Transcriber Note
Text emphasis is denoted as _Italics_.
[Illustration: THE "HERMIT" AND HIS HOUSE.]
[Illustration]
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A Hermit's Wild Friends
or
Eighteen Years in the Woods
By
Mason A. Walton
(The Hermit of Gloucester)
[Illustration]
Boston
Dana Estes & Company
Publishers
============================
[Illustration]
_Copyright, 1903_
By Dana Estes & Company
_All rights reserved_
A HERMIT'S WILD FRIENDS
Published October, 1903
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
To the
Lovers of Nature,
everywhere,
this volume is fraternally dedicated.
NOTE
During my eighteen years of hermit life, I claim to have discovered
several new features in natural history, namely:
That the cow-bunting watches over its young, assists the foster parents
in providing food, and gradually assumes full care of the young
bird, and takes it to the pasture to associate with its kind; that
the white-footed mouse is dumb, and communicates with its species by
drumming with its toes; that the wood-thrush conducts a singing-school
for the purpose of teaching its young how to sing; that the chickadee
can count; that the shadbush on Cape Ann assumes a dwarf form, and
grows in patches like the low-bush blueberry, fruiting when less than
a foot in height; that the red squirrel owns a farm or fruit garden,
and locates his male children on territory which he preempts for the
purpose. I am aware that my claims will be vigorously assailed, but I
have verified these discoveries by years of patient observation, and
would say to my critics: "You would better investigate carefully before
denying the probability of any one of these claims."
Thanks are due the publishers of _Forest and Stream_ and _Youth's
Companion_ for permission to republish articles which have appeared in
these respective journals.
M. A. WALTON.
_Gloucester, April 5, 1903._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Nature _versus_ Medicine 11
II. Satan the Raccoon 30
III. Wabbles 52
IV. Bismarck, the Red Squirrel 67
V. Changes in Hermit-life 99
VI. The White-footed Mouse 118
VII. Three Years Later 136
VIII. The Crow 140
IX. Life in the Woods 156
X. Mr. and Mrs. Chewink 172
XI. Some of the Wild Things 190
XII. The Instinct of the Cowbird 208
XIII. Bee Hunting 223
XIV. Tiny 236
XV. The Chestnut-sided Warbler 253
XVI. Instinct 265
XVII. The Chickadees 282
XVIII. Triplefoot 295
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The "Hermit" and His Home _Frontispiece_
Tree Sparrow 25
Fox Sparrow 27
Bay-winged Bunting 28
Blackbird 29
Raccoon's Head 30
"I begun by tying on a nut" 37
"With a savage snarl he sprang on to the dude" 47
Song Sparrow 52
"Wabbles made it his business to awake me at daylight" 54
Wabbles 65
Pigeon Hawk 69
"Many a sprinting match of this kind takes place
in my dooryard" 74
"The winter storehouse was completed" 85
Indigo-bird 96
Oven-bird 97
Black-throated Green Warbler 98
Cedar-bird 102
The New Cabin 103
Maryland Yellowthroat 104
Red-winged Blackbirds 104
Brown Thrush 105
Swamp Song-sparrow 106
Baltimore Oriole 107
Belted Kingfisher, Watching 109
Kingfisher, Striking 110
Kingfisher, Lifting His Catch 111
"The distance between them grew less quite rapidly" 114
"Hermit, you are out" 117
"It carries its victim by the middle" 125
Mole 131
Kingbird 141
Ruffed Grouse 145
"The next sentinel takes up the call" 151
"I shot two ducks" 158
Coot's Head 159
Chickadee 173
"I threw a bit of cookie to her" 174
English Sparrow 186
Sparrow 189
"Found his owlship on a low limb" 191
Owl Chased 193
Yellow-bellied Woodpecker 196
"HE Coiled Around My Arm" 202
Blue-winged Yellow Warbler 211
Bee Hunting 226
"Again the plucky little bunting set its wing
and lowered its head" 241
"Made his way to the box, hand over hand" 245
Chestnut-sided Warbler 254
Blue Jays 265
Wood Thrush 275
The Hermit Thrush 278
Triplefoot's Den 298
"She stopped to look around, and saw me" 303
A Hermit's Wild Friends
OR
Eighteen Years in the Woods
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I.
