Sitting one night on a broad, gently rising hill, to see the darkness
close in upon the landscape, my attention was attracted by a marsh hawk
industriously working the fields about me. Time after time he made the
circuit, varying but little in his course each time; dropping into the
grass here and there, beating low over the bogs and bushes, and then
disappearing in the distance. This was his domain, his preserve, and
doubtless he had his favorite perch not far off.
All our permanent residents among the birds, both large and small, are
comparatively limited in their ranges. The crow is nearly as local
as the woodchuck. He goes farther from home in quest of food, but
his territory is well defined, both winter and summer. His place of
roosting remains the same year after year. Once, while spending a few
days at a mountain lake nearly surrounded by deep woods, my attention
was attracted each night, just at sundown, by an osprey that always
came from the same direction, dipped into the lake as he passed over it
for a sip of its pure water, and disappeared in the woods beyond. The
routine of his life was probably as marked as that of any of ours. He
fished the waters of the Delaware all day, probably never going beyond
a certain limit, and returned each night at sundown, as punctual as a
day-laborer, to his retreat in the forest. The sip of water, too, from
the lake he never failed to take.
All the facts we possess in regard to the habits of the song-birds in
this respect point to the conclusion that the same individuals return
to the same localities year after year, to nest and to rear their
young. I am convinced that the same woodpecker occupies the same cavity
in a tree winter after winter, and drums upon the same dry limb spring
after spring. I like to think of all these creatures as capable of
local attachments, and not insensible to the sentiment of home.
But I set out to give some glimpses of the wild life which one gets
about the farm. Not of a startling nature are they, certainly, but very
welcome for all that. The domestic animals require their lick of salt
every week or so, and the farmer, I think, is equally glad to get a
taste now and then of the wild life that has so nearly disappeared from
the older and more thickly settled parts of the country.
Last winter a couple of bears, an old one and a young one, passed
through our neighborhood. Their tracks were seen upon the snow in the
woods, and the news created great excitement among the Nimrods. It
was like the commotion in the water along shore after a steamer had
passed. The bears were probably safely in the Catskills by the time the
hunters got dogs and guns ready and set forth. Country people are as
eager to accept any rumor of a strange and dangerous creature in the
woods as they are to believe in a ghost story. They want it to be true;
it gives them something to think about and talk about. It is to their
minds like strong drink to their palates. It gives a new interest to
the woods, as the ghost story gives a new interest to the old house.
A few years ago the belief became current in our neighborhood that a
dangerous wild animal lurked in the woods about, now here, now there.
It had been seen in the dusk. Some big dogs had encountered it in the
night, and one of them was nearly killed. Then a calf and a sheep were
reported killed and partly devoured. Women and children became afraid
to go through the woods, and men avoided them after sundown. One day,
as I passed an Irishman's shanty that stood in an opening in the woods,
his wife came out with a pail, and begged leave to accompany me as far
as the spring, which lay beside the road some distance into the woods.
She was afraid to go alone for water on account of the "wild baste."
Then, to cap the climax of wild rumors, a horse was killed. One of my
neighbors, an intelligent man and a good observer, went up to see the
horse. He reported that a great gash had been eaten in the top of the
horse's neck; that its back was bitten and scratched; and that he was
convinced it was the work of some wild animal like a panther which had
landed upon the horse's back, and fairly devoured it alive. The horse
had run up and down the field trying to escape, and finally, in its
desperation, had plunged headlong off a high stone wall by the barn and
been killed. I was compelled to accept his story, but I pooh-poohed the
conclusions. It was impossible that we should have a panther in the
midst of us, or, if we had, that it would attack and kill a horse. But
how eagerly the people believed it! It tasted good. It tasted good to
me, too, but I could not believe it. It soon turned out that the horse
was killed by another horse, a vicious beast that had fits of murderous
hatred toward its kind. The sheep and calf were probably not killed at
all, and the big dogs had had a fight among themselves. So the panther
legend faded out, and our woods became as tame and humdrum as before.
