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IN THE CATSKILLS
Selections from the Writings of John Burroughs
With Illustrations from Photographs by Clifton Johnson
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1910
[Illustration: A DISTANT VIEW OF SLIDE MOUNTAIN
The highest of the Catskills (Chapter VI)]
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
I. THE SNOW-WALKERS
II. A WHITE DAY AND A RED FOX
III. PHASES OF FARM LIFE
IV. IN THE HEMLOCKS
V. BIRDS'-NESTS
VI. THE HEART OF THE SOUTHERN CATSKILLS
VII. SPECKLED TROUT
VIII. A BED OF BOUGHS
ILLUSTRATIONS
A DISTANT VIEW OF SLIDE MOUNTAIN (Frontispiece)
THE FOX-HUNTER AND HIS HOUND
AT THE HEADWATERS OF THE DELAWARE
Overlooking Mr. Burroughs's boyhood home
FINDING A BIRD'S-NEST
THE WITTENBERG FROM WOODLAND VALLEY
A TROUT STREAM
THE BEAVERKILL
SOME PEOPLE OF THE CATSKILLS
INTRODUCTION
The eight essays in this volume all deal with the home region of
their author; for not only did Mr. Burroughs begin life in the
Catskills, and dwell among them until early manhood, but, as he
himself declares, he has never taken root anywhere else. Their
delectable heights and valleys have engaged his deepest affections
as far as locality is concerned, and however widely he journeys and
whatever charms he discovers in nature elsewhere, still the
loveliness of those pastoral boyhood uplands is unsurpassed.
The ancestral farm is in Roxbury among the western Catskills, where
the mountains are comparatively gentle in type and always graceful
in contour. Cultivated fields and sunny pastures cling to their
mighty slopes far up toward the summits, there are patches of
woodland including frequent groves of sugar maples, and there are
apple orchards and winding roadways, and endless lines of rude stone
fences, and scattered dwellings. In every hollow runs a clear trout
brook, with its pools and swift shallows and silvery falls. Birds
and other wild creatures abound; for the stony earth and the ledges
that crop out along the hillsides, the thickets and forest patches,
the sheltered glens and windy heights offer great variety in
domicile to animal life. The creatures of the outdoor world are much
in evidence, and at no time do their numbers impress one more than
when in winter one sees the hand-writing of their tracks on the
snow.
The work on the farm and the workers are genuinely rustic, but not
nearly so primitive as in the times that Mr. Burroughs most enjoys
recalling. Oxen are of the past, the mowing-machine goes over the
fields where formerly he labored with his scythe, stacks at which
the cattle pull in the winter time are a rarity, and the gray old
barns have given place to modern red ones. It is a dairy country,
and on every farm is found a large herd of cows; but the milk goes
to the creameries. The women, however, still share in the milking,
and there is much of unaffected simplicity in the ways of the
household. On days when work is not pushing, the men are likely to
go hunting or fishing, and they are always alert to observe chances
to take advantage of those little gratuities which nature in the
remoter rural regions is constantly offering, both in the matter of
game and in that of herbs and roots, berries and nuts.
Mr. Burroughs's old home has continued in the family, and the house
and its surroundings have in many ways continued essentially
unaltered ever since he can remember. What is most important--the
wide-reaching view down the vales and across to the ridges that
rise height on height until they blend with the sky in the ethereal
distance, is just what it always has been.
That the Catskills have proved an inspiration to Mr. Burroughs
cannot be doubted. Possibly we should never have had him as a nature
writer at all, had he spent his impressible youthful years in a less
favored locality. It is, however, a curious fact that the town which
produced this lover of nature also produced one other man of
national fame, who was as different from him as could well be
imagined. I refer to Jay Gould. He was born in the same town and in
the same part of the town, went to the same school, saw the same
scenes, was a farm boy like Burroughs, and had practically the same
experiences. Indeed, the two were a good deal together. But how
different their later lives! It seems easy to grant that environment
helped make the one; but what effect, if any, did that beautiful
Catskill country have on the other?
There are two seasons of the year when Mr. Burroughs is particularly
fond of getting back to his old home. The first is in sap-time, when
maple sugar is being made in the little shack on the borders of the
rock-maple grove. The second is in midsummer, when haying is in
progress. Both occasions have exceptional power for arousing
pleasant memories of the past, though such memories have also their
touch of sadness. In his early years he helped materially in the
farm work while on these visits; but latterly he gives his time to
rambling and contemplation. He once said to me, in speaking of a
neighbor: "That man hasn't a lazy bone in his body. But I have lots
of 'em--lots of 'em."
This affirmation is not to be interpreted too literally. He has made
a business success in raising small fruits, and his literary output
has been by no means meagre. I might also mention that in youth he
was something of a champion at swinging the scythe, and few could
mow as much in the course of a day. But certainly labor is no fetich
of his, and he has a real genius for loafing. In another man his
leisurely rambling with its pauses to rest on rock or grassy bank or
fallen tree, his mind meanwhile absolutely free from the feeling
that he ought to be up and doing, might be shiftlessness. But how
else could he have acquired his delightful intimacy with the woods
and fields and streams, and with wild life in all its moods? Surely
most of our hustling, untiring workers would be better off if they
had some of this same ability to cast aside care and responsibility
and get back to Nature--the good mother of us all.