NATURE _versus_ MEDICINE
Eighteen years ago I was in sore straits. Ill health had reduced my
flesh until I resembled the living skeleton of a dime show. I realized
that a few months more of city life would take me beyond the living
stage, and that the world would have no further use for me except to
adorn some scientific laboratory.
A diagnosis of my case would read as follows:
Dyspepsia, aggravated, medicine could give but slight relief. Catarrh,
malignant, persistent. A douche was necessary every morning to relieve
the severe facial pain. A cough that had worried me by day and by
night, and thrived on all kinds of cough medicine. Also, my lungs were
sore and the palms of my hands were hot and dry. I thought that I was
fading away with consumption, but the doctors said my lungs were sound.
I was advised to go into the woods and try life in a pine grove. As
there was no money for the doctors in this advice, I looked upon it as
kind and disinterested, but my mind ran in another direction.
When I was young and full of notions, the idea entered my head that I
should like a change from fresh to salt water. It resulted in a two
months' trip on a fishing schooner. During the trip I had been free
from seasickness, and had gained flesh rapidly. The memory of that
sea voyage haunted me, now that I had become sick and discouraged. It
seemed to me that a few weeks on salt water would save my life.
With high hopes, I boarded the little steamer that plied between
Boston and Gloucester. I thought it would be an easy matter to secure
board on one of the many vessels that made short trips after mackerel.
For three days I haunted the wharves in vain. The "skippers," one and
all, gave the same reason for refusing my offers. "We are going after
fish," said they, "and cannot be bothered with a sick man." At last one
"skipper" discouraged me completely. He said to me: "I once took a sick
man on board, and because we did not strike fish, the fishermen called
the passenger a Jonah, and made his life miserable. Three days after
we returned he died, and I swore then that I never would take another
sick man to sea." This "skipper's" story, and my fruitless efforts
caused me to abandon the salt water cure. I turned now to the hills
around Gloucester. In the end I selected Bond's Hill, because it was
surrounded by pine groves.
I found the hill covered with blueberry and huckleberry bushes, the
latter loaded with fruit. On the brow of the hill the soil had been
washed away, leaving great masses of bed rock (granite) towering above
the cottages that clung to the base of the cliff. On the extreme brow
of the hill I found a spot where the soil had gathered and maintained
a grass-plot. Here I pitched my little tent. Here I lived from August
to December. I called the spot the Eyrie, because it reminded me of
the regions inhabited by eagles. A visit to the spot will disclose the
fitness of the name.
On this spot my eighteen years of hermit life begun. At first I made
it a practice to go to the city every day for one meal, bringing back
food enough to last until another day. I found the huckleberries good
wholesome food that did not aggravate my chronic dyspepsia.
Two weeks of outdoor life had brought a little color to my cheeks and
had made me feel like a new man. About this time I awoke in the morning
to remember that I had not coughed during the night. The cough that
had harassed me night and day for two years, left me then and there,
never to return.
Nature was performing wonders where medicine had failed.
Before the month of September had ended, my catarrh disappeared, and I
no longer had use for the douche. From that time to this, I have been
free from catarrh. I do not have even the symptoms, known as hay-fever.
The dull, heavy pain that I had experienced constantly from dyspepsia,
gradually sub sided and eventually ceased. Since that time I have been
able to eat any kind of food, at any time, day or night, without the
depressing pains of indigestion.
During my first experience, climbing Bond's Hill, on my return from the
city, had been almost beyond my strength. I had to rest three times
before reaching my tent. By the middle of November my strength had
returned nearly to the old standard, and I mounted the hill without a
thought of weariness.
Standing one day on a massive spur of bed rock, near my tent, my
thoughts went back to the statement of the doctors in relation to my
lungs. I had just ascended the hill, without a long breath, and a hale,
hearty feeling pervaded every fibre of my system. I knew, then, that my
lungs were all right, and thanks to Nature, I had recovered my health
and stood there comparatively a well man.
While I was yet weak, I passed many hours at the Eyrie, entranced by
the magnificent panorama spread before me. I could see the larger
part of the city of Gloucester, which extended, in a semicircle, from
Riverdale to Eastern Point.
