Where cluster oaks and runs the rapid brook,
Repose the jutting rocks beneath the ferns;
Here seeks the thrush his hidden leafy nook,
And wandering squirrel to his hole returns.
Afar the steaming river slowly wends
Its tortuous way to mingle with the sea;
No cheerful voice its languid course attends;
The blight of silence rests upon the lea.
Where the wide meadow spreads its wealth of weeds,
Where the rank harvest waves above the field,
The testy hornet in his anger speeds,
And stolid beetle bears his brazen shield.
Give them the glowing, fiery world they love,
Give me the cool retreat beside the stream;
While sweeps the sun the noontide sky above,
Here would I linger with the birds and dream.
[Illustration: _The Chesapeake Oak_]
And now what of the tree itself? Here I have been the better part of a
long fore-noon, and scarcely given this fine young oak a thought. A
young oak, yet a good deal older than its burden; an oak that was an
acorn when the century was new, and now a sturdy growth full sixty feet
high, straight of stem to its undermost branches and shapely everywhere.
Such trees are not remarkable of themselves, though things of beauty,
but at times how suggestive! Think of pre-Columbian America; then there
were oaks to make men marvel. “There were giants in those days.”
Occasionally we meet with them even now. A year ago I camped on the
shore of Chesapeake Bay near an oak that measured eighteen feet six
inches in circumference four feet from the ground, and in St. Paul’s
church-yard, not a great way off, are five big oaks, one of which is
twenty feet around shoulder high from the roots. Such trees are very
old. The church-yard was enclosed two centuries ago, and these were big
trees then, and so older by far than any monument of white men on the
continent, except possible traces of the Norsemen. If a tree such as
this in which I have been sitting is full to overflowing with
suggestiveness, how much more so a noble patriarch like that upon the
bay shore! It is usually not easy to realize the dimensions of a huge
tree by merely looking at it, but this mammoth impressed one at first
sight. The branches were themselves great trees, and together cast a
circular patch of shade, at noon, three paces more than one hundred feet
across. As a tree in which to ramble none could have been better shaped.
The lowest branches were less than twenty feet from the ground, and
after reaching horizontally a long way, curved upward and again outward,
dividing finally into the leaf-bearing twigs. Course after course
continued in this way, the size decreasing gradually, and the whole
forming, as seen from a distance, a magnificent dome-shaped mass.
Comparisons with the tree’s surroundings were full of suggestiveness.
The ground immediately about was densely covered with rank ferns and the
acorn sprouts of one or two years’ growth. Yet, where they were, it
seemed but a smoothly-shaven lawn, so insignificant were they when seen
with the tree; and the sproutland beyond, which would otherwise have
been a wood, was absolutely insignificant. Yet, in truth, everything
here was on a grand scale. The ferns were tall, and to prove it I sat
upon the ground among them and so shut out all view of the great tree
and its surroundings. I spent many hours seated upon different branches
of this oak, and every one had features all its own. From those nearest
the ground I surveyed the bird-life in the thicket beneath, and was
entertained by a pair of nesting cardinal red-birds that came and went
as freely as if quite alone, and whistled cheerfully morning, noon, and
night. I fancied I made friends with these birds, for early one morning
the male bird came to camp, as if to inspect my nest, thinking I was not
up, and he expressed his favorable opinion in most glowing terms. A pair
of doves, too, had a nest in sight, and their melancholy cooing seemed
out of tune here, where Nature had done her work so well. Once, at
least, while I was there, the bald eagle came for a few moments, and,
big bird as he is, was not conspicuous, and had not a flash of sunlight
fallen upon his yellow beak and white head, I should not have been aware
of his presence, as he certainly was not of mine. What I took to be a
duck-hawk, a few days later, interested me much more. He was a splendid
bird, and tarried but a short time. The leaves so concealed him that I
was not sure, having no field-glass at the time, but do not think I was
mistaken. The eagle did not appear to disturb the fish-hawk’s temper in
the least, but the great hawk did, and he was much excited until the
bird disappeared in the steam and smoke that as a great cloud rested
above Baltimore.
