windows were wide open, they would sometimes come in by the chimney
route just for the fun of the thing.
[Illustration:
“She arrived on the fair, open page of my observation ledger, sooty,
panting, but thoroughly happy.”]
It is not generally known that the Flying Squirrel has not a monopoly of
the aërial navigation business as far as mammals are concerned. His
body, it is true, is especially constructed for flying. The loose skin
with which his legs are connected spreads out in falling, parachute
fashion. Perhaps the other Squirrels have learned this from him; perhaps
they learned it independently, but it is certain that a Squirrel can
fall from almost any height without apparent inconvenience. They flatten
their bodies and tails against the air and sail triumphantly downward,
alighting easily and scampering off unhurt.
I did not know this before, but now I saw it done repeatedly. It was one
of Kitchi-Kitchi’s favourite amusements to send Meeko and Bismarck to
the topmost branch of a lofty oak near by, and at her signal make them
jump. The one reaching the ground first was rewarded with a nut and a
playful, coquettish pat.
Like the Chipmunks, the Squirrels hide their food, though it is done
differently and on a much smaller scale. The Chipmunk will hide much and
all in one storehouse; the Squirrel hides very little and everything in
a different place—an ear of corn in the crotch of a tree, a handful of
acorns under the eaves of a barn, bits of bread between two twigs,
relying on the spring of the wood to keep it in position, and nuts
everywhere.
I saw a terrible quarrel once, between Bismarck and a Blue Jay who
raided his bakery. When it was over, Bismarck had four pecks on his body
and one peck of feathers for his nest. The Bird immediately started
south, though it is not common for this species to travel in the
altogether. He was naked and very much cast down—in fact, the bluest jay
I ever saw.
One day I did something for Kitchi-Kitchi which won her eternal
gratitude. We had gone fishing together, as we often did, and she sat
upon the gunwale of my canoe, sorely tempted to rock the boat, but
obedient to my expressed command not to. Presently, by gestures, she
made me understand that she was thirsty. I dipped up a cup of water from
the lake on which we were rowing and offered it to her, but she put it
aside with disgust. So I put a little brandy from my flask into the
water and offered it to her again. She was indignant and scolded me
violently—her language was positively scurrilous. When we landed she
still insisted that she was thirsty, and, at my wits’ end, I drew some
of the sap from a tree for her and offered it to her in the cup.
She drank every drop and whisked about madly to express her joy. She
nibbled at my ears and put her cool nose into my neck, then tried to
tickle me under the chin with her paw, making a noise, meanwhile, that
sounded like “Kitchi-Kitchi.” It was unpleasant, but I understood the
spirit of it and forgave the means.
The same afternoon, she led her admirers a pretty chase. Fleet as they
were, Kitchi-Kitchi was more fleet. Nothing except Atalanta or an
automobile gone wild could run as she did that afternoon. I had
previously wished I knew the Squirrel language, and now I saw that in
order to converse intelligently with Kitchi-Kitchi, I must learn
Russian. Finally, in a bacchanalian frenzy of action, she ran to the top
of a lofty oak and prepared to jump to the next, folding her tail
daintily about her as a fine lady does her skirts at a muddy crossing.
Meeko screamed in terror and Bismarck fainted, but Kitchi-Kitchi made
the jump safely with several inches to spare. After that, whenever she
wanted to bring them to terms, she took the high jump. The scheme always
worked, but it was a terrible leap, even for a Flying Squirrel,—fully
twenty feet,—and Kitchi-Kitchi had no wings except her youthful spirits
and her bounding energy. Many a time have I seen her upon a lofty
branch, swinging by one hand, and waving the other at Meeko in a tree
close by. He was fain to follow her, but she was always about four trees
ahead.
Never have I seen the sweet influence of woman more beautifully
exemplified. When she was with them, Bismarck and Meeko treated one
another like long-lost brothers. The three took many a promenade
together, arm in arm, Kitchi-Kitchi folding her tail over the hollow of
her elbow as though it were a train. When she went away for her
afternoon nap, or to gather some choice morsels for her evening meal,
they invariably fought.
