After I had sat down, "Bob," a pet quail, came from somewhere, and
advanced with the most serene and dignified air to greet me. After
pausing to eye me for a moment, with a look of mingled curiosity and
satisfaction, she went under my chair and squatted confidingly on the
floor. Bob was the first pet quail I had ever seen, and my questions
concerning her brought from my hostess the following story:--
"One day last fall a flock of quail became frightened, and in their
excited flight one struck against a neighbor's window and was badly
stunned. My husband, who chanced to be near at the time, picked up the
injured one and brought it home. My three daughters, who at times had
had pet horses, snakes, turtles, and rats, welcomed this shy little
stranger and at once set about caring for her injuries. Just before
"Bob" had fully recovered, there came a heavy fall of snow, which was
followed by such a succession of storms that we concluded to keep her
with us, provided she was willing to stay. We gave her the freedom of
the house. For some time she was wild and shy; under a chair or the
lounge she would scurry if any one approached her. Plainly, she did
not feel welcome or safe in our house, and I gave up the idea of
taming her. One day, however, we had lettuce for dinner, and while we
were at the table Sarah, my eldest daughter, who has a gift for taming
and handling wild creatures, declared that Bob should eat out of her
hand before night. All that afternoon she tempted her with bits of
lettuce, and when evening came, had succeeded so well that never after
was Bob afraid of us. Whenever we sat down for a meal, Bob would come
running and quietly go in turn to each with coaxing sounds and
pleading looks, wanting to be fed. It was against the rules to feed
her at meals, but first one, then another, would slip something to
her under the table, trying at the same time to appear innocent. The
girls have always maintained that their mother, who made the rule, was
the first one to break it. No one could resist Bob's pretty, dainty,
coaxing ways.
"She is particularly fond of pie-crust, and many a time I have found
the edge picked off the pie I had intended for dinner. Bob never fails
to find a pie, if one is left uncovered. I think it is the shortening
in the pie-crust that gives it the delicious flavor, for lard she
prefers above all of her many foods. She cares least of all for grain.
My daughters say that Bob's fondness for graham gems accounts for the
frequency of their recent appearances on our table.
"After trying many places, Bob at last found a roosting-place that
suited her. This was in a leather collar-box on the bureau, where
she could nestle up close to her own image in the mirror. Since
discovering this place she has never failed to occupy it at night.
She is intelligent, and in so many ways pleasing that we are greatly
attached to her."
Here I had to leave Bob and her good friends behind; but some months
afterward my hostess of that winter day told me the concluding
chapters of Bob's life.
"Bob disliked to be handled; though pleasing and irresistibly winsome,
she was not in the least affectionate, and always maintained a
dignified, ladylike reserve. But with the appearance of spring she
showed signs of lonesomeness. With none of her kind to love, she
turned to Rex and on him lavished all of her affection. When Rex was
admitted to the house of a morning, she ran to meet him with a joyful
cackle,--an utterance she did not use on any other occasion,--and with
soft cooing sounds she followed him about the house. If Rex appeared
bored with her attentions and walked away, she followed after, and
persisted in tones that were surely scolding until he would lie down.
Whenever he lay with his huge head between his paws, she would nestle
down close to his face and remain content so long as he was quiet.
Sometimes when he was lying down she would climb slowly over him; at
each step she would put her foot down daintily, and as each foot
touched him there was a slight movement of her head and a look of
satisfaction. These climbs usually ended by her scratching in the
long hair of his tail, and then nestling down into it.
"One day I was surprised to see her kiss Rex. When I told my family of
this, they laughed heartily and were unable to believe me. Later, we
all witnessed this pretty sight many times. She seemed to prefer to
kiss him when he was lying down, with his head raised a little above
the floor. Finding him in this position, she would walk beside him,
reach up and kiss his face again and again, all the time cooing softly
to him.
"Toward spring Bob's feathers became dull and somewhat ragged, and
with the warm days came our decision to let her go outside. She was
delighted to scratch in the loose earth around the rosebushes, and
eagerly fed on the insects she found there. Her plumage soon took on
its natural trimness and freshness. She did not show any inclination
to leave, and with Rex by her or near her, we felt that she was safe
from cats, so we soon allowed her to remain out all day long.
