All that May day long I had been trying to break my record of birds
seen and heard between dawn and dark. Toward the end of the gray
afternoon an accommodating Canadian warbler, wearing a black necklace
across his yellow breast, carried me past my last year's mark, and I
started for home in great contentment. My path wound in and out among
the bare white boles of a beech wood all feathery with new
green-sanguine-colored leaves. Always as I enter that wood I have a
sense of a sudden silence, and I walk softly, that I may catch perhaps
a last word or so of what They are saying.
That day, as I moved without a sound among the trees, suddenly, not
fifty feet away, loping wearily down the opposite slope, came a gaunt
red fox and a cub. With her head down, she looked like the picture of
the wolf in Red Riding-Hood. The little cub was all woolly, like a
lamb. His back was reddish-brown, and he had long stripes of gray
across his breast and around his small belly, and his little sly face
was so comical that I laughed at the very first sight of it. What wind
there was blew from them to me, and my khaki clothes blended with the
coloring around me.
As I watched them, another larger cub trotted down the hill. The first
cub suddenly yapped at him, with a snarling little bark quite
different from that of a dog; but the other paid no attention, but
stalked sullenly into a burrow which for the first time I noticed
among the roots of a white-oak tree. Back of the burrow lay a large
chestnut log which evidently served as a watch-tower for the fox
family. To this the mother fox went, and climbing up on top of it, lay
down, with her head on her paws and her magnificent brush dangling
down beside the log, and went to sleep.
The little cub that was left trotted to the entrance of the burrow and
for a while played by himself, like a puppy or a kitten. First he
snapped at some blades of grass and chewed them up fiercely. Then,
seeing a leaf that had stuck in the wool on his back, he whirled
around and around, snapping at it with his little jaws. Failing to
catch it, he rolled over and over in the dirt until he had brushed it
off. Then he proceeded to stalk the battered carcass of an old black
crow that lay in front of the burrow. Crouching and creeping up on it
inch by inch, he suddenly sprang and caught that unsuspecting corpse
and worried it ferociously, with fierce little snarls. All the time
his wrinkled-up, funny little face was so comical that I nearly
laughed aloud every time he moved. At last he curled up in a round
ball, with his chin on his forepaws like his mother.
There before me, at the end of the quiet spring afternoon, two of the
wildest and shyest of all of our native animals lay asleep. Never
before had I seen a fox in all that country, nor even suspected that
one had a home within a scant mile of mine. As I watched them
sleeping, I felt somehow that the wildwood had taken me into her
confidence and was trusting her children to my care; and I would no
more have harmed them, than I would my own.
As I watched the cub curled up in a woolly ball, I wanted to creep up
and stroke his soft fur. Leaving the hard path, I started to cover as
silently as possible the fifty feet that lay between us. Before I had
gone far, a leaf rustled underfoot, and in a second the cub was on his
feet, wide awake, and staring down at me. With one foot in the air, I
waited and waited until he settled down to sleep again. A minute later
the same thing happened once more, only to be repeated at every step
or so. It took me something like half an hour to reach a point within
twenty feet of where he lay, and I looked straight into his eyes each
time that he stood up.
No wild animal can tell a man from a tree by sight alone if only he
stands still. Suddenly, as the cub sprang up, perhaps for the tenth
time, there about six feet to one side of him stood the old mother
fox. I had not heard a sound or seen a movement, but there she was. I
was so close that I dared not move my head to look at the cub, but
turned only my eyes. When I looked back the mother fox was gone. With
no sudden movement that I could detect, there almost before my eyes
she had melted into the landscape.
I stood like a stone until the cub had lain down once more. This time
evidently he was watching me out of his wrinkled-up little eyes, for
at my very first forward movement he got up, and with no appearance of
haste turned around and disappeared down in the burrow. The
watch-tower log was vacant, although I have no doubt that the mother
fox was watching me from some unseen spot.
When I came to examine the den, I found that there were three burrows
in a line, perhaps fifteen feet in length, with a hard-worn path
leading from one to the other. The watch-log behind them was rubbed
smooth and shiny, with reddish fox-hairs caught in every crevice. Near
the three burrows was a tiny one, which I think was probably dug as an
air-hole; while in front I found the feathers of a flicker, a purple
grackle, and a chicken, besides the remains of the crow aforesaid. How
any fox outside of the fable could beguile a crow is a puzzle to me.
