BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
VOL. VII. MAY, 1900. NO. 5.
CONTENTS.
Page
MAY. 193
WE MAY HEAR THE BIRD SING. 193
UNCLE NICK ON FISHING. 194
THE MAGPIE. 197
A BUTTERFLY'S HISTORY. 197
THE DEAD BIRD. 199
THE FIELD DAISY. 199
A SUBMERGED FOREST. 200
RED-BREASTED NUTHATCH. 203
MIGRATORY BIRDS. 204
ACROSS THE WAY. 205
THE PURPLE MARTIN. 206
A GLIMPSE AT BEAUTIFUL PICTURES. 209
GOOSE PLANT IN BLOOM. 210
JOHNNY APPLESEED. 211
RING-NECKED DOVE. 212
THE RING-NECKED DOVE. 212
SOME EARLY RISERS. 212
THE YOUNG NATURALIST. 215
OPOSSUM. 218
SOMETHING ABOUT DOGS. 221
EASY LESSONS IN EVOLUTION. 222
THE CECROPIA MOTH. 223
THE GENISTA. 224
WHERE VEGETABLES CAME FROM. 227
BIRDS AND FARMERS. 228
FISH HAVE FAVORITE HAUNTS. 229
SILLIEST BIRD IN THE WORLD. 229
THYME. 230
A CURIOUS SURVIVAL. 233
THE RAVEN. 235
WILD FLOWERS OF MAY. 236
RICE PAPER. 239
GOOD UNCLE TO ANTS. 239
A FLOATING SNAIL. 240
EGYPTIAN TREES FOR AMERICA. 240
INDEX VOL. VII-JANUARY TO MAY 1900, INCLUSIVE.
GENERAL INDEX VOLS. I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII. i
MAY.
The voice of one who goes before to make
The paths of June more beautiful, is thine,
Sweet May! Without an envy of her crown
And bridal; patient stringing emeralds
And shining rubies for the brows of birch
And maple; flinging garlands of pure white
And pink, which to their bloom add prophecy;
Gold cups o'erfilling on a thousand hills
And calling honey-bees; out of their sleep
The tiny summer harpers with bright wings
Awaking, teaching them their notes for noon--
O, May, sweet-voiced one, going thus before,
Forever June may pour her warm, red wine
Of life and passion--sweeter days are thine!
--_H. H._
WE MAY HEAR THE BIRD SING.
NELLY HART WOODWORTH.
We may hear the bird sing but we cannot descry
The heart of the singer; the great mystery
Of the singing is hidden from sight, and the heart
Of the sweet singing bird has a vision apart;
We may listen intently to catch the sweet theme,
But who can interpret the soul of the dream?
We may hear the bird sing, catch each generous note
That pours to the air from its quivering throat,
See the breast rent with ardors; unfathomed, deep-stirred
Folded under the song lies the soul of the bird,
Unsounded and soundless, too deep for our reach.
Though we listen entranced to its musical speech;
Who sees the lark's soul as it mounts from the sod,
Who sees the clear soul has a vision of God!
UNCLE NICK ON FISHING.
IRWIN RUSSELL.
It alluz sets me laughin', when I happens to be 'roun,'
To see a lot ob gemmen come a-fishin' frum de town:
Dey waits tell arter breakfus', 'fo' dey ebber makes a start,
An' den you sees 'em comin' in a little Jarsey kyart!
Now, Jarsey kyarts is springy, an,' to studdy up de seat,
De gemmen's 'bliged to ballus' hit wid suffin good to eat;
An' Jarsey kyarts is lighter run, de gemmen seems to think,
By totin' long a demijohn ob suffin good to drink.
When dy gits at de fishin' place, it's 'stonishin' indeed!
Such tricks to go a-fishin' wid _nobody_ nebber seed:
Dey poles is stuck togedder wid a dozen jints ob tin,
An' has a block-an'-teeckle for to win' de fishes in!
De gemmen makes a heap o'fuss, an skeers de fishes off,
An' den dey takes an' sots de poles, some place de bank is sof,
An' den dey hunts a shady place, an' settles on de grass,
An' pruz'ntly heahs 'em: "Dat a spade? I has to pass!"
St. Petah wuz a fisherman, an' un'erstood his trade:
He sot an' watched his cork, instid ob lazin' in de shade!
De gemmen isn't copyin' arter him--dey bettah be!--
Or--_I_'s a science fisherman--'t'd do to copy _me_.
When _I_ goes out a-fishin', I puts on my ol'est clo'es:
(Dey age's putty tol'able, you'd nat'rally suppose!)
I gits up in de moh'nin', long afore de sun is riz,
An' grabbles wums, _I_ tell you! like de yurly bird I is.
I's alluz berry 'ticlar 'bout de season ob the moon;
De dark ob hit is fishin'-time--an' time for huntin' coon;
An' den its mighty 'portant, too, as notus shed be tuk
Ob varis' little sarcumstances bearin' on de luck:
You has to spit upon de bait afore you draps it in;
Den keep yo' cork a-bobbin', des as easy as you kin;
Ef someone steps acrost de pole, you knows yo' luck is broke,
Widout dey steps it back agin afore a word is spoke.
Don't nebber, not for nuffin, think ob countin' ob yo' string;
'Kase ef you do, you ain't a-gwine to cotch anoder thing;
But ef a sarpent-doctor bug sh'd 'light upon de pole,
You knows you's good for cotchin' all de fishes in de hole.