"Passers-by often stopped to watch Bob and Rex playing together.
Sometimes he would go lumbering across the yard while she, plainly
displeased at the fast pace, hurried after with an incessant scolding
chatter as much as to say: 'Don't go so fast, old fellow. How do you
expect me to keep up?' Sometimes, when Rex was lying down eating a
bone, she would stand on one of his fore legs and quietly pick away
at the bone.
"The girls frequently went out to call her, and did so by whistling
'Bob White.' She never failed to answer promptly, and her response
sounded like _chee chos, chee chos_, which she uttered before
hurrying to them.
"One summer morning I found her at the kitchen door waiting to be let
out. I opened the door and watched her go tripping down the steps.
When she started across the yard I cautioned her to 'be a little lady,
and don't get too far away.' Rex was away that morning, and soon one
of the girls went out to call her. Repeated calls brought no answer.
We all started searching. We wondered if the cat had caught her, or if
she had been lured away by the winning calls of her kind. Beneath a
cherry tree near the kitchen door, just as Rex came home, we found
her, bloody and dead. Rex, after pushing her body tenderly about with
his nose, as if trying to help her to rise, looked up and appealed
piteously to us. We buried her beneath the rosebush near which she
and Rex had played."
Kinnikinick
The kinnikinick is a plant pioneer. Often it is the first plant to
make a settlement or establish a colony on a barren or burned-over
area. It is hardy, and is able to make a start and thrive in places so
inhospitable as to afford most plants not the slightest foothold. In
such places the kinnikinick's activities make changes which alter
conditions so beneficially that in a little while plants less hardy
come to join the first settler. The pioneer work done by the
kinnikinick on a barren and rocky realm has often resulted in the
establishment of a flourishing forest there.
The kinnikinick, or _Arctostaphylos Uva-Ursi_, as the botanists name
it, may be called a ground-loving vine. Though always attractive, it
is in winter that it is at its best. Then its bright green leaves
and red berries shine among the snow-flowers in a quiet way that is
strikingly beautiful.
Since it is beautiful as well as useful, I had long admired this
ever-cheerful, ever-spreading vine before I appreciated the good
though humble work it is constantly doing. I had often stopped to
greet it,--the only green thing upon a rock ledge or a sandy
stretch,--had walked over it in forest avenues beneath tall and
stately pines, and had slept comfortably upon its spicy, elastic
rugs, liking it from the first. But on one of my winter tramps I
fell in love with this beautiful evergreen.
The day was a cold one, and the high, gusty wind was tossing and
playing with the last snow-fall. I had been snowshoeing through the
forest, and had come out upon an unsheltered ridge that was a part
of a barren area which repeated fires had changed from a forested
condition to desert. The snow lay several feet deep in the woods, but
as the gravelly distance before me was bare, I took off my snowshoes.
I went walking, and at times blowing, along the bleak ridge, scarcely
able to see through the snow-filled air. But during a lull the air
cleared of snow-dust and I paused to look about me. The wind still
roared in the distance, and against the blue eastern sky it had a
column of snow whirling that was dazzling white in the afternoon sun.
On my left a mountain rose with easy slope to crag-crowned heights,
and for miles swept away before me with seared side barren and dull.
A few cloudlets of snowdrifts and a scattering of mere tufts of snow
stood out distinctly on this big, bare slope.
I wondered what could be holding these few spots of snow on this
wind-swept slope. I finally went up to examine one of them. Thrust out
and lifted just above the snow of the tuft before me was the jeweled
hand of a kinnikinick; and every snow-deposit on the slope was held
in place by the green arms of this plant. Here was this beautiful
vinelike shrub gladly growing on a slope that had been forsaken by all
other plants.
To state the situation fairly, all had been burned off by fire and
Kinnikinick was the first to come back, and so completely had fires
consumed the plant-food that many plants would be unable to live here
until better conditions prevailed and the struggle for existence was
made less severe. Kinnikinick was making the needed changes; in time
it would prepare the way, and other plants, and the pines too, would
come back to carpet and plume the slope and prevent wind and water
from tearing and scarring the earth.