All of these burrows were in plain sight, and I hunted a long time to
find the concealed one which is a part of the home of every
well-regulated fox family. For a while I could find no trace of it.
Finally I saw on the side of a stump one reddish hair that gave me a
clue. Examining the stump carefully, I found that it was hollow and
formed the entrance to the secret exit from the three main burrows.
A week later I went again to look at the home of that fox family; but
it was deserted by them and was now tenanted by a fat woodchuck,
who would never have ventured near the den if the owners had not left
it. Mrs. Fox had evidently feared the worst from my visit, and in the
night had moved her whole family to some better-hidden home. This was
three years ago, and, although I visit the place every winter, no
tell-tale tracks ever show that she has moved back.
[Illustration: BR'ER FOX AND BR'ER POSSUM]
It is not necessary to go to the forest for adventures: they lie in
wait for us at our very doors. My home is in a built-up suburb of a
large city, apparently hopelessly civilized. The other morning I was
out early for some before-breakfast chopping, the best of all
setting-up exercises. As I turned the corner of the garage, I suddenly
came face to face with a black-and-white animal with a pointed nose, a
bushy tail, and an air of justified confidence. I realized that I was
on the brink of a meeting which demanded courage but not rashness. "Be
brave, be brave, but not _too_ brave," should always be the motto of
the man who meets the skunk. From my past experience, however, I knew
that the skunk is a good sportsman. Unless rushed, he always gives
three warnings before he proceeds to extremities.
As I came near, he stopped and shook his head sadly, as if saying to
himself, "I'm afraid there's going to be trouble, but it isn't my
fault." As I still came on, he gave me danger signal number one by
suddenly stamping his forepaws rapidly on the hard ground. Upon my
further approach followed signal number two, to wit, the hoisting
aloft of his aforesaid long, bushy tail. As I came on more and more
slowly, I received the third and last warning--the end of the erect
tail moved quietly back and forth a few times.
It was enough. I stood stony still, for I knew that if, after that, I
moved forward but by the fraction of an inch, I would meet an unerring
barrage which would send a suit of clothes to an untimely grave. For
perhaps half a minute we eyed each other. Like the man in the story, I
made up my mind that one of us would have to run--and that I was that
one. Without any false pride I backed slowly and cautiously out of
range. Thereupon the threatening tail descended, and Mr. Skunk trotted
away through a gap in the fence into the long grass of an unoccupied
lot--probably seeking a breakfast of field-mice.
I felt a definite sense of relief, for it is usually more dangerous to
meet a skunk than a bear. In fact, all the bears that I have ever come
upon were disappearing with great rapidity across the landscape.
But there are times when a meeting with either Mr. or Mrs. Bruin is
apt to be an unhappy one. Several years ago I was camping out in Maine
one March, in a lumberman's shack. A few days before I came, two boys
in a village near by decided to go into the woods hunting, with a
muzzle-loading shot-gun and a long stick between them. One boy was ten
years old, while the other was a patriarch of twelve. On a hillside
under a great bush they noticed a small hole which seemed to have
melted through the snow, and which had a gamy savor that made them
suspect a coon. The boy with the stick poked it in as far as possible
until he felt something soft.
"I think there's something here," he remarked, poking with all his
might.
He was quite right. The next moment the whole bank of frozen snow
suddenly caved out, and there stood a cross and hungry bear, prodded
out of his winter sleep by that stick. The boys were up against a bad
proposition. The snow was too deep for running, and when it came to
climbing--that was Mr. Bear's pet specialty. So they did the only
thing left for them to do: they waited. The little one with the stick
got behind the big one with the gun, which weapon wavered unsteadily.
"Now, don't you miss," he said, "'cause this stick ain't very sharp."
Sometimes an attacking bear will run at a man like a biting dog. More
often it rises on its haunches and depends on the smashing blows of
its mighty arms and steel-shod paws. So it happened in this case. Just
before the bear reached the boys, he lifted his head and started to
rise. The first boy, not six feet away, aimed at the white spot which
most black bears have under their chin, and pulled the trigger. At
that close range the heavy charge of number six shot crashed through
the animal's throat, making a single round hole like a big bullet,
cutting the jugular vein, and piercing the neck vertebræ beyond. The
great beast fell forward with hardly a struggle, so close to the boys
that its blood splashed on their rubber boots. They got ten dollars
for the skin and ten dollars for the bounty, and about one million
dollars' worth of glory.