Later in the season I watched the ebb and flow of the tide on the
marshes that border Annisquam River.
The Outer Harbor, with Ten Pound Island near the entrance of the Inner
Harbor, lay in plain view, and the shifting scenes on its restless
waters possessed a fascination which I could seldom resist.
Day after day I watched the vessels of the fishing fleet as they
rounded Eastern Point, bound outward or inward. These vessels were
models of beauty, and looked as if they were built for racing instead
of fishing. I often compared them with the clumsy coasters that rode at
anchor in the Outer Harbor.
Now and then a vessel, homeward bound, rounded Eastern Point with
her flag half-mast. Mute reminder of the hardships and perils of a
fisherman's life.
Every morning soon after it had become light enough to see, several
boats could be seen rowing shoreward. Usually there was only one
man to a boat. It did not take me long to find out that these lone
rowers coming in out of the night were fishermen that pulled their
lobster-pots after one o'clock in the morning. I saw another lone
fisherman sail out of the harbor every morning when there was wind
enough to fill a dory sail. Day after day he sailed or rowed out to
sea to fish for shore codfish. He supported a large family from the
proceeds of his labor, but the life was lonely and perilous. I watched
his return once when the wind was blowing a fierce gale. The little
boat would careen until the sail trailed in the water and it seemed to
me that she must capsize. At the last moment she would come up into the
wind and right. In this slow, dangerous manner she was worked to the
mouth of Annisquam River and tied up above the Cut Bridge. The next day
I asked the fisherman how he had managed to keep his boat right side
up. "Oh, that was easy. When she heeled too much, I _shook her up_, and
kept her from taking in water." "_Shook her up_," was a new phrase to
me.
Below my Eyrie lay the little hamlet called the Cut. Some of its
cottages had straggled up to the base of the cliff just below the tent.
I could look down on a long stretch of Western Avenue beginning at the
Cut and ending in Ward Five, beyond the Cut Bridge. The latter was a
drawbridge, and when open the city of Gloucester was on an island, with
the exception of Ward Eight, which lies on the west side of Annisquam
River.
I had located in Ward Eight, but at the time did not know anything in
relation to its size, as compared with the other wards of the city. A
glance at the map in the city directory showed me that Ward Eight was
larger in area than all the other wards combined. I also found that it
comprised within its limits the Cut, Fresh Water Cove, West Gloucester,
and Magnolia. It pleased me much to find that it contained about twelve
thousand acres of shrub land and forest.
Two-thirds of the way from the Cut to the drawbridge, Essex Avenue
connects with Western Avenue. Essex Avenue crosses the marsh to West
Gloucester, and is the highway into the city for Essex and other
distant towns. There is a constant stream of travel over this highway,
divided among farmers, icemen, and pleasure-seekers. The travel on
Western Avenue is now, and was then, made up largely from the summer
colonies at Magnolia and Manchester. Showy turnouts passed and
repassed, so that I had enough to attract my attention from sunrise
to sunset. When facing the harbor, I could turn to the left and look
across the marsh to Dogtown Common. I had to look above and beyond
a straggling portion of the city. Dogtown Common, in Revolutionary
days, contained forty dwellings; now it was houseless. I saw only a
boulder-covered region of pasture-land, choked by huckleberry and
blueberry bushes, with here and there large tangles of catbrier.
Some of the sunsets seen from the Eyrie were beautiful beyond
description. Whenever a massive bank of clouds hung above the western
horizon, the setting sun illuminated the city from Riverdale to Eastern
Point, and every window in sight glowed like burnished gold.
Until the middle of November the weather continued mild and balmy,
with but a few stormy days. I recall, with pleasure and satisfaction,
the evenings passed at the Eyrie. Perched on the brow of the cliff,
I studied the city by moonlight, lamplight, and gas-light. On dark
nights the lights of the city took on the shape of a huge monster,
half-coiled, and extended from Riverdale to Eastern Point Light. The
latter is a revolving red light, and it gave the semblance of life to
the one-eyed monster which constantly blinked its great red eye. It
pleased me to call this imaginary monster the sea-serpent. Gloucester
owes her growth to the sea, and she might well take on the shape of the
sea-serpent.