The seeds of Kinnikinick are scattered by birds, chipmunks, wind, and
water. I do not know by what agency the seeds had come to this slope,
but here were the plants, and on this dry, fire-ruined, sun-scorched,
wind-beaten slope they must have endured many hardships. Many must
have perished before these living ones had made a secure start
in life.
Once Kinnikinick has made a start, it is constantly assisted to
succeed by its own growing success. Its arms catch and hold snow, and
this gives a supply of much-needed water. This water is snugly stored
beneath the plant, where but little can be reached or taken by the sun
or the thirsty winds. The winds, too, which were so unfriendly while
it was trying to make a start, now become helpful to the brave,
persistent plant. Every wind that blows brings something to it,--dust,
powdered earth, trash, the remains of dead insects; some of this
material is carried for miles. All goes to form new soil, or to
fertilize or mulch the old. This supplies Kinnikinick's great needs.
The plant grows rich from the constant tribute of the winds. The
soil-bed grows deeper and richer and is also constantly outbuilding
and enlarging, and Kinnikinick steadily increases its size.
In a few years a small oasis is formed in, or rather on, the barren.
This becomes a place of refuge for seed wanderers,--in fact, a
nursery. Up the slope I saw a young pine standing in a kinnikinick
snow-cover. In the edge of the snow-tuft by me, covered with a robe of
snow, I found a tiny tree, a mere baby pine. Where did this pine come
from? There were no seed-bearing pines within miles. How did a pine
seed find its way to this cosy nursery? Perhaps the following is its
story: The seed of this little pine, together with a score or more of
others, grew in a cone out near the end of the pine-tree limb. This
pine was on a mountain several miles from the fire-ruined slope, when
one windy autumn day some time after the seeds were ripe, the cone
began to open its fingers and the seeds came dropping out. The seed
of this baby tree was one of these, and when it tumbled out of the
cone the wind caught it, and away it went over trees, rocks, and
gulches, whirling and dancing in the autumn sunlight. After tumbling a
few miles in this wild flight, it came down among some boulders. Here
it lay until, one very windy day, it was caught up and whirled away
again. Before long it was dashed against a granite cliff and fell to
the ground; but in a moment, the wind found it and drove it, with a
shower of trash and dust, bounding and leaping across a barren slope,
plump into this kinnikinick nest. From this shelter the wind could not
drive it. Here the little seed might have said, "This is just the
place I was looking for; here is shelter from the wind and sun; the
soil is rich and damp; I am so tired, I think I'll take a sleep." When
the little seed awoke, it wore the green dress of the pine family.
The kinnikinick's nursery had given it a start in life.
Under favorable conditions Kinnikinick is a comparatively rapid
grower. Its numerous vinelike limbs--little arms--spread or reach
outward from the central root, take a new hold upon the earth, and
prepare to reach again. The ground beneath it in a little while is
completely hidden by its closely crowding leafy arms. In places these
soft, pliable rugs unite and form extensive carpets. Strip off these
carpets and often all that remains is a barren exposure of sand or
gravel on bald or broken rocks, whose surfaces and edges have been
draped or buried by its green leaves and red berries.
In May kinnikinick rugs become flower-beds. Each flower is a
narrow-throated, pink-lipped, creamy-white jug, and is filled with a
drop of exquisitely flavored honey. The jugs in a short time change to
smooth purple berries, and in autumn they take on their winter dress
of scarlet. When ripe the berries taste like mealy crab-apples. I have
often seen chipmunks eating the berries, or apples, sitting up with
the fruit in both their deft little hands, and eating it with such
evident relish that I frequently found myself thinking of these
berries as chipmunk's apples.
Kinnikinick is widely distributed over the earth, and is most often
found on gravelly slopes or sandy stretches. Frequently you will find
it among scattered pines, trying to carpet their cathedral floor.