We cannot get up anything exciting that will hold, and have to make the
most of such small deer as coons, foxes, and woodchucks. Glimpses of
these and of the birds are all I have to report.
II
The day on which I have any adventure with a wild creature, no matter
how trivial, has a little different flavor from the rest; as when,
one morning in early summer, I put my head out of the back window and
returned the challenge of a quail that sent forth his clear call from a
fence-rail one hundred yards away. Instantly he came sailing over the
field of raspberries straight toward me. When about fifteen yards away
he dropped into the cover and repeated his challenge. I responded, when
in an instant he was almost within reach of me. He alighted under the
window, and looked quickly around for his rival. How his eyes shone,
how his form dilated, how dapper and polished and brisk he looked! He
turned his eye up to me and seemed to say, "Is it you, then, who are
mocking me?" and ran quickly around the corner of the house. Here he
lingered some time amid the rosebushes, half persuaded that the call,
which I still repeated, came from his rival. Ah, I thought, if with his
mate and young he would only make my field his home! The call of the
quail is a country sound that is becoming all too infrequent.
So fond am I of seeing Nature reassert herself that I even found some
compensation in the loss of my chickens that bright November night
when some wild creature, coon or fox, swept two of them out of the
evergreens, and their squawking as they were hurried across the lawn
called me from my bed to shout good-by after them. It gave a new
interest to the hen-roost, this sudden incursion of wild nature. I
feel bound to caution the boys about disturbing the wild rabbits that
in summer breed in my currant-patch, and in autumn seek refuge under
my study floor. The occasional glimpses I get of them about the lawn
in the dusk, their cotton tails twinkling in the dimness, afford me
a genuine pleasure. I have seen the time when I would go a good way
to shoot a partridge, but I would not have killed, if I could, the
one that started out of the vines that cover my rustic porch, as I
approached that side of the house one autumn morning. How much of the
woods, and of the untamable spirit of wild nature, she brought to my
very door! It was tonic and exhilarating to see her whirl away toward
the vineyard. I also owe a moment's pleasure to the gray squirrel that,
finding my summer-house in the line of his travels one summer day, ran
through it and almost over my feet as I sat idling with a book.
I am sure my power of digestion was improved that cold winter morning
when, just as we were sitting down to breakfast about sunrise, a red
fox loped along in front of the window, looking neither to the right
nor to the left, and disappeared amid the currant-bushes. What of the
wild and the cunning did he not bring! His graceful form and motion
were in my mind's eye all day. When you have seen a fox loping along in
that way, you have seen the poetry there is in the canine tribe. It is
to the eye what a flowing measure is to the mind, so easy, so buoyant;
the furry creature drifting along like a large red thistledown, or
like a plume borne by the wind. It is something to remember with
pleasure, that a muskrat sought my door one December night when a
cold wave was swooping down upon us. Was he seeking shelter, or had
he lost his reckoning? The dogs cornered him in the very doorway, and
set up a great hubbub. In the darkness, thinking it was a cat, I put
my hand down to feel it. The creature skipped to the other corner of
the doorway, hitting my hand with its cold, rope-like tail. Lighting
a match, I had a glimpse of him sitting up on his haunches like a
woodchuck, confronting his enemies. I rushed in for the lantern, with
the hope of capturing him alive, but before I returned the dogs,
growing bold, had finished him.
I have had but one call from a coon, that I am aware of, and I fear we
did not treat him with due hospitality. He took up his quarters for
the day in a Norway spruce, the branches of which nearly brushed the
house. I had noticed that the dog was very curious about that tree all
the forenoon. After dinner his curiosity culminated in repeated loud
and confident barking. Then I began an investigation, expecting to
find a strange cat, or at most a red squirrel. But a moment's scrutiny
revealed his coonship. Then how to capture him became the problem. A
long pole was procured, and I sought to dislodge him from his hold. The
skill with which he maintained himself amid the branches excited our
admiration. But after a time he dropped lightly to the ground, not in
the least disconcerted, and at once on his guard against both man and
beast. The dog was a coward, and dared not face him. When the coon's
attention was diverted, the dog would rush in; then one of us would
attempt to seize the coon's tail, but he faced about so quickly, his
black eyes gleaming, that the hand was timid about seizing him. But
finally in his skirmishing with the dog I caught him by the tail, and
bore him safely to an open flour barrel, and he was our prisoner. Much
amusement my little boy and I anticipated with him. He partook of food
that same day, and on the second day would eat the chestnuts in our
presence. Never did he show the slightest fear of us or of anything,
but he was unwearied in his efforts to regain his freedom. After a few
days we put a strap upon his neck and kept him tethered by a chain. But
in the night, by dint of some hocus-pocus, he got the chain unsnapped
and made off, and is now, I trust, a patriarch of his tribe, wearing a
leather necktie.
