It was Thanksgiving Day in Kansas. The sun still shone warm over the
yellow cornfields and the brown prairies, tho’ there was a hint of frost
in the air, and the nearly bare trees stood as ominous tokens of the
coming winter. The autumn wind blew a perfect gale from the southwest.
Down in the valley by the river the sand was flying in stinging clouds,
jerking the few remaining yellow leaves from the cottonwoods, ruffling
the waters of the Ninnescah, beating the purple veil from the hedges
where the autumn sun had tangled it, bending the long reeds, and
drifting in little mounds beneath the wild-plum bushes.
On the uplands where the curly buffalo-grass spread its thick brown
carpet, the whitened heads of the golden-rods bent before the wind, the
sage-grass waved its long yellow stalks, and the sunflowers rattled
their bare stems and brown heads together.
Behind the shelter of one of the sandhills beside the Ninnescah river a
strange assembly of birds and beasts and creeping things had gathered.
A couple of rough-coated, sharp-eared gray coyotes were rolling and
tumbling over one another in a good-natured scuffle.
A bunch of quails were picking up the seeds which the wind shook from
the sunflower pods above them, while a few brown prairie chickens lay
sunning themselves upon the sand.
A long-eared jackrabbit sat erect upon his haunches in solemn dignity,
acting as umpire to the coyotes’ prize-fight; while his cousin, the
little cotton-tail rabbit, nibbled at some tender twigs that grew near
by.
A rattlesnake was curled up in the sunniest place to be found, and his
companions, the cunning brown prairie dog and the little grey owl, sat
near by.
Sand lizards flashed here and there beneath the plum bushes, and the
guest of honor—a huge mountain lion—lay dozing within the shelter of the
thicket.
Blue jays, blackbirds, brown thrushes, scarlet-coated redbirds, sparrows
and yellowhammers flitted from bush to tree; meadow larks trilled their
cheerful song; while up on the topmost twig of a tall cottonwood tree a
mockingbird swung in the wind and poured his whole soul through his
little throat in a wonderful stream of melody.
All the delegates of the animal world being at last assembled, the
jackrabbit—in consideration of his dignity—was made master of
ceremonies, and called the assembly to order in the following words:
“My honorable friends, the birds and beasts and reptiles of Kansas: We
have assembled here today to hold a sort of Thanksgiving service.
“Once every year men gather themselves together to count over the good
things that have come to them, and to congratulate one another over the
evils they have missed.
“It may occur to some of you that we birds and beasts have little for
which to be thankful in these days when dogs and men are so numerous,
and when life is attended with so many privations and dangers. But, upon
careful thought, I think each one present will be able to add an item to
our list of blessings of the past year that will encourage us through
the winter days so near at hand.
“Our friend and guest, the mountain lion, will please to address us.”
The mountain lion opened his fierce eyes, stretched his huge paws, rose
slowly to his feet, and shook the sand from his rough coat.
In spite of the truce of the occasion, the smaller animals eyed him with
evident terror, and the prairie chickens fluttered their wings as if
ready to fly away from so dangerous a neighbor.
“What have I to be thankful for?” the lion asked in harsh tones. “I am
thankful that I have come through the year with a whole hide in spite of
dogs and guns and men. I am thankful that dogs are afraid of me, and
that men dare not attack me single-handed. I am thankful that after all
my wanderings from the solitudes of the Indian Territory mountains, I
have found this comparatively safe retreat among these sandhills and
plum thickets. Calves, and pigs, and chickens—and rabbits—have been
abundant; so I have no cause to complain of poor living. Kansas would be
paradise if it contained neither dogs nor men.” He ground out the last
sentence with a growl which would have caused both dogs and men to
tremble if they had heard it, then lay down and resumed his nap beneath
the bushes.
A respectful silence had fallen over the assembly; for “Who shall follow
the king?”
As soon as the jackrabbit had gotten over that terrible reference to
rabbits enough to steady his voice, he called upon the coyotes for
remarks. Both sprang briskly to their feet, and as neither one would
give way to the other, they addressed the assembly in alternate barks:
“I am thankful that I am so swift a runner that no dog can catch me.”
“And I am thankful because I can scare almost any dog that tries to
catch me. How they do run and howl when I turn on them!”
“Chickens and ducks and geese are plentiful; and though the chickens
learn to fear us and roost high, ducks and geese are always on the
ground and can neither fly nor run.”
“This has been a fine season for young pigs, and I also caught several
lambs that made tender eating.”
“There are such delightful thickets along the rivers and streams, that
coyotes have plenty of safe hiding places. I have made good burrows
beside the Ninnescah and Arkansas rivers, the Cowskin and Honey creeks,
and I go back and forth at pleasure. Yes, Kansas is a pretty good
country for coyotes—barring the dogs and men.”
“Yes, barring the dogs and men.”