When the danger-signals were up, the Outer Harbor was crowded with
craft of all kinds. At night time the tossing lights on the vessels
contrasted strangely with the fixed lights on shore.
The twin lights on Thatcher's Island could be seen from the Eyrie,
and I often wondered if these lights were necessary. To the middle of
November I had seen the sea only in comparatively fair weather, when
it was on its good behavior. Afterward a storm that wrecked my tent,
and brought in its wake huge waves that thundered against the headlands
of Cape Ann, caused me to wonder in another direction. It seems
incredible, but it is a fact, that I could feel the solid rock tremble
beneath my tent from the shock of wave against headland, one fourth of
a mile distant.
The storm died out, but it left an impression on my mind that caused me
to look for a locality less exposed to the wind. I found an ideal spot
on the "Old Salem Road." The spot was surrounded by wooded hills, where
a little brook crept out of a swamp and crossed to the south side of
the old highway. After crossing the highway, the waters of the brook
went tumbling and singing down to another swamp, where they were lost
in a tangle of moss, ferns, and marsh-marigolds.
The Old Salem Road had been deserted more than one hundred years,
save as a wood road in winter. At one time it was the connecting link
between Salem and Gloucester. Seven ruined cellars indicate the spots
where dwelling-houses once stood.
I moved my tent from the Eyrie, and put it up within the limits of the
old highway, and begun to build a little log cabin in which to spend
the winter.
While in the tent I experienced zero weather, and it may be of interest
to know how I managed to keep warm. I had picked up two discarded
milk-cans, and these I filled with hard wood coals from a fire which
I maintained near the tent. By closing the flaps of the tent the heat
from the cans would keep up an even temperature through the night. If
it happened to get cold toward morning I would burn a newspaper now and
then, which would warm the tent until light enough to start an outdoor
fire. I baked beans in a hole in the ground, in true Maine camp style.
There would be coals enough under the bean-pot, in the morning, to cook
coffee, and hot coffee and baked beans seemed to go to the right spot
when the thermometer was hanging around zero, and one was living in a
cotton tent.
I did my cooking on a bed of red hot coals, thus avoiding smoked food
and the loss of coffee-pot handle or spout. Hemlock bark from a dead
tree will give the best coals in the shortest time.
By the middle of December I had moved into my log cabin. I put in a
second-hand range, which proved to be an excellent baker and warmed the
cabin in the coldest weather. The remainder of the winter "I was as
snug as a bug in a rug," to use an old familiar adage.
Before the winter months had passed, chickadees, black snow-birds,
and tree-sparrows found their way into the cabin dooryard. I fed lard
to the chickadees on a chip, and the birds would eat this clear fat,
at short intervals, all day, and come around the next morning none
the worse for the strange diet. Certainly such food would kill any
other bird. The snow-birds and sparrows were fed on different kinds
of bird-seed. When I mention sparrows I do not refer to the English
sparrow. I am pleased to state that this undesirable alien does not
come to my dooryard. The tree-sparrow is a native bird, and here on the
Cape, is seen only in winter. It comes to us in October, and leaves by
the first of April. The tree-sparrow is an interesting bird to know. It
comes to us in the winter when the most of our birds are in the South.
It is a handsome bird from a sparrow standpoint.
[Illustration: TREE SPARROW.]
The crown is a bright chestnut, and there are chestnut markings on
the side of the head and on the bend of the wing. The back is boldly
streaked with black, bay, and light gray. There is much white edging
to the feathers of the tail and wings in winter. A few of these birds
stopped about the cabin all winter; but a flock numbering hundreds
wintered on Bond's Hill. On warm days they roamed over the hill, far
and near, always flying low and keeping well down in the shrubby
growth. But when the weather was cold I would find them in a sheltered
spot, where meadowsweet, bayberry, hardhack, blueberry, huckleberry,
and sweet-fern shrubs crowded each other until their interwoven
branches held a mantle of snow. Beneath this shelter the birds seemed
to find food, for they were busy at all hours of the day. I passed
many hours watching them while they were thus secluded. Invariably I
found them chirping to each other, and by listening closely I could
catch snatches of song low and sweet. The last of March their low song
could be heard in the shrub-lands. Later, when the song-sparrows and
bluebirds swelled the chorus, the tree-sparrows silently disappeared.
