with their masters, were assembled there, and held himself aloof from
them, squatting on the ground with head erect and almost an air of
contempt for them, but it was evident that he was watching their every
move. When I started homeward, he showed great satisfaction by leaping
and barking.
That night was wildly stormy, and I concluded to go out and enjoy the
storm on some wind-swept crags. Scotch was missing and I called him,
but he did not appear, so I went alone. After being tossed by the wind
for more than an hour, I returned to the cabin, but Scotch was still
away. This had never occurred before, so I concluded not to go to bed
until he returned. He came home after daylight, and was accompanied by
another dog,--a collie, which belonged to a rancher who lived about
fifteen miles away. I remembered to have seen this dog at the
post-office the day before. My first thought was to send the dog home,
but I finally concluded to allow him to remain, to see what would come
of his presence, for it was apparent that Scotch had gone for him. He
appropriated Scotch's bed in the tub, to the evident satisfaction of
Scotch. During the morning the two played together in the happiest
possible manner for more than an hour. At noon I fed them together.
In the afternoon, while I was writing, I heard the varied voices of
the coyote pack, and went out with my glass to watch proceedings,
wondering how the visiting collie would play his part. There went
Scotch, as I supposed, racing for the yelping pack, but the visiting
collie was not to be seen. The pack beat the usual sullen, scattering
retreat, and while the dog, which I supposed to be Scotch, was chasing
the last slow tormenter into the woods, from behind the crag came the
big limping coyote, hurrying toward the willow clump from behind which
he was accustomed to yelp triumphantly in Scotch's rear. I raised the
glass for a better look, all the time wondering where the visiting
collie was keeping himself. I was unable to see him, yet I recollected
he was with Scotch less than an hour before.
The lame coyote came round the willow clump as usual, and threw up his
head as though to bay at the moon. Then the unexpected happened. On
the instant, Scotch leaped into the air out of the willow clump, and
came down upon the coyote's back! They rolled about for some time,
when the coyote finally shook himself free and started at a lively
limping pace for the woods, only to be grabbed again by the visiting
collie, which had been chasing the pack, and which I had mistaken for
Scotch. The pack beat a swift retreat. For a time both dogs fought
the coyote fiercely, but he at last tore himself free, and escaped
into the pines, badly wounded and bleeding. I never saw him again.
That night the visiting collie went home. As Scotch was missing that
night for a time, I think he may have accompanied him at least a part
of the way.
One day a young lady from Michigan came along and wanted to climb
Long's Peak all alone, without a guide. I agreed to consent to this
if first she would climb one of the lesser peaks unaided, on a stormy
day. This the young lady did, and by so doing convinced me that she
had a keen sense of direction and an abundance of strength, for the
day on which she climbed was a stormy one, and the peak was completely
befogged with clouds. After this, there was nothing for me to do but
allow her to climb Long's Peak alone.
Just as she was starting, that cool September morning, I thought to
provide for an emergency by sending Scotch with her. He knew the trail
well and would, of course, lead her the right way, providing she lost
the trail. "Scotch," said I, "go with this young lady, take good care
of her, and stay with her till she returns. Don't you desert her." He
gave a few barks of satisfaction and started with her up the trail,
carrying himself in a manner which indicated that he was both honored
and pleased. I felt that the strength and alertness of the young lady,
when combined with the faithfulness and watchfulness of Scotch, would
make the journey a success, so I went about my affairs as usual. When
darkness came on that evening, the young lady had not returned.
She climbed swiftly until she reached the rocky alpine moorlands above
timber-line. Here she lingered long to enjoy the magnificent scenery
and the brilliant flowers. It was late in the afternoon when she
arrived at the summit of the peak. After she had spent a little time
there resting and absorbing the beauty and grandeur of the scene, she
started to return. She had not proceeded far when clouds and darkness
came on, and on a slope of slide-rock she lost the trail.
Scotch had minded his own affairs and enjoyed himself in his own way
all day long. Most of the time he followed her closely, apparently
indifferent to what happened, but when she, in the darkness, left the
trail and started off in the wrong direction, he at once came forward,
and took the lead with an alert, aggressive air. The way in which he
did this should have suggested to the young lady that he knew what he
was about, but she did not appreciate this fact. She thought he had
become weary and wanted to run away from her, so she called him back.