CLIFTON JOHNSON.
Hadley, Mass., 1910.
NOTE.--The pictures in this volume were all made in the Catskills
and are the results of several trips to the regions described in the
essays.
IN THE CATSKILLS
I
THE SNOW-WALKERS
He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal
cause for wonder and admiration in winter. It is true the pomp and
the pageantry are swept away, but the essential elements
remain,--the day and the night, the mountain and the valley, the
elemental play and succession and the perpetual presence of the
infinite sky. In winter the stars seem to have rekindled their
fires, the moon achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a
look of a more exalted simplicity. Summer is more wooing and
seductive, more versatile and human, appeals to the affections and
the sentiments, and fosters inquiry and the art impulse. Winter is
of a more heroic cast, and addresses the intellect. The severe
studies and disciplines come easier in winter. One imposes larger
tasks upon himself, and is less tolerant of his own weaknesses.
The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the
bone and sinew to Literature, summer the tissues and blood.
The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of nature,
after such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple
and austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is
the philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup
of water and a crust of bread.
And then this beautiful masquerade of the elements,--the novel
disguises our nearest friends put on! Here is another rain and
another dew, water that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the
taint of an unclean vessel. And if we see truly, the same old
beneficence and willingness to serve lurk beneath all.
Look up at the miracle of the falling snow,--the air a dizzy maze of
whirling, eddying flakes, noiselessly transforming the world, the
exquisite crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising in
the same suit of spotless livery all objects upon which they fall.
How novel and fine the first drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is
suddenly set off with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and
fluted after an unheard-of fashion! Looking down a long line of
decrepit stone wall, in the trimming of which the wind had fairly
run riot, I saw, as for the first time, what a severe yet master
artist old Winter is. Ah, a severe artist! How stern the woods look,
dark and cold and as rigid against the horizon as iron!
All life and action upon the snow have an added emphasis and
significance. Every expression is underscored. Summer has few finer
pictures than this winter one of the farmer foddering his cattle
from a stack upon the clean snow,--the movement, the sharply defined
figures, the great green flakes of hay, the long file of patient
cows, the advance just arriving and pressing eagerly for the
choicest morsels, and the bounty and providence it suggests. Or the
chopper in the woods,--the prostrate tree, the white new chips
scattered about, his easy triumph over the cold, his coat hanging to
a limb, and the clear, sharp ring of his axe. The woods are rigid
and tense, keyed up by the frost, and resound like a stringed
instrument. Or the road-breakers, sallying forth with oxen and sleds
in the still, white world, the day after the storm, to restore the
lost track and demolish the beleaguering drifts.
All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits better. At night
I hear more distinctly the steady roar of the North Mountain. In
summer it is a sort of complacent purr, as the breezes stroke down
its sides; but in winter always the same low, sullen growl.
A severe artist! No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the
marble and the chisel. When the nights are calm and the moon full, I
go out to gaze upon the wonderful purity of the moonlight and the
snow. The air is full of latent fire, and the cold warms me--after a
different fashion from that of the kitchen stove. The world lies
about me in a "trance of snow." The clouds are pearly and
iridescent, and seem the farthest possible remove from the
condition of a storm,--the ghosts of clouds, the indwelling beauty
freed from all dross. I see the hills, bulging with great drifts,
lift themselves up cold and white against the sky, the black lines
of fences here and there obliterated by the depth of the snow.
Presently a fox barks away up next the mountain, and I imagine I can
almost see him sitting there, in his furs, upon the illuminated
surface, and looking down in my direction. As I listen, one answers
him from behind the woods in the valley. What a wild winter sound,
wild and weird, up among the ghostly hills! Since the wolf has
ceased to howl upon these mountains, and the panther to scream,
there is nothing to be compared with it. So wild! I get up in the
middle of the night to hear it. It is refreshing to the ear, and one
delights to know that such wild creatures are among us. At this
season Nature makes the most of every throb of life that can
withstand her severity. How heartily she indorses this fox! In what
bold relief stand out the lives of all walkers of the snow! The snow
is a great tell-tale, and blabs as effectually as it obliterates. I
go into the woods, and know all that has happened. I cross the
fields, and if only a mouse has visited his neighbor, the fact is
chronicled.