Dah! now you has de science what a fisherman sh'd know;
So, any time yo' ready, all you has to do's to go,
An' toiler dem instruckshuns--ef you does it, to de notch,
Good marster! won't it s'prise de folks to see de mess you cotch!
[Illustration: MAGPIE.
2/3 Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]
THE MAGPIE.
(_Pica pica hudsonica._)
This is a rare winter visitor and not much known. Its nest is a very
bulky and somewhat remarkable structure, composed exteriorly of sticks
of various sizes, forming a spherical mass, the upper portion of which
forms a canopy to the nest proper, the entrance being through one
side. The eggs are usually six in number, but often as many as nine,
and are of a pale olive or grayish white color, thickly speckled with
olive-brown.
The magpie can be taught to talk, is intelligent and inquisitive, and
has many of the characteristics of the raven.
A BUTTERFLY'S HISTORY.
(_The Troilus._)
ELLA F. MOSBY.
The _Troilus_ belongs to the knights or chevaliers, and is a beautiful
creature. His front wings are velvety black, spotted with yellow; his
hind wings blue, elegantly scalloped, with a long streamer at the end,
and when he lifts his wings, the under side is also lovely in marking
and color. His double tongue forms a tube for sucking honey from deep
flower cups, and may also be coiled up like a lasso when not used. His
knobbed antennæ are supposed to be organs of scent by which he detects
the perfume of blossoms or of other butterflies. For butterflies have
distinct odors; the mountain silver spot smells like sandalwood, and
other butterflies have the delicate fragrance of jasmine, thyme, balsam
or violets. The anosia butterfly has a faint smell of honey. The
sight of the butterfly, in spite of his single and compound eyes, the
latter made up of many shining facets like cut gems, is not believed
to be very keen. It is thought that while he perceives color in mass,
he has little perception of form, and is easily deceived. The white
butterflies, for instance, alight on the white-veined and spotted
leaves in a garden, while seeking white blossoms. No organs of hearing
have ever been discovered, and, for the most part, the movements of the
butterfly are noiseless as drifting snow-flakes, the only exception
being a slight click from a sudden closing of the wings, or in rapid
flight.
The whole structure of the creature is for movement. He has no brain,
only a cluster of nerves somewhat like one; no heart, only a segmented
tube, in which a white blood circulates; no distinct lungs, but
air-chambers throughout the whole body, so that it is easily poised
amid the aerial waves, as he glides, or flutters securely above the
earth. There are many muscles, two or three pairs of legs, and about
five pairs of hooked arrangements called pro-legs; and his glory
lies in his four broad wings of radiant colors, covered with silvery
and shining plumes of softest texture. These wings are to him as the
knight's steed, bearing him proudly in his circling combats with
his rivals, or in his sportive ascents with his mate, or on his gay
journeys with a crowd of winged comrades along the aerial highroads. He
need not _seek_ adventures, for when he is a butterfly he has already
passed through wonderful experiences.
His life begins with a tiny egg, the size of a pin-head, laid
singly on the _under_ side of a leaf for protection. Every species
of butterfly has its own special food-plants, and will feed from no
others; but do not imagine that the pastures of our _Troilus_ are
limited. He feeds upon two of the largest and most beautiful tree
families--the _Rosaceæ_ and the _Lauraceæ_--beautiful for fruit,
flower, foliage and fragrance. With the rose family alone the range is
immense, embracing, as it does, not only the rose, but the hawthorn,
the meadow-sweet, the mountain ash, the strawberry, the cherry, apple
and all the lovely orchard trees, while with the other family we find
the glossy and shining leaf of the magnolia tribe, and the aromatic
odors of sassafras and spice-wood. The butterfly eggs are marvels
of color, pale green or white at first, changing to all sorts of
iridescent tints as the life inside matures, and also of form, for they
mimic the delicate sea-fashions of urchin and coral, the richness of
oriental mosques, and the intricacy of design in Gothic windows.
Let us fancy the egg of our _Troilus_ fastened--a fairy cradle,
indeed--on the leaf of a wild cherry tree that has tossed its sprays
of feathery white bloom, and its rustling leaves all June long in
sunshine and wind and twinkling shower beneath a summer sky. When the
shell is broken, what a strange thing creeps forth!--well-named a
larva or _mask_, for it is a disguise that has no trace of a winged
nature. The lover of the butterfly shrinks with loathing from this
hideous creature, dragging itself slowly along in quest of the food
which it greedily devours--the fresh, sweet leaves of the tree that has
sheltered it! But unless it eats and grows there will be no butterfly,
and sometimes the skin is cast off as many as five or six times, even
the inner lining as well as the outside skin, to give its growth free
play. If the caterpillar were large it would be terrible, for it
protects itself, being soft-skinned and often helpless, by a mimicry
of rage, pawing the ground, lashing its head furiously from one side
to another, as a lion lashes its tail, rearing itself up menacingly in
a sphinx-like attitude, grinding its mandibles with a grating sound.
Its color is at first usually green like the leaf it feeds on, but
it afterwards develops bright hues in some species. The _Troilus_
caterpillar is green with a yellow stripe on each side, and row of blue
dots, while its under side and feet are reddish. These varied colors
show little, however, on the tree, for the leaves of fruit-trees,
especially, quickly assume a yellow tint, and are streaked and spotted.