I kept court-plaster and bandages on hand to repair the damage that was
always done on such occasions, and Kitchi-Kitchi never appeared to
notice it except once. When Bismarck called upon her with a
blood-stained bandage tied over one eye, she shrieked and kicked him
outdoors. He fell to the ground like a dead weight, I suppose because
his heart was so heavy—but fortunately was not injured further. Meeko
had her to himself for a week after that, then Bismarck, the bandage
gone, resumed his place at her side and upheld his right to it in many a
scrimmage.
The two vied with each other in bringing dainties to tempt her appetite.
Robins’ eggs, with the top part of the shell removed, all ready for
sucking, mushrooms, nuts, berries, apple seeds, pop-corn, and the
thousand other choice bits her educated palate was accustomed to, were
laid at the door of her nest, high in the branches. It was Meeko who
accidentally brought her a poisonous mushroom which made her so ill that
for days her life was despaired of. She forgave him, however, and used
to sit in the sun, very thin and pale, with two devoted attendants to
wait upon her.
Naturalists who think that Squirrels eat Birds are very much mistaken. I
have seen Meeko pounce on a wayfaring Bird hundreds of times, but
curiosity has always been the motive. They will not eat Bird unless it
is properly cooked. I know, for I have tried them with bits of a raw
Crow, that had died from natural causes. The fact that Birds are not
afraid of Squirrels triumphantly proves my theory, in spite of the fact
that the eggs are occasionally taken out of the nest. Whenever a
Squirrel has visited a Bird’s nest, after the young were hatched,
curiosity and friendly interest in the welfare of the young have been
the sole reasons in every case.
Meantime, my fame as a tickler had spread abroad, and I used to give up
hours to it each day. I might better have spent the time in writing, but
it was so noisy that I could not write, except to make hasty notes in my
note-book, and I was there to study Natural History. An old grey
Squirrel from the next county brought her entire family of young for me
to tickle, and when I refused, she bit one of my ears until the blood
came in a bright red stream. Bismarck drove her away and Kitchi-Kitchi
stanched the bleeding with a bit of Rabbit fur she brought from the
woods for the purpose.
Kitchi-Kitchi was devotedly attached to me. She would stop eating a nut
any time to scamper down the tree-trunk and perch upon my arm or
shoulder. She would sit upon my shoulder while I performed my manifold
household duties, and would occasionally precede the broom, sweeping the
floor with her tail. She would stay in my cabin long after I had told
her to go home, and when I put her out, she would return by way of the
window or chimney, cross the room, climb me, and put her head down
between my collar and neck, barking meanwhile unless I spoke to her,
stroked her, or tickled her. It used to give me an uncanny feeling when
she ran up my spine while I was writing in my ledger—in other words, the
climate disagreed with me.
It fell to my lot this Summer to hear a Squirrel singing a duet with
itself. It sounds as though the voice were split, the high part coming
through the nose, and the low tones through the throat. It is always a
lively tune, perfectly rhythmical, interspersed with gales and gusts and
cyclones of very human laughter. It is not generally known that
Squirrels sing, but Little Brothers of the Woods can find out a great
deal if they only give their minds to it and buy plenty of books.
At length, I missed Kitchi-Kitchi, and my heart grew sick with
foreboding. I feared lest one of those terrible tragedies of the woods
had taken place and my little friend’s life had thus been sacrificed.
The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy—the pitiless law of the
wilderness, supported by claw and tooth and fang, has so ordained.
Meeko and Bismarck were as usual, except that they carried a great many
nuts and mushrooms up one particular tree. Determined to find out, I
climbed, and there on her nest, pale and worn with the long vigil, but
still cheerful, sat Kitchi-Kitchi.
She would not let me lift her, protesting loudly when I tried it, but
when I tickled her in the ribs she moved enough to give me a glimpse of
the eggs under her. Very few observers have ever seen a Squirrel’s egg.
They are about the size of a Turkey’s egg, a dark brown in colour, with
a long, handle-like projection, fully as long as the egg itself, at the
wider end. This undoubtedly holds the tail of the baby Squirrel.
Six weeks later she came down—a mere shadow of her former self. In three
weeks more, the babies were able to come also, and they made a pretty
group, playing in my dooryard and falling over themselves at every step,
not yet having learned how to manage their tails. I would have tickled
them, gladly, but I already had my hands full and I did not wish the new
generation to acquire the habit.