The red fox is the only species that abounds in my locality; the
little gray fox seems to prefer a more rocky and precipitous
country, and a less rigorous climate; the cross fox is occasionally
seen, and there are traditions of the silver gray among the oldest
hunters. But the red fox is the sportsman's prize, and the only
fur-bearer worthy of note in these mountains.[1] I go out in the
morning, after a fresh fall of snow, and see at all points where he
has crossed the road. Here he has leisurely passed within
rifle-range of the house, evidently reconnoitring the premises with
an eye to the hen-roost. That clear, sharp track,--there is no
mistaking it for the clumsy footprint of a little dog. All his
wildness and agility are photographed in it. Here he has taken
fright, or suddenly recollected an engagement, and in long, graceful
leaps, barely touching the fence, has gone careering up the hill as
fleet as the wind.
[Footnote 1: A spur of the Catskills.]
The wild, buoyant creature, how beautiful he is! I had often seen
his dead carcass, and at a distance had witnessed the hounds drive
him across the upper fields; but the thrill and excitement of
meeting him in his wild freedom in the woods were unknown to me
till, one cold winter day, drawn thither by the baying of a hound, I
stood near the summit of the mountain, waiting a renewal of the
sound, that I might determine the course of the dog and choose my
position,--stimulated by the ambition of all young Nimrods to bag
some notable game. Long I waited, and patiently, till, chilled and
benumbed, I was about to turn back, when, hearing a slight noise, I
looked up and beheld a most superb fox, loping along with inimitable
grace and ease, evidently disturbed, but not pursued by the hound,
and so absorbed in his private meditations that he failed to see me,
though I stood transfixed with amazement and admiration, not ten
yards distant. I took his measure at a glance,--a large male, with
dark legs, and massive tail tipped with white,--a most magnificent
creature; but so astonished and fascinated was I by this sudden
appearance and matchless beauty, that not till I had caught the last
glimpse of him, as he disappeared over a knoll, did I awake to my
duty as a sportsman, and realize what an opportunity to distinguish
myself I had unconsciously let slip. I clutched my gun, half
angrily, as if it was to blame, and went home out of humor with
myself and all fox-kind. But I have since thought better of the
experience, and concluded that I bagged the game after all, the best
part of it, and fleeced Reynard of something more valuable than his
fur, without his knowledge.
This is thoroughly a winter sound,--this voice of the hound upon the
mountain,--and one that is music to many ears. The long trumpet-like
bay, heard for a mile or more,--now faintly back in the deep
recesses of the mountain,--now distinct, but still faint, as the
hound comes over some prominent point and the wind favors,--anon
entirely lost in the gully,--then breaking out again much nearer,
and growing more and more pronounced as the dog approaches, till,
when he comes around the brow of the mountain, directly above you,
the barking is loud and sharp. On he goes along the northern spur,
his voice rising and sinking as the wind and the lay of the ground
modify it, till lost to hearing.
The fox usually keeps half a mile ahead, regulating his speed by
that of the hound, occasionally pausing a moment to divert himself
with a mouse, or to contemplate the landscape, or to listen for his
pursuer. If the hound press him too closely, he leads off from
mountain to mountain, and so generally escapes the hunter; but if
the pursuit be slow, he plays about some ridge or peak, and falls a
prey, though not an easy one, to the experienced sportsman.
A most spirited and exciting chase occurs when the farm-dog gets
close upon one in the open field, as sometimes happens in the early
morning. The fox relies so confidently upon his superior speed, that
I imagine he half tempts the dog to the race. But if the dog be a
smart one, and their course lies down-hill, over smooth ground,
Reynard must put his best foot forward, and then sometimes suffer
the ignominy of being run over by his pursuer, who, however, is
quite unable to pick him up, owing to the speed. But when they
mount the hill, or enter the woods, the superior nimbleness and
agility of the fox tell at once, and he easily leaves the dog far in
his rear. For a cur less than his own size he manifests little fear,
especially if the two meet alone, remote from the house. In such
cases, I have seen first one turn tail, then the other.
A novel spectacle often occurs in summer, when the female has young.
You are rambling on the mountain, accompanied by your dog, when you
are startled by that wild, half-threatening squall, and in a moment
perceive your dog, with inverted tail, and shame and confusion in
his looks, sneaking toward you, the old fox but a few rods in his
rear. You speak to him sharply, when he bristles up, turns about,
and, barking, starts off vigorously, as if to wipe out the dishonor;
but in a moment comes sneaking back more abashed than ever, and owns
himself unworthy to be called a dog. The fox fairly shames him out
of the woods. The secret of the matter is her sex, though her
conduct, for the honor of the fox be it said, seems to be prompted
only by solicitude for the safety of her young.
One of the most notable features of the fox is his large and massive
tail. Seen running on the snow at a distance, his tail is quite as
conspicuous as his body; and, so far from appearing a burden, seems
to contribute to his lightness and buoyancy. It softens the outline
of his movements, and repeats or continues to the eye the ease and
poise of his carriage. But, pursued by the hound on a wet, thawy
day, it often becomes so heavy and bedraggled as to prove a serious
inconvenience, and compels him to take refuge in his den. He is very
loath to do this; both his pride and the traditions of his race
stimulate him to run it out, and win by fair superiority of wind and
speed; and only a wound or a heavy and moppish tail will drive him
to avoid the issue in this manner.