Again she started in the wrong direction; this time Scotch got in
front of her and refused to move. She pushed him out of the way. Once
more he started off in the right direction, and this time she scolded
him and reminded him that his master had told him not to desert her.
Scotch dropped his ears and sheepishly fell in behind her and followed
meekly along. He had obeyed orders.
After traveling a short distance, the young lady realized that she had
lost her way, but it never occurred to her that she had only to trust
Scotch and he would lead her directly home. However, she had the good
sense to stop where she was, and there, among the crags, by the
stained remnants of winter's snow, thirteen thousand feet above
sea-level, she was to spend the night. The cold wind blew a gale,
roaring and booming among the crags, the alpine brooklet turned to
ice, while, in the lee of the crag, shivering with cold, hugging
shaggy Scotch in her arms, she lay down for the night.
I had given my word not to go in search of her if she failed to
return. However, I sent out four guides to look for her. They suffered
much from cold as they vainly searched among the crags through the
dark hours of the windy night. Just at sunrise one of them found her,
almost exhausted, but, with slightly frost-bitten fingers, still
hugging Scotch in her arms. He gave her food and drink and additional
wraps, and without delay started with her down the trail. As soon as
she was taken in charge by the guide, patient Scotch left her and
hurried home. He had saved her life.
Scotch's hair is long and silky, black with a touch of tawny about the
head and a little bar of white on the nose. He has the most expressive
and pleasing dog's face I have ever seen. There is nothing he enjoys
so well as to have some one kick the football for him. For an hour at
a time he will chase it and try to get hold of it, giving an
occasional eager, happy bark. He has good eyes, and these, with his
willingness to be of service, have occasionally made him useful to me
in finding articles which I, or some one else, had forgotten or lost
on the trail. Generally it is difficult to make him understand just
what has been lost or where he is to look for it, but when once he
understands, he keeps up the search, sometimes for hours if he does
not find the article before. He is always faithful in guarding any
object that I ask him to take care of. I have but to throw down a coat
and point at it, and he will at once lie down near by, there to remain
until I come to dismiss him. He will allow no one else to touch it.
His attitude never fails to convey the impression that he would die
in defense of the thing intrusted to him, but desert it or give it
up, never!
One February day I took Scotch and started up Long's Peak, hoping to
gain its wintry summit. Scotch easily followed in my snowshoe-tracks.
At an altitude of thirteen thousand feet on the wind-swept steeps
there was but little snow, and it was necessary to leave snowshoes
behind. After climbing a short distance on these icy slopes, I became
alarmed for the safety of Scotch. By and by I had to cut steps in the
ice. This made the climb too perilous for him, as he could not realize
the danger he was in should he miss a step. There were places where
slipping from these steps meant death, so I told Scotch to go back. I
did not, however, tell him to watch my snowshoes, for so dangerous was
the climb that I did not know that I should ever get back to them
myself. However, he went to the snowshoes, and with them he remained
for eight cold hours until I came back by the light of the stars.
On a few occasions I allowed Scotch to go with me on short winter
excursions. He enjoyed these immensely, although he had a hard time
of it and but very little to eat. When we camped among the spruces in
the snow, he seemed to enjoy sitting by my side and silently watching
the evening fire, and he contentedly cuddled with me to keep warm
at night.
[Illustration: THE CLOUD-CAPPED CONTINENTAL DIVIDE]
One cold day we were returning from a four days' excursion when, a
little above timber-line, I stopped to take some photographs. To do
this it was necessary for me to take off my sheepskin mittens, which I
placed in my coat-pocket, but not securely, as it proved. From time to
time, as I climbed to the summit of the Continental Divide, I stopped
to take photographs, but on the summit the cold pierced my silk gloves
and I felt for my mittens, to find that one of them was lost. I
stooped, put an arm around Scotch, and told him I had lost a mitten,
and that I wanted him to go down for it to save me the trouble. "It
won't take you very long, but it will be a hard trip for me. Go and
fetch it to me." Instead of starting off hurriedly, willingly, as he
had invariably done before in obedience to my commands, he stood
still. His alert, eager ears drooped, but no other move did he make.
