have discovered with me that _caw_ is only one syllable of a somewhat
complicated speech. They often say _ker-ker_, _ah-ah_, _cluck-cluck_,
_haw-haw_, and _ha-ha_, making in addition several other sounds which
are difficult to describe adequately in print.
I took the precaution to use a phonograph, and thus secure exact
records. The entire subject, treated scientifically, and at the proper
scientific length, will be found in my volume published last year, under
the title: _The Nature, Habits, and Language of the Crow Indians, as
Seen by a Scientific Observer Cooped up by Them on Their Reservation:
Together with Exhausting Notes Concerning Their Songs, Ballads, Dramas,
Customs, and Crafts_.
My publishers thought the title was a little too long, but I pointed out
to them that many scientific works have even longer titles, and that
when anybody pays two dollars for a book, it is with the expectation of
securing two dollars’ worth of language.
Not to weary the reader with details, and to interest the general public
in the more expensive book, I transcribe below a few of the more
prominent words of the Crow language.
_Caw_—Has as many uses as the Latin verb _fero_, and the precise meaning
depends largely upon the tone of utterance. In a loud, clear, cheerful
tone, it means, as nearly as can be expressed: “Good morning, Carrie.”
_Caw_—Fortissimo, means: “Man. Might be dangerous. Keep sharp lookout.”
_Caw-Caw_—In sharp, imperious accents, means: “Man has gun. Fly the
coop.”
_Caw-Caw_—In a tone of contempt, means: “Gun is only umbrella. Stay
where you are.”
_Haw_—“Horse in off field very sick. Watch.”
_Haw-Haw_—“Donkey instead of horse. Wouldn’t that jar you?”
_Ker_, naturally, means “dog.” _Ker-Ker_ means two dogs. _Haw-Ker_ means
travelling salesman or man practising music.
_Ha-Ha_ indicates laughter, as all through the brute creation.
_Cluck_ means Chicken, _Cluck-Cluck_ two Chickens. Two Crows together
indicate a Rooster.
_Ah-Ah_ shows deep astonishment, mingled with pain.
_Ker-Cluck_, from its root derivation, would mean _Dog-Chicken_. In
other words, a lower form of Chicken, something which is smaller and
equally edible. Also, onomatopoetically, a Frog.
_Caw-Ker_ means the best thing of its kind, whatever it may be. Students
of philology will note the resemblance to an Aryan word still common
among the lower orders of English-speaking peoples.
_Ah-Ker_ means a sore place. Example, a broken leg or aching tooth.
It will be seen that the language is very condensed and in a few
syllables may epitomise an entire conversation. For instance:
“_Caw. Caw-Caw. Haw. Ker-Ker. Haw-Haw. Cluck-Cluck. Caw-Ker._” Freely
translated, this runs as follows: “Good morning! How do you find
yourself this morning? Don’t get excited, that two-legged thing is only
a Man with an umbrella. There is a sick Horse in yonder field that I
have my weather eye on, also a dead Donkey. Two Dogs are watching, and
there are a couple of nice Chickens that appear to be spring broilers,
trotting peacefully around the farmyard. The Horse is a Donkey, too;
wouldn’t that make you sick? Nevertheless, those two Chickens are
corkers and I intend to have them before my feathers turn white with old
age and theirs fall out for the same reason.”
From this brief instruction, the intelligent reader will be able to
translate the Crow language. Just here, perhaps, I ought to mention the
fact that I gave Jim an anæsthetic one day and slit his tongue, hoping
that he could speak English. Some of our words, as is well known, are
tongue-twisters. Whether it was to spite me or not, I shall never know,
but I record the painful fact that Jim never learned any English except
my last name. Whenever I did anything that displeased him, he would
shriek out “SITDOWN!” in a loud, compelling tone that I invariably and
instinctively obeyed. Then, with a merry laugh, he would flutter off
over the trees to tell his friends about it.
When a Crow sings, it reminds you of a cornet half full of molasses.
They only sing when they are courting, which is extremely fortunate. If
I were a lady Crow, wooed with song, I should take vows of eternal
celibacy. They may not be saddest when they sing, but other people are.
I shot one of them one day, when they were doing too much singing, and
the rest of the company called an indignation meeting on the spot.
Having decided that I was the criminal, they sentenced me to have my
eyes pecked out and appointed six of their number as executioners.
