After an early breakfast we lit our pipes and cigars, and took to the
road. The sun was very bright, and in less than two hours after
starting we were sweltering under a heat almost tropical. It was one of
those autumn days peculiar to America, where even a high latitude seems
to be no protection against the sun, and his beams fall upon one with as
much fervour as they would under the line itself. The first part of our
journey was through open woods of black-jack, whose stunted forms
afforded no shade, but only shut off the breeze which might otherwise
have fanned us.
While fording a shallow stream, the doctor's scraggy, ill-tempered horse
took a fit of kicking quite frantical. For some time it seemed likely
that either the doctor himself, or his saddle-bags, would be deposited
in the bottom of the creek, but after a severe spell of whipping and
kicking on the part of the rider, the animal moved on again. What had
set it dancing? That was the question. It had the disposition to be
"frisky," but usually appeared to be lacking in strength. The buzz of a
horse-fly sounding in our ears explained all. It was one of those large
insects--the "horse-bug,"--peculiar to the Mississippi country, and
usually found near watercourses. They are more terrible to horses than
a fierce dog would be. I have known horses gallop away from them as if
pursued by a beast of prey.
There is a belief among western people that these insects are propagated
by the horses themselves; that is, that the eggs of the female are
deposited upon the grass, so that the horses may swallow them; that
incubation goes on within the stomach of the animal, and that the
chrysalis is afterwards voided. I have met with others who believed in
a still stranger theory; that the insect itself actually sought, and
found, a passage into the stomach of the horse, some said by passing
down his throat, others by boring a hole through his abdomen; and that
in such cases the horse usually sickened, and was in danger of dying!
After the doctor's mustang had returned to proper behaviour, these odd
theories became the subject of discussion. The Kentuckian believed in
them--the Englishman doubted them--the hunter-naturalist could not
endorse them--and Besancon ignored them entirely.
Shortly after the incident we entered the bottom lands of a considerable
stream. These were heavily-timbered, and the shadow of the great forest
trees afforded us a pleasant relief from the hot sun. Our guides told
us we had several miles of such woods to pass through, and we were glad
of the information. We noticed that most of the trees were beech, and
their smooth straight trunks rose like columns around us.
The beech (_Fagus sylvatica_) is one of the most beautiful of American
forest trees. Unlike most of the others, its bark is smooth, without
fissures, and often of a silvery hue. Large beech-trees standing by the
path, or near a cross road, are often seen covered with names, initials,
and dates. Even the Indian often takes advantage of the bark of a
beech-tree to signalise his presence to his friends, or commemorate some
savage exploit. Indeed, the beautiful column-like trunk seems to invite
the knife, and many a souvenir is carved upon it by the loitering
wayfarer. It does not, however, invite the axe of the settler. On the
contrary, the beechen woods often remain untouched, while others fall
around them--partly because these trees are not usually the indices of
the richest soil, but more from the fact that clearing a piece of beech
forest is no easy matter. The green logs do not burn so readily as
those of the oak, the elm, the maple, or poplar, and hence the necessity
of "rolling" them off the ground to be cleared--a serious thing where
labour is scarce and dear.
We were riding silently along, when all at once our ears were assailed
by a strange noise. It resembled the clapping of a thousand pairs of
hands, followed by a whistling sound, as if a strong wind had set
suddenly in among the trees. We all knew well enough what it meant, and
the simultaneous cry of "pigeons," was followed by half a dozen
simultaneous cracks from the guns of the party, and several bluish birds
fell to the ground. We had stumbled upon a feeding-place of the
passenger-pigeon (_Columba migratoria_).
Our route was immediately abandoned, and in a few minutes we were in the
thick of the flock, cracking away at them both with shot-gun and rifle.
It was not so easy, however, to bring them down in any considerable
numbers. In following them up we soon strayed from each other, until
our party was completely scattered, and nearly two hours elapsed before
we got back to the road. Our game-bag, however, made a fine show, and
about forty brace were deposited in the waggon. With the anticipation
of roast pigeon and "pot-pie," we rode on more cheerily to our
night-camp. All along the route the pigeons were seen, and occasionally
large flocks whirled over our heads under the canopy of the trees.