Caterpillars protect themselves in many ways; some make a tent of a
leaf near their feeding-ground, turning over an edge under which they
creep, or weaving the different corners of the leaf closely together
with silken threads. Even the petals of a blossom may be secured by a
filmy web. If the caterpillar must spend the winter as a caterpillar,
it makes of the leaf a winter-house, which it covers with wood-colored
silk, and weaves the thread securely to the skin. These nests resemble
closely the buds of the tree.
After the caterpillar stage of humiliation and danger, comes the
strange period of sleep or seeming death, when the cocoon or chrysalid
appears. The name _pupa_ or babe is also used, from the likeness to an
infant in swaddling bands. The caterpillar was always liable to curious
fits of drowsiness or stupor; this stage of the pupa is a prolonged
stupor, and it prepares for it by rolling off the garment of skin,
and leaving it underfoot in the silken shroud or cell. Sometimes it
sleeps in the earth, sometimes in a rock crevice, sometimes hangs like
our _Troilus_ looped up by a thread to a tree. The case has knobs or
horns to protect the sleeper when the wind blows it against anything.
It is sensitive to light, and swings towards or from it, according to
need. At last comes the resurrection. From a narrow slit emerges a
crumpled, wrinkled thing. If the struggles are long, dare not aid even
by a touch! The butterfly is of such delicate texture that outside help
means mutilation. Let it alone. Soon are the wings smoothed--I saw one
hang himself up, and lengthen and lengthen, until he was about twice as
long as at first--then he spreads them in flight, a glorious and joyous
creature of the sunshine! He likes companions, and quickly will he
find himself greeted by a Jason or splendid Ajax, or encounter a flock
of his own kind, with whom he may feast by roadside puddle or beds of
opening flowers.
Marvelous care is shown in the provision for the awakening from
its long slumber. The threads are woven so loosely near the place of
opening that they are easily broken, even in his first feebleness. The
old garment, rolled in a heap at his feet, cannot impede or entangle
him. He is now the _imago_--"image in full of his species,"--and, like
the fairy, Ariel, he will follow summer as it flies, and swing "under
the blossom that hangs on the bough"--an airy spirit of joy!
THE DEAD BIRD.
NELLY HART WOODWORTH.
Hark to the beating at the lattice!--sure
It is some winged creature asks for room
Within my walls. Shall I deny its quest,
Refuse a welcome to the homeless guest?
Who could the rigor of such night endure?
Nay, open wide the window. Come, oh, come,
And share my shelter! All the air was stirred
By the mysterious pulsing of the wings
In useless haste, until their murmurings
Grew faint and fainter; now they pulse-less lay.
Again they found the light--my eyes were blurred
With tears of pity. "Here upon my breast
Thou shalt have rest. Rest thee, dear bird, I pray!"
And as the bird's throat trembles when the song
Throbbing for wings pours to the generous air,
So my heart throbbed with pity and my hand
Went quivering as I held the stranger there.
The velvet wings dropped heavy. O'er the eyes
There came a mist, like hoary mists that roll
Far up the mountain, blotting out the skies
And leaving scars upon the lonely soul;
The stars were blurred, the hilltops canopied,
The valleys lost, the little bird was dead.
THE FIELD DAISY.
JENNY T. RUPRECHT.
Nomadic queen with softly petaled face,
Thine is a beauteous throne where'er thou art,
And thine a reign triumphant from the start;
And though thy throne were in half-desert place,
Or where thou may'st behold the brooklets race,
Or just above the sleepy valley's heart,
Or higher up the grasses tall to part--
Queen of the fields! thou reign'st with witching grace.
If shine, 'tis well; if shade, thou murmur'st not,
For thou hast learned of nature patient trust--
Glad of the cloudless light all golden wrought,
Nor sad if shadows fall, as shadows must--
All these shall flee before thy floral reign,
And leave fresh charms throughout thy wide domain.
A SUBMERGED FOREST
Many years ago, even so far back that the traditions of the oldest
Siwash extend not thereto, there was some vast upheaval of mother earth
on the shores of Lake Samamish that sent a portion of the big Newcastle
hill sliding down into the lake, with its tall evergreen forest intact,
and there it is to this day. About this time of the year the waters of
the lake are at their lowest, and then the tops of the tallest of these
big submerged trees are out of the water, but never more than ten or
twelve inches.
Unfortunately for the curiosity seeker and traveling public generally
the submerged forest is on the opposite side of the lake from the
railroad and the station of Monohon, and very few people ever see the
phenomenon unless they take the time and pains necessary to reach it.
Sam Coombs, the pioneer, has just been over to view the submerged
forest, and he is very enthusiastic concerning its beauties and
mystery. He talks Chinook fluently, but with all his quizzing of the
red-skinned inhabitants he has never learned anything that will throw
any light on the history of the forest under water. The waters of the
lake are very deep, and the bluffs back of the beach very precipitous,
so that the only explanation of the freak is that either by an
earthquake or some other means a great slide has been started in early
times, and it went down as a mass until it found lodgment at the bottom
of the lake. At this time one can see down into the glassy, mirror-like
depths of the lake for thirty feet or more. Near the banks the forest
trees are interlaced at various angles and in confusion, but further
out in the deep water they stand straight, erect, and limbless and
barkless, 100 feet tall. They are not petrified in the sense of being
turned to stone, but they are preserved and appear to have stood there
for ages. They are three feet through, some of them, and so firm in
texture as to be scarcely affected by a knife blade. The great slide
extended for some distance, and it would now be a dangerous piece of
work for a steamer to attempt passage over the tops of these tall
trees. Even now the water along shore is very deep, and a ten-foot pole
would sink perpendicularly out of sight ten feet from shore line.