I repeated the command in my most kindly tones. At this, instead of
starting down the mountain for the mitten, he slunk slowly away toward
home. It was clear that he did not want to climb down the steep icy
slope of a mile to timber-line, more than a thousand feet below. I
thought he had misunderstood me, so I called him back, patted him, and
then, pointing down the slope, said, "Go for the mitten, Scotch; I
will wait here for you." He started for it, but went unwillingly. He
had always served me so cheerfully that I could not understand, and it
was not until late the next afternoon that I realized that he had not
understood me, but that he had loyally, and at the risk of his life,
tried to obey me.
The summit of the Continental Divide, where I stood when I sent him
back, was a very rough and lonely region. On every hand were broken
snowy peaks and rugged cañons. My cabin, eighteen miles away, was the
nearest house to it, and the region was utterly wild. I waited a
reasonable time for Scotch to return, but he did not come back.
Thinking he might have gone by without my seeing him, I walked some
distance along the summit, first in one direction and then in the
other, but, seeing neither him nor his tracks, I knew that he had not
yet come back. As it was late in the afternoon, and growing colder,
I decided to go slowly on toward my cabin. I started along a route that
I felt sure he would follow, and I reasoned that he would overtake me.
Darkness came on and still no Scotch, but I kept going forward. For
the remainder of the way I told myself that he might have got by me
in the darkness.
When, at midnight, I arrived at the cabin, I expected to be greeted by
him, but he was not there. I felt that something was wrong and feared
that he had met with an accident. I slept two hours and rose, but
still he was missing, so I concluded to tie on my snowshoes and go
to meet him. The thermometer showed fourteen below zero.
I started at three o'clock in the morning, feeling that I should meet
him without going far. I kept going on and on, and when, at noon,
I arrived at the place on the summit from which I had sent him back,
Scotch was not there to cheer the wintry, silent scene.
I slowly made my way down the slope, and at two in the afternoon,
twenty-four hours after I had sent Scotch back, I paused on a crag and
looked below. There in the snowy world of white he lay by the mitten
in the snow. He had misunderstood me, and had gone back to guard the
mitten instead of to get it. He could hardly contain himself for joy
when he saw me. He leaped into the air, barked, jumped, rolled over,
licked my hand, whined, grabbed the mitten, raced round and round me,
and did everything that an alert, affectionate, faithful dog could do
to show that he appreciated my appreciation of his supremely faithful
services.
After waiting for him to eat a luncheon, we started merrily towards
home, where we arrived at one o'clock in the morning. Had I not
returned, I suppose Scotch would have died beside the mitten. In a
region cold, cheerless, oppressive, without food, and perhaps to die,
he lay down by the mitten because he understood that I had told him
to. In the annals of dog heroism, I know of no greater deed.
Bob and Some Other Birds
Birds are plentiful on the Rockies, and the accumulating information
concerning them may, in a few years, accredit Colorado with having
more kinds of birds than any other State. The mountains and plains of
Colorado carry a wide range of geographic conditions,--a variety of
life-zones,--and in many places there is an abundance of bird-food of
many kinds. These conditions naturally produce a large variety of
birds throughout the State.
Notwithstanding this array of feathered inhabitants, most tourists who
visit the West complain of a scarcity of birds. But birds the Rockies
have, and any bird-student could tell why more of them are not seen by
tourists. The loud manners of most tourists who invade the Rockies
simply put the birds to flight. When I hear the approach of tourists
in the wilds, I feel instinctively that I should fly for safety
myself. "Our little brothers of the air" the world over dislike the
crowd, and will linger only for those who come with deliberation
and quiet.
This entire mountain-section, from foothills to mountain-summits,
is enlivened in nesting-time with scores of species of birds. Low
down on the foothills one will find Bullock's oriole, the red-headed
woodpecker, the Arkansas kingbird, and one will often see, and more
often hear, the clear, strong notes of the Western meadowlark ringing
over the hills and meadows. The wise, and rather murderous, magpie
goes chattering about. Here and there the quiet bluebird is seen. The
kingfisher is in his appointed place. Long-crested jays, Clarke's
crows, and pigmy nuthatches are plentiful, and the wild note of the
chickadee is heard on every hand. Above the altitude of eight thousand
feet you may hear, in June, the marvelous melody of Audubon's hermit
thrush.