The birds of this retired spot may be divided into two classes,—those of
the oak and of the sproutland growths about it, and the birds of the
air, principally swallows, which hung over the tree as a trembling
cloud. Never were swallows more numerous, except when flocked prior to
migration. In the tree and bushes were always many birds, yet often they
were far from each other. This gave me an excellent idea of what a great
oak really is. Birds quite out of sight and hearing of each other were
resting on branches from the same trunk. Although the middle of July,
there was no lack of song, and second nesting of many familiar birds is,
I judge, more common in Maryland than in New Jersey. Of all the birds
that came, the little green herons were the most amusing. A pair
doubtless had a nest near by, or young that were not yet on the wing.
They walked sedately along the level branches, as a man might pace up
and down his study, buried in deep thought. I listened carefully for
some expression of content, but they made no sound except when they were
startled and flew off. I was much surprised to find the beach-birds
occasionally darting among the branches, and once a spotted sandpiper
rested a moment near me. These birds we associate with water and the
open country, although this species is less aquatic than its fellows.
They were always in sight from the door of my tent, and always an
earlier bird than I. I recall now standing upon the beach long before
sunrise, marking the promises of the coming day, as I interpreted them.
The fish-hawks were ahead of me; so, too, the little sand-pipers. Their
piping at this time was very clear and musical. It was a delightful
accompaniment to the rippling water. The dear old song-sparrows were
quiet, and I was very glad; but with the first flooding of the sea with
sunlight they all sang out, and the Chesapeake was afar off and I in the
home meadows on the Delaware. I prefer novelty when away. It is well to
utterly forget, at times, that which we most prize. What boots it to
stand on the hill-top, if your thoughts are forever in the lowlands?
Twice, from the branches of the old oak, I saw a splendid sunset, but
nothing equal to the sunrise of to-day. With many a matter of this life
the beginning is better than the end. We had a superb sunset last night.
The color was gorgeous, but it was plain and commonplace compared to the
sunrise of to-day. Perhaps no tint was really brighter in one case than
in the other, but my mind was. The sunset was too closely linked with
the death of the day; there was the idea of a grand finale before the
curtain drops, and this tends to dull enthusiasm. It is not so with
sunrise. It is all freshness,—a matter of birth, of beginning, of a new
trial of life,—and with so happy an entrance, the exit should be one of
gladness only; but there is no trace of pity in Nature. In awful
certainty the night cometh.
I was not surprised at every visit to this tree to find some new form of
life resting on its branches. A beautiful garter-snake had reached a low
branch by climbing to it from a sapling that reached a little above it.
There was no break in the highway that led to its very summit. The grass
leaned upon ferns, these upon shrubs, these again upon saplings, and so
the tree was reached. Any creeping thing could have climbed just eighty
feet above the earth with far less danger than men encounter clambering
over hills.
And not only a zoological garden was this and is every other old tree,
but the oak had its botanic garden as well. When we consider that many
of the branches were so wide and level that one could walk upon them, it
is not strange that earth, dead leaves, and water should lodge in many
places. Indeed, besides the two gardens I have mentioned, the oak had
also an aquarium. But I cannot go into particulars. The parasitic
plant-life—not truly such, like the mistletoe—was a striking feature.
Maple seeds had lodged and sprouted, and in a saucer-shaped depression
where dust and water had lodged a starved hawkweed had got so far
towards maturity as to be in bud.
* * * * *
It may appear as utter foolishness to others, but I believe that trees
might in time become tiresome. Whether in leaf or bare of foliage, there
is a fixedness that palls at last. We are given to looking from the tree
to the world beyond; to hurrying from beneath their branches to the open
country. To live in a dense forest is akin to living in a great city.