All over this country are found strata of blue clay, which in the
winter season are very treacherous, and, given the least bit of
opportunity will slide away, carrying everything above with them. This
is the theory of the submerged forest of Lake Samamish. It probably
was growing above one of these blue earth strata, and heavy rains, or
probably an earthquake, set it moving. The quantity of earth carried
down was so great that the positions of the trees on the portion
carried away were little affected. It is hardly to be believed that
the earth suddenly sank down at this point and became a portion of the
beautiful lake.
Few such places exist. There is a place in the famous Tumwater Cañon,
on the line of the Great Northern, near Leavenworth, which is in some
respects similar. At some early time a portion of the great mountain
side came rushing down and buried itself at the bottom of the cañon.
Now there is a considerable lake, and in the center stand tall,
limbless trees, different in species from those growing along the cañon.
At Green Lake, near Georgetown, Colo.--a lake which is 10,000 feet
above sea level--is a submerged forest of pine trees, some hundred
feet tall, but not so numerous as in Lake Samamish. This same theory
explains their presence as given above.
[Illustration: RED-BREASTED NUTHATCH.
2/3 Life-size.
CHICAGO COLORTYPE CO.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]
RED-BREASTED NUTHATCH. (_Sitta canadensis._)
BY LYNDS JONES.
It is doubtful if any bird has been more persistently overlooked
or more universally confounded with a closely allied species than
the subject of this sketch. His superficial resemblances to the
white-breasted nuthatch, either in color or voice, are not striking,
certainly not so much so as with other species which are not so
confused, yet it is certainly true that but a small proportion of the
laity are aware that there are two nuthatches roaming the woods, the
one a migrant in the Middle and Southern States, the other resident
wherever it is found. What, then, are the marked differences between
them? The red-breast is decidedly smaller than his cousin, his breast
is tinged with red or brown instead of the immaculate white, and there
is a black line running through the eye to the back of the head,
separating the white line above it from the white throat; the cry is a
nasal, long drawn 'yank, yank,' very different from the brisk, crisp,
business-like utterance of the white-breast. Moreover, he is a traveled
gentleman who spends the winters in the South and his summers mostly
north of the United States, while we have the white-breast with us
during the entire year. So much for differences.
The habit of climbing head downward, sidewise, or any way, is common
to all nuthatches. They feed upon the insects and their eggs and larvæ
which inhabit the bark crevices, but also sometimes vault into the air
in pursuit of a flying insect, after the manner of the flycatchers. In
the North, where the red-breast sometimes tarries well into the winter,
rarely remaining all winter long, they fasten nuts and seeds in cracks
or crevices and hatch them with the beak, eating the meat, of course.
It is this habit of 'hatching' nuts that gives the group its English
name.
The red-breast is a bird of the whole of the United States and at
least southern Canada, but can be called common only locally and
occasionally. Some seasons it may not appear at all at some stations
in its migration routes, and again be common for a short period,
especially in the autumn. In most central localities it may be expected
during the last two weeks of April and the first week of May, and again
from September well into the winter months, if not all winter long.
The nest is placed in some dead stub in a hole excavated by the birds,
usually several feet from the ground--as high as twelve feet sometimes.
The nest material is some soft substance like fine grass and rootlets.
The excavation is usually shallow, scarcely more than six inches
down the stub, with other even shallower holes in other trees in the
vicinity used as roosting-places for the male during incubation. In
beginning the excavation, the birds drill small holes in a circle in
the bark, then take out the center piece. In several instances the bark
about the entrance to the nest cavity was coated with pitch in which
were sticking the red-breast feathers of the architects. This pitching
of the entrance to their home does not seem to be a habit common to all
members of the species, however, for few collectors mention the pitch,
as they certainly would if it were present.
While birds of the woods, neither the red-breast nor the white-breast
are strictly confined to the woods during the seasons when they are
not rearing a brood. The red-breast is frequently seen on the fences
and out in the open, gleaning from weed-stalks, during his southward
journey. He also seems very fond of orchards and the ornamental trees
in the yard where he does excellent service for the next season's
fruit and foliage. He is, perhaps, a little less inquisitive than his
white-breasted cousin, but his small size and drawling voice make him a
pleasant fellow to meet.
MIGRATORY BIRDS.
B. W. JONES.
"The stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times; and the
crane, and the turtle, and the swallow observe the time of their
coming."--_Jer. 8: 7._
The migration of birds, as Baily observes, is by no means the least
interesting part of their history. I have noted for many years the
migrations of the birds that make a longer or shorter stay with us,
summer or winter, and have tabulated their arrivals and departures.