Happily, I had on my spectacles, and when they had broken and eaten the
lenses, they were satisfied. That night six more Crows died in great
agony from the eating of broken glass. They did not molest me further,
but buried their dead comrades with great pomp and ceremony.
Very few observers have ever seen a Crow funeral, but it fell to my lot
to be present at this one. It was a bright moonlight night and I
crouched behind a stump in a pasture lot, partly screened by the
undergrowth that had sprung up around it, and had an unobstructed view
of the entire affair.
Sometime during the day, a long, transverse trench had been dug and
lined with leaves. The seven corpses, feet upward, were lying on burdock
leaves at a distance of about seventeen feet from the trench. A long
stem was left on each burdock leaf, and to it was tied a long, stout
string which shone whitely in the moonlight. I did not know what it was
for, then, but later I understood.
Seven of the oldest and most prominent Crows, at a given signal,
advanced to the dead. Each one took the end of a string in his beak and
stepped over it in such a way that the cord passed straight under his
body. I noted with a thrill of pride that Jim was in the lead.
The rest of the Crows were in tiers a little to the left. At another
signal, Jim and his followers began to march, to a low mournful tune
produced by the other Crows, swaying their bodies in time to it. In my
note-book I hastily jotted it down. It went like this: “_Caw-Caw,
Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw_,” the first syllable of each foot being
heavily accented. It was not until they reached the third measure,
which, I noted, had eight feet instead of four, that it dawned upon me
that they were marching to the solemn and beautifully appropriate
measures of Poe’s wonderful poem, _The Raven_. It was so touching that
the tears blinded me, and when I could see again, the procession was
well under way.
Shall I ever forget it, I wonder—those stately marchers convoying their
dead? Each one of the seven Birds was drawing a large burdock leaf, on
which lay the remains of his dead friend. When they reached the trench,
the bodies were all laid in, in an orderly row, covered with burdock
leaves and then with earth.
The simple ceremony over, they dispersed, silently and solemnly, but it
set me to thinking and wondering if, after all, man had any right to
kill the lower animals for any reason whatsoever. I was brought, also,
to a new comprehension of the law of compensation. I had lost a pair of
spectacles, and, in return, I had speedily witnessed another spectacle
which was indeed wonderful and which set me upon a lofty height, far
above my fellow-observers.
It was a day or two before Jim came back to me. He had a strand of black
yarn tied around his left leg which he would not suffer me to touch, and
which, at the end of the thirtieth day, he removed of his own accord.
For a week or more he was sad, then he gradually chirked up and began to
act more like himself. He ate Thrushes’ eggs, tweaked wool off the backs
of the farmers’ Sheep, and stole countless small articles out of my
cabin.
I came upon his hoard one day in a hollow tree which had been struck by
lightning and broken off about eight feet above the ground. He had
pebbles, clam shells, strings, my diamond scarf-pin, a bit of the mica
from the front door of my stove, two pieces of broken glass, a square of
blue glass I had brought to observe an eclipse with, a blue-bottle Fly,
a piece of resin, some bits of bright coloured wool, the handle of a
china cup, a cordial glass, a choice collection of white Rabbit fur,
which he was evidently saving for his nest, and, vanity of vanities! a
triangular piece of broken looking-glass, which was carefully laid
across the top of the collection. It was the sunlight playing upon this
which led me to the spot. I took out my diamond pin and the cordial
glass, leaving the other things undisturbed, but the next time I
investigated, there was nothing there. He had moved his treasures to
some safer place.
Jim Crow had peculiar notions about his eating, being especially fond of
’possum, sweet potatoes, watermelon, fried Chicken, corn bread, corn
fritters, and molasses. Seeing that his tastes ran that way, I baked
some Johnny-cake on purpose for him. He pecked at it politely, but truth
compels me to record the fact that it was very hard—almost too difficult
for solution.
At length he took a large piece in his bill, having chiselled it away
from the main formation, and flew away slowly. He could not go fast, for
the bread was not light, save in colour. Wondering, and quickening my
footsteps to a run, I followed him to the river. He selected a place
where the current was swift, hovered over it a moment, then dropped the
bread squarely in.
I was hurt—I do not deny it, but later developments showed me that I had
no reason for it and that Jim had sufficient cause for his action.
Keeping his eye on the bread, which, to my surprise, floated, Jim flew
down stream, cawing loudly. With nice calculation, as it afterward
proved, he sat down on the bank at exactly the right place and waited.