Things went on as usual until late in the Fall. Summer lingered long
that year, and the woods were a golden glory almost until November, but
the Birds had gone and the Squirrels were making ready to follow.
One morning there was a great chattering, and I was so sure that
preparations for departure had begun that I gave up my work entirely and
went out to investigate. A few moments of close, quiet observation
proved my hasty surmise correct.
From every conceivable corner were brought large, flat chips. They were
fully six inches square and much worn, as if they had been used often. A
depression in the centre was the only variation from the flat surface.
Such a time as there was! The woods seemed to be one solid Squirrel in
multitudinous attitudes. The scene would have been very perplexing to
any but a perfectly sober man, and at intervals I even doubted the
evidence of my own senses.
The older and larger Squirrels dragged all the chips to the brink of the
river, which flowed from north to south, and then, at last, I began to
understand. So poor are our weak wits in comparison with the denizens of
wood and field, whom, in our pitiable self-conceit, we call “the lower
animals.” A Squirrel is normally a much higher animal than any of us,
excepting only the tree-dwellers on the Orinoco.
Some of the chips were fastened together with strands of wild-grape
vine, and were heavily laden with nuts and corn. Others were passenger
boats and sailed proudly alone. The young ones were put on the chips
before they were launched, and screamed in terror as the little craft
slid into the current.
The commissary fleet, in charge of an old grey Squirrel, who was
perfectly calm, was launched first, then the chips bearing the small
fry. The passenger boats were last to go, and the travellers swam out
into the stream to catch them. One grey Squirrel missed his boat
entirely and was drowned. It came ashore four miles farther down and I
still have it among my most-prized possessions.
As long as I live, I shall never forget that sight. The day was
glorious, with never a hint of frost in the air, and the woods,
strangely silent, now that the Little People were gone, echoed and
re-echoed when a nut dropped on the fallen leaves.
Down the stream sailed the Squirrel fleet—brave little mariners, these,
with tails proudly spread to catch each favouring wind. Bismarck did a
wonder of navigation, tacking repeatedly and coming up beside
Kitchi-Kitchi under full sail. Meeko was stationed at her other side and
his boat went at exactly the same speed as hers. Close together, as
married lovers down the stream of life, the three sailed, with the
family of young ones on a large chip just ahead, where the anxious
mother could keep an eye upon them.
I stood watching for over an hour. The current was swift and bore them
away all too soon, but with my powerful field-glass I kept them in sight
until the tears blinded me and I had to wipe my eyes.
The only way to make an animal’s story untragic is to finish before you
reach the end, so I shall leave them here—that little company of
fur-clad, bright-eyed captains, making the long journey southward before
the frost should come. Far down the stream was a bend, where the fleet
turned, and even with the field-glass I could not see around a corner,
so with one last lingering look and a deep sigh, I gave it up.
But a glimmer caught my eye, and, trembling with excitement, I raised my
glass once more, fixing it upon the bend of the river, where the last
boat was just rounding the curve.
Was it fancy, or did Kitchi-Kitchi stand up, wave her hand at me, and
across the boundless waste of waters that lay between us, send me a
parting smile?
[Illustration: squirrel drawing]
JIM CROW
I always called him that because he was so dark and because I have no
race prejudice whatever. People used to allude to him as my Crow, but
the real truth lay much deeper than that. If there was any idea of
possession in our somewhat singular relationship, I was Jim’s—he was not
in the least mine.
He adopted me one day at sight. I was walking through a pasture about
fourteen miles from my cabin, when I saw Jim sitting upon a rail fence.
He did not move at my approach, and I thought he must be a stuffed
animal, put out to dry by some taxidermist in the neighbourhood. I
walked up to him and, at length, stroked his head gently. At this, he
opened his eyes, yawned, and with a sleepy “_Caw-w-w-w_,” perched upon
my shoulder and so rode home with me, in spite of my protests.
To this day I have never been able to solve the mystery. I examined him
carefully for signs of damage, but to all intents and purposes he was
sound in wind and limb, free from pink-eye, string-halt, or glanders,
and not afraid of automobile or steam roller.
He ate plentifully of the simple meal I cooked over my camp-fire, and,
while I washed the dishes, followed me around like a devoted dog. I
suppose he must have recognised me as a Little Brother of the Woods—at
any rate, he stuck to me closer than a brother while our strange
attachment lasted.