And it has been to me a labor of love. Few things cast such attraction
around the young and tender spring or over brown and matured autumn,
as the coming and going of migratory birds. With delight we welcome
the first notes of the purple martin, the bank or sand swallow, and
the chimney swift, as they return to us in spring from the far sunny
southland; and with feelings of wonder we witness the flight of the
wild geese, as they pass over us high in air, or listen to the notes
that tell us the whippoorwill and the chuckwills-widow are again the
denizens of our groves. And, night after night as I listen to their
weird song, feelings almost akin to superstition creep over me, till
I can imagine their utterances to be the omen of good or ill to
the hearer. There is no more mysterious bird in our land than the
chuckwills-widow. Its migration so far northward as southeast Virginia
has been doubted by some naturalists, but facts are against them.
And as I look abroad in autumn, and view the bevies of snowbirds that
have just returned to us, and hear again the familiar "chip," "chip,"
as a passing vehicle puts them to sudden flight, how the finger of
thought touches again on memory's bell, and I think of boyhood's happy
hours, when I welcomed with delight the snowbirds back again to our
lanes and fields.
Each feathered songster, as it revisits us from northland or
southland, awakens feeling of profoundest interest, and if we have
within us a single spark of that divine love of nature that dwells with
the poet or the naturalist, we instinctively receive the birds back to
their old haunts as we would welcome a long-absent friend. What boy
of sensibility, having a spark of the nobler touch of manhood, could
have it in his heart to harm the least of these sinless creatures that
enliven our homes with their presence and song? Who can look without
admiration upon them? Who could wish to destroy them? And when we
reflect that the martins, willets, swifts and swallows that sport about
our homes in summer, and the mocking bird that trills its polyglot song
in our cedar groves by night, have returned to us from tropical or
sub-tropical climes--that only a few weeks before they were flitting
through the orange groves of Cuba, or building their nests amid the
vine-latticed thickets of Florida, we cannot but admire and wonder at
that "peculiar instinct," as Howitt calls it, that guides them with
such unerring certainty through all the changes of their mysterious
round.
For a period of twenty years the average time of the arrival of the
purple martin has been about the last five days in March; and its
departure for the South the second week in August. A few individuals
may remain longer, but it is only when their breeding has been delayed.
The earliest appearance of the martin that I have noted was the 8th of
March, 1871, the latest the 26th of April, 1885. The last date was a
cold and backward spring. This bird rears two broods of four or five
each during the four months that it remains with us.
The chimney swift comes a week or ten days later than the martin, and
seldom begins to build before the 10th of June. It raises one brood
of four to six young, usually in some unused chimney. It remains with
us longer than the martin, even until the cool nights of the last of
September remind it that "the summer is over and gone." The flight of
this bird is employed as a weather sign by country people. When it
soars high, they say fair weather will continue, but when it flies low,
then rain is near at hand.
The whippoorwill arrives, commonly, the last of March, but often
not before the 10th or 15th of April. The chuckwills-widow comes
three weeks later. Both of these strange birds rear one brood of two
young. The nest is placed upon the bare ground, under a clump of low
bushes, or a dense holly, or other low-growing tree. The eggs have the
same markings as those of the bull bat, or night hawk, another very
interesting migratory bird.
The catbird and the wood sparrows do not reach us till near the end of
April, and often May is far advanced before these birds are noticed.
The last is one of the sweetest songsters of our groves in summer,
rivaling any bird of our clime. It seeks the coolest and darkest wood,
where it pours forth its notes hour after hour, being one of the
earliest to begin its mating lays.
The humming bird is the latest visitor to come to us in summer. This
diminutive aerial voyager is one of the most charming of the migratory
tribe, and worthy all the admiration that has been lavished upon it.
It loves to sport in the flower gardens, where it sips the nectar from
the honeycups of Flora's train. Only one species comes to us, the
well-known ruby-throat.
But the young reader interested in these things should begin
observation, and make a list for himself of all the migratory birds in
his locality. A good form for such a record may be found in Howitt's
"Book of the Seasons," an English work, but one from which a great deal
about nature can be learned.
We will close our too brief sketch with the inquiry of Mrs. Kimball, of
Connecticut:
"O, wise little birds, how do ye know
The way to go,
Southward and northward, to and fro?
Far up in ether piped they,
'We but obey
A voice that calleth us far away.'"
ACROSS THE WAY.
GEO. KLINGLE.
A distant line of misty hills,
A stretch of meadow low,
With wreaths of brush a-skirt the woods,
Midst fabrics spun of snow:
A vista through the forest trees--
A temple if you choose,
With pictured screen and arabesque,
Mosaic's dusky hues,
Dim mullioned windows half confessed
Beyond far-columned aisles,
And arches lost and found anew
Through tracery's defiles;
A roof?... we might perchance ascribe
The misty, stooping sky
Beyond the wreaths of crystal
Swung where winds go singing by.
Beneath, where worshiper might tread
A glimpse of crystal tile,
Caught through the weeds and tangled reeds
Which guard the near defile.
A myriad forms a-glint and white
Close, close beneath the feet;
Fantastic hands that reach across
A myriad hands to greet;
Low shrubs in fleecy, white array,
Tall stems with hood and wings,
And vines a-glint in crystal lace
Wound through fantastic rings;
And grasses frosted into gems;
Near by a bough bent down
With such a wealth of clinging leaves
Stained deep in ruddy brown.
These and the woods' low breath of song
Just now across the way;
To-morrow?... visions change, you know,
To meet each hour of day.
THE PURPLE MARTIN.