Along the brooks and streams lives the water-ouzel. This is one of the
most interesting and self-reliant of Rocky Mountain birds. It loves
the swift, cool mountain-streams. It feeds in them, nests within reach
of the splash of their spray, closely follows their bent and sinuous
course in flight, and from an islanded boulder mingles its liquid song
with the music of the moving waters. There is much in the life of the
ouzel that is refreshing and inspiring. I wish it were better known.
Around timber-line in summer one may hear the happy song of the
white-throated sparrow. Here and above lives the leucosticte. Far
above the vanguard of the brave pines, where the brilliant flowers
fringe the soiled remnants of winter's drifted snow, where sometimes
the bees hum and the painted butterflies sail on easy wings, the
broad-tailed hummingbird may occasionally be seen, while still higher
the eagles soar in the quiet bending blue. On the heights, sometimes
nesting at an altitude of thirteen thousand feet, is found the
ptarmigan, which, like the Eskimo, seems supremely contented in the
land of crags and snows.
Of all the birds on the Rockies, the one most marvelously eloquent is
the solitaire. I have often felt that everything stood still and that
every beast and bird listened while the matchless solitaire sang. The
hermit thrush seems to suppress one, to give one a touch of reflective
loneliness; but the solitaire stirs one to be up and doing, gives
one the spirit of youth. In the solitaire's song one feels all the
freshness and the promise of spring. The song seems to be born of ages
of freedom beneath peaceful skies, of the rhythm of the universe, of a
mingling of the melody of winds and waters and of all rhythmic sounds
that murmur and echo out of doors and of every song that Nature sings
in the wild gardens of the world. I am sure I have never been more
thoroughly wide awake and hopeful than when listening to the
solitaire's song. The world is flushed with a diviner atmosphere,
every object carries a fresher significance, there are new thoughts
and clear, calm hopes sure to be realized on the enchanted fields of
the future. I was camping alone one evening in the deep solitude
of the Rockies. The slanting sun-rays were glowing on St. Vrain's
crag-crowned hills and everything was at peace, when, from a near-by
treetop came the triumphant, hopeful song of a solitaire, and I forgot
all except that the world was young. One believes in fairies when the
solitaire sings. Some of my friends have predicted that I shall some
time meet with an accident and perish in the solitudes alone. If their
prediction should come true, I shall hope it will be in the
summer-time, while the flowers are at their best, and that during my
last conscious moments I shall hear the melody of the solitaire
singing as I die with the dying day.
I sat for hours in the woods one day, watching a pair of chickadees
feeding their young ones. There were nine of these hungry midgets,
and, like nine small boys, they not only were always hungry, but were
capable of digesting everything. They ate spiders and flies, green
worms, ants, millers, dirty brown worms, insect-eggs by the dozen,
devil's-darning-needles, woodlice, bits of lichen, grasshoppers, and
I know not how many other things. I could not help thinking that when
one family of birds destroyed such numbers of injurious insects, if
all the birds were to stop eating, the insects would soon destroy
every green tree and plant on earth.
One of the places where I used to camp to enjoy the flowers, the
trees, and the birds was on the shore of a glacier lake. Near the lake
were eternal snows, rugged gorges, and forests primeval. To its shore,
especially in autumn, came many bird callers. I often screened myself
in a dense clump of fir trees on the north shore to study the manners
of birds which came near. To help attract and detain them, I scattered
feed on the shore, and I spent interesting hours and days in my
hiding-place enjoying the etiquette of birds at feast and frolic.
I was lying in the sun, one afternoon, just outside my fir clump,
gazing out across the lake, when a large black bird alighted on the
shore some distance around the lake. "Surely," I said to myself, "that
is a crow." A crow I had not seen or heard of in that part of the
country. I wanted to call to him that he was welcome to eat at my
free-lunch counter, when it occurred to me that I was in plain sight.
