THE PLANTATION
Living with trees--Winter violets--The house is made habitable--Red
willow--Scissor-tail and carrion-hawk--Lombardy poplars-Black acacia--
Other trees--The foss or moat--Rats--A trial of strength with an
armadillo--Opossums living with a snake--Alfalfa field and butterflies
--Cane brake---Weeds and fennel--Peach trees in blossom--Paroquets--
Singing of a field finch--Concert-singing in birds--Old John--Cow-
birds' singing--Arrival of summer migrants.
I remember--better than any orchard, grove, or wood I have ever
entered or seen, do I remember that shady oasis of trees at my new
home on the illimitable grassy plain. Up till now I had never lived
with trees excepting those twenty-five I have told about and that
other one which was called _el arbol_ because it was the only tree of
its kind in all the land. Here there were hundreds, thousands of
trees, and to my childish unaccustomed eyes it was like a great
unexplored forest. There were no pines, firs, nor eucalyptus (unknown
in the country then), nor evergreens of any kind; the trees being all
deciduous were leafless now in mid-winter, but even so it was to me a
wonderful experience to be among them, to feel and smell their rough
moist bark stained green with moss, and to look up at the blue sky
through the network of interlacing twigs. And spring with foliage and
blossom would be with us by and by, in a month or two; even now in
midwinter there was a foretaste of it, and it came to us first as a
delicious fragrance in the air at one spot beside a row of old
Lombardy poplars--an odour that to the child is like wine that maketh
the heart glad to the adult. Here at the roots of the poplars there
was a bed or carpet of round leaves which we knew well, and putting
the clusters apart with our hands, lo! there were the violets already
open--the dim, purple-blue, hidden violets, the earliest, sweetest, of
all flowers the most loved by children in that land, and doubtless in
many other lands.
There was more than time enough for us small children to feast on
violets and run wild in our forest; since for several weeks we were
encouraged to live out of doors as far away as we could keep from the
house where we were not wanted. For just then great alterations were
being made to render it habitable: new rooms were being added on to
the old building, wooden flooring laid over the old bricks and tiles,
and the half-rotten thatch, a haunt of rats and the home of centipedes
and of many other hybernating creeping things, was being stripped off
to be replaced by a clean healthy wooden roof. For me it was no
hardship to be sent away to make my playground in that wooded
wonderland. The trees, both fruit and shade, were of many kinds, and
belonged to two widely-separated periods. The first were the old trees
planted by some tree-loving owner a century or more before our time,
and the second the others which had been put in a generation or two
later to fill up some gaps and vacant places and for the sake of a
greater variety.
The biggest of the old trees, which I shall describe first, was a red
willow growing by itself within forty yards of the house. This is a
native tree, and derives its specific name _rubra,_ as well as its
vernacular name, from the reddish colour of the rough bark. It grows
to a great size, like the black poplar, but has long narrow leaves
like those of the weeping willow. In summer I was never tired of
watching this tree, since high up in one of the branches, which in
those days seemed to me "so close against the sky," a scissor-tail
tyrant-bird always had its nest, and this high open exposed nest was a
constant attraction to the common brown carrion-hawk, called
_chimango_--a hawk with the carrion-crow's habit of perpetually
loitering about in search of eggs and fledglings.
The scissor-tail is one of the most courageous of that hawk-hating,
violent-tempered tyrant-bird family, and every time a _chimango_
appeared, which was about forty times a day, he would sally out to
attack him in mid-air with amazing fury. The marauder driven off, he
would return to the tree to utter his triumphant rattling castanet-
like notes and (no doubt) to receive the congratulations of his mate;
then to settle down again to watch the sky for the appearance of the
next _chimango_.
A second red willow was the next largest tree in the plantation, but
of this willow I shall have more to say in a later chapter.
The tall Lombardy poplars were the most numerous of the older trees,
and grew in double rows, forming walks or avenues, on three sides of
the entire enclosed ground. There was also a cross-row of poplars
dividing the gardens and buildings from the plantation, and these were
the favourite nesting-trees of two of our best-loved birds--the
beautiful little goldfinch or Argentine siskin, and the bird called
firewood-gatherer by the natives on account of the enormous collection
of sticks which formed the nest.