Many a summer day I have lain down and rested on these flat and fluffy
forest rugs, while between the tangled tops of the pines I looked at
the blue of the sky or watched the white clouds so serenely floating
there. Many a summer night upon these elastic spreads I have lain
and gazed at the thick-sown stars, or watched the ebbing, fading
camp-fire, at last to fall asleep and to rest as sweetly and serenely
as ever did the Scotchman upon his heathered Highlands. Many a morning
I have awakened late after a sleep so long that I had settled into the
yielding mass and Kinnikinick had put up an arm, either to shield my
face with its hand, or to show me, when I should awaken, its pretty
red berries and bright green leaves.
[Illustration: SUMMER AT AN ALTITUDE OF 12,000 FEET]
One morning, while visiting in a Blackfoot Indian camp, I saw the
men smoking kinnikinick leaves, and I asked if they had any legend
concerning the shrub. I felt sure they must have a fascinating story
of it which told of the Great Spirit's love for Kinnikinick, but they
had none. One of them said he had heard the Piute Indians tell why
the Great Spirit had made it, but he could not remember the account.
I inquired among many Indians, feeling that I should at last learn a
happy legend concerning it, but in vain. One night, however, by my
camp-fire, I dreamed that some Alaska Indians told me this legend:--
Long, long ago, Kinnikinick was a small tree with brown berries and
broad leaves which dropped to the ground in autumn. One year a great
snow came while the leaves were still on, and all trees were flattened
upon the ground by the weight of the clinging snow. All broad-leaved
trees except Kinnikinick died. When the snow melted, Kinnikinick was
still alive, but pressed out upon the ground, crushed so that it could
not rise. It started to grow, however, and spread out its limbs on the
surface very like a root growth. The Great Spirit was so pleased with
Kinnikinick's efforts that he decided to let it live on in its new
form, and also that he would send it to colonize many places where it
had never been. He changed its berries from brown to red, so that the
birds could see its fruit and scatter its seeds far and wide. Its
leaves were reduced in size and made permanently green, so that
Kinnikinick, like the pines it loves and helps, could wear green
all the time.
Whenever I see a place that has been made barren and ugly by the
thoughtlessness of man, I like to think of Kinnikinick, for I know
it will beautify these places if given a chance to do so. There are
on earth millions of acres now almost desert that may some time be
changed and beautified by this cheerful, modest plant. Some time many
bald and barren places in the Rockies will be plumed with pines,
bannered with flowers, have brooks, butterflies, and singing
birds,--all of these, and homes, too, around which children will
play,--because of the reclaiming work which will be done by charming
Kinnikinick.
The Lodge-Pole Pine
The trappers gave the Lodge-Pole Pine (_Pinus contorta_, var.
_Murrayana_) its popular name on account of its general use by Indians
of the West for lodge or wigwam poles. It is a tree with an unusually
interesting life-story, and is worth knowing for the triumphant
struggle which it makes for existence, and also for the commercial
importance which, at an early date, it seems destined to have. Perhaps
its most interesting and advantageous characteristic is its habit of
holding or hoarding its seed-harvests.
Lodge-pole is also variously called Tamarack, Murray, and Two-leaved
Pine. Its yellow-green needles are in twos, and are from one to three
inches in length. Its cones are about one inch in diameter at the base
and from one to two inches long. Its light-gray or cinnamon-gray bark
is thin and scaly.
In a typical lodge-pole forest the trees, or poles, stand closely
together and all are of the same age and of even size. Seedlings
and saplings are not seen in an old forest. This forest covers the
mountains for miles, growing in moist, dry, and stony places, claims
all slopes, has an altitudinal range of four thousand feet, and almost
entirely excludes all other species from its borders.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL LODGE-POLE FOREST]
The hoarding habit of this tree, the service rendered it by forest
fires, the lightness of the seeds and the readiness with which they
germinate on dry or burned-over areas, its ability to grow in a
variety of soils and climates, together with its capacity to thrive in
the full glare of the sun,--all these are factors which make this tree
interesting, and which enable it, despite the most dangerous forest
enemy, fire, to increase and multiply and extend its domains.