* * * * *
Hasting homeward for more peaceful adventures, I find, near the road
which leads to the railway station over which scores and hundreds of
my friends and neighbors, including myself, pass every day, a little
patch of marshland. In the fall it is covered with a thick growth of
goldenrod, purple asters, joe-pye-weed, wild sunflowers, white
boneset, tear-thumb, black bindweed, dodder, and a score or more of
other common fall flowers.
One night, at nine o'clock, I noticed that an ice-blue star shone from
almost the very zenith of the heavens. Below her were two faint stars
making a tiny triangle, the left-hand one showing as a beautiful
double under an opera-glass. Below was a row of other dim points of
light in the black sky. It was Vega of the Lyre, the great Harp Star.
Then I knew that the time had come. We humans think, arrogantly, that
we are the only ones for whom the stars shine, and forget that flowers
and birds, and all the wild folk are born each under its own special
star.
The next morning I was up with the sun and visited that bit of
unpromising marshland past which all of us had plodded year in and
year out. In one corner, through the dim grass, I found flaming like
deep-blue coals one of the most beautiful flowers in the world, the
fringed gentian. The stalk and flower-stems looked like green
candelabra, while the unopened blossoms showed sharp edges like
beech-nuts. Above them glowed square fringed flowers of the richest,
deepest blue that nature holds. It is bluer than the bluebird's back,
and fades the violet, the aster, the great lobelia, and all the other
blue flowers that grow. The four petals were fringed, and the flower
seemed like a blue eye looking out of long lashes to the paler sky
above. The calyx inside was of a veined purple or a silver-white,
while four gold-tipped, light purple stamens clustered around a
canary-yellow pistil. That morning I wore on the train one of the two
flowers which I allowed myself to pick. Every friend I met spoke of it
admiringly. Some had heard of it, others had seen it for themselves in
places far distant. None of them knew that every day until frost they
would pass unheedingly within ten feet of nearly thirty of these
flowers.
Sometimes the adventure, unlike good children, is to be heard, not
seen. It was the end of a hot August day. I had been down for a late
dip in the lake, and was coming back through the woods to the old
farmhouse where I have spent so many of my summers. The path wound
through a grove of slim birches, and the lights in the afterglow were
all green and gold and white. From the nearby road a field sparrow,
with a pink beak, sang his silver flute song; and I stopped to listen,
and thought to myself, if he were only as rare as the nightingale, how
people would crowd to hear him.
Suddenly from the depths of the twilight woods a thrush song began. At
first I thought the singer was the wood thrush, which, besides the
veery or Wilson thrush, was the only one that I had supposed could be
found in that Connecticut township. The song, however, had a more
ethereal quality, and I listened in vain for the drop to the harsh
bass notes which always blemish the strain of the wood thrush.
Instead, after three arpeggio notes, the singer's voice went up and
up, with a sweep that no human voice or instrument could compass, and
I suddenly realized that I was in the presence of one of the great
singers of the world. For years I had read of the song of the hermit
thrush, but in all my wanderings I had never chanced to hear it
before.
Lafcadio Hearn writes of a Japanese bird whose song has the power to
change a man's whole life. So it was with me that midsummer evening.
Some thing had been added to the joy of living that could never be
taken from me. Since that twilight I have heard the hermit thrush sing
many times. Through the rain in the dawn-dusk on the top of Mount
Pocono, he sang for me once, while all around a choir of veerys
accompanied him with their strange minor harp-chords. One Sunday
morning, at the edge of a little Canadian river, I heard five singing
together on the farther side. "Ah-h-h, holy, holy, holy," their voices
chimed across the still water. In the woods, in migration, I have
heard their whisper-song, which the hermit sings only when traveling;
and once on a May morning, in my back yard, near Philadelphia, one
sang for me from the low limb of a bush as loudly as if he were in his
mountain home.
No thrush song, however, will ever equal that first one which I heard
among the birch trees. Creeping softly along the path that evening, I
finally saw the little singer on a branch against the darkening sky.
Again and again he sang, until at last I noticed that, when the
highest notes were reached and the song ceased to my ears, the singer
sang on still. Quivering in an ecstasy, with open beak and
half-fluttering wings, the thrush sang a strain that went beyond my
range. Like the love-song of the bat, perhaps the best part of the
song of the hermit thrush can never be heard by any human ear.