Between the border poplar walk and the foss outside, there grew a
single row of trees of a very different kind--the black acacia, a rare
and singular tree, and of all our trees this one made the strongest
and sharpest impression on my mind as well as flesh, pricking its
image in me, so to speak. It had probably been planted originally by
the early first planter, and, I imagine, experimentally, as a possible
improvement on the wide-spreading disorderly aloe, a favourite with
the first settlers; but it is a wild lawless plant and had refused to
make a proper hedge. Some of these acacias had remained small and were
like old scraggy bushes, some were dwarfish trees, while others had
sprung up like the fabled bean-stalk and were as tall as the poplars
that grew side by side with them. These tall specimens had slender
boles and threw out their slender horizontal branches of great length
on all sides, from the roots to the crown, the branches and the bole
itself being armed with thorns two to four inches long, hard as iron,
black or chocolate-brown, polished and sharp as needles; and to make
itself more formidable every long thorn had two smaller thorns growing
out of it near the base, so that it was in shape like a round tapering
dagger with a crossguard to the handle. It was a terrible tree to
climb, yet, when a little older. I had to climb it a thousand times,
since there were certain birds which would make their nests in it,
often as high up as they could, and some of these were birds that laid
beautiful eggs, such as those of the Guira cuckoo, the size of
pullets' eggs, of the purest turquoise blue flecked with snowy white.
Among our old or ancient trees the peach was the favourite of the
whole house on account of the fruit it gave us in February and March,
also later, in April and May, when what we called our winter peach
ripened. Peach, quince, and cherry were the three favourite fruit-
trees in the colonial times, and all three were found in some of the
quintas or orchards of the old estancia houses. We had a score of
quince trees, with thick gnarled trunks and old twisted branches like
rams' horns, but the peach trees numbered about four to five hundred
and grew well apart from one another, and were certainly the largest I
have ever seen. Their size was equal to that of the oldest and largest
cherry trees one sees in certain favoured spots in Southern England,
where they grow not in close formation but wide apart with ample room
for the branches to spread on all sides.
The trees planted by a later generation, both shade and fruit, were
more varied. The most abundant was the mulberry, of which there were
many hundreds, mostly in rows, forming walks, and albeit of the same
species as our English mulberry they differed from it in the great
size and roughness of the leaves and in producing fruit of a much
smaller size. The taste of the fruit was also less luscious and it was
rarely eaten by our elders. We small children feasted on it, but it
was mostly for the birds. The mulberry was looked on as a shade, not a
fruit tree, and the other two most important shade trees, in number,
were the _acacia blanca,_ or false acacia, and the paradise tree or
pride of China. Besides these there was a row of eight or ten
ailanthus trees, or tree of heaven as it is sometimes called, with
tall white smooth trunk crowned with a cluster of palm-like foliage.
There was also a modern orchard, containing pear, apple, plum, and
cherry trees.
The entire plantation, the buildings included, comprising an area of
eight or nine acres, was surrounded by an immense ditch or foss about
twelve feet deep and twenty to thirty feet wide. It was undoubtedly
very old and had grown in width owing to the crumbling away of the
earth at the sides. This in time would have filled and almost
obliterated it, but at intervals of two or three years, at a time when
it was dry, quantities of earth were dug up from the bottom and thrown
on the mound inside. It was in appearance something like a prehistoric
earthwork. In winter as a rule it became full of water and was a
favourite haunt, especially at night, of flocks of teal, also duck of
a few other kinds--widgeon, pintail, and shoveller. In summer it
gradually dried up, but a few pools of muddy water usually remained
through all the hot season and were haunted by the solitary or summer
snipe, one of the many species of sandpiper and birds of that family
which bred in the northern hemisphere and wintered with us when it was
our summer. Once the water had gone down in the moat, long grass and
herbage would spring up and flourish on its sloping sides, and the
rats and other small beasties would return and riddle it with
innumerable burrows.
The rats were killed down from time to time with the "smoking
machine," which pumped the fumes of sulphur, bad tobacco, and other
deadly substances into their holes and suffocated them; and I recall
two curious incidents during these crusades. One day I was standing on
the mound at the side of the moat or foss some forty yards from where
the men were at work, when an armadillo bolted from his earth and
running to the very spot where I was standing began vigorously digging
to escape by burying himself in the soil. Neither men nor dogs had
seen him, and I at once determined to capture him unaided by any one
and imagined it would prove a very easy task. Accordingly I laid hold
of his black bone-cased tail with both hands and began tugging to get
him off the ground, bait couldn't move him. He went on digging
furiously, getting deeper and deeper into the earth, and I soon found
that instead of my pulling him out he was pulling me in after him. It
hurt my small-boy pride to think that an animal no bigger than a cat
was going to beat me in a trial of strength, and this made me hold on
more tenaciously than ever and tug and strain more violently, until
not to lose him I had to go flat down on the ground. But it was all
for nothing: first my hands, then my aching arms were carried down
into the earth, and I was forced to release my hold and get up to rid
myself of the mould he had been throwing up into my face and all over
my head, neck, and shoulders.