The skunk visits every farm sooner or later. One night I came near
shaking hands with one on my very door-stone. I thought it was the
cat, and put down my hand to stroke it, when the creature, probably
appreciating my mistake, moved off up the bank, revealing to me the
white stripe on its body and the kind of cat I had saluted. The skunk
is not easily ruffled, and seems to employ excellent judgment in the
use of its terrible weapon.
Several times I have had calls from woodchucks. One looked in at the
open door of my study one day, and, after sniffing a while, and not
liking the smell of such clover as I was compelled to nibble there,
moved on to better pastures. Another one invaded the kitchen door while
we were at dinner. The dogs promptly challenged him, and there was a
lively scrimmage upon the door-stone. I thought the dogs were fighting,
and rushed to part them. The incident broke in upon the drowsy summer
noon, as did the appearance of the muskrat upon the frigid December
night. The woodchuck episode that afforded us the most amusement
occurred last summer. We were at work in a newly-planted vineyard, when
the man with the cultivator saw, a few yards in front of him, some
large gray object that at first puzzled him. He approached it, and
found it to be an old woodchuck with a young one in its mouth. She was
carrying her kitten as does a cat, by the nape of the neck. Evidently
she was moving her family to pastures new. As the man was in the line
of her march, she stopped and considered what was to be done. He called
to me, and I approached slowly. As the mother saw me closing in on her
flank, she was suddenly seized with a panic, and, dropping her young,
fled precipitately for the cover of a large pile of grape-posts some
ten or twelve rods distant. We pursued hotly, and overhauled her as she
was within one jump of the house of refuge. Taking her by the tail, I
carried her back to her baby; but she heeded it not. It was only her
own bacon now that she was solicitous about. The young one remained
where it had been dropped, keeping up a brave, reassuring whistle that
was in ludicrous contrast to its exposed and helpless condition. It was
the smallest woodchuck I had ever seen, not much larger than a large
rat. Its head and shoulders were so large in proportion to the body
as to give it a comical look. It could not walk about yet, and had
never before been above ground. Every moment or two it would whistle
cheerily, as the old one does when safe in its den, and the farm-dog
is fiercely baying outside. We took the youngster home, and my little
boy was delighted over the prospect of a tame woodchuck. Not till the
next day would it eat. Then, getting a taste of the milk, it clutched
the spoon that held it with great eagerness, and sucked away like a
little pig. We were all immensely diverted by it. It ate eagerly,
grew rapidly, and was soon able to run about. As the old one had been
killed, we became curious as to the fate of the rest of her family, for
no doubt there were more. Had she moved them, or had we intercepted her
on her first trip? We knew where the old den was, but not the new. So
we would keep a lookout. Near the end of the week, on passing by the
old den, there were three young ones creeping about a few feet from
its mouth. They were starved out, and had come forth to see what could
be found. We captured them all, and the young family was again united.