To learn his surpassing shrewdness and cunning, attempt to take him
with a trap. Rogue that he is, he always suspects some trick, and
one must be more of a fox than he is himself to overreach him. At
first sight it would appear easy enough. With apparent indifference
he crosses your path, or walks in your footsteps in the field, or
travels along the beaten highway, or lingers in the vicinity of
stacks and remote barns. Carry the carcass of a pig, or a fowl, or a
dog, to a distant field in midwinter, and in a few nights his tracks
cover the snow about it.
The inexperienced country youth, misled by this seeming carelessness
of Reynard, suddenly conceives a project to enrich himself with fur,
and wonders that the idea has not occurred to him before, and to
others. I knew a youthful yeoman of this kind, who imagined he had
found a mine of wealth on discovering on a remote side-hill, between
two woods, a dead porker, upon which it appeared all the foxes of
the neighborhood had nightly banqueted. The clouds were burdened
with snow; and as the first flakes commenced to eddy down, he set
out, trap and broom in hand, already counting over in imagination
the silver quarters he would receive for his first fox-skin. With
the utmost care, and with a palpitating heart, he removed enough of
the trodden snow to allow the trap to sink below the surface. Then,
carefully sifting the light element over it and sweeping his tracks
full, he quickly withdrew, laughing exultingly over the little
surprise he had prepared for the cunning rogue. The elements
conspired to aid him, and the falling snow rapidly obliterated all
vestiges of his work. The next morning at dawn he was on his way to
bring in his fur. The snow had done its work effectually, and, he
believed, had kept his secret well. Arrived in sight of the
locality, he strained his vision to make out his prize lodged
against the fence at the foot of the hill. Approaching nearer, the
surface was unbroken, and doubt usurped the place of certainty in
his mind. A slight mound marked the site of the porker, but there
was no footprint near it. Looking up the hill, he saw where Reynard
had walked leisurely down toward his wonted bacon till within a few
yards of it, when he had wheeled, and with prodigious strides
disappeared in the woods. The young trapper saw at a glance what a
comment this was upon his skill in the art, and, indignantly
exhuming the iron, he walked home with it, the stream of silver
quarters suddenly setting in another direction.
The successful trapper commences in the fall, or before the first
deep snow. In a field not too remote, with an old axe he cuts a
small place, say ten inches by fourteen, in the frozen ground, and
removes the earth to the depth of three or four inches, then fills
the cavity with dry ashes, in which are placed bits of roasted
cheese. Reynard is very suspicious at first, and gives the place a
wide berth. It looks like design, and he will see how the thing
behaves before he approaches too near. But the cheese is savory and
the cold severe. He ventures a little closer every night, until he
can reach and pick a piece from the surface. Emboldened by success,
like other mortals, he presently digs freely among the ashes, and,
finding a fresh supply of the delectable morsels every night, is
soon thrown off his guard and his suspicions quite lulled. After a
week of baiting in this manner, and on the eve of a light fall of
snow, the trapper carefully conceals his trap in the bed, first
smoking it thoroughly with hemlock boughs to kill or neutralize the
smell of the iron. If the weather favors and the proper precautions
have been taken, he may succeed, though the chances are still
greatly against him.
Reynard is usually caught very lightly, seldom more than the ends
of his toes being between the jaws. He sometimes works so cautiously
as to spring the trap without injury even to his toes, or may remove
the cheese night after night without even springing it. I knew an
old trapper who, on finding himself outwitted in this manner, tied a
bit of cheese to the pan, and next morning had poor Reynard by the
jaw. The trap is not fastened, but only encumbered with a clog, and
is all the more sure in its hold by yielding to every effort of the
animal to extricate himself.
When Reynard sees his captor approaching, he would fain drop into a
mouse-hole to render himself invisible. He crouches to the ground
and remains perfectly motionless until he perceives himself
discovered, when he makes one desperate and final effort to escape,
but ceases all struggling as you come up, and behaves in a manner
that stamps him a very timid warrior,--cowering to the earth with a
mingled look of shame, guilt, and abject fear. A young farmer told
me of tracing one with his trap to the border of a wood, where he
discovered the cunning rogue trying to hide by embracing a small
tree. Most animals, when taken in a trap, show fight; but Reynard
has more faith in the nimbleness of his feet than in the terror of
his teeth.
Entering the woods, the number and variety of the tracks contrast
strongly with the rigid, frozen aspect of things. Warm jets of life
still shoot and play amid this snowy desolation. Fox-tracks are far
less numerous than in the fields; but those of hares, skunks,
partridges, squirrels, and mice abound. The mice tracks are very
pretty, and look like a sort of fantastic stitching on the coverlid
of the snow. One is curious to know what brings these tiny creatures
from their retreats; they do not seem to be in quest of food, but
rather to be traveling about for pleasure or sociability, though
always going post-haste, and linking stump with stump and tree with
tree by fine, hurried strides. That is when they travel openly; but
they have hidden passages and winding galleries under the snow,
which undoubtedly are their main avenues of communication. Here and
there these passages rise so near the surface as to be covered by
only a frail arch of snow, and a slight ridge betrays their course
to the eye. I know him well. He is known to the farmer as the "deer
mouse," to the naturalist as the white-footed mouse,--a very
beautiful creature, nocturnal in his habits, with large ears, and
large, fine eyes, full of a wild, harmless look. He is daintily
marked, with white feet and a white belly. When disturbed by day he
is very easily captured, having none of the cunning or viciousness
of the common Old World mouse.