[Illustration: FOX SPARROW.]
April 3d, in the morning, I found a large flock of fox-sparrows in the
dooryard. It is somewhat singular that for three years they appeared
on the same day of the month. One year, April 3, 1887, I awoke in the
morning to find three feet of snow in the dooryard, and I was obliged
to shovel the snow away in order to feed the sparrows on bare ground.
The fox-sparrow is two-thirds as large as a robin, and may be classed
with the beautiful birds both in form and coloration. The sexes are
alike. The color above is a rich rusty red, deepest and brightest on
the wings, tail, and rump. The head, neck, and shoulders are a dark
ash-color, more or less streaked with rusty red. Below the groundwork
is snow-white, also thickly spotted with rust red. It could be called
a wood-thrush by a careless observer. These birds are migrants with
us, and pass through the State to their breeding-grounds in April, to
return in October. It is usually six weeks from the time the first
flock appears before the loiterers are all gone. The flock that called
on me was a very large one, numbering over one hundred birds. Mornings
they made the woods ring with their delightful music.
[Illustration: BAY-WINGED BUNTING.]
When the birds returned in April and May, I found that I was a
trespasser on the nesting-ground of many a woodland bird. Catbirds,
towhee-buntings, robins, thrushes, and numerous warblers nested around
my cabin.
By this time I had settled down to hermit-life in earnest. I had tried
the experiment of "Nature _versus_ Medicine," and Nature had triumphed.
With good health, with strange birds and flowers to study and identify,
I was content to spend a portion of my rescued life in Dame Nature's
company.
[Illustration: BLACKBIRD.]
II.
SATAN THE RACCOON
During the early years of my hermit-life, I had caged many small
animals, such as deer-mice, raccoons, woodchucks, chipmunks,
flying-squirrels, stoats, mink, and red and gray squirrels.
[Illustration: RACCOON'S HEAD.]
My first captive was an artful old coon. I caught him in a small steel
trap, the jaws of which had been wound with cloth as a protection to
the foot. The den was under a boulder near the cabin. I set the trap at
the mouth of the den and covered it with leaves. The next morning the
trap, with clog attached, was missing. There was a trail in the dead
leaves easily followed. While following the zigzag trail I was in plain
sight of the coon, but he remained quiet until he found that he was
discovered, then made frantic efforts to escape. The clog had anchored
him securely to some witch-hazel shrubs. He was full of fight, and I
had to look out for his teeth and claws. I had brought along a stout
piece of duck, which I wrapped around the raccoon, trap and all; thus
secure from his wicked teeth and claws, I toted him to the cabin.
It took me two hours to put a strap on his neck. The struggle was
a desperate one. Without the duck it would have been a victory for
the raccoon. When I had the strap securely fastened and a dog-chain
attached, I removed the trap from his foot, then staked him out near
the cabin. For two weeks he tried night and day to free himself from
collar and chain, then suddenly appeared to be contented.
Instinct plays no part in coon lore. A coon can reason as well as the
average human being. My captive proved to be as artful and wicked as
Beelzebub himself.
Whenever my back was turned he would be up to all sorts of mischief.
When caught red-handed he could put on a look of innocence too comical
for anything. By the end of the first month he had got all of my ways
of life down fine. If I went into the woods with my gun, on my return
he would tear around in his cage anxious for the squirrel he had not
seen, but was sure to get. When I went away without the gun, he paid
no attention on my return. I do not think he was guided by scent, for
sometimes the wind would not be right. Without doubt he connected the
gun and squirrel in his mind, and perhaps knew more about a gun than I
thought.