There is a sense of confinement against which, sooner or later, we are
sure to rebel. We long for change. The man who is perfectly satisfied
has no knowledge of what satisfaction really is. Logical or not, I
turned my attention from the tree at last, and thought, What of the
outlook? Directly north, in the shallow basin, hemmed in by low hills,
lies the town. A cloud of smoke and steam rests over it, and barely
above it reach the church-spires and tall factory chimneys, as if the
place was struggling to be free, but only had its finger-tips out of the
mire of the town, of which I know but little. My wonder is that so many
people stay there, and, stranger still, wild life not only crowds its
outskirts, but ventures into its very midst. In one town, not far away,
I found the nests of seventeen species of birds, but then there was a
large old cemetery and a millpond within its boundaries. Time was when
through the town before me there flowed a creek, and a pretty wood
flourished along its south bank. The creek is now a sewer, and an open
one at that, and yet the musk-rat cannot quite make up his mind to leave
it. Stranger than this was seeing recently, in a small creek discolored
by a dyeing establishment, a little brown diver. How it could bring
itself to swim in such filth must remain a mystery. A queer old
character that had lived all his life in the country once said of the
nearest town, “It is a good place to dump what we don’t want on the
farm.” This old fellow would always drive me out of his orchard when
apples were ripe, but I liked him for the sentiment I have quoted.
I am out of town now, and what of the world in another direction?
Turning to the east, I have farm after farm before me; all different,
yet with a strong family likeness. This region was taken up by English
Quakers about 1670 and a little later, and the houses they built were as
much alike as are these people in their apparel. The second set of
buildings were larger only and no less severely plain; but immediately
preceding the Revolution there were some very substantial mansions
erected. From my perch in the tree-top I cannot see any of the houses
distinctly, but locate them all by the group of Weymouth pines in front
and sometimes both before and behind them. The old-time Lombardy poplar
was the tree of the door-yards at first, but these, in this
neighborhood, have well-nigh all died out, and the pines replace them.
One farm-house is vividly pictured before me, although quite out of
sight. The owner made it a home for such birds as might choose to come,
as well as for himself, and what royal days have been spent there! There
was no one feature to attract instant attention as you approached the
house. The trees were thrifty, the shrubbery healthy, the roses
vigorous, and the flowering plants judiciously selected; but what did
strike the visitor was the wealth of bird-life. For once let me
catalogue what I have seen in and about one door-yard and what should be
about every one in the land. At the end of the house, and very near the
corner of the long portico, stood a martin-box, occupied by the birds
for which it was intended. In the porch, so that you could reach it with
your hand, was a wren’s nest, and what a strange house it had! It was a
huge plaster cast of a lion’s head, and between the grim teeth the bird
passed and repassed continually. It promenaded at times on the lion’s
tongue, and sang triumphantly while perched upon an eyebrow. That wren
certainly saw nothing animal-like in the plaster cast as it was, and I
have wondered if it would have been equally free with a stuffed head of
the animal. My many experiments with animals, as to their recognition of
animals as pictured, have demonstrated everything, and so, I am afraid I
must admit, nothing. In the woodbine on the portico were two nests,—a
robin’s and a chipping-sparrow’s. These were close to each other, and
once, when sitting in a rocking-chair, I swayed the woodbine to and fro
without disturbing either bird. In the garden were a mocking-bird,
cat-bird, thistle-finch, song-sparrow, brown thrush, yellow-breasted
chat, and red-eyed vireo. In the trees I saw a great-crested
fly-catcher, purple grakle, a redstart, spotted warbler, and another I
failed to identify. In the field beyond the garden were red-winged
blackbirds and quail, and beyond, crows, fish-hawks, and turkey-buzzards
were in the air; and, as the day closed and the pleasant sights were
shut out, I heard the clear call of the kill-deer plover as they passed
overhead, heard it until it mingled with my dreams. “Providence Farm” is
indeed well named, for the birdy blessing of Providence rests upon it;
but were men more given to considering the ways and wants of wild life,
we might find such pleasant places on every hand. Farms appear to be
growing less farm-like. The sweet simplicity of colonial days has been
well-nigh obliterated, and nothing really better has replaced it. On the
other hand, a modern “country place,” where Nature is pared down until
nothing but the foundation-rocks remain, is, to say the least, an
eyesore. There is more pleasure and profit in an Indian trail than in an
asphaltum driveway.