(_Progne subis._)
Beautiful and interesting as this bird is known to be, less has been
said about it than of any of our common birds of agreeable song and
manners. Its common names are house martin, purple swallow, American
martin, and violet swallow. The young male is several years in
attaining the uniform glossy violet-black plumage, the steel blue
feathers appearing in gradually coalescing patches. It is common to the
whole of temperate North America, wintering in Mexico and the Bermudas.
It is only accidental in Europe. The adult female is glossy blue-black
above, becoming hoary grayish on the forehead, and sometimes on the
nape also. The young are similar to the adult female.
Ridgway says that no bird of America is more deserving of protection
and of encouragement to live about the habitations of man than
the purple martin. One pair of them will destroy more insects in
a season than all the English sparrows in a township will kill in
their life-time. Besides, their notes are pleasing to the ear, and
their actions both when on the wing and when perching upon their
boxes extremely interesting. During the breeding-season the male has
a continued and varied song of great beauty and considerable power;
and it is as much on account of the sweetness of their notes as for
their familiarity and usefulness that these birds are such general
favorites. In the wild woods where they have not had opportunity to
avail themselves of man's hospitality they are as lovely and musical
as when semi-domesticated in our door-yards, and, it is said, are in
all respects exactly the same birds. When Audubon was traveling through
the Middle States, he reported that almost every country tavern had a
martin-box on the upper part of its signboard, and commented: "I have
observed that the handsomer the box, the better does the inn prove to
be." The Indians hung up calabashes for the martins, so they would
keep the vultures from the deerskins and venison that were drying. Mr.
Nehrling says that the martin is as well satisfied with the simple
hollow gourd attached to a pole near a negro hut as with the most
ornamental and best arranged martin-house in the beautiful gardens and
parks of rich planters and opulent merchants. He claims that where
no nesting boxes are provided our martin will not breed, and that
it hardly ever accepts nesting-boxes attached to trees, preferring
localities where the chance is given to dart in and out uninterrupted
by any obstacle.
The struggle between the martins and sparrows is so bitter that one
pair of martins watched by Mr. Widmann adopted the plan of never
leaving the nest alone, taking turns in going for food, because, as he
explains, "it is comparatively easy to keep a sparrow out of a box,
but it is impossible for a martin to dislodge him after he has built a
nest."
Mr. Keyser says that in the autumn the martins assemble in flocks,
sometimes large enough to suggest an ecumenical council, and fall
to cackling, twittering, discussing, and in many other ways making
preparation for their aerial voyage to another clime. They really seem
to regret being compelled to leave their pleasant summer haunts, if
one may judge from the length and fervor of their good-byes. "Perhaps
they are like human beings who have a strong attachment for home,
and must visit every nook and tryst to say _au revoir_ before they
take their departure. One can easily imagine how dear to their hearts
are the scenes of their childhood, and of their nest-building and
brood-rearing." After departing, they sometimes return in a day or two
before they begin their southward pilgrimage in real earnest. Do they
get homesick after they have gone some distance, and return once more
to look upon the familiar scenes? It is one of the mysteries of bird
life.
[Illustration: PURPLE MARTIN.
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]
A GLIMPSE AT BEAUTIFUL PICTURES.
ANNE WAKELY JACKSON.
How many of you, I wonder, have a west window? Not one opening upon a
blank wall, nor upon a vista of houses, but one from which you can see
the sky. If your sky-view extends to the horizon, you are indeed blest;
for then your window is no less than a frame for the most beautiful
pictures--nature's own.
No landscape painter ever lived who could put upon canvas such beauty
as you may see, on the majority of days, from your west window. It will
only cost you a little time, and you will be richly repaid for time
thus spent.
Of course finer views can be seen from a hilltop, or looking across an
open plain. But one cannot often be in these places, while one might
spare ten or fifteen minutes to stand by the window at sunset?
After a busy day, I know of nothing more composing to the spirit than
the contemplation of some majestic form of beauty. And what could be
more tranquillizing than the ever-changing beauty of a sunset?
Unless the day close enveloped in clouds, there will be some picture,
well worth looking at, to be seen from your window. When a sunset is
unusually gorgeous, we frequently exclaim, "That is the most beautiful
one I ever saw!" But when we have watched them day after day, we will
find comparisons impossible. Each one will have a special beauty of its
own, quite beyond compare. Some will be more brilliant than others, but
each one will be perfect in its way, and every one will have something
new of beauty to reveal to us, if we look with seeing eyes.
I am particularly blessed with an open view to the west, just screened
at its base by a delicate fringe of trees. The sunsets this winter have
been a constant joy to me, and I long for others who love the beautiful
to share this great pleasure with me.
The artistic nature, and love and appreciation of beauty, are well
developed in many people whose lives are so hard and busy and full of
care, that the delights of the world of art are out of their reach.
It is to these particularly that I would commend the world of nature,
which is more wonderful and far more beautiful than any art, and is a
free gift to all.
It is an interesting study to note the different effect of the leafless
trees against various backgrounds. I am one of the people who think
trees are more lovely in winter than in summer. Nothing can be more
exquisite, to my mind, than the tracery of bare branches and twigs
against the sky.
What a study is offered by the varying lines of different trees--the
limbs of some starting from the main stem in graceful curves, while
others are twisted and bent at sharp angles.
During the cloudy days, I am apt to think a gray background the best
that could be imagined. But next morning, perhaps, the clouds have
melted away, and I find my trees wearing an entirely new expression,
against the bright blue sky. Where they appeared just dark lines
against the gray, they have brightened up, and taken on new and varied
colors, seen against the blue; and I notice how much darker the trunks
and lower limbs are, compared with the upper branches.