How these poor, half-famished creatures did lay hold of the spoon
when they got a taste of the milk! One could not help laughing. Their
little shining black paws were so handy and so smooth; they seemed as
if encased in kid gloves. They throve well upon milk, and then upon
milk and clover. But after the novelty of the thing had worn off, the
boy found he had incumbered himself with serious duties in assuming
the position of foster-mother to this large family; so he gave them
all away but one, the first one captured, which had outstripped all
the others in growth. This soon became a very amusing pet, but it
always protested when handled, and always objected to confinement. I
should mention that the cat had a kitten about the age of the chuck,
and as she had more milk than the kitten could dispose of, the chuck,
when we first got him, was often placed in the nest with the kitten,
and was regarded by the cat as tenderly as her own, and allowed to
nurse freely. Thus a friendship sprang up between the kitten and the
woodchuck, which lasted as long as the latter lived. They would play
together precisely like two kittens: clinch and tumble about and roll
upon the grass in a very amusing way. Finally the woodchuck took up his
abode under the floor of the kitchen, and gradually relapsed into a
half-wild state. He would permit no familiarities from any one save the
kitten, but each day they would have a turn or two at their old games
of rough-and-tumble. The chuck was now over half grown, and procured
his own living. One day the dog, who had all along looked upon him with
a jealous eye, encountered him too far from cover, and his career ended
then and there.
In July the woodchuck was forgotten in our interest in a little gray
rabbit which we found nearly famished. It was so small that it could
sit in the hollow of one's hand. Some accident had probably befallen
its mother. The tiny creature looked spiritless and forlorn. We had to
force the milk into its mouth. But in a day or two it began to revive,
and would lap the milk eagerly. Soon it took to grass and clover, and
then to nibbling sweet apples and early pears. It grew rapidly, and
was one of the softest and most harmless-looking pets I had ever seen.
For a month or more the little rabbit was the only company I had, and
it helped to beguile the time immensely. In coming in from the field
or from my work, I seldom failed to bring it a handful of red clover
blossoms, of which it became very fond. One day it fell slyly to
licking my hand, and I discovered it wanted salt. I would then moisten
my fingers, dip them into the salt, and offer them to the rabbit. How
rapidly the delicate little tongue would play upon them, darting out
to the right and left of the large front incisors, the slender paws
being pressed against my hand as if to detain it! But the rabbit proved
really untamable; its wild nature could not be overcome. In its large
box-cage or prison, where it could see nothing but the tree above it,
it was tame, and would at times frisk playfully about my hand and
strike it gently with its forefeet; but the moment it was liberated in
a room or let down in the grass with a string about its neck, all its
wild nature came forth. In the room it would run and hide; in the open
it would make desperate efforts to escape, and leap and bound as you
drew in the string that held it. At night, too, it never failed to try
to make its escape from the cage, and finally, when two thirds grown,
succeeded, and we saw it no more.
III
How completely the life of a bird revolves about its nest, its home! In
the case of the wood thrush, its life and joy seem to mount higher and
higher as the nest prospers. The male becomes a fountain of melody; his
happiness waxes day by day; he makes little triumphal tours about the
neighborhood, and pours out his pride and gladness in the ears of all.
How sweet, how well-bred, is his demonstration! But let any accident
befall that precious nest, and what a sudden silence falls upon him!
Last summer a pair of wood thrushes built their nest within a few rods
of my house, and when the enterprise was fairly launched and the mother
bird was sitting upon her four blue eggs, the male was in the height of
his song. How he poured forth his rich melody, never in the immediate
vicinity of the nest, but always within easy hearing distance! Every
morning, as promptly as the morning came, between five and six, he
would sing for half an hour from the top of a locust-tree that shaded
my roof. I came to expect him as much as I expected my breakfast, and
I was not disappointed till one morning I seemed to miss something.
What was it? Oh, the thrush has not sung this morning. Something is the
matter; and recollecting that yesterday I had seen a red squirrel in
the trees not far from the nest, I at once inferred that the nest had
been harried. Going to the spot, I found my fears were well grounded;
every egg was gone. The joy of the thrush was laid low. No more songs
from the treetop, and no more songs from any point, till nearly a week
had elapsed, when I heard him again under the hill, where the pair
had started a new nest, cautiously tuning up, and apparently with his
recent bitter experience still weighing upon him.