Westward lie the meadows, and beyond them the river. Seen as a whole,
they are beautiful and, like all of Nature’s work, will bear close
inspection. The bird’s-eye view to-day was too comprehensive to be
altogether enjoyable: it was bewildering. How completely such a tract
epitomizes a continent! The little creek is a river; the hillock, a
mountain; the brushland, a forest; the plowed tract, a desert. If this
fact were not so generally forgotten we would be better content with
what is immediately about us. Mere bigness is not everything. So, too,
with animal life. We spend time and money to see the creatures caged in
a menagerie, and never see the uncaged ones in the thicket behind the
house. Every lion must roar, or we have not seen the show; a lion
rampant is everything, a lion couchant, nothing. There was no visible
violence in the meadows to-day; Nature was couchant, and I was thankful.
When the tempest drives over the land I want my snug harbor by the
chimney-throat. The sparks can fly upward to join the storm if they
will. The storms I enjoy are matters of hearsay.
Take up a ponderous government quarto of the geological survey and
glance over the splendid plates of remarkable rocks, cañons, and high
hills, and then look out of your window at the fields and meadow. What a
contrast! Yes, a decided one, and yet if you take an open-eyed walk you
will find a good deal of the same thing, but on a smaller scale. You
have not thought of it before; that is all. I put this matter to a
practical test not long ago, and was satisfied with the result. The last
plate had been looked at and the book was closed with a sigh, and a
restless youth, looking over the wide range of fields before him, was
thinking of the grand mountains, strange deserts, and deep cañons
pictured in the volume on his lap, and comparing such a country with the
monotonous surroundings of his home.
“What a stupid place this part of the world is!” he said at last. “I
wish I could go out West.”
“Perhaps it is not so stupid as it looks,” I replied. “Let’s take a
walk.”
I knew what the book described at which the lad had been looking, and
had guessed his thoughts. We started for a ramble.
“Let us follow this little brook as far as we can,” I suggested, “and
see what a stupid country can teach us,” purposely quoting my
companion’s words, with a little emphasis.
Not fifty rods from beautiful old trees the collected waters, as a
little brook, flowed over an outcropping of stiff clay, and here we
voluntarily paused, for what one of us had seen a hundred times before
was now invested with new interest. There was here not merely a smooth
scooping out of a mass of the clay, to allow the waters to pass swiftly
by; the least resisting veins or strata, those containing the largest
percentage of sand, had yielded quickly and been deeply gullied, while
elsewhere the stiff, black ridges, often almost perpendicular, still
withstood the current, and, confining the waters to narrow limits,
produced a series of miniature rapids and one whirlpool that recalled
the head-waters of many a river.
Near by, where, when swollen by heavy rains, the brook had filled the
little valley, temporary rivulets had rushed with fury over the clay,
and cut in many places deep and narrow transverse channels. From their
steep sides projected many a pebble that gave us “overhanging rocks,”
and one small bowlder bridged a crevice in the clay, and was in use at
the time as a highway for a colony of ants. Near it stood slender,
conical pillars of slightly cemented sand, some six inches in height,
and every one capped with a pebble of greater diameter than the apex of
the supporting sand. These were indeed beautiful.
“I have never seen them before,” remarked the boy.
“Very likely,” I replied, “but you have crushed them under foot by the
dozens.” They were not to be overlooked now, though, and in them he saw
perfect reproductions of wonderful “monument rocks” which he had so
lately seen pictured in the ponderous government geological report.
Withdrawing to the field beyond, where a bird’s-eye view of the brook’s
course could be obtained, we had spread out before us a miniature, in
most of its essentials, of a cañon country. The various tints of the
clay gave the many-colored rocks; the different densities of the several
strata resulted in deep or shallow ravines, fantastic arches, caverns,
and beetling precipices. On a ridiculously small scale, you may say.
True, but not too small for the eyes of him who is anxious to learn.
A few rods farther down the stream we came to a small sandy island which
divided the brook and made a pleasant variety after a monotonous course
through nearly level fields. A handful of the sand told the story. Here,
meeting with so slight an obstruction as a projecting root, the sandy
clays from above had been deposited in part, and year after year, as the
island grew, the crowded waters had encroached upon the yielding banks
on either side, and made here quite a wide and shallow stream. Small as
it was, this little sand-bar had the characteristic features of all
islands. The water rippled along its sides and gave it a pretty beach of
sloping, snow-white sand, while scarcely more than half a foot inland
the seeds of many plants had sprouted, and along the central ridge or
backbone the sod was thick set, and several acorns, a year before, had
sprouted through it. We found snails, spiders, and insects abundant, and
faint footprints showed that it was not overlooked by the pretty
teetering sand-piper.