He did not take kindly to cage-life, although his cage was under a
small pine-tree, so when I was about the cabin I chained him to the
tree and let him run outside. I put him into the cage every day before
going to the city for my mail. He resented this, and would run up the
pine-tree when he saw me lock the cabin-door. One day I pulled him
down and whipped him while he lay prone on the ground, with his eyes
covered. I took away his food and water. He must have been downright
hungry before I fed him. He never forgot the lesson. After that, when
he saw me lock up he would sneak into his cage, fearful, I suppose,
that if found outside he would be whipped and starved. He preferred
food in the order herein named: insects, eggs, birds or poultry, frogs,
nuts, red squirrel, rabbit, gray squirrel, and fish. This, without
doubt, was the bill of fare of his wild state. He would not touch green
corn or milk until I had crushed the former into his mouth, and had
dipped his nose into the latter. Afterward he would leave everything
for milk.
The first rabbit I fed to him was about two-thirds grown. It was one
which a mink had chased into my dooryard and killed. It was evident
from the first that the coon was no stranger to this kind of food. He
opened the rabbit's mouth with his fore paws and ate out the tongue,
after which he skinned the head, turning the skin back over the neck.
He crushed the bones of the head and lapped out the brains. On the
third day he had finished the rabbit, and the skin was turned inside
out, even to the ends of the toes. Squirrels were skinned in the same
manner.
This coon decided for me a disputed question. I refer to the whimper
or cry of the coon. Night after night, in the nutting season, he would
call to his comrades, and they would answer from the surrounding woods.
When the sweet acorns were ripe, Satan was unusually active early
in the evening. At this early hour the coons were abroad in search
for food, and Satan scented them, and did his best to attract their
attention. One coon passed near the cabin every night and answered
Satan's cries, so I imagined that it was his mate.
Many writers claim that the tremulous cry attributed to the coon is
made by the little screech-owl (_Scops asio_). It is true, doubtless,
that people that do not know both cries may make such a mistake.
The little owls appear to resent my intrusion on their vested rights,
so from early spring to late fall they haunt my sleeping-quarters,
and divide their time between snapping their beaks and uttering their
monotonous notes. As I sleep in the open air nine months out of the
twelve, I have a good chance to study both cries, and could not mistake
one for the other.
The coon is a ventriloquist. His cry seems to come down from the sky. A
friend came in from the city one night to hear the coon cry. It was a
moonlight night, and the coon was staked out in the dooryard. My friend
was not looking when the first cry was uttered, but claimed that the
sound came from the trees overhead. Afterward he saw the coon in the
act, and could not make a mistake.
When Satan uttered the cry, he was always sitting on his haunches. He
would throw his head up until his nose pointed skyward, then blow the
sound out between his half-closed lips.
My friend had brought in a blanket and hammock, and was prepared to
spend the night in the open air. He slung his hammock near mine, and
we turned in about ten o'clock. He was nervous and restless, and said
he could not sleep with the little owls about him. Every fifteen or
twenty minutes he would call to me to ask about some noise of the
night, common enough, but which appeared strange and startling to him
in the strained condition of his nerves. Soon after midnight a small
animal, doubtless a stoat looking for an owl supper, dropped on to my
friend's blanket. There was a smothered cry, full of fear, and a flying
figure that did not stop until my hammock was reached. Nothing that I
could say would induce the frightened man to go back to that hammock.
He suggested at last that he would sleep in the cabin. I assented,
and we soon had a bed arranged in a bunk. The cabin was overrun with
white-footed mice, and I looked for more trouble.
[Illustration: "I BEGUN BY TYING ON A NUT."]
Twenty minutes later I heard several war-whoops, and I saw my friend
tumble out of the cabin into the dooryard. "Are you awake?" cried he.
"Certainly," I answered, "you don't think there is any one asleep in
this county after the racket you have made, do you?" "Oh, let up with
your fooling," said he, "this is a serious thing. I sleep with my mouth
open; suppose one of those mice had run down my throat and choked me to
death? I am going home." And home he did go. I accompanied him through
the woods to Western Avenue, and returned in time to get three hours'
sleep. My friend was like hundreds of other nervous people that I had
known in a lifetime, who were too sensitive to enjoy a night in the
open air. To be in full accord with nature one should get accustomed to
the presence of a snake now and then, in the open-air bed.