* * * * *
It was the morning of June twentieth. I stood at the gate of the
farm-house where three roads met, and the air was full of bird-songs.
For a long time I stood there, and tried to note how many different
songs I could hear. Nearby were the alto joy-notes of the Baltimore
oriole. Up from the meadow where the trout brook flowed, came the
bubbling, gurgling notes of the bobolink. Robins, wood thrushes, song
sparrows, chipping sparrows, blue-birds, vireos, goldfinches, chebecs,
indigo birds, flickers, phoebes, scarlet tanagers, red-winged
blackbirds, catbirds, house wrens--altogether, without moving from my
place, I counted twenty-three different bird-songs and bird-notes.
Nearby I saw a robin's nest, curiously enough built directly on the
ground on the side of the bank of one of the roads, and lined with
white wool, evidently picked up in the neighboring sheep-pasture.
This started me on another of the games of solitaire which I like to
play out-of-doors, and I tried to see how many nests I could discover
from the same vantage-point without moving. This is really a good way
to find birds' nests, and the one who stands still and watches the
birds will often find more than he who beats about. For a long time
the robin's nest was the only one on my list. At last the flashing
orange and black of a Baltimore oriole betrayed its gray swinging
pouch of a nest in a nearby spruce tree--the only time that I have
ever seen an oriole's nest in an evergreen tree. In a lilac bush I saw
the deep nest of the catbird, with its four vivid blue eggs and the
inevitable grapevine-bark lining around its edge.
In a high fork in a great maple tree at the corner of the road, the
chebec, or least flycatcher, showed me her home. Sooner or later, if
you watch any of the flycatchers long enough, they will generally show
you their nests. This one was high up in a fork, and made of string
and wool and down. Over in the adjoining orchard I saw a kingbird
light on her nest in the very top of an apple tree; and I have no
doubt that, if I had climbed up to it, I would have seen three
beautiful cream-white eggs blotched with chocolate-brown.
The last nest of all was my treasure nest of the summer. I was about
to give up the game and start off for a walk, when suddenly, right
ahead of me, hanging on the limb of a sugar-maple, not five feet above
the stone wall, I saw the swinging basket-nest of a vireo, with the
woven white strips of birch-bark on the outside which all vireos use
in that part of the country. It was as if a veil had suddenly dropped
from my eyes, for I had been looking in that direction constantly,
without seeing the nest directly in front of me. Probably, at last, I
must have slightly turned my head and finally caught the light in a
different direction. I supposed that the nest was that of the red-eyed
vireo, the only one of the five vireos which would be likely to build
in such a location. Climbing upon the wall to look at it, I saw that
the mother bird was on the nest. Even when I took hold of the limb,
she did not fly. Then I slowly pulled the limb down, and still the
brave little bird stayed on her nest, although several times she
started to her feet and, ruffling her feathers, made as if to fly. As
the nest came nearer and nearer, I could see that she was quivering
all over with fear, and that her heart was beating so rapidly as to
shake her tiny body. Finally, as she came almost within reach of my
outstretched hand, she gave me one long look and then suddenly cuddled
down over her dearly loved eggs and hid her head inside of the nest.
Reaching my hand out very carefully, I stroked her quivering little
back. She raised her head and gave me another long look, as if to make
sure whether I meant her any harm. Evidently I seemed friendly, for as
I stroked her head she turned and gave my finger a little peck, then
snuggled her head up against it in the most confiding, engaging way.
As she did so, I noticed that a white line ran from the beak to the
eye, and that she had a white eye-ring and a bluish-gray head. As I
looked at her, suddenly from a nearby branch the father bird sang,
and I recognized the song of the solitary or blue-headed vireo, who
belongs in the deep woods and whose rare nest is usually found in
their depths. As the male came nearer, I could see his pure white
throat which, with the white line from eye to bill and the
greenish-yellow markings on either flank, make good field-marks. The
four eggs, which I saw afterwards when the mother bird was off the
nest, were white with reddish markings all over instead of being
blotched at one end as are those of the red-eyed vireo. Every day for
the rest of that week I visited my little friend; and before I left
she grew to know me so well that she would not even ruffle up her
feathers when I pulled the limb down.