In the other case, one of my older brothers seeing the dogs sniffing
and scratching at a large burrow, took a spade and dug a couple of
feet into the soil and found an adult black-and-white opossum with
eight or nine half-grown young lying together in a nest of dry grass,
and, wonderful to tell, a large venomous snake coiled up amongst them.
The snake was the dreaded _vivora de la cruz_, as the gauchos call it,
a pit-viper of the same family as the fer-de-lance, the bush-master,
and the rattlesnake. It was about three feet long, very thick in
proportion, and with broad head and blunt tail. It came forth hissing
and striking blindly right and left when the dogs pulled the opossums
out, but was killed with a blow of the spade without injuring the
dogs.
This was the first _serpent with a cross_ I had seen, and the sight of
the thick blunt body of a greenish-grey colour blotched with dull
black, and the broad flat head with its stony-white lidless eyes, gave
me a thrill of horror. In after years I became familiar with it and
could even venture to pick it up without harm to myself, just as now
in England I pick up the less dangerous adder when I come upon one.
The wonder to us was that this extremely irascible and venomous
serpent should be living in a nest with a large family of opossums,
for it must be borne in mind that the opossum is a rapacious and an
exceedingly savage-tempered beast.
This then was the world in which I moved and had my being, within the
limits of the old rat-haunted foss among the enchanted trees. But it
was not the trees only that made it so fascinating, it had open spaces
and other forms of vegetation which were exceedingly attractive too.
There was a field of alfalfa about half an acre in size, which
flowered three times a year, and during the flowering time it drew the
butterflies from all the surrounding plain with its luscious bean-like
fragrance, until the field was full of them, red, black, yellow, and
white butterflies, fluttering in flocks round every blue spike.
Canes, too, in a large patch or "brake" as we called it, grew at
another spot; a graceful plant about twenty-five feet high, in
appearance unlike the bamboo, as the long pointed leaves were of a
glaucous blue-green colour. The canes were valuable to us as they
served as fishing-rods when we were old enough for that sport, and
were also used as lances when we rode forth to engage in mimic battles
on the plain. But they also had an economic value, as they were used
by the natives when making their thatched roofs as a substitute for
the bamboo cane, which cost much more as it had to be imported from
other countries. Accordingly at the end of the summer, after the cane
had flowered, they were all cut down, stripped of their leaves, and
taken away in bundles, and we were then deprived till the following
season of the pleasure of hunting for the tallest and straightest
canes to cut them down and strip off leaves and bark to make beautiful
green polished rods for our sports.
There were other open spaces covered with a vegetation almost as
interesting as the canes and the trees: this was where what were
called "weeds" were allowed to flourish. Here were the thorn-apple,
chenopodium, sow-thistle, wild mustard, redweed, viper's bugloss, and
others, both native and introduced, in dense thickets five or six feet
high. It was difficult to push one's way through these thickets, and
one was always in dread of treading on a snake. At another spot fennel
flourished by itself, as if it had some mysterious power, perhaps its
peculiar smell, of keeping other plants at a proper distance. It
formed quite a thicket, and grew to a height of ten or twelve feet.
This spot was a favourite haunt of mine, as it was in a waste place at
the furthest point from the house, a wild solitary spot where I could
spend long hours by myself watching the birds. But I also loved the
fennel for itself, its beautiful green feathery foliage and the smell
of it, also the taste, so that whenever I visited that secluded spot I
would rub the crushed leaves in my palms and chew the small twigs for
their peculiar fennel flavour.
Winter made a great change in the plantation, since it not only
stripped the trees of their leaves but swept away all that rank
herbage, the fennel included, allowing the grass to grow again. The
large luxuriantly-growing annuals also disappeared from the garden and
all about the house, the big four-o'clock bushes with deep red stems
and wealth of crimson blossoms, and the morning-glory convolvulus with
its great blue trumpets, climbing over and covering every available
place with its hop-like mass of leaves and abundant blooms. My life in
the plantation in winter was a constant watching for spring. May,
June, and July were the leafless months, but not wholly songless. On
any genial and windless day of sunshine in winter a few swallows would
reappear, nobody could guess from where, to spend the bright hours
wheeling like house-martins about the house, revisiting their old
breeding-holes under the eaves, and uttering their lively little
rippling songs, as of water running in a pebbly stream. When the sun
declined they would vanish, to be seen no more until we had another
perfect spring-like day.