Satiated with the sport, and not caring to waste our ammunition, we did
not heed them farther.
In order to give Lanty due time for the duties of the _cuisine_, we
halted a little earlier than usual. Our day's march had been a short
one, but the excitement and sport of the pigeon-hunt repaid us for the
loss of time. Our dinner-supper--for it was a combination of both--was
the dish known in America as "pot-pie," in which the principal
ingredients were the pigeons, some soft flour paste, with a few slices
of bacon to give it a flavour. Properly speaking, the "pot-pie" is not
a pie, but a stew. Ours was excellent, and as our appetites wore in a
similar condition, a goodly quantity was used up in appeasing them.
Of course the conversation of the evening was the "wild pigeon of
America," and the following facts regarding its natural history--
although many of them are by no means new--may prove interesting to the
reader, as they did to those who listened to the relation of them around
our camp-fire.
The "passenger" is less in size than the house pigeon. In the air it
looks not unlike the kite, wanting the forked or "swallow" tail. That
of the pigeon is cuneiform. Its colour is best described by calling it
a nearly uniform slate. In the male the colours are deeper, and the
neck-feathers present the same changeable hues of green, gold, and
purple-crimson, generally observed in birds of this species. It is only
in the woods, and when freshly caught or killed, that these brilliant
tints can be seen to perfection. They fade in captivity, and
immediately after the bird has been shot. They seem to form part of its
life and liberty, and disappear when it is robbed of either. I have
often thrust the wild pigeon, freshly killed, into my game-bag,
glittering like an opal. I have drawn it forth a few hours after of a
dull leaden hue, and altogether unlike the same bird.
As with all birds of this tribe, the female is inferior to the male,
both in size and plumage. The eye is less vivid. In the male it is of
the most brilliant fiery orange, inclosed in a well-defined circle of
red. The eye is in truth its finest feature, and never fails to strike
the beholder with admiration.
The most singular fact in the natural history of the "passenger," is
their countless numbers. Audubon saw a flock that contained "one
billion one hundred and sixteen millions of birds!" Wilson counted, or
rather computed, another flock of "two thousand two hundred and thirty
millions!" These numbers seem incredible. I have no doubt of their
truth. I have no doubt that they are _under_ rather than _over_ the
numbers actually seen by both these naturalists, for both made most
liberal allowances in their calculations.
Where do these immense flocks come from?
The wild pigeons breed in all parts of America. Their breeding-places
are found as far north as the Hudson's Bay, and they have been seen in
the southern forests of Louisiana and Texas. The nests are built upon
high trees, and resemble immense rookeries. In Kentucky, one of their
breeding-places was forty miles in length, by several in breadth! One
hundred nests will often be found upon a single tree, and in each nest
there is but one "squab." The eggs are pure white, like those of the
common kind, and, like them, they breed several times during the year,
but principally when food is plenty. They establish themselves in great
"roosts," sometimes for years together, to which each night they return
from their distant excursions--hundreds of miles, perhaps; for this is
but a short fly for travellers who can pass over a mile in a single
minute, and some of whom have even strayed across the Atlantic to
England! They, however, as I myself have observed, remain in the same
woods where they have been feeding for several days together. I have
also noticed that they prefer roosting in the low underwood, even when
tall trees are close at hand. If near water, or hanging over a stream,
the place is still more to their liking; and in the morning they may be
seen alighting on the bank to drink, before taking to their daily
occupation.
The great "roosts" and breeding-places are favourite resorts for
numerous birds of prey. The small vultures (_Cathartes aura_ and
_Atratus_), or, as they are called in the west, "turkey buzzard," and
"carrion crow," do not confine themselves to carrion alone. They are
fond of live "squabs," which they drag out of their nests at pleasure.