Both coyotes sat down and the little cotton-tail spoke:
“Life is hard and dangerous for a rabbit at best. There are so many
enemies to fear, and even our swift flight often fails to save us. I
have fared well this year. I found a place where the farmer keeps no
dogs and owns no gun. To be sure, he had woven-wire fences around his
garden and his young orchard, but I found a cunning little hole in the
fence behind one of the grapevines that was just made for a door for a
poor little rabbit, and I tell you I have lived high. Such peas and
lettuce and cabbage as that man did have! Enough for twenty rabbits like
me. Then for a change I nibbled the tender shoots on the grapevines, and
now am expecting to get my living this winter by gnawing the bark from
several hundred young fruit trees which he has set out. I have already
found a hole under the fence. So I have cause to be thankful to-day.”
The little prairie dog sat up stiffly and tried to look dignified as he
addressed the assembly.
“Life has been full of ups and downs for me and for my friends, the
rattlesnakes and owls. We had made a fine burrow in a broad pasture, and
all last year we lived there in peace. This year the man who owned it
concluded to plow it up for a cornfield; and the first thing he did, he
turned the water from a slough right into our beautiful prairie dog town
and flooded all our carefully dug homes. Many of my brothers and cousins
were drowned or rushed out of their holes only to be slain by the
dreadful dogs and men.
“I was more fortunate, because I had run one of my tunnels in an uphill
direction for fear that water might some time trouble us. When the flood
came I retreated to this high point and saved myself, altho the water
almost reached me, and I was obliged to stay there for several days
before I could make my way out.
“Now I have a pleasant home here among the sandhills, and I have been
careful to dig a good upper story with an opening through which I can
escape in time of need. The rattlesnake and the owl share my humble
home, and we live in peace together.”
The owl nodded his wise head, and the snake shook his rattles in
approval of this address which included themselves, and made it
unnecessary for them to add their voices to the speechmaking.
A little green lizard roused himself from his warm place in the sun and
added his squeaky voice to the general conference:
“I know nothing about dogs and men. My brothers and I live here upon the
sandhills where insects are plenty and enemies are few. We spend hours
in basking in the delightfully hot sun, and if any noise alarms us dart
to our hiding places beneath the roots of the bushes or under some
rotten log or tree. We are of several colors, gray, green, yellow or
brown, and when we lie still upon the sand or on logs or under leaves it
is hard for any beast or bird or man to see us. We may have few
blessings, as the world goes, but we at least have nothing of which to
complain.”
The prairie chickens were next called upon for an account of themselves,
and answered:
“We are the sole representatives of the great coveys of birds of our
kind that used to make their homes upon these prairies. Their drumming
could be heard within the thickets, and the swift whirring of their
brown wings as they beat the air in their diagonal flight. Life was a
pleasure to prairie chickens in those good old days before we were born.
“Now it is different. Men learned to consider our flesh a delicacy and
hunted us down. They even grudged us the grain that we gathered from
their broad wheat and corn fields and treated us as common robbers. Now
only a few of us are left, and we dare not call our lives our own. We
have learned to be very shy and to hide in the most solitary places.
Still, life is not all trouble. The winters in Kansas are short and
usually mild, there are plenty of good warm thickets and hedges, and
there is always plenty for birds to eat, unless the snow is uncommonly
heavy. So we manage to be happy and take each day as it comes.”
The quails trooped forward as the prairie-chickens ceased speaking.
“We are the farmer’s friends,” said they, “and therefore the farmer is
friendly to us. We eat the bugs and worms that would destroy his crop.
We take a little of his grain now and then, but we more than repay the
damage by our warfare upon the bugs.
“We have been so fortunate as to find a farmer who appreciates us, and
will allow no one to shoot us. So our year has been peaceful, and we
have been bountifully fed.”
An ungainly toad hopped forward as the quails ceased speaking:
“I do not look much like a quail, and can neither fly nor run nor sing;
but I also am the farmer’s friend, and am always ready to seize my
opportunities when they come in the shape of flies and bugs. I may not
be beautiful, to some unappreciative eyes, but I am at least useful.”
The birds having selected the chattering jay to speak for them, he
raised his voice as follows:
“My friends desire me to say that our lives are lived above most of the
things that annoy the rest of you. Floods and dogs and fences do not
trouble us: still, we have dangers enough of our own. There are snakes
that climb to our nests and destroy our young. There are prowling cats,
and pouncing hawks, and boys with bean-shooters, and men with guns, all
of whom are lying in wait for our lives. We are so common and so
numerous that men fail to appreciate what we do for them. We make their
groves bright by our brilliant plumage, and gay with our cheerful songs.
We eat millions of caterpillars and bugs and worms. To be sure, we eat
some of the grain and peck the ripest fruit, but then that should be
looked upon as our just reward for our labors in men’s behalf. Some of
us will soon be taking our flight to southern climes, but many of us
will remain here in the friendly shelter of the thickets until spring
comes again.”
What more the blue jay might have said was cut short by a great
crackling of the bushes, which startled all the birds and smaller
animals, and caused even the mountain lion to raise his head and sniff
suspiciously.
Their alarm was quieted by the appearance of an old white horse who
looked around upon the assembly and asked:
“What is all this? How does it come that coyotes and rabbits, birds and
lizards and insects and lions”—very respectfully—“are associating in
peace together?”