In a few minutes, the bread came ashore, soft and palatable. Jim ate it
with great relish, then, seeing me peering at him through the shrubbery,
he distinctly laughed, and flew back home again. When I got there, he
had soaked the rest of the bread in a pan of milk which I had left in an
exposed position, and was finishing up with molasses.
He did a great many things which at first puzzled me, but which I
afterward understood. I had taken down his perch, which was merely a
branch nailed across one corner of the cabin, thinking to get a fresh
one the next time I went out. Days passed, and I forgot it, but Jim
called my attention to it in rather a curious way.
I had been fishing one afternoon, returning about five o’clock with a
fine string of Fish which I intended to cook for supper. Jim lit on one
of them and refused to budge. I picked him up and he pecked my hand so
severely that I was glad to put him down. He let me take the other Fish
without protest, but camped on this one until bedtime, cawing loudly at
intervals of three minutes or less. When at last he flew in to take his
accustomed place on my pillow, I picked up the Fish to see if I could
solve the mystery, and, in an instant, my quick, active mind began to
work. The Fish was a Perch—the only one I had caught—and Jim was doing
his best, in his poor weak way, to remind me of my shameful neglect.
The brilliant Bird had his reward, and, that very night, before I slept,
I fixed his new perch across his old corner of the cabin. Jim watched
me, with something very like a smile upon his face, making sleepy caws
of gratitude all the time I was at work. When I went to bed, he tickled
my face playfully with his tail and caressed me with his beak, to show
his appreciation.
We slept that night as we always did, with Jim’s feet high on my cheek.
I did not mind it then, but long afterward, when I went back among the
haunts of men, and discovered deep crow’s feet around my eyes, I wished
that I had broken him of the habit by any method, no matter how
desperate. It added years to my age and made it practically impossible
for me to get a position in a telegraph office. Fortunately age does not
affect literature. After a man is dead, he may continue in the business
and often rank higher than his living competitors. Mr. Plato and Mr.
Shakespeare are still formidable rivals of the industrious knights and
ladies of the pen.
My knowledge of Jim’s epicurean tastes came about in a strange way. I
was preparing our simple repast one noon, when I felt the rush of wings
over my head. Before I had time to look up, something dropped with a
splash into the pan of bacon I was frying and then, from a distant
branch, Jim laughed gleefully.
He had dropped a young Rooster, which he had just killed, into my hot
grease. He had made some attempt to take off the feathers but it was not
successful, and I removed it, to Jim’s great disgust.
He talked so much and so long that I finally lost track of it, but I had
the main idea. He had killed the Rooster not only for the fried Chicken,
but to satisfy a personal grudge. I judged from Jim’s remarks, that this
young Rooster had crowed over him long enough and had come, by a swift
vengeance, to an ignominious end.
We had the Chicken the next day, fried, with bacon and corn fritters,
and it was not half bad—rather less than a quarter, I should say, which
was all I could expect, since I had no ice and was obliged to keep it
over night in a warm climate.
One other observer has found that Crows play games with each other, but
he has not specified the games. I have fully tabulated these and have
found striking resemblances to the games of children. Personally, with
my own eyes, I have seen a flock of Crows playing “Follow the Leader,”
“Puss in the Corner,” “London Bridge,” “Tag,” “Prisoner’s Base,” and
“Drop the Handkerchief.” The handkerchief was a bit of white wool
unwillingly contributed by some Sheep, a ball of hair from a Hare or
Rabbit, or a compact cluster of feathers from someone who had been
called down.
Early in the Summer, Jim moulted. It was pathetic to see him going about
without his clothing, and I made him a red flannel jacket, such as the
kind ladies in _Cranford_ made for the Cow who fell into the lime. The
jacket and a good hair tonic, rubbed in thoroughly about every other
day, put him well in advance of the season, and long before the other
Crows had their new clothes, Jim was strutting about in the full glory
of his, as proud as a Peacock and fully as impertinent. He always
cherished the red flannel jacket. It hung from his perch for a while,
where I was not allowed to touch it, and then he flew off into the woods
with it, to pack it away, I suppose, with his other treasures.
It grieves me to the heart to write of the end of Jim, that brave, gay,
mischievous Bird, who shared my bed and board for a Summer, and then met
the universal fate of the wild. The end of a wild animal is always a
tragedy and the only way to avoid writing tragedy is either to stop long
before you get through, or not to begin. I cannot stop before I get
through, on account of a habit I contracted when I was writing for the
magazines at a cent a word, and, moreover, I need the royalty on this
book. A big book can be sold for more than a little one, every time. If
you don’t believe me, go and price a dictionary. The cheaper books are
merely a part of the dictionary arranged in another order.