During the last fifty years this aggressive, indomitable tree has
enormously extended its area, and John Muir is of the opinion that,
"as fires are multiplied and the mountains become drier, this
wonderful lodge-pole pine bids fair to obtain possession of nearly all
the forest ground in the West." Its geographical range is along the
Rocky Mountains from Alaska to New Mexico, and on the Pacific coast
forests of it are, in places, found from sea-level to an altitude of
eleven thousand feet. On the Rockies it flourishes between the
altitudes of seven thousand and ten thousand feet. It is largely
represented in the forests of Colorado, Utah, Idaho, and Montana,
and it has extensive areas in Oregon and Washington. It is the most
numerous tree in Wyoming, occupying in Yellowstone Park a larger area
than all other trees combined, while in California it forms the bulk
of the alpine forests.
The lodge-pole readily adapts itself to the most diverse soil and
conditions, but it thrives best where there is considerable moisture.
The roots accommodate themselves to shallow soil, and thrive in it.
This tree begins to bear fruit at an early age, sometimes when only
eight years old, and usually produces large quantities of cones
annually. The cones sometimes open and liberate the seeds as soon as
they are ripe, but commonly they remain on the tree for years, with
their seeds carefully sealed and protected beneath the scales. So far
as I have observed, the trees on the driest soil cling longest to
their seeds. For an old lodge-pole to have on its limbs twenty crops
of unopened cones is not uncommon. Neither is it uncommon to see an
extensive lodge-pole forest each tree of which has upon it several
hundred, and many of the trees a few thousand, cones, and in each cone
a few mature seeds. Most of these seeds will never have a chance to
make a start in life except they be liberated by fire. In fact, most
lodge-pole seeds are liberated by fire. The reproduction of this pine
is so interwoven with the effects of the forest fires that one may
safely say that most of the lodge-pole forests and the increasing
lodge-pole areas are the result of forest fires.
Every lodge-pole forest is a fire-trap. The thin, scaly, pitchy bark
and the live resiny needles on the tree, as well as those on the
ground, are very inflammable, and fires probably sweep a lodge-pole
forest more frequently than any other in America. When this forest
is in a sapling stage, it is very likely to be burned to ashes. If,
however, the trees are beyond the sapling stage, the fire probably
will consume the needles, burn some of the bark away, and leave the
tree, together with its numerous seed-filled cones, unconsumed. As a
rule, the fire so heats the cones that most of them open and release
their seeds a few hours, or a few days, after the fire. If the area
burned over is a large one, the fire loosens the clasp of the
cone-scales and millions of lodge-pole seeds are released to be sown
by the great eternal seed-sower, the wind. These seeds are thickly
scattered, and as they germinate readily in the mineral soil, enormous
numbers of them sprout and begin to struggle for existence. I once
counted 84,322 young trees on an acre.
The trees often stand as thick as wheat in a field and exclude all
other species. Their growth is slow and mostly upright. They early
become delicate miniature poles, and often, at the age of twenty-five
or thirty years, good fishing-poles. In their crowded condition, the
competition is deadly. Hundreds annually perish, but this tree clings
tenaciously to life, and starving it to death is not easy. In the
summer of 1895 I counted 24,271 thirty-year-old lodge-poles upon an
acre. Ten years later, 19,040 of these were alive. It is possible
that eighty thousand, or even one hundred thousand, seedlings started
upon this acre. Sometimes more than half a century is required for
the making of good poles.
On the Grand River in Colorado I once measured a number of poles that
averaged two inches in diameter at the ground and one and one half
inches fifteen feet above it. These poles averaged forty feet high and
were sixty-seven years of age. Others of my notes read: "9728 trees
upon an acre. They were one hundred and three years of age, two to six
inches in diameter, four and a half feet from the ground, and from
thirty to sixty feet high, at an altitude of 8700 feet. Soil and
moisture conditions were excellent. On another acre there were 4126
trees one hundred and fifty-four years old, together with eleven young
Engelmann spruces and one _Pinus flexilis_ and eight Douglas firs. The
accumulation of duff, mostly needles, averaged eight inches deep, and,
with the exception of one bunch of kinnikinick, there was neither
grass nor weed, and only tiny, thinly scattered sun-gold reached the
brown matted floor."