After a pair of birds have been broken up once or twice during the
season, they become almost desperate, and will make great efforts to
outwit their enemies. The past season my attention was attracted by a
pair of brown thrashers. They first built their nest in a pasture-field
under a low, scrubby apple-tree which the cattle had browsed down till
it spread a thick, wide mass of thorny twigs only a few inches above
the ground. Some blackberry briers had also grown there, so that the
screen was perfect. My dog first started the bird, as I was passing
by. By stooping low and peering intently, I could make out the nest
and eggs. Two or three times a week, as I passed by, I would pause to
see how the nest was prospering. The mother bird would keep her place,
her yellow eyes never blinking. One morning as I looked into her tent
I found the nest empty. Some night-prowler, probably a skunk or fox,
or maybe a black snake or red squirrel by day, had plundered it. It
would seem as if it was too well screened: it was in such a spot as any
depredator would be apt to explore. "Surely," he would say, "this is a
likely place for a nest." The birds then moved over the hill a hundred
rods or more, much nearer the house, and in some rather open bushes
tried again. But again they came to grief. Then, after some delay, the
mother bird made a bold stroke. She seemed to reason with herself thus:
"Since I have fared so disastrously in seeking seclusion for my nest, I
will now adopt the opposite tactics, and come out fairly in the open.
What hides me hides my enemies: let us try greater publicity." So she
came out and built her nest by a few small shoots that grew beside the
path that divides the two vineyards, and where we passed to and fro
many times daily. I discovered her by chance early in the morning as
I proceeded to my work. She started up at my feet and flitted quickly
along above the plowed ground, almost as red as the soil. I admired
her audacity. Surely no prowler by night or day would suspect a nest
in this open and exposed place. There was no cover by which they could
approach, and no concealment anywhere. The nest was a hasty affair,
as if the birds' patience at nest-building had been about exhausted.
Presently an egg appeared, and then the next day another, and on the
fourth day a third. No doubt the bird would have succeeded this time
had not man interfered. In cultivating the vineyards the horse and
cultivator had to pass over this very spot. Upon this the bird had not
calculated. I determined to assist her. I called my man, and told him
there was one spot in that vineyard, no bigger than his hand, where
the horse's foot must not be allowed to fall, nor tooth of cultivator
to touch. Then I showed him the nest, and charged him to avoid it.
Probably if I had kept the secret to myself, and let the bird run her
own risk, the nest would have escaped. But the result was that the
man, in elaborately trying to avoid the nest, overdid the matter; the
horse plunged, and set his foot squarely upon it. Such a little spot,
the chances were few that the horse's foot would fall exactly there;
and yet it did, and the birds' hopes were again dashed. The pair then
disappeared from my vicinity, and I saw them no more.
The summer just gone I passed at a farmhouse on the skirts of the
Northern Catskills. How could I help but see what no one else of all
the people about seemed to notice,—a little bob-tailed song sparrow
building her nest in a pile of dry brush very near the kitchen door.
It was late in July, and she had doubtless reared one brood in the
earlier season. Her toilet was decidedly the worse for wear. I noted
her day after day very busy about the fence and quince bushes between
the house and milk house with her beak full of coarse straw and hay.
To a casual observer she seemed flitting about aimlessly, carrying
straws from place to place just to amuse herself. When I came to watch
her closely to learn the place of her nest, she seemed to suspect my
intention and made many little feints and movements calculated to put
me off the track. But I would not be misled, and presently had her
secret. The male did not assist her at all, but sang much of the time
in an apple-tree or upon the fence, on the other side of the house.
Those artists who paint pictures of devoted male birds singing from
the branch that holds the nest, or in its immediate vicinity, do
not give the birds credit for all the wit they possess. They do not
advertise the place where their treasures are hid in this way. See
yonder indigo-bird shaking out its happy song from the topmost twig of
the maple or oak; its nest is many yards away in a low bush not more
than three feet from the ground.
And so with nearly all the birds. The one thing to which they bend all
their wits is the concealment of their nests. When you come upon the
sitting bird, she will almost let you touch her rather than to start up
before you, and thus betray her secret. The bobolink begins to scold
and to circle about you as soon as you enter the meadow where his nest
is so well hidden. He does not wait to show his anxiety till you are
almost upon it. By no action of his can you get a clew as to its exact
whereabouts.