Hitherto, I have failed to mention the fact that Jim was married. I knew
nothing of it until he was also a parent, and I never knew how much of a
parent he was, for he was singularly uncommunicative on the subject and
his nest was upon an inaccessible height. He stole an empty bottle out
of my cabin and kept it in a crotch of a tree near by, with the cork
which belonged to it tied to the neck by a string. Jim was a cautious
Bird. On nights when I left the pan of milk outdoors, Jim would not
sleep with me. When I discovered this, I set myself to figure out the
connection.
I left the pan of milk in an open space in the yard one bright moonlight
night, and, as I half expected, Jim refused to share my pillow. I went
to bed as usual, but in a few minutes got up and watched him from a
secluded position.
He walked around the pan of milk a few times, cawing under his breath in
an important, businesslike way, then flew off for the bottle. He
returned with it, and filled it from the pan, using his beak for the
purpose, and tilting the pan with his foot when the milk got shallow.
When the bottle was full, he pounded in the cork, grasped it in his
claws, and flew away with it towards his nest. I surmised then that Jim
was so much of a parent that Mrs. Jim did not have milk enough for all
the little ones, and the husband and father was compelled to forage for
the balance. Deeply touched, I left a large can of malted milk tablets
on the window-sill, open. Within two days, they were all gone.
It was Hoot-Mon, the great Owl, who put an end to Jim. Between the Owls
and the Crows there is lifelong enmity. An Owl will attack a Crow at
night and a Crow will attack an Owl in the daytime. I knew Hoot-Mon, of
course—every Little Brother of the Woods knows Hoot-Mon,—but an article
on him had not as yet been ordered, and so I made no special study of
him.
It was my fault, too. After Jim was asleep, I put the pan of milk
outside for fear it would sour. When he woke and missed it, he scratched
my face violently. Trembling with rage, I put him out, saying, as I did
so: “You miserable, low-down, black beast, I wish I might never see you
again!”
Unexpectedly my wish was granted. In my dooryard, in the morning, when
the blood-red sun rose out of the mists of dawn, I found poor Jim, torn
and mangled and irretrievably dead, lying beside the empty milk-pan.
He had been slain by Hoot-Mon, who, after eating as much as he could,
had sailed away with beak and claws dripping, to wait for darkness and
further feasting.
Even if Jim had not been so very dead I could not have saved him, for,
in the words of a rival Unnaturalist, “there are no hospitals for sick
Crows.”
Poor Jim Crow! Time has softened your misdemeanours with its kindly
touch and my memory of you is a pleasant one!
HOOP-LA
When you meet a Fox, there are nine surprises. Five of them are his and
the other four are yours. You may be looking for him, but he is not
looking for you; consequently, he is more surprised than you are.
The following Summer, when I went to my cabin, I found it occupied. By
this time I should have been accustomed to such things, but, strangely
enough, I was not. To make it worse, the new occupant was not one I
could turn out, being a relation. He had been a distant relation
hitherto, but was now a near one.
Our family has intermarried a great deal with the descendants of
European royalties, and Uncle Antonio was of the great and well-known
family of the Cæsars, who, if my readers will remember, used to rank
high in Rome. The line of descent was somewhat blurred, it is true, but
Uncle had a Roman nose and was given to roaming about the country.
By profession, he was a musician—one of those rarely talented people
whose genius is infinitely above such minor details as technique.
Rubenstein, according to his biographers, used to make bad mistakes in
reading his own music, and nearly everyone who has played him has, at
some time or other, followed in his gifted footsteps.
Uncle was another Rubenstein, as regards the mistakes. His soul, lifted
above all mundane things, soared to meet the thought of the composer,
and his fingers stumbled over the keys. This would not have bothered
some people, but Uncle was sensitive and it annoyed him, so at length he
had an instrument especially made to suit his own needs.
It was an organ of the regulation type, small and compact, yet with a
glorious volume of tone that would have delighted Wagner. Connected with
the interior by a wonderfully scientific system of levers, was the
motive power. The superior form of the instrument made possible some
changes in the manner of playing it.