Now came a total change. Abruptly turning from its former
straightforward course, the brook entered a low-lying swamp, crowded to
the utmost with dense growths of tangled vines and stunted trees. The
water was no longer sparkling and colorless, but amber-tinted, and in
many a shallow pool looked more like ink. Life here appeared in many
forms. Small mud-minnows, turtles, and snakes were found in the gloomy,
weed-hidden pools, and numberless insects crowded the rank growths above
as well as the waters beneath. The mutual dependence of vegetation and
animal life was here very striking. Previously we had found
comparatively little either in the brook or about it, but now our eyes
were gladdened not only with what I have mentioned, but birds, too, were
in abundance.
Bent upon freeing my native county from the charge of stupidity, I led
the way through this “dismal swamp.” It was no easy task. Nowhere were
we sure of our footing, and it required constant leaping from root to
root of the larger trees. There was at times no well-defined channel,
and often we could hear the gurgling waters hurrying beneath our feet,
yet catch no glimpse of them.
Here, too, other springs welled to the surface, and the augmented volume
of waters finally left the swamp a stream of considerable size, which,
after a tortuous course through many fields, entered a deep and narrow
ravine. After untold centuries the brook has worn away the surface soil
over which it originally flowed, then the gravel beneath, and so down to
the clay, thirty feet below. Upon this now rest the bowlders and such
coarser material as the waters could not transport.
Clinging to the trees growing upon the sides of the ravine, we closely
followed the course of the troubled, bubbling, foamy waters, stopping
ever and anon to look at the exposed sections of sand and gravel here
shown in curious alternate layers. The meaning of the word “deposits,”
so frequently met with in descriptive geology, was made plain, and when
we noticed of how mixed a character was the coarse gravel, it was easy
to comprehend what had been read of that most interesting phase of the
world’s past history, the glacial epoch, or great ice age. The gravel
was no longer an unsuggestive accumulation of pebbles, but associated
rolled and water-worn fragments of a hundred different rocks that by the
mighty forces of ice and water had been brought to their present
position from regions far away.
The ravine ended at the meadows, through which the waters passed with
unobstructed flow “to join the brimming river.” As we stood upon the
bank of the mighty stream I remarked, “This is a stupid country,
perhaps, but it has some merits.” I think the boy thought so, too.
* * * * *
The meadows are such a comprehensive place that no one knows where to
begin, if the attempt is made to enumerate their features. There is such
a blending of dry land and wet, open and thicket-grown, hedge and brook
and scattered trees, that it is bewildering if you do not choose some
one point for close inspection. From the tree-top I overlook it all, and
try in vain to determine whether the azure strip of flowering iris or
the flaunting crimson of the Turk’s cap lilies is the prettier. Beyond,
in damper soil, the glistening yellow of the sunflowers is really too
bright to be beautiful; but not so where the water is hidden by the huge
circular leaves of the lotus. They are majestic as well as pretty, and
the sparse bloom, yellow and rosy pink, is even the more conspicuous by
reason of its background. How well the birds know the wild meadow
tracts! They have not forsaken my tree and its surroundings, but for one
here I see a dozen there. Mere inky specks, as seen from my point of
view, but I know them as marsh-wrens and swamp-sparrows, kingbirds and
red-wings, that will soon form those enormous flocks that add so marked
a feature to the autumn landscape. It needs no field-glass to mark down
the passing herons that, coming from the river-shore, take a noontide
rest in the overgrown marsh.