The object of the meeting was explained to him, and he was asked to add
his word to the Thanksgiving service.
“What have I to be thankful for? Look at my bones almost sticking
through my skin, my knees strained and my eyes almost blinded by pulling
too heavy loads, my wind broken by hard driving, my skin scarred by
cruel blows. Life has been all hard work, with scanty food and little
rest. What have I to be thankful for? I do not know, unless it is that
my cruel master died last night, and can never beat and curse and starve
me any more. This is scanty pasture here among the sandhills, but it is
better than a full manger, and curses and abuse therewith. Often the
best thing that can happen to a horse is to have his master die. And so
I am duly thankful.”
As all had now been represented, the jackrabbit said:
“My friends, the reports have now all been made. We have heard many
pleasant things, and many things which make us sad. I think, however,
that each one has found some cause for thanksgiving, even though his
life is hard and filled with danger. All of us have learned that there
are troubles and difficulties in the lives of others, many of which do
not afflict us, and for this we should be duly thankful. From lions to
lizards is a long step in the animal world, but there is a chain of
common experience all the way through, binding us together.
“Let us remember through all the year to come, that there is no life
without trial and privation, without hope and blessing, without cause
for thanksgiving. Let us sympathize more with one another, think less of
our own trials, and look oftener at the bright spots that come into our
lives.
“The Thanksgiving Assembly for the year Nineteen Hundred and One is now
adjourned.”
Mary McCrae Culter.
Wildly round our woodland quarters,
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.
Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,
Gleam the sunsets of November,
From their skies of gold.
O’er us, to the southland heading,
Screams the gray wild-goose;
On the night-frost sounds the treading
Of the brindled moose.
Noiseless creeping, while we’re sleeping,
Frost his task-work plies;
Soon, his icy bridges heaping,
Shall our log-piles rise.
—John Greenleaf Whittier, “The Lumberman.”
[Illustration: BLACK-POLL WARBLER.
(Dendroica striata.)
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
CHICAGO COLORTYPE CO.]
THE BLACK-POLL WARBLER.
(_Dendroica striata._)
Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? Ah, why,
Thou, too, whose song first told us of the spring,
Whither away?
—Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Few birds have a wider and more extended range than the Black-poll
Warbler. Wintering in the southern United States, Central America and
the northern part of South America, they move northward in the spring,
reaching Greenland and Alaska in June. Their range extends to the
westward as far as the Rocky Mountains. Their breeding range is nearly
confined to the regions north of the United States.
This little bird which travels so extensively is a little later than
many of the warblers in arriving at its summer home, but it seems to
waste little time on the journey, as it flies rapidly and stops but
little to search for food. These words of the poet,
“And warblers, full of life and song—
All moving swiftly on their way,”
truthfully illustrate the flight of the Black-poll in its spring
migration.
This species exhibits habits similar to those of the flycatchers and
“may be considered as occupying an intermediate station between the
flycatchers and warblers, having the manner of the former and the bill
partially of the latter.” There is no better illustration of the saying
that “The nice gradations by which nature passes from one species to
another, even in this department of the great chain of beings, will
forever baffle all the artificial rules and systems of man.”
The Black-polls are at home not only in the woods but also in the tops
of the tallest trees. They prefer those forests that border on water
courses or swamps where, flying from branch to branch they quickly catch
the winged insects with a snap of their bills not unlike that of the
flycatchers. Like the flycatchers, too, the color of their plumage is
beautifully adapted to obscuring them in their dark green foliage
retreats.
Standing on the very tip of some evergreen tree, “the chaste little
figure striped in half mourning and capped in jet-black,” will burst out
in a happy song and then quickly fly into the dark recesses of the
forest.
The female shows a strong attachment for her nest and exhibits great
anxiety on the approach of any being, “beating her wings along the
branches in the utmost distress, or one may still hear her sharp
chipping note of alarm as she disappears in the almost impenetrable
growth of small black spruce.”
The nest is interesting. It is usually placed on a large branch at its
junction with the trunk of the tree. A cone-bearing tree is selected and
the spruce is preferred, as in it the nest is more perfectly obscured.
The Black-poll’s house is not the delicate structure that one would
expect to find as the home of so dainty a bird. This bulky structure is
usually placed not higher than six or eight feet from the ground. It is
constructed from the fine twigs and sprays of the evergreen trees and
fine roots woven with weeds, moss, lichens and vegetable and animal
hairs. The lining consists of fine grass and feathers. Though the
external diameter of the nest is fully five inches, the internal
diameter seldom measures over two inches.
Mr. Langille has beautifully described the song of the Black-poll. He
says, “That song, though one of the most slender and wiry in all our
forests, is as distinguishable as the hum of the cicada or the shrilling
of the katydid. Tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree, rapidly
uttered, the monotonous notes of equal length, beginning very softly,
gradually increasing to the middle of the strain and then as gradually
diminishing, thus forming a fine musical swell—may convey a fair idea of
the song. There is a peculiar soft and tinkling sweetness in this
melody, suggestive of the quiet mysteries of the forest and sedative as
an anodyne to the nerves.”