It is he who, high in the hollow trunk of some tree, lays by a store
of beechnuts for winter use. Every nut is carefully shelled, and the
cavity that serves as storehouse lined with grass and leaves. The
wood-chopper frequently squanders this precious store. I have seen
half a peck taken from one tree, as clean and white as if put up by
the most delicate hands,--as they were. How long it must have taken
the little creature to collect this quantity, to hull them one by
one, and convey them up to his fifth-story chamber! He is not
confined to the woods, but is quite as common in the fields,
particularly in the fall, amid the corn and potatoes. When routed by
the plow, I have seen the old one take flight with half a dozen
young hanging to her teats, and with such reckless speed that some
of the young would lose their hold and fly off amid the weeds.
Taking refuge in a stump with the rest of her family, the anxious
mother would presently come back and hunt up the missing ones.
The snow-walkers are mostly night-walkers also, and the record they
leave upon the snow is the main clew one has to their life and
doings. The hare is nocturnal in its habits, and though a very
lively creature at night, with regular courses and run-ways through
the wood, is entirely quiet by day. Timid as he is, he makes little
effort to conceal himself, usually squatting beside a log, stump, or
tree, and seeming to avoid rocks and ledges where he might be
partially housed from the cold and the snow, but where also--and
this consideration undoubtedly determines his choice--he would be
more apt to fall a prey to his enemies. In this, as well as in many
other respects, he differs from the rabbit proper: he never burrows
in the ground, or takes refuge in a den or hole, when pursued. If
caught in the open fields, he is much confused and easily overtaken
by the dog; but in the woods, he leaves him at a bound. In summer,
when first disturbed, he beats the ground violently with his feet,
by which means he would express to you his surprise or displeasure;
it is a dumb way he has of scolding. After leaping a few yards, he
pauses an instant, as if to determine the degree of danger, and then
hurries away with a much lighter tread.
His feet are like great pads, and his track has little of the
sharp, articulated expression of Reynard's, or of animals that
climb or dig. Yet it is very pretty like all the rest, and tells
its own tale. There is nothing bold or vicious or vulpine in it,
and his timid, harmless character is published at every leap. He
abounds in dense woods, preferring localities filled with a small
undergrowth of beech and birch, upon the bark of which he feeds.
Nature is rather partial to him, and matches his extreme local
habits and character with a suit that corresponds with his
surroundings,--reddish gray in summer and white in winter.
The sharp-rayed track of the partridge adds another figure to this
fantastic embroidery upon the winter snow. Her course is a clear,
strong line, sometimes quite wayward, but generally very direct,
steering for the densest, most impenetrable places,--leading you
over logs and through brush, alert and expectant, till, suddenly,
she bursts up a few yards from you, and goes humming through the
trees,--the complete triumph of endurance and vigor. Hardy native
bird, may your tracks never be fewer, or your visits to the
birch-tree less frequent!
The squirrel tracks--sharp, nervous, and wiry--have their histories
also. But how rarely we see squirrels in winter! The naturalists say
they are mostly torpid; yet evidently that little pocket-faced
depredator, the chipmunk, was not carrying buckwheat for so many
days to his hole for nothing: was he anticipating a state of
torpidity, or providing against the demands of a very active
appetite? Red and gray squirrels are more or less active all winter,
though very shy, and, I am inclined to think, partially nocturnal in
their habits. Here a gray one has just passed,--came down that tree
and went up this; there he dug for a beechnut, and left the burr on
the snow. How did he know where to dig? During an unusually severe
winter I have known him to make long journeys to a barn, in a remote
field, where wheat was stored. How did he know there was wheat
there? In attempting to return, the adventurous creature was
frequently run down and caught in the deep snow.
His home is in the trunk of some old birch or maple, with an
entrance far up amid the branches. In the spring he builds himself a
summer-house of small leafy twigs in the top of a neighboring beech,
where the young are reared and much of the time is passed. But the
safer retreat in the maple is not abandoned, and both old and young
resort thither in the fall, or when danger threatens. Whether this
temporary residence amid the branches is for elegance or pleasure,
or for sanitary reasons or domestic convenience, the naturalist has
forgotten to mention.