On such days in July and on any mild misty morning, standing on the
mound within the moat I would listen to the sounds from the wide open
plain, and they were sounds of spring--the constant drumming and
rhythmic cries of the spur-wing lapwings engaged in their social
meetings and "dances," and the song of the pipit soaring high up and
pouring out its thick prolonged strains as it slowly floated downwards
to the earth.
In August the peach blossomed. The great old trees standing wide apart
on their grassy carpet, barely touching each other with the tips of
their widest branches, were like great mound-shaped clouds of
exquisite rosy-pink blossoms. There was then nothing in the universe
which could compare in loveliness to that spectacle. I was a
worshipper of trees at this season, and I remember my shocked and
indignant feeling when one day a flock of green paroquets came
screaming down and alighted on one of the trees near me. This paroquet
never bred in our plantation; they were occasional visitors from their
home in an old grove about nine miles away, and their visits were
always a great pleasure to us. On this occasion I was particularly
glad, because the birds had elected to settle on a tree close to where
I was standing. But the blossoms thickly covering every twig annoyed
the parrots, as they could not find space enough to grasp a twig
without grasping its flower as well; so what did the birds do in their
impatience but begin stripping the blossoms off the branches on which
they were perched with their sharp beaks, so rapidly that the flowers
came down in a pink shower, and in this way in half a minute every
bird made a twig bare where he could sit perched at ease. There were
millions of blossoms; only one here and there would ever be a peach,
yet it vexed me to see the parrots cut them off in that heedless way:
it was a desecration, a crime even in a bird.
Even now when I recall the sight of those old flowering peach trees,
with trunks as thick as a man's body, and the huge mounds or clouds of
myriads of roseate blossoms seen against the blue ethereal sky, I am
not sure that I have seen anything in my life more perfectly
beautiful. Yet this great beauty was but half the charm I found in
these trees: the other half was in the bird-music that issued from
them. It was the music of but one kind of bird, a small greenish
yellow field finch, in size like the linnet though with a longer and
slimmer body, and resembling a linnet too in its general habits. Thus,
in autumn it unites in immense flocks, which keep together during the
winter months and sing in concert and do not break up until the return
of the breeding season. In a country where there were no bird-catchers
or human persecutors of small birds, the flocks of this finch, called
_Misto_ by the natives, were far larger than any linnet flocks ever
seen in England. The flock we used to have about our plantation
numbered many thousands, and you would see them like a cloud wheeling
about in the air, then suddenly dropping and vanishing from sight in
the grass, where they fed on small seeds and tender leaves and buds.
On going to the spot they would rise with a loud humming sound of
innumerable wings, and begin rushing and whirling about again, chasing
each other in play and chirping, and presently all would drop to the
ground again.
In August, when the spring begins to infect their blood, they repair
to the trees at intervals during the day, where they sit perched and
motionless for an hour or longer, all singing together. This singing
time was when the peach trees were in blossom, and it was invariably
in the peach trees they settled and could be seen, the little yellow
birds in thousands amid the millions of pink blossoms, pouring out
their wonderful music.
One of the most delightful bird sounds or noises to be heard in
England is the concert-singing of a flock of several hundreds, and
sometimes of a thousand or more linnets in September and October, and
even later in the year, before these great congregations have been
broken up or have migrated. The effect produced by the small field
finch of the pampas was quite different. The linnet has a little
twittering song with breaks in it and small chirping sounds, and when
a great multitude of birds sing together the sound at a distance of
fifty or sixty yards is as of a high wind among the trees, but on a
nearer approach the mass of sound resolves itself into a tangle of
thousands of individual sounds, resembling that of a great concourse
of starlings at roosting time, but more musical in character. It is as
if hundreds of fairy minstrels were all playing on stringed and wind
instruments of various forms, every one intent on his own performance
without regard to the others.
The field finch does not twitter or chirp and has no break or sudden
change in his song, which is composed of a series of long-drawn notes,
the first somewhat throaty but growing clearer and brighter towards
the end, so that when thousands sing together it is as if they sang in
perfect unison, the effect on the hearing being like that on the sight
of flowing water or of rain when the multitudinous falling drops
appear as silvery-grey lines on the vision. It is an exceedingly
beautiful effect, and so far as I know unique among birds that have
the habit of singing in large companies.
I remember that we had a carpenter in those days, an Englishman named
John, a native of Cumberland, who used to make us laugh at his slow
heavy way when, after asking him some simple question, we had to wait
until he put down his tools and stared at us for about twenty seconds
before replying. One of my elder brothers had dubbed him the
"Cumberland boor." I remember one day on going to listen to the choir
of finches in the blossoming orchard, I was surprised to see John
standing near the trees doing nothing, and as I came up to him he
turned towards me with a look which astonished me on his dull old
face--that look which perhaps one of my readers has by chance seen on
the face of a religious mystic in a moment of exaltation. "Those
little birds! I never heard anything like it!" he exclaimed, then
trudged off to his work. Like most Englishmen, he had, no doubt, a
vein of poetic feeling hidden away somewhere in his soul.