When I perceived that Jim had no intention of leaving the cabin, I went
outside, shook him off my shoulder, and ran back, closing the door
gently but firmly. Imagine my surprise to hear a loud, jubilant “Caw!”
from the rafters. Jim had anticipated me, and had flown in—when, I did
not know. Three times this was repeated. At last, I thrust my head and
shoulders through the window and remained there some time, enjoying the
landscape and the Summer moonlight. Jim, still on my coat collar,
finally went to sleep, and this time I easily dislodged him, then
quickly closed the window with a triumphant bang.
Outside, everything was suspiciously still, and I began to wonder
whether or not Jim had taken offence and left me for good. I was still
meditating when there was a crash of glass, and Jim, having broken the
window, joined me with every evidence of pleasure. I saw plainly that I
must make the best of a bad bargain for the night, and the next day, or
as soon as possible, put crowbars on all the windows of the cabin.
I retired, but not to sleep. Jim followed me into my cot, stretched
himself full length on my pillow, and put his cold, clammy feet on my
cheek. When I moved, Jim flopped. When I turned over, burying my face in
the pillow, Jim sat on my head, scratching constantly. I tried to put a
bit of the sheet between us, but it was useless. Presently, Jim slept,
as his snoring unmistakably proclaimed, but as soon as I moved, he woke
and resentfully pecked at my face.
So I lay there, miserably enough, until dawn. Jim woke of his own
accord, took away his feet, which were warm by this time, yawned,
stretched himself, and demanded breakfast. I took my time about
preparing the meal, but Jim made such a racket with his caws of
complaint that I determined to be more prompt in future.
That day I barred up all the windows, and at night, after two hours of
strategy that would have done credit to the commanding general of an
army, I found myself in the cabin, with doors and windows locked, and
Jim on the outside.
He tried all the windows, but my barriers held. It was suffocatingly
close in the cabin, but I knew that the chimney would furnish a draft
and keep me from being poisoned by the impure air. Then a terrible
thought struck me—suppose Jim should come in by the chimney route, as
Kitchi-Kitchi and her friends were wont to do, and, sooty though he was,
insist upon sleeping with me!
This did not occur to him, however, or perhaps he knew a better way. He
made night so unspeakably hideous with his loud and vociferous calling,
his vicious pecks at the glass, and the beating of his wings against the
door, that at last, in sheer desperation, I got up and let him in.
I slept the sleep of utter exhaustion that night—with Jim’s feet on my
cheek. As the weeks went by, I got used to it, though it was never
pleasant. We can get used to almost anything, if we have to.
I tried to find consolation in Jim’s cunning tricks, of which he had a
great many. A Crow is about the most intelligent wild beast I have ever
come across, and, after study, becomes fascinating. It added a
pleasantly human element to my solitude in the wilderness, for Jim was
as unexpected, as unreasonable, and as incomprehensible as a woman.
When I planted my garden, he watched me, and afterward he dug up the
seeds and ate them. By way of atonement, he brought me some crocus bulbs
from somebody’s else garden. I was never able to find out where they
came from and so I could not return them.
He made deep excavations into my potato hills and ate the eyes out of
the potatoes, passing by the Bugs, which I could never induce him to
touch. He would eat the Worms I gathered to go fishing with, and
afterward would caw repeatedly, with bated breath. Mosquitoes, Flies,
Potato-Bugs—all these he disdained, but he would eat anything which he
could eat without being of indirect use to anybody. I discovered later
that after he had gorged himself with the eyes of the potatoes, so that
he could not hold so much as another eyelash, he would keep on digging
until he was exhausted, merely to make a nuisance of himself.
I stretched a white cotton string across my dooryard, between two trees,
and taught Jim to jump over it, turning a double somersault in mid-air.
Some choice tidbit rewarded him for this, and he got so that whenever he
was hungry, between meals, he would run up to an imaginary string, take
the flying leap, turning the double somersault before he touched ground
again, and walk up to me, cawing loudly with pleasure in his
performance. I always praised him, and sometimes stroked his head or
back, whereupon he would demand the tidbit, which was generally
forthcoming. Sometimes it was a bit of raw bacon, a small dish of pork
and beans, or a cold pancake, liberally sweetened with molasses.
