_The Career of Jack Johnson._
In the spring of 1907, after I had had these seven wing-tipped geese
three years, this old gander and his sweetheart started housekeeping
near the west bank of the north pond, about two hundred feet north of
the north door in our factory. The nest was built on the bare ground
near the remnant of an old rail fence, giving me a good, clear view of
it from the door of the factory at an elevation of about seven feet. It
was evident she was an old goose, for she laid six eggs. And many an
interesting hour I put in watching this pair of birds, as I could keep
one eye on the machinery at the same time.
As this old gander would scrap any approaching enemy we called him Jack
Johnson. He would stand about a rod from her, with his long, black,
snake-like neck and head straight up for hours at a time; one would
hardly notice a move; he looked more like a fixture than a living
object. If a hawk or a crow was sighted, he would walk up, right to her
nest; but if a dog went galloping over the fields, he would be lying
flat, and any creature would almost touch him before it would see what
it was up against.
Remember, he sees everything before it sees him; and only those who have
seen one do it will believe how they can draw themselves down on the
ground without being detected. When in the water it can bury its body
under, leaving just the head and neck out and a few of the feathers
along the back, and with the neck slightly curved one couldn’t believe
it anything but a long, wicked-looking snake. I never knew a creature
that could put on a wickeder or more poisonous look than these Canada
geese can.
One day as I was standing in the factory door with an eye turned towards
the goose nest, I saw the old cart-horse, Charley, grazing closer and
closer to the nest, and a shudder came over me, fearing he might put a
clumsy foot in it. But where is Jack Johnson, the fellow who is always
watching; now an enemy is approaching and he is gone! The goose is lying
flat on the nest and I can see plainly her black neck stretched out on
the ground, and her head curved towards this big horse that weighs over
sixteen hundred pounds, and feet on him like pancake griddles. All at
once the sight grows doubly interesting, for here is Jack Johnson
stretched out flat, and pushing himself along with both hind feet until
he is within four feet of Charley’s heels. Charley is apparently
unconscious of having an enemy on earth as he is quietly grazing closer
and closer to the nest, his big knees bending forward for fully a second
before he makes steps.
Finally when he gets within three feet of Mrs. Goose she slowly rises
up, spreading her wings at him. His big ears go forward at once, and he
gives a slight flinch backwards, with both eyes rivetted on the goose.
That instant Jack Johnson grabs him on the heels with his beak, and
strikes him with both wings at once, while both geese seem to honk at
the same time. Really I never saw a horse so nearly scared into fits as
he was. His tail went into the air as he uttered a combination of loud
snorts, and, with his four feet almost jarring the earth, he ran because
he could not fly. Judging from his actions he did not know which end he
got bit from, for he first jumped sidewise away from the nest. When he
got about a hundred and fifty feet away he halted, and with his head
erect and his tail bowed up, it added fully one hundred dollars to his
appearance. But when he saw the geese flapping and rejoicing over their
victory he started again, and if it had not been for the barnyard fence
possibly he would have been going yet.
As the nest had no protection, the old goose of course had to set in the
sun, and she finally took sick and left the eggs. I believe she was
sunstruck. At any rate she nearly died. So one day we men went and
fought old Jack away and took the six eggs. I put them in warm water and
found each contained life, so I made a nest in an old washtub and a
Plymouth Rock hen volunteered to act as stepmother. In four or five days
all six of the eggs hatched, and I removed the cover and let the light
in, and the hen showed no signs of pecking them, but on the contrary
started to teach them some chicken language. The next day we removed
them in a pen near our back door where there was a nice growth of young
clover and so forth. We fed them just a little custard as a coaxer, and
these goslings were really tamer than their stepmother. And how they did
grow! The rapid way in which young Canada goslings grow is almost beyond
human belief. At three days of age I have seen them run through
two-inch-mesh poultry netting, and at six or seven weeks they are full
grown and only experienced eyes will detect the young from the old at
one hundred feet distance.
Now this family of goslings never went five rods from our back door, but
were continually gorging themselves on this clover. And of all the big
babies I ever saw, young wild geese are the limit. After they were
larger than their stepmother, I have often seen them huddle around her,
putting their heads under her wings, each raising her a little higher
until she would be completely off the ground, making herself into a
portable home for the heads of these six goslings.