We also had the other kind of concert-singing by another species in
the plantation. This was the common purple cow-bird, one of the
Troupial family, exclusively American, but supposed to have affinities
with the starlings of the Old World. This cow-bird is parasitical
(like the European cuckoo) in its breeding habits, and having no
domestic affairs of its own to attend to it lives in flocks all the
year round, leading an idle vagabond life. The male is of a uniform
deep purple-black, the female a drab or mouse-colour. The cow-birds
were excessively numerous among the trees in summer, perpetually
hunting for nests in which to deposit their eggs: they fed on the
ground out on the plain and were often in such big flocks as to look
like a huge black carpet spread out on the green sward. On a rainy day
they did not feed: they congregated on the trees in thousands and sang
by the hour. Their favourite gathering-place at such times was behind
the house, where the trees grew pretty thick and were sheltered on two
sides by the black acacias and double rows of Lombardy poplars,
succeeded by double rows of large mulberry trees, forming walks, and
these by pear, apple and cherry trees. From whichever side the wind
blew it was calm here, and during the heaviest rain the birds would
sit here in their thousands, pouring out a continuous torrent of song,
which resembled the noise produced by thousands of starlings at
roosting-time, but was louder and differed somewhat in character owing
to the peculiar song of the cow-bird, which begins with hollow
guttural sounds, followed by a burst of loud clear ringing notes.
These concert-singers, the little green and yellow field finch and the
purple cow-bird, were with us all the year round, with many others
which it would take a whole chapter to tell of. When, in July and
August, I watched for the coming spring, it was the migrants, the
birds that came annually to us from the far north, that chiefly
attracted me. Before their arrival the bloom was gone from the peach
trees, and the choir of countless little finches broken up and
scattered all over the plain. Then the opening leaves were watched,
and after the willows the first and best-loved were the poplars.
During all the time they were opening, when they were still a
yellowish-green in colour, the air was full of the fragrance, but not
satisfied with that I would crush and rub the new small leaves in my
hands and on my face to get the delicious balsamic smell in fuller
measure. And of all the trees, after the peach, the poplars appeared
to feel the new season with the greatest intensity, for it seemed to
me that they felt the sunshine even as I did, and they expressed it in
their fragrance just as the peach and other trees did in their
flowers. And it was also expressed in the new sound they gave out to
the wind. The change was really wonderful when the rows on rows of
immensely tall trees which for months had talked and cried in that
strange sibilant language, rising to shrieks when a gale was blowing,
now gave out a larger volume of sound, more continuous, softer,
deeper, and like the wash of the sea on a wide shore.
The other trees would follow, and by and by all would be in full
foliage once more, and ready to receive their strange beautiful guests
from the tropical forests in the distant north.
The most striking of the newcomers was the small scarlet tyrant-bird,
which is about the size of our spotted flycatcher; all a shining
scarlet except the black wings and tail. This bird had a delicate
bell-like voice, but it was the scarlet colour shining amid the green
foliage which made me delight in it above all other birds. Yet the
humming-bird, which arrived at the same time, was wonderfully
beautiful too, especially when he flew close to your face and remained
suspended motionless on mist-like wings for a few moments, his
feathers looking and glittering like minute emerald scales.
Then came other tyrant-birds and the loved swallows--the house-
swallow, which resembles the English house-martin, the large purple
martin, the _Golodrina domestica_, and the brown tree-martin. Then,
too, came the yellow-billed cuckoo--the _kowe-kowe_ as it is called
from its cry. Year after year I listened for its deep mysterious call,
which sounded like _gow-gow-gow-gow-gow,_ in late September, even as
the small English boy listens for the call of _his_ cuckoo, in April;
and the human-like character of the sound, together with the
startlingly impressive way in which it was enunciated, always produced
the idea that it was something more than a mere bird call. Later, in
October when the weather was hot, I would hunt for the nest, a frail
platform made of a few sticks with four or five oval eggs like those
of the turtledove in size and of a pale green colour.
There were other summer visitors, but I must not speak of them as this
chapter contains too much on that subject. My feathered friends were
so much to me that I am constantly tempted to make this sketch of my
first years a book about birds and little else. There remains, too,
much more to say about the plantation, the trees and their effect on
my mind, also some adventures I met with, some with birds and others
with snakes, which will occupy two or three or more chapters later on.