How different, again, they look with the sunset sky behind them! The
whole western horizon, and upward for quite a space, is a blaze of
orange flame! How black they look, silhouetted thus! Again, we have a
pale, cold orange, or pink, fading into golden white! How clearly every
twig is brought out!
How is it possible that we can pass such beauty by unnoticed, or be
indifferent to it because it is common? It should be the cause of great
rejoicing, that this miracle of beauty is an almost daily occurrence.
If the winter sunsets are less gorgeous than those of summer, they are
full of refinement of detail. Theirs may be a cold beauty, but it is so
clear cut and perfect.
Dear reader, if you possess the frame, don't let the pictures escape
you. Remember that any day not absolutely cloudy and dull, will furnish
you with a masterpiece. And even after the last bright rays of the
dying sunlight have faded away, glance out of the window again, as you
pass, for perhaps the calm beauty of the evening star has a message for
you too.
GOOSE PLANT IN BLOOM.
All lovers of plants and flowers should visit the greenhouse at
Washington Park, Chicago, and see the goose plant. It is growing in one
of the small span-roofed structures, and as seen to-day there are over
a dozen goslings and three or four geese growing on one plant.
One of the biggest geese is over a yard long and broad in proportion.
This plant is one of the most unique, rare and valuable known to
scientists. Its correct name is _Aristolochia gigas Sturtevantii_,
and it was brought here for the World's Fair. At the Fair, however,
it bore only one or two flowers, as it was too young to bear more.
It is a native of South America and even there is considered a
marvelous product. In one of the greenhouses next to the goose house
at Washington Park is a collection of caladiums of the most varied
shapes and colors ever dreamed of. Mr. Kanst, the head gardener, says
the collection has no duplicate. Many of the plants have leaves as
delicately traced as the finest valenciennes laces. A newspaper may be
read if covered with one of these transparent leaves. The colors are
all shades of red, pink, maroon, crimson and yellow. The collection
of water lilies is now at the best and is truly beautiful. Mr. Kanst
says that the aquatic plants are as amenable to cultivation as are the
terrestrial plants.
* * * * *
A special stage is that of the semi-apes. Probably man's ancestors
among the semi-apes closely resembled the existing lemurs, and, like
these, led a quiet life climbing trees.
These are immediately followed by the true apes, or simians. It has
long been beyond doubt that of all animals the apes are in all respects
the most nearly allied to man. Just as on the one side the lowest apes
approach very near to lemurs, so on the other side do the highest apes
most closely resemble man.
The difference between man and the highest form of apes, the gorilla,
is slighter than between the gorilla and the baboon. Below even the
baboon, the oldest parent form of the whole ape group must certainly
have been thickly covered with hair, and was, in fact, a tailed ape.
It is, after all, some satisfaction to know that a thousand million
years may have been consumed in this evolution of man.
* * * * *
The heron seldom flaps his wings at a rate less than 120 to 150 times
a minute. This is counting the downward strokes only, so that the
bird's wings really make from 240 to 300 distinct movements a minute.
JOHNNY APPLESEED.
Johnny Appleseed, by which name Jonathan Chapman was known in every
log cabin from the Ohio river to the northern lakes, is an interesting
character to remember. Barefooted, and with scanty clothing, he
traversed the wilderness for many years, planting appleseeds in the
most favorable locations. His self-sacrificing life made him a favorite
with the frontier settlers--men, women, and especially children;
even the savages treated him with kindness, and the rattlesnakes, it
was said, hesitated to bite him. "During the war of 1812, when the
frontier settlers were tortured and slaughtered by the savage allies
of Great Britain, Johnny Appleseed continued his wanderings, and was
never harmed by the roving bands of hostile Indians. On many occasions
the impunity with which he ranged the country enabled him to give the
settlers warning of approaching danger, in time to allow them to take
refuge in their block-houses before the savages could attack them. An
informant refers to one of these instances, when the news of Hull's
surrender came like a thunderbolt upon the frontier. Large bands
of Indians and British were destroying everything before them, and
murdering defenseless women and children, and even the block-houses
were not always a sufficient protection. At this time Johnny traveled
day and night, warning the people of the impending danger. He visited
every cabin and delivered this message; 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon
me, and He hath anointed me to blow the trumpet in the wilderness, and
sound an alarm in the forest; for behold, the tribes of the heathen are
round about your doors, and a devouring flame followeth after them!'
The aged man who narrated this incident said that he could feel even
then the thrill that was caused by this prophetic announcement of the
wild-looking herald of danger, who aroused the family on a bright
moon-light midnight with his piercing cry. Refusing all offers of food,
and denying himself a moment's rest, he traversed the borders day and
night until he had warned every settler of the impending peril. Johnny
also served as colporteur, systematically leaving with the settlers
chapters of certain religious books, and calling for them afterward;
and was the first to engage in the work of protecting dumb brutes.
He believed it a sin to kill any creature for food. No Brahman could
be more concerned for the preservation of insect life, and the only
occasion on which he destroyed a venomous reptile was a source of long
regret, to which he could never refer without manifesting sadness.