But the sad thing was to see this old gander, and to hear him
continually giving those three searching, sad honks. We put blocks of
wood and pieces of fence-rail in the nest, but this broken-hearted old
fellow rolled them away. The sick goose stayed in the pond near by the
nest, but he strayed all about the premises, constantly hunting for the
six eggs or the goslings that he evidently knew were in them, returning
every few minutes to his sick sweetheart. He would bow and talk to her
and nip a few blades of grass; then off again on the same beat, honking,
east, west, north and south. I never saw anything to equal it. If his
honking was heard by the six goslings it was of course all Latin to
them, as they knew no other parent but this old hen.
Well, the novelty of having these pets near the back door soon grew a
little unsanitary; and we found they were a week bigger every seven
days; and my brother-in-law’s oldest sister gave me to kindly
understand, in as pleasant a manner as the English language can possibly
be rubbed in, that our back doorstep was not a wild goose roost, and
that these geese had to be removed immediately if not a little sooner.
So I concluded to take her word for it. But at that time I had only the
one big field away from the house. So one bright morning in June, as the
sun was just high enough to be sparkling on the dewdrops that were
apparently hanging on every blade of grass, I started from the house as
usual to build a fire under the boiler at the factory. I called to the
goose family, and all followed me through the gate, really quieter than
domestic fowls. As I passed through the barnyard I kept on dropping a
little feed, and they kept right after me until they came to nice,
clean, dewy grass. There I left them and started on. But I hadn’t got
five rods away before my whole body and nerves were all shaking at
seeing and hearing old Jack Johnson coming from the north pond, flapping
and honking like a creature that had gone completely mad.
I turned and ran back, fearing he would kill every one. But he beat me
there, and thank God he did. For instead of killing them as I feared he
might, when he got within about six feet of them he stopped, and with
his head and neck straight in the air, his beautiful chest just heaved,
and I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that his honks could
easily have been heard for a mile and a half. What he said I don’t know,
but each gosling lay flat on the ground and he put his head on each,
apparently caressing and loving them. In turn each got up and flapped
its baby wings.
Just then I cast one eye to the north and here was the old, sick mother
coming, falling down with weakness every rod she came. This was the
first time I had seen her over the bank of the pond since she left the
nest, and the young were now over five weeks old. Old Jack looked and
saw her, and ran up and apparently told her all, for she tried in her
weak way to come faster. But this dear old father really made several
trips back and forth to the young before she got there.
Now comes something worth while for me, and I don’t want any reader to
ask how it was that this old pair of beauties knew their young. I only
know they did know them; that is all. There I stood, bare-headed and
bare-footed at the most beautiful time of the day. The whole earth
seemed to be transformed into a rainbow of God’s pure love, with both
ends pouring out upon this one spot; for to see this dear old,
broken-hearted father and their sick mother united and knowing their six
loved ones which they had never seen, or, in other words, standing and
witnessing the reunion of this broken family, caused my brain to fairly
whirl in thought, until I melted down, like a little child.
Finally the eight of them all started for the north pond. But Jack
looked and saw the hen following; so he just stepped back and gave her
one blow with his stub wing which sent her moulting and screaming with
terror towards the chicken house. But in about fifteen minutes when I
returned from the factory the goslings came back after their stepmother,
Jack following them. I succeeded in coaxing her out and he saw her
family salute and caress her, as they uttered volumes of baby talk,
apparently expressing their sympathy. This old gander never touched her
afterwards, and the hen lived out at the pond with the eight geese until
the snow drove her in. No other fowl on the premises dared venture near
her, for the gander guarded her as one of his family from then on.
The old mother goose got a little better towards fall, but when winter
set in she took a change for the worse and one day in January I went
back and picked her up and decided to bring her to the house and doctor
her up. When I got to the cow-stable I turned the cow out, leaving the
goose there while I went to the house for dope. When the cow passed out
the door, old Jack Johnson, who was right on my heels ever since I
picked up his mate, flew into the cow like a bull-dog and gave her a
real trimming. On returning from the house I found he had driven her
around the corner, but was still fighting and honking at this innocent
old beast.