The elegant creature, so cleanly in its habits, so graceful in its
carriage, so nimble and daring in its movements, excites feelings of
admiration akin to those awakened by the birds and the fairer forms
of nature. His passage through the trees is almost a flight. Indeed,
the flying squirrel has little or no advantage over him, and in
speed and nimbleness cannot compare with him at all. If he miss his
footing and fall, he is sure to catch on the next branch; if the
connection be broken, he leaps recklessly for the nearest spray or
limb, and secures his hold, even if it be by the aid of his teeth.
His career of frolic and festivity begins in the fall, after the
birds have left us and the holiday spirit of nature has commenced to
subside. How absorbing the pastime of the sportsman who goes to the
woods in the still October morning in quest of him! You step
lightly across the threshold of the forest, and sit down upon the
first log or rock to await the signals. It is so still that the ear
suddenly seems to have acquired new powers, and there is no movement
to confuse the eye. Presently you hear the rustling of a branch, and
see it sway or spring as the squirrel leaps from or to it; or else
you hear a disturbance in the dry leaves, and mark one running upon
the ground. He has probably seen the intruder, and, not liking his
stealthy movements, desires to avoid a nearer acquaintance. Now he
mounts a stump to see if the way is clear, then pauses a moment at
the foot of a tree to take his bearings, his tail, as he skims
along, undulating behind him, and adding to the easy grace and
dignity of his movements. Or else you are first advised of his
proximity by the dropping of a false nut, or the fragments of the
shucks rattling upon the leaves. Or, again, after contemplating you
awhile unobserved, and making up his mind that you are not
dangerous, he strikes an attitude on a branch, and commences to
quack and bark, with an accompanying movement of his tail. Late in
the afternoon, when the same stillness reigns, the same scenes are
repeated. There is a black variety, quite rare, but mating freely
with the gray, from which he seems to be distinguished only in
color.
The track of the red squirrel may be known by its smaller size. He
is more common and less dignified than the gray, and oftener guilty
of petty larceny about the barns and grain-fields. He is most
abundant in old barkpeelings, and low, dilapidated hemlocks, from
which he makes excursions to the fields and orchards, spinning along
the tops of the fences, which afford not only convenient lines of
communication, but a safe retreat if danger threatens. He loves to
linger about the orchard; and, sitting upright on the topmost stone
in the wall, or on the tallest stake in the fence, chipping up an
apple for the seeds, his tail conforming to the curve of his back,
his paws shifting and turning the apple, he is a pretty sight, and
his bright, pert appearance atones for all the mischief he does. At
home, in the woods, he is the most frolicsome and loquacious. The
appearance of anything unusual, if, after contemplating it a moment,
he concludes it not dangerous, excites his unbounded mirth and
ridicule, and he snickers and chatters, hardly able to contain
himself; now darting up the trunk of a tree and squealing in
derision, then hopping into position on a limb and dancing to the
music of his own cackle, and all for your special benefit.
There is something very human in this apparent mirth and mockery of
the squirrels. It seems to be a sort of ironical laughter, and
implies self-conscious pride and exultation in the laugher. "What a
ridiculous thing you are, to be sure!" he seems to say; "how clumsy
and awkward, and what a poor show for a tail! Look at me, look at
me!"--and he capers about in his best style. Again, he would seem to
tease you and provoke your attention; then suddenly assumes a tone
of good-natured, childlike defiance and derision. That pretty little
imp, the chipmunk, will sit on the stone above his den and defy you,
as plainly as if he said so, to catch him before he can get into his
hole if you can. You hurl a stone at him, and "No you didn't!" comes
up from the depth of his retreat.
In February another track appears upon the snow, slender and
delicate, about a third larger than that of the gray squirrel,
indicating no haste or speed, but, on the contrary, denoting the
most imperturbable ease and leisure, the footprints so close
together that the trail appears like a chain of curiously carved
links. Sir _Mephitis mephitica_, or, in plain English, the skunk,
has awakened from his six weeks' nap, and come out into society
again. He is a nocturnal traveler, very bold and impudent, coming
quite up to the barn and outbuildings, and sometimes taking up his
quarters for the season under the haymow. There is no such word as
hurry in his dictionary, as you may see by his path upon the snow.
He has a very sneaking, insinuating way, and goes creeping about the
fields and woods, never once in a perceptible degree altering his
gait, and, if a fence crosses his course, steers for a break or
opening to avoid climbing. He is too indolent even to dig his own
hole, but appropriates that of a woodchuck, or hunts out a crevice
in the rocks, from which he extends his rambling in all directions,
preferring damp, thawy weather. He has very little discretion or
cunning, and holds a trap in utter contempt, stepping into it as
soon as beside it, relying implicitly for defense against all forms
of danger upon the unsavory punishment he is capable of inflicting.
He is quite indifferent to both man and beast, and will not hurry
himself to get out of the way of either. Walking through the summer
fields at twilight, I have come near stepping upon him, and was much
the more disturbed of the two. When attacked in the open field he
confounds the plans of his enemies by the unheard-of tactics of
exposing his rear rather than his front. "Come if you dare," he
says, and his attitude makes even the farm-dog pause. After a few
encounters of this kind, and if you entertain the usual hostility
towards him, your mode of attack will speedily resolve itself into
moving about him in a circle, the radius of which will be the exact
distance at which you can hurl a stone with accuracy and effect.