I had once, on the very spot at which I was now looking, an unlooked-for
adventure. For want of something better to do, I pushed my way into the
weedy marsh until I reached a prostrate tree-trunk that during the last
freshet had stranded there. It was a wild place. The tall rose-mallow
and wavy cat-tail were far above my head, and every trace of
civilization was effectually shut out. It was as much a wilderness as
any jungle in the tropics. Nor was I alone. Not a minute elapsed before
a faint squeak told me that there were meadow-mice in the hollow log on
which I sat. Then the rank grass moved and a least bittern came into
view and as quickly disappeared. I heard continually the cackle of the
king-rail, and the liquid twittering of the marsh-wrens was a delight.
The huge globular nests of these birds were everywhere about me; but the
birds did not think of me as having any evil designs upon them, so they
came and went as freely as if alone. This is bird-viewing that one too
seldom enjoys nowadays. Often, and very suddenly, all sound ceased and
every bird disappeared. I did not recognize the cause at first, but was
enlightened a moment later. A large bird passed over, and its very
shadow frightened the little marsh-dwellers. If not, the shadow and
fright were a coincidence several times that morning. The day, for me,
ended with the unusual chance of a close encounter with a great blue
heron. I saw the bird hover for a moment directly overhead, and then,
letting its legs drop, it descended with lead-like rapidity. I leaned
backward to avoid it, and could have touched the bird when it reached
the ground, it was so near. I shall never know which was the more
astonished. Certainly, had it chosen, it could have stabbed me through
and through.
I was glad to be again on drier land and in open country. There had been
adventure enough; and yet, as seen from a distance, this bit of marsh
was but weeds and water.
Southward there stands the remnant of a forest: second- and third-growth
woodland usually; for trees of really great age are now generally alone.
I can see from where I sit three primeval beeches that are known to be
over two centuries old, and not far away towered one giant tulip-tree
that since the country’s earliest settlement had stood like a faithful
sentinel, guarding the south bank of a nameless spring brook. Ever a
thing of beauty, it shone with added splendor at night, when the rising
full moon rested in its arms, as if weary at the very outset of her
journey. My grandfather told me that in his boyhood it was known as the
“Indian tree,” because a basket-maker and his squaw had a wigwam there.
That was a century ago, and often, of late years, I have hunted on the
spot for some trace of these redskins, but found nothing, although all
about, in every field, were old Indian relics, even their cherished
tobacco-pipes. Small, recent growths of timber, even where they have
succeeded an ancient forest, are not, as a rule, attractive. Their
newness is too evident, and, except for a few passing birds, they are
not apt to harbor much wild life. As I look at the mingled foliage of
oaks and elms, beeches, hickories, and wild cherry, I give little heed
to that before me and recall forests worthy of the name, doing precisely
what I have declared unwise. A naturalist could find more material in
these few acres of woodland than he could “work up” in a lifetime. I
have underrated them. From the little thicket of blackberry vines I see
a rabbit slowly loping, as if in search of food. It is a full-grown
fellow, and suggests the round of the traps in late autumn and the woods
in winter.
I never knew a boy brought up in the country who was not at one time an
enthusiastic trapper. Just as mankind in the infancy of the world were
forced to pit their energy and skill against the cunning of the animals
needed for food or of such that by reason of their fierceness endangered
human life, so the country boy of to-day puts his intelligence to work
to circumvent the superiority of such animal life as by fleetness of
foot or stroke of wing can avoid the pursuer. It is a question largely
of brain against anatomical structure. No Indian, even, ever outran a
deer, nor savage anywhere by mere bodily exertion stopped the flight of
a bird. Men were all sportsmen, in a sense, when sport, as we call it,
was necessary to human existence. As centuries rolled by, such animals
and birds as came in daily contact with man necessarily had their sleepy
wits aroused, and now it is a case of cunning against cunning. We are
all familiar with such phrases as “wild as a hawk” and “shy as a deer.”
In the morning of man’s career on earth there were no such words as
“shy” and “wild.” They came into use, as words are constantly coming
into our language, because circumstances make them a necessity; and as
men were trappers before they were traders or tillers of the field, so
the words are old, and while animal life lasts they will be retained.