He had selected a suitable place for planting appleseeds on a small
prairie, and in order to prepare the ground, he was mowing the long
grass, when he was bitten by a rattlesnake. In describing the event he
sighed heavily, and said, 'Poor fellow, he only just touched me, when
I, in the heat of my ungodly passion, put the heel of my scythe in him,
and went away. Some time afterward I went back, and there lay the poor
fellow, dead!'"
"He was a man after all." Hawthorne might have exclaimed of him, too,
"his Maker's own truest image, a philanthropic man! not that steel
engine of the devil's contrivance--a philanthropist!"--_A. P. Russell's
Library Notes._
* * * * *
Robins in the tree-tops,
Blossoms in the grass;
Green things a-growing
Everywhere you pass;
Sudden little breezes,
Showers of silver dew;
Black bough and bent twig
Budding out anew;
Pine tree and willow tree,
Fringed elm and larch,
Don't you think that May-time's
Pleasanter than March?
--_T. B. Aldrich._
[Illustration: RING-NECKED DOVE.
1/2 Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]
RING-NECKED DOVE.
(_Zenaidura macroura_.)
The popular names for this favorite bird are turtle dove, common
dove, and Carolina dove. It is an inhabitant of all of temperate North
America to a little north of the United States boundary, south through
Mexico and Central America to the Isthmus of Panama, Cuba, Jamaica, and
some other West Indian islands. The species have even been known to
winter as far north as Canada, Mr. John J. Morley, of Windsor, Ontario,
informing Professor Baird that he had seen considerable numbers near
that place on the 6th of December, 1878, and that he had on other
occasions seen it in various places, from three to twelve at a time. It
is a common summer resident in Illinois. The majority arrive the last
of March or first of April, and depart by the middle of October. In
many places it becomes partly domesticated, breeding in the trees in
the yard and showing but little fear when approached.
THE RING-NECKED DOVE.
All day throughout the sunny sky,
All other sounds above,
As, breathing sweet tranquillity,
Sweet voices of the dove
Have rung the oft-recurring note,
A constant vow of love.
Thus its dear mate to ever cheer,
As, still together, near they fly,
A distant echo, faint, yet clear,
Quick falling now so strangely near
When sunshine gladdens earth and sky.
But cold doth blow the dreary wind,
Or clouds arise, and float above,
With shadows darkening light of day;
No echo then from greeting love,
But, deep in quiet nest secure,
For sunshine's cheer awaits the dove.
Oh, dove! Oh, love! forever bright,
Like sunny skies your life appears,
And songs of joy your hearts delight.
If storms or shadows dark affright,
My love endures and conquers fears!
SOME EARLY RISERS.
An ornithologist, having investigated the question of at what hour
in summer the commonest small birds wake and sing, says the greenfinch
is the earliest riser, as it pipes as early as 1:30 in the morning, the
blackcap beginning at about 2:30. It is nearly 4:00 o'clock, and the
sun is well above the horizon before the first real songster appears
in the person of the blackbird. He is heard a half an hour before
the thrush, and the chirp of the robin begins about the same length
of time before that of the wren. The house sparrow and the tomtit
occupy the last place in the list. This investigation has ruined the
lark's reputation for early rising. That much-celebrated bird is quite
a sluggard, as it does not rise until long after the chaffinches,
linnets, and a number of hedgerow birds have been up and about.
THE YOUNG NATURALIST.
TESTING THE CLEANNESS OF THE AIR.--Professor Dewar has recently devised
a new method of testing the contamination of the air. A short time
ago he exhibited before the Royal institution two samples of liquid
air in glass tubes--one was made from air which had been washed to
purify it from dust, soot, carbonic acid and other impurities. This,
when condensed, was a pale blue liquid. The other sample was made
by condensing the air of the lecture-room in which the audience was
assembled, and was an opaque, blackish fluid, resembling soup in
appearance.
THEIR WONDERFUL EYES.--When a fly comes from an egg, one of a family
of thousands, it is soft, pulpy, white, eyeless, legless. When mature
it affords the student one of the most marvelous fields in all nature,
with its nerve clusters and brain, its feet like the hoofs of a
rhinoceros, a thousand hollow hairs on each footpad, the wings, which
make 15,000 vibrations a second, and the eyes. There are 8,000 of
these, each a perfect lens.
A fly's eyes are hard, immovable and retain their form after death. As
a fly cannot turn its head it has eyes in all directions. So small are
these eyes that 1,000,000 would not cover the surface of a square inch.
Each eye measures a thousandth part of an inch and the color is almost
always red.
Each of these eyes is a lens and photographs have been taken through
them. The lenses are of varying kinds--some suitable for looking off
at a distance, others for things close at hand. Occasionally with his
thousand eyes a fly is deceived. This is evidenced when a blue-bottle
inside a room heads for the open country. He does not see the window
glass and the thump with which he strikes and the angry buzz which
shows his discomfiture show how mistaken he was.
To prove there is nothing extraordinary in a fly's having 8,000 eyes
it is known that a certain beetle owns 50,016 eyes; a certain butterfly
34,710, a common dragonfly 25,088, and a silkworm moth 12,500.
NOTES ON ANIMALS.--The insect effects its breathing, not as men and
animals do, by the lungs, but through openings in all sides of the
body. It has an intricate system of tubes running through all parts of
its person, through which the air is brought in contact with the legs,
wings, and so on. These tubes are each protected by delicate membranes.
In the fly there exist certain air pouches in addition to the tubes,
which serve as reservoirs of air.