When I opened the cow-stable door I found the old goose’s struggle was
over. She was dead. And while her faithful old mate was around out of
sight, still busily engaged with the cow, I took the goose out and
buried her; therefore he never saw her afterwards.
To be brief, he fought the cow, on and off, for two or three weeks. Then
he seemed to content himself by watching her. And for two and a half
years he kept constant guard over her, and never was seen to be over
three rods away from her head. On several occasions she broke out, but
he followed and was seen over a mile from home. In fact she needed no
bell to be located, as his honking answered the purpose. During the
summer months he slept at her head in the pasture field, but when winter
came and the cow was stabled, he always slept on the doorstep. One
morning in March I snapped him there.
[Illustration:
FAITHFUL AFTER DEATH
Photograph showing “Jack Johnson” standing at the cow-stable door
watching the cow, two years and three months after the death of his
sweetheart.]
He apparently blamed her for his trouble, and paid no attention whatever
to any other goose, not even his own family. His sad honking, however,
became so dreadfully mournful to one and all that I finally got rid of
him.
On another occasion I kept a widowed goose for four years and she still
honked for her old love. Now, if anything happens to one of a pair
around here, I will give you the other, as I cannot stand to hear their
deep, mournful cries, that to me make the whole place gloomy.
I have heard good honest men say that their wild ganders when turned
with a flock of tame geese will mate with more than one goose. But here
at my home everything is as near the natural state as I can possibly
make it, and I haven’t seen these geese show any inclination toward
acting that way.
Here is a fact hard for you to believe, for it is beyond the human
power’s control. These wild geese come here from the south-east Atlantic
coast, arriving about March the first; if fed and protected they will
not leave here for Hudson Bay, where they nest, before April the
twentieth to May the first, living here under exactly the same
conditions as our wing-clipped or pinioned ones do. And ours usually lay
the last week in March.
This year six young were hatched on April the 27th, and it takes
twenty-eight or twenty-nine days for incubation alone.
Or to give you a better explanation I will say, take a pair of these
wild geese, clip their wings and keep them here. In about three years
they will nest, but will do so fully a month earlier than if they had
their wings and could go to their natural breeding ground. Possibly
their reason for nesting earlier when they are compelled to stay here is
to get their young well developed before the extremely hot weather sets
in, as I have had them die in dry, hot weather. On the other hand, when
they are three days old they will toddle around among the white frost on
the clover leaves and enjoy their meal as if it were sugar-coated.
Now I am aware that I have been altogether too lengthy; but I have so
many of these interesting facts that I can’t, apparently, ring off.
I know you educated people call it nature, or instinct; and really I
have heard such a variety of names for this goose-knowledge that I don’t
try to look up the meaning of these artificial words; for I am sure if
all their meanings were boiled down, and all the man-made, artificial
names were skimmed off, the real interpretation would be—
“_GOD_.”
Last summer, about the first of July, as I went from the factory to the
house, Mrs. Miner said to me, “What is the matter with your geese? This
old pair and the four young ones have come to the house and honked two
or three times. We have driven them back to the north pond, time and
again.” I said at once, “Were there only four young that came up?” She
assured me that was all. But the looks and actions of the geese were
enough; I knew there was something wrong, for when the old pair saw me
they honked aloud.
I hustled through the shrubbery and these geese followed me. On my
arrival at the water’s edge the meaning of their mysterious actions was
revealed, for I saw the gosling lying dead upon the east shore. I
hurried along and picked it up. On examination I found a small head of
rye in its wind-pipe. The noise of the machinery where I was working had
prevented my hearing the alarmed cries of the parent birds, or I would
have gotten there in time to save its life. However, it was then too
late; the gosling had been dead at least an hour.
So I took it by one foot and carried it in my hand; and the parents and
the four remaining young followed at my heels right back to the house. I
buried the gosling beside the rose-path, with the broken family of geese
standing within fifteen feet of me. We had to drive them back several
times before they would stay and it was fully a week before they would
content themselves back at their home where they had lived all summer.