions of field and forest

and stream that exist have long existed; a settled permanence and

equipoise prevail; every creature has found its place, every plant its

home. There are no new experiments to be made, no new risks to be run;

life in all its forms is established, and its current maintains a steady

strength and fullness that an observer from our spasmodic hemisphere is

sure to appreciate.

X