Numerous hawks and kites prey upon them; and even the great white-headed
eagle (_Falco leucocephalus_) may be seen soaring above, and
occasionally swooping down for a dainty morsel. On the ground beneath
move enemies of a different kind, both biped and quadruped. Fowlers
with their guns and long poles; farmers with waggons to carry off the
dead birds; and even droves of hogs to devour them. Trees fall under
the axe, and huge branches break down by the weight of the birds
themselves, killing numbers in their descent. Torches are used--for it
is usually a night scene, after the return of the birds from feeding,--
pots of burning sulphur, and other engines of destruction. A noisy
scene it is. The clapping of a million pair of wings, like the roaring
of thunder; the shots; the shouts; men hoarsely calling to each other;
women and children screaming their delight; the barking of dogs; the
neighing of horses; the "crashes" of breaking branches; and the "chuck"
of the woodman's axe, all mingled together.
When the men--saturated with slaughter, and white with ordure--have
retired beyond the borders of the roost to rest themselves for the
night, their ground is occupied by the prowling wolf and the fox; the
racoon and the cougar; the lynx and the great black bear.
With so many enemies, one would think that the "passengers" would soon
be exterminated. Not so. They are too prolific for that. Indeed, were
it not for these enemies, they themselves would perish for want of food.
Fancy what it takes to feed them! The flock seen by Wilson would
require eighteen million bushels of grain every day!--and it, most
likely, was only one of many such that at the time were traversing the
vast continent of America. Upon what do they feed? it will be asked.
Upon the fruits of the great forest--upon the acorns, the nuts of the
beech, upon buck-wheat, and Indian corn; upon many species of berries,
such as the huckleberry (_whortleberry_), the hackberry (_Celtis
crassifolia_), and the fruit of the holly. In the northern regions,
where these are scarce, the berries of the juniper tree (_Juniperus
communis_) form the principal food. On the other hand, among the
southern plantations, they devour greedily the rice, as well as the nuts
of the chestnut-tree and several species of oaks. But their staple food
is the beech-nut, or "mast," as it is called. Of this the pigeons are
fond, and fortunately it exists in great plenty. In the forests of
Western America there are vast tracts covered almost entirely with the
beech-tree.
As already stated, these beechen forests of America remain almost
intact, and so long as they shower down their millions of bushels of
"mast," so long will the passenger-pigeons flutter in countless numbers
amidst their branches.
Their migration is semi-annual; but unlike most other migratory birds,
it is far from being regular. Their flight is, in fact, not a
periodical migration, but a sort of nomadic existence--food being the
object which keeps them in motion and directs their course. The
scarcity in one part determines their movement to another. When there
is more than the usual fall of snow in the northern regions, vast flocks
make their appearance in the middle States, as in Ohio and Kentucky.
This may in some measure account for the overcrowded "roosts" which have
been occasionally seen, but which are by no means common. You may live
in the west for many years without witnessing a scene such as those
described by Wilson and Audubon, though once or twice every year you may
see pigeons enough to astonish you.
It must not be imagined that the wild pigeons of America are so "tame"
as they have been sometimes represented. That is their character only
while young at the breeding-places, or at the great roosts when confused
by crowding upon each other, and mystified by torch-light.
Far different are they when wandering through the open woods in search
of food. It is then both difficult to approach and hard to kill them.
Odd birds you may easily reach; you may see them perched upon the
branches on all sides of you, and within shot-range; but the _thick_ of
the flock, somehow or other, always keeps from one to two hundred yards
off. The sportsman cannot bring himself to fire at single birds. No.
There is a tree near at hand literally black with pigeons. Its branches
creak under the weight. What a fine havoc he will make if he can but
get near enough! But that is the difficulty; there is no cover, and he
must approach as he best can without it. He continues to advance; the
birds sit silent, watching his movements. He treads lightly and with
caution; he inwardly anathematises the dead leaves and twigs that make a
loud rustling under his feet. The birds appear restless; several
stretch out their necks as if to spring off.
At length he deems himself fairly within range, and raises his gun to
take aim; but this is a signal for the shy game, and before he can draw
trigger they are off to another tree!
Some stragglers still remain; and at them he levels his piece and fires.
The shot is a random one; for our sportsman, having failed to "cover"
the flock, has become irritated and careless, and in all such cases the
pigeons fly off with the loss of a few feathers.
The gun is reloaded, and our amateur hunter, seeing the thick flock upon
another tree, again endeavours to approach it, but with like success.