He has a secret to keep and knows it, and is careful not to betray
himself until he can do so with the most telling effect. I have
known him to preserve his serenity even when caught in a steel trap,
and look the very picture of injured innocence, manoeuvring
carefully and deliberately to extricate his foot from the grasp of
the naughty jaws. Do not by any means take pity on him, and lend a
helping hand!
How pretty his face and head! How fine and delicate his teeth, like
a weasel's or a cat's! When about a third grown, he looks so well
that one covets him for a pet. He is quite precocious, however and
capable, even at this tender age, of making a very strong appeal to
your sense of smell.
No animal is more cleanly in his habits than he. He is not an
awkward boy who cuts his own face with his whip; and neither his
flesh nor his fur hints the weapon with which he is armed. The most
silent creature known to me, he makes no sound, so far as I have
observed, save a diffuse, impatient noise, like that produced by
beating your hand with a whisk-broom, when the farm-dog has
discovered his retreat in the stone fence. He renders himself
obnoxious to the farmer by his partiality for hens' eggs and young
poultry. He is a confirmed epicure, and at plundering hen-roosts an
expert. Not the full-grown fowls are his victims, but the youngest
and most tender. At night Mother Hen receives under her maternal
wings a dozen newly hatched chickens, and with much pride and
satisfaction feels them all safely tucked away in her feathers. In
the morning she is walking about disconsolately, attended by only
two or three of all that pretty brood. What has happened? Where are
they gone? That pickpocket, Sir Mephitis, could solve the mystery.
Quietly has he approached, under cover of darkness, and one by one
relieved her of her precious charge. Look closely and you will see
their little yellow legs and beaks, or part of a mangled form, lying
about on the ground. Or, before the hen has hatched, he may find her
out, and, by the same sleight of hand, remove every egg, leaving
only the empty blood-stained shells to witness against him. The
birds, especially the ground-builders, suffer in like manner from
his plundering propensities.
The secretion upon which he relies for defense, and which is the
chief source of his unpopularity, while it affords good reasons
against cultivating him as a pet, and mars his attractiveness as
game, is by no means the greatest indignity that can be offered to a
nose. It is a rank, living smell, and has none of the sickening
qualities of disease or putrefaction. Indeed, I think a good smeller
will enjoy its most refined intensity. It approaches the sublime,
and makes the nose tingle. It is tonic and bracing, and, I can
readily believe, has rare medicinal qualities. I do not recommend
its use as eyewater, though an old farmer assures me it has
undoubted virtues when thus applied. Hearing, one night, a
disturbance among his hens, he rushed suddenly out to catch the
thief, when Sir Mephitis, taken by surprise, and no doubt much
annoyed at being interrupted, discharged the vials of his wrath full
in the farmer's face, and with such admirable effect that, for a few
moments, he was completely blinded, and powerless to revenge himself
upon the rogue, who embraced the opportunity to make good his
escape; but he declared that afterwards his eyes felt as if purged
by fire, and his sight was much clearer.
In March that brief summary of a bear, the raccoon, comes out of his
den in the ledges, and leaves his sharp digitigrade track upon the
snow,--traveling not unfrequently in pairs,--a lean, hungry couple,
bent on pillage and plunder. They have an unenviable time of
it,--feasting in the summer and fall, hibernating in winter, and
starving in spring. In April I have found the young of the previous
year creeping about the fields, so reduced by starvation as to be
quite helpless, and offering no resistance to my taking them up by
the tail and carrying them home.
The old ones also become very much emaciated, and come boldly up to
the barn or other outbuildings in quest of food. I remember, one
morning in early spring, of hearing old Cuff, the farm-dog, barking
vociferously before it was yet light. When we got up we discovered
him, at the foot of an ash-tree standing about thirty rods from the
house, looking up at some gray object in the leafless branches, and
by his manners and his voice evincing great impatience that we were
so tardy in coming to his assistance. Arrived on the spot, we saw in
the tree a coon of unusual size. One bold climber proposed to go up
and shake him down. This was what old Cuff wanted, and he fairly
bounded with delight as he saw his young master shinning up the
tree. Approaching within eight or ten feet of the coon, he seized
the branch to which it clung and shook long and fiercely. But the
coon was in no danger of losing its hold, and, when the climber
paused to renew his hold, it turned toward him with a growl, and
showed very clearly a purpose to advance to the attack. This caused
his pursuer to descend to the ground with all speed. When the coon
was finally brought down with a gun, he fought the dog, which was a
large, powerful animal, with great fury, returning bite for bite for
some moments; and after a quarter of an hour had elapsed and his
unequal antagonist had shaken him as a terrier does a rat, making
his teeth meet through the small of his back, the coon still showed
fight.