Nowadays we generally outgrow this love of trapping, or it remains in
the love of sport with gun or rod. But, old Izaak Walton and Frank
Forrester to the contrary notwithstanding, I hold that nothing in
fishing or shooting has that freshness, that thrilling excitement, that
close touch with nature, that clings to our early days, when, in autumn
and winter, we went the round of the traps. How through the long night
we had visions of the rabbit cautiously approaching the box-trap on the
edge of the swamp! How clearly we saw in the corner of the weedy old
worm-fence the stupid opossum bungling along, and awoke with a start as
the clumsy creature sprang the trap from the outside! I pity the boy who
has not had such a distressing dream.
No boy ever turned out before sunrise with a smiling countenance to milk
or help in any way with farm work; but how different when it was a
matter of the traps he had set the night before! The anticipation of
success is an all-sufficient incentive, and neither bitter cold nor
driving storm deters him. Of a winter dawn much might be said. No boy
ever was abroad so early that the squirrels were not before him, and in
the fading light of the stars he will hear the crows cawing and the
blue-jays chattering in the woods. To the naturalist, of course, such
time of day is full of suggestiveness; but the general belief that it is
a proper time to sleep will never be given up. Indeed, judging others by
myself, as the boy gets well on in his teens there is a growing
disposition to let the traps go until broad daylight and even until
after breakfast. This is unfortunate in two ways: there is a likelihood
of seeing animal life in the full flush of activity in the pre-sunlit
hours that is unknown as the day advances; the night-prowlers are all
gone to their dens, and the birds that roost in colonies have dispersed
for the day. One seldom overtakes a raccoon or a weasel at or near
noontide, and in the woods where a thousand robins have roosted there
may now not be one. Then, again, your visit to the traps may be
anticipated if you are too deliberate in starting on your rounds. This
is an experience that no boy of spirit can calmly undergo, and no
wonder. The rude box-trap was not easy to make, considering the usual
condition of tools upon a farm. The hunt for likely places whereat to
set it had been real labor. The long tramp in the gloaming when tired
out from a day at school; the early tramp, before sunrise perhaps, for
he must be on time at school that morning,—all this is to be considered;
but if success crowns the effort, all is well. On the other hand, to
find that some rascal has been ahead of you and your labor has gone for
nothing—— I never knew a boy to be a saint at such a time.
I can recall a well-marked rabbit-path I once found, half a mile from
home, and with great secrecy carried one of my traps to the place. It
was on the next farm, and so I had to be more than usually careful.
Nothing could be done in daylight for fear the boys living on that farm
would find me out, and this sort of poaching was not tolerated. At first
I was successful, catching two fine rabbits, and then, alas! was so
elated that, boylike, I said too much. Some one must have tracked me,
for I caught no more, although it was evident that the trap had been
disturbed. Straightway I suspected treachery, and prepared for revenge.
Now, auntie had a fur tippet, or “boa,” as she called it, which was just
six feet long. The moths one summer had ruined it, and for some time it
had been lying around uncared for and a plaything for the younger
children. This I appropriated, and fastened to one end of it a rabbit’s
head, with the ears wired up and with huge painted marbles bulging from
the sockets for eyes. It was a startling if not life-like creature.
Armed with this, I started after dark to the trap, and soon had all in
readiness for my victim. I coiled the “boa” into the rear of the box and
placed the head near the opening of the trap. The “figure-of-four”
triggers were laid outside in such a way as to suggest that the trap had
been sprung by an animal. Then I went home.
The next morning I went to school without visiting the spot, fearing I
might meet with the supposed offender. All day long I wondered. No boy
had any marvellous tale to tell and no one looked at all guilty. There
soon came over me a feeling that perhaps I had played a trick upon
myself, and by sundown I was rather reluctant to determine if anything
had happened; but go I did. The trap had evidently been disturbed. The
“boa” with the rabbit’s head was lying at full length outside and the
bushes were broken as if a bull had rushed through them. But who or what
had been there?
Two days of most distressing doubt passed, and then came Saturday. I was
ill at ease and took no pleasure in my holiday; but about noon our
neighbor came over, and I heard him tell grandfather how, on Fifth-day,
while the family were at breakfast, Bill, the bound boy, came rushing
into the room and exclaimed, excitedly, “Something from the menagerie’s
broke loose and got in the rabbit-trap!”