Before I could move, the bird rose in the air and started flying
leisurely toward me. I hoped he would see, or smell, the feed and
tarry for a time; but he rose as he advanced, and as he appeared to
be looking ahead, I had begun to fear he would go by without stopping,
when he suddenly wheeled and at the same instant said "Hurrah," as
distinctly as I have ever heard it spoken, and dropped to the feed.
The clearness, energy, and unexpectedness of his "Hurrah" startled
me. He alighted and began to eat, evidently without suspecting my
presence, notwithstanding the fact that I lay only a few feet away.
Some days before, a mountain lion had killed a mountain sheep; a part
of this carcass I had dragged to my bird table. Upon this the crow,
for such he was, alighted and fed ravenously for some time. Then he
paused, straightened up, and took a look about. His eye fell on me,
and instantly he squatted as if to hurl himself in hurried flight, but
he hesitated, then appeared as if starting to burst out with "Caw" or
some such exclamation, but changed his mind and repressed it. Finally
he straightened and fixed himself for another good look at me. I did
not move, and my clothes must have been a good shade of protective
coloring, for he seemed to conclude that I was not worth considering.
He looked straight at me for a few seconds, uttered another "Hurrah,"
which he emphasized with a defiant gesture, and went on energetically
eating. In the midst of this, something alarmed him, and he flew
swiftly away and did not come back. Was this crow a pet that had
concluded to strike out for himself? Or had his mimicry or his habit
of laying hold of whatever pleased him caused him to appropriate this
word from bigger folk?
Go where you will over the Rockies and the birds will be with you. One
day I spent several hours on the summit of Long's Peak, and while
there twelve species of birds alighted or passed near enough for me to
identify them. One of these birds was an eagle, another a hummingbird.
[Illustration: PTARMIGAN]
On a June day, while the heights were more than half covered with
winter's snow, I came across the nest of a ptarmigan near a drift and
at an altitude of thirteen thousand feet above sea-level. The
ptarmigan, with their home above tree-line, amid eternal snows, are
wonderfully self-reliant and self-contained. The ouzel, too, is
self-poised, indifferent to all the world but his brook, and
showing an appreciation for water greater, I think, than that of any
other landsman. These birds, the ptarmigan and the ouzel, along with
the willow thrush, who sings out his melody amid the shadows of the
pines, who puts his woods into song,--these birds of the mountains are
with me when memory takes me back a solitary visitor to the lonely
places of the Rockies.
The birds of the Rockies, as well as the bigger folk who live there,
have ways of their own which distinguish them from their kind in the
East. They sing with more enthusiasm, but with the same subtle tone
that everywhere tells that all is right with the world, and makes all
to the manner born glad to be alive.
Nothing delights me more than to come across a person who is
interested in trees; and I have long thought that any one who
appreciates trees or birds is one who is either good or great, or
both. I consider it an honor to converse with one who knows the birds
and the trees, and have more than once gone out of my way to meet one
of those favored mortals. I remember one cold morning I came down off
the mountains and went into a house to get warm. Rather I went in to
scrape an acquaintance with whomsoever could be living there who
remembered the birds while snow and cold prevailed,--when Nature
forgot. To get warm was a palpable excuse. I was not cold; I had no
need to stop; I simply wanted to meet the people who had, on this day
at least, put out food and warm water for the birds; but I have ever
since been glad that I went in, for the house shielded from the
cold a family whom it is good to know, and, besides making their
acquaintance, I met "Bob" and heard her story.
Every one in the house was fond of pets. Rex, a huge St. Bernard,
greeted me at the door, and with a show of satisfaction accompanied me
to a chair near the stove. In going to the chair some forlorn
snowbirds, "that Sarah had found nearly frozen while out feeding the
birds this morning," hopped out of my way. As I sat down, I noticed an
old sack on the floor against the wall before me. All at once this
sack came to life, had an idea, or was bewitched, I thought. Anyway it
became so active that it held my attention for several seconds, and
gave me a little alarm. I was relieved when out of it tumbled an
aggressive rooster, which advanced a few steps, flapped, and crowed
lustily. "He was brought in to get thawed out; I suppose you will next
be wondering where we keep the pig," said my hostess as she advanced
to stir the fire, after which she examined "two little cripples,"
birds in a box behind the stove.