They are very tenacious of life, and like the badger will always
whip a dog of their own size and weight. A woodchuck can bite
severely, having teeth that cut like chisels, but a coon has agility
and power of limb as well.
They are considered game only in the fall, or towards the close of
summer, when they become fat and their flesh sweet. At this time,
cooning in the remote interior is a famous pastime. As this animal
is entirely nocturnal in its habits, it is hunted only at night. A
piece of corn on some remote side-hill near the mountain, or between
two pieces of woods, is most apt to be frequented by them. While the
corn is yet green they pull the ears down like hogs, and, tearing
open the sheathing of husks, eat the tender, succulent kernels,
bruising and destroying much more than they devour. Sometimes their
ravages are a matter of serious concern to the farmer. But every
such neighborhood has its coon-dog, and the boys and young men
dearly love the sport. The party sets out about eight or nine
o'clock of a dark, moonless night, and stealthily approaches the
cornfield. The dog knows his business, and when he is put into a
patch of corn and told to "hunt them up" he makes a thorough search,
and will not be misled by any other scent. You hear him rattling
through the corn, hither and yon, with great speed. The coons prick
up their ears, and leave on the opposite side of the field. In the
stillness you may sometimes hear a single stone rattle on the wall
as they hurry toward the woods. If the dog finds nothing, he comes
back to his master in a short time, and says in his dumb way, "No
coon there." But if he strikes a trail, you presently hear a louder
rattling on the stone wall, and then a hurried bark as he enters the
woods, followed in a few minutes by loud and repeated barking as he
reaches the foot of the tree in which the coon has taken refuge.
Then follows a pellmell rush of the cooning party up the hill, into
the woods, through the brush and the darkness, falling over
prostrate trees, pitching into gullies and hollows, losing hats and
tearing clothes, till finally, guided by the baying of the faithful
dog, the tree is reached. The first thing now in order is to kindle
a fire, and, if its light reveals the coon, to shoot him; if not, to
fell the tree with an axe. If this happens to be too great a
sacrifice of timber and of strength, to sit down at the foot of the
tree till morning.
But with March our interest in these phases of animal life, which
winter has so emphasized and brought out, begins to decline. Vague
rumors are afloat in the air of a great and coming change. We are
eager for Winter to be gone, since he, too, is fugitive and cannot
keep his place. Invisible hands deface his icy statuary; his chisel
has lost its cunning. The drifts, so pure and exquisite, are now
earth-stained and weather-worn,--the flutes and scallops, and fine,
firm lines, all gone; and what was a grace and an ornament to the
hills is now a disfiguration. Like worn and unwashed linen appear
the remains of that spotless robe with which he clothed the world as
his bride.
But he will not abdicate without a struggle. Day after day he
rallies his scattered forces, and night after night pitches his
white tents on the hills, and would fain regain his lost ground;
but the young prince in every encounter prevails. Slowly and
reluctantly the gray old hero retreats up the mountain, till finally
the south rain comes in earnest, and in a night he is dead.
II
A WHITE DAY AND A RED FOX
The day was indeed white, as white as three feet of snow and a
cloudless St. Valentine's sun could make it. The eye could not look
forth without blinking, or veiling itself with tears. The patch of
plowed ground on the top of the hill, where the wind had blown the
snow away, was as welcome to it as water to a parched tongue. It was
the one refreshing oasis in this desert of dazzling light. I sat
down upon it to let the eye bathe and revel in it. It took away the
smart like a poultice. For so gentle and on the whole so beneficent
an element, the snow asserts itself very proudly. It takes the world
quickly and entirely to itself. It makes no concessions or
compromises, but rules despotically. It baffles and bewilders the
eye, and it returns the sun glare for glare. Its coming in our
winter climate is the hand of mercy to the earth and to everything
in its bosom, but it is a barrier and an embargo to everything that
moves above.
We toiled up the long steep hill, where only an occasional
mullein-stalk or other tall weed stood above the snow. Near the top
the hill was girded with a bank of snow that blotted out the stone
wall and every vestige of the earth beneath. These hills wear this
belt till May, and sometimes the plow pauses beside them. From the
top of the ridge an immense landscape in immaculate white stretches
before us. Miles upon miles of farms, smoothed and padded by the
stainless element, hang upon the sides of the mountains, or repose
across the long sloping hills. The fences or stone walls show like
half-obliterated black lines. I turn my back to the sun, or shade my
eyes with my hand. Every object or movement in the landscape is
sharply revealed; one could see a fox half a league. The farmer
foddering his cattle, or drawing manure afield, or leading his horse
to water; the pedestrian crossing the hill below; the children
wending their way toward the distant schoolhouse,--the eye cannot
help but note them: they are black specks upon square miles of
luminous white. What a multitude of sins this unstinted charity of
the snow covers! How it flatters the ground! Yonder sterile field
might be a garden, and you would never suspect that that gentle
slope with its pretty dimples and curves was not the smoothest of
meadows, yet it is paved with rocks and stone.