Instead of pushing on the keys, in the ordinary, common way, my Uncle’s
organ was played with a rotary sweep of the whole arm, the hand,
meanwhile, firmly grasping the lever. This enabled him to put more
expression into the music. I would like to say right here that my
Uncle’s organ was invented long before the day of patent piano-players,
and that we, as a family, have about decided to prosecute the makers of
these cheap, clap-trap instruments, in behalf of Uncle Antonio.
It was gratifying to see Uncle’s face when he played. With all
mechanical difficulties overcome, he was free to give his entire
attention to the fine shadings and hidden meanings of the composition.
It was pleasing, also, to note how close he came to the hearts of the
people. Even the little children would come and stand around Uncle
Antonio when he played upon his organ, and musicians in the
neighbourhood, gnashing their teeth in jealous rage, would close their
windows to keep my Uncle’s notable accomplishments from belittling their
own. It is ever thus. Upon my own trail have sprung up a score or more
of writers on Natural History—but I must not say more, lest I be thought
too personal.
Uncle Antonio, also, was a lover of the wild animals. He had one pet, in
particular, which meant much to him—a genuine African Monkey, imported
at great expense and difficulty. He had taught the intelligent animal a
great many cunning tricks—in fact, Jocko could do almost everything but
speak. Through Jocko I had first come to an understanding of Uncle
Antonio. There is an old saying to the effect that, in order to know a
man, you must first meet his Dog, and then see them together. In the
same way, you must have known Jocko in order to comprehend my Uncle.
I was within a quarter of a mile of my cabin, my pulses bounding with
happy anticipation, when a low moan, which seemingly came from a broken
heart, struck my ear. I paused and stood like a marble statue—a trick I
had learned from my kindred of the wild. Then the curious sound was
repeated.
Stealthily, I made my way toward the cabin, but I was not yet so skilled
in woodcraft that my feet made no noise. Before I reached the door, my
Uncle came out, and a glance at his face showed me that he had met with
a great loss.
Like other geniuses, Uncle was somewhat careless in his attire. As a
family, we had often laboured with him on this point, but to no avail.
The unfettered spirit of the great will express itself in outward
semblance, and at length we gave it up. Uncle wore a pair of trousers
which, at first sight, did not appear to be his, and a negligee shirt,
wide open at the throat, like a poet’s. A bright red handkerchief,
carelessly knotted, took the place of a tie, and his coat was his velvet
one, to which he had been strongly attached for many years. Small hoops
of gold, similar to those worn by Venetian noblemen, hung from the
pendant lobes of his musical ears.
Seeing me, he eyed me for a moment in great astonishment. “Hella da
dev!” he exclaimed. “What for you coma da here?”
I can never hope to describe, in English, the charm of my Uncle’s
foreign accent. Long years of residence in this country had not
eradicated it, and his low, melodious voice, full of unexpected
harmonies, gave a lyric quality to his conversation.
“I am here,” I returned, “because this is my cabin. I might ask the same
question of you,” I added, playfully.
“Hella da dev!” said Uncle once more. This quaint, foreign phrase,
indicating a pleasant surprise, often appeared in his speech. “My
father-in-law, he giva da coop to you? It is astonish!”
“Yes,” I sighed, “it is.” Grandfather was one of those thrifty pioneers
who held on to a cent until the Indian howled.
Uncle sat down and wiped his forehead with the fancy, coloured
handkerchief which was an heirloom in his family. This was quite in
keeping with the situation, for I have often known the unexpected sight
of a relative to produce cold perspiration on the skin of a sensitive,
emotional person.
“Listen,” said Uncle, struggling to his feet. “I tella you. Here I come
two, tree day back. Maka da gr-rand professional tour through ze back
countree, where zees poor pipple, zey haf no moosic at all. It ees
pitiful.”
I nodded. Such generosity was like Uncle.
“Getta da cent,” he resumed, “getta da tree cent. Zees grateful pipple,
what haf no moosic, zey nevaire giva da nick, no, nevaire! Wis Jocko,
zen, I meet zees place, where I stay for ze little res’ away from ze
unappreciatif pipple. An’ here, what you zink? Jocko haf been stole from
me!” Here his voice rose to an agonised shriek: “_Jocko haf been
stole!_”
His grief broke through the dam and overflowed. The sight of a strong
man’s tears is always terrible, and I turned away until the first
outburst subsided.
Then I advanced to comfort the stricken man. “Perhaps, Uncle Antonio,” I
said, kindly, “Jocko ran away of his own accord.”