* * * * *
Children are of great help in the life adventurous. They have an
inexhaustible fund of admiration for even the feeblest efforts of
their parents in adventuring. Many a dull dog, who once heard nothing
in all the world but the clank of business, has been changed into a
confirmed adventurer by sheer appreciation. Moreover, children possess
an energy and imagination which we grown-ups often lack. Only the
other afternoon I started off for a walk with my four, to find myself
suddenly dining in the New Forest with Robin Hood, Little John, Will
Scarlet, and Allan a' Dale. Owing probably to a certain comfortable
habit of person, I was elected to be Friar Tuck.
The forest itself is a wonderful wood of great trees hidden in a
little valley between two round green hills. In its centre is a
bubbling spring of clear water that never freezes in winter or dries
up in summer. That afternoon we had explored the Haunted House at the
edge of the wood, with its date-stone of 1809, ten-foot fireplace, and
vast stone chimney, and had fearfully approached that door under which
a dark stream of blood flowed a half-century ago, on the day when all
humans stopped dwelling in that house forever.
Little John climbed puffingly up through two sets of floor-beams, to
where a few warped hemlock boards still make a patch of flooring in
the attic. Under a rafter he found a cunningly concealed hidey-hole,
drilled like a flicker's nest into one of the soft mica-schist stones
of the chimney. Inside were a battered home-made top, whittled out of
a solid block, and two flint Indian arrow-heads, ghosts of some
long-dead boyhood which still lingered in the little attic chamber.
In the spring twilight we stole out by a side door, so that we might
not cross that stained threshold. A lilac bush, which in a century of
growth had become a thicket of purple, scented bloom, surrounded the
whole side of the house; while beside a squat buttonwood tree of
monstrous girth was the dome of a Dutch oven. We followed a dim path
fringed with white-thorn and sprays of sweet viburnum blossoms.
From the distance, beyond the farther hill, came the crooning of the
toads on their annual pilgrimage back to the marsh where they were
born. In time we reached a bank all blue and white with enameled
innocents. In front of this the camp-fire was always kindled. The Band
scattered for fire-wood--but not far, for there were too many lurking
shadows among those tree-trunks. At last the fire was laid and
lighted. Five minutes later all the powers of darkness fled for their
lives before the steady roaring column of smokeless flame that surged
up in front of the Band. Followed wassail and feasting galore.
Haunches of venison, tasting much like mutton-chops, broiled hissingly
at the end of green beechwood spits. Flagons of Adam's ale were
quaffed, and the loving-cup--it was of the folding variety--passed
from hand to hand.
All at once the substantial Tuck heaved himself up to his feet beside
the dying fire. There was not a sound in the sleeping forest.
Night-folk, wood-folk, water-folk, all were still. Then from the
pursed lips of the Friar sounded a long, wavering, mournful call.
Again and again it shuddered away across the hills. Suddenly, so far
away that at first it seemed an echo, it was answered. Once and twice
more the call sounded, and each time the answer was nearer and louder.
Something was coming. As the Band listened aghast, around the circle
made by the firelight glided a dark shape with fiery eyes. It realized
their worst fears, and with one accord they threw themselves on the
Friar, who rocked under the impact.
"Send it back, Fathie, send it back!" they shouted in chorus.
[Illustration: THE SINGER OF THE NIGHT--THE SCREECH OWL]
The good Friar unpuckered his lips.
"I am surprised, comrades," he said severely. "You aren't afraid of an
old screech-owl, are you?"
"N-n-n-ooo," quavered little Will Scarlet, "if you're _sure_ it's a
nowl."
"Certain sure," asserted the Friar reassuringly, and gave the call
again.
On muffled, silent wings the dark form drifted around and around the
light, but never across it, and then alighted on a nearby tree and
gave an indescribable little crooning note which the Friar could only
approximate. At last, disgusted with the clumsy attempts to continue a
conversation so well begun, the owl melted away into the darkness and
was gone.
After that, the Band decided that home was the one place for them.
Water was poured on the blaze, and earth heaped over the hissing
embers. Under the sullen flare of Arcturus and the glow of Algieba,
Spica, and all the stars of spring, they started back by dim wood
roads and flower-scented lanes. Will Scarlet, Little John, and Allan
a' Dale frankly shared the hands of the Friar, and in the darkest
places even the redoubtable Robin himself casually took possession of
an unoccupied thumb.