On one of these occasions, Jim broke his leg. While turning the
somersault he missed his calculation by a hair’s-breadth, and caught a
claw on the string, which happened to be a little heavier than usual. He
fell heavily to the ground with a yell of pain which brought me
instantly to his side, but he would not let me touch him. Whenever I
reached forth my hand, he gave a cry of alarm which warned me very
effectually to keep away.
Half flying, half walking on the other foot, he made his way to the
river bank, where he took some soft clay from the edge of the water and
with his bill made a little mound of it. Then, by the same methods of
locomotion, he went away a short distance and gathered some grass of a
particularly tough variety. All the time he was seemingly oblivious of
me, though I was close by and, as the reader may well imagine, watching
him intently.
Returning to the river bank with a liberal supply of the grass, he first
washed the broken leg thoroughly in the stream. Then he smeared the
broken place with soft clay, working fibres of grass into it meanwhile,
then more clay, grass, and so on in distinct layers until the
enlargement was about the size of a butternut. All the time he was pale,
but very brave.
It took him fifteen minutes by my jewelled repeater to set the leg.
Afterward, for exactly one hour, he sat under an overhanging shrub with
the injured member stretched out in front of him. His eyes were closed
but his face wore an expression of great suffering. At the end of the
hour, which must have been agony to him, he fluttered up into the
nearest tree, and with great effort sawed off a small branch which had
just the proper crotch. He stripped this of its leaves, put the crotch
under his wing, and with this improvised crutch, went back to the cabin.
He lay down on my pillow unrebuked, and I brought him a cup of water to
moisten his parched lips. He gave me a thirsty peck, then drank eagerly.
Poor Jim! That night, and indeed many a night afterward, my calloused
cheek missed one of the firm, small feet to which it had become
accustomed.
He used the crutch constantly, and every day he examined his leg with an
expression of deep personal concern upon his dark countenance. Its
progress seemed to satisfy him and at the proper time he took off the
clay cast. The leg seemed as good as ever, though a little stiff, but I
could never get Jim to jump over the string again. He seemed afraid of
it and shared the same fear regarding anything white. Waving my
handkerchief at him would frequently drive him away from me for hours
together, and thus I gained time to write, and to put down in my
observation ledger priceless records, made on the spot, of the great and
glorious panorama of wild life which was passing under my gifted eyes.
Naturally, I was proud of my pet. When I returned to the city, however,
and resumed my researches in the library, I learned that this method of
setting a fractured limb was well known among the Birds. One of the new
books on Natural History described at great length the setting of a
Woodcock’s leg by the same means, the operation having taken place under
the writer’s own eyes. The only difference was that the Woodcock used no
crutch. I learned, further, that hunters often shot Woodcock, Grouse,
Snipe, and Quail who had been repaired in the same way. To many of these
Birds remnants of the clay casts still clung; others bore only slight
evidences of the fracture, which, in knitting, became perfectly smooth.
[Illustration:
“Put the crotch under his wing, and with this improvised crutch, went
back to the cabin.”]
Every one knows how a Chicken’s leg is sometimes broken, and, in
healing, is twisted to one side. This, of course, refers to very young
Chickens. I have seldom had one on my own plate whose leg could have
been broken by anything short of a butcher’s cleaver. The legs of fliers
and the wings of walkers are choice morsels, but of the legs of walkers
and the wings of fliers, the less said the better, and the more polite
when at the table.
To return, not to our mutton, as the French have it, but to our Crow, as
the politicians say.
Jim had a great many friends among his own race, and after they learned
not to be afraid of me, they used to call upon him at stated intervals.
Often I have gone out in the morning and found my dooryard black with
Crows holding a caucus. Some Unnaturalists have it that every Crow is an
independent caucus, but I am not prepared to make any positive
statements on this point.
It was by watching these assemblies that I learned the Crow language.
Every student of Natural History admits that Crows have a way of talking
to each other and making themselves understood. It has remained for me,
however, to tabulate these utterances in suitable lists, and by the same
method pursued by Champollion with the Rosetta Stone, together with the
system of cipher-solving elucidated in _The Gold Bug_, arrive at the
inner meaning of their language.