Satan was an apt scholar. I taught him to pull in his chain, hand over
hand, sailor-fashion. The chain was twelve feet in length. I begun by
tying on a nut about two feet from the coon. He pulled in the chain
with his fore feet, which he used as hands. I would say to him, "Pull
in the chain. Pull in the chain," and inside of a week he would obey
the order without the use of food. I think he enjoyed the sport.
The boys that visited my cabin thought it great fun to play with Satan.
They would pull the chain out and watch the coon pull it in. When Satan
got tired he would coil the chain and lay on it, and the play was ended
for the time being. After he had rested awhile he would go on with
the play. When he was resting, if a boy offered to reach the chain he
would lay back his ears, growl, and show his teeth. When he was ready
to play he would sit up on his hind feet, prick his ears forward and
look clever; then the boys could reach under him and pull out the chain
without danger.
One day, while the coon was chained to a stake in the dooryard, he
killed a pet bird in a manner so cruel and crafty, that it caused me
to name him Satan then and there. I had placed a piece of matting by
the stake to which the coon was chained. He understood that the matting
was for his use, and he would cry to be fed while chained out. He used
the matting as a dining-table and bed combined. The pet bird that was
killed was a male catbird. Satan had left a piece of cookie on the
matting, and the catbird thought to appropriate it. I was writing,
not thirty feet away, and looked up just in time to see the flash of
Satan's paw. I shouted, and rushed to the rescue. When I reached the
coon the bird had disappeared. Satan looked so innocent and surprised
that I was led to believe that the bird had escaped. I returned to my
writing, and the coon settled down for a nap. An hour later a visitor
from the city called to get the loan of a book on birds. I went to the
cabin for the book, and when I returned Satan was patting down the
edge of the mat. He saw me, and put on his innocent look. He coiled
up as if he were about to try to sleep in a new spot. My suspicion
was aroused. I pulled away the coon and under the mat found the dead
bird. He had killed the bird and placed it under him so swiftly that
I did not detect the trick when I went to the rescue. For a full hour
he simulated sleep while he had the dead bird under him all the time.
When I went to the cabin he hid the dead body under the mat. I gave
him a severe whipping and placed the dead bird on his mat. The next
day I buried the body, so Satan did not profit by his crafty deed. He
remembered the whipping, and ever after did not molest the birds. I
once saw a young towhee-bunting sit on his hind foot and eat from a
cookie that the coon had tried to hide. How it would have fared with
the bird, if I had been absent, is a question.
I don't think Satan had any respect for the Sabbath, but he knew the
day, nevertheless. On week-days, I returned from city about nine
o'clock A. M. Soon after, I would stake Satan in the dooryard, and he
would seem much pleased with the change. I got up every morning at
daybreak. My first duty was to feed the birds and Satan, then get my
breakfast. At first I did not let Satan out of his cage on Sundays,
on account of the dogs that my visitors brought along. Every Sunday
morning I would feed Satan as soon as I was out of my hammock, as I did
on week-day mornings, but he would not eat or drink, and constantly
tried to open the door of the cage. He certainly knew, thus early in
the morning, that it was Sunday, and he would have to remain hived up
in his cage all day. It seemed to me, that if Satan was intelligent
enough to keep run of the days of the week, he ought to know about the
dogs, and was willing to fight them rather than be cooped up all day.
I knew all about the fighting ability of the raccoon. It had been my
good fortune to observe the evolution of a young coon, from a helpless,
sprawling bunch of fat and fur, to an old coon, with a bristling
battery of claws and teeth operated by chain-lightning. After due
consideration I concluded to let Satan take chances with the dogs. The
next Sunday I staked him in the dooryard and awaited developments.
A big Newfoundland dog was the first to appear. The moment he saw the
coon he made a fierce rush, but Satan sprang lightly into the air and
landed on the dog's back. Swiftly and savagely he delivered two blows
on the dog's eyes. The big brute tore himself away from the coon and
frantically rubbed his eyes with his fore paws. When he could see a
little, he "dusted" for home, a sadder but wiser dog.
The next dog was a small one, and Satan gave him a slap under the ear
that landed him outside of the ring, or beyond the length of the coon's
chain. This dog did not go home, but went to his master for sympathy.
He could not be induced afterward to look at the coon.
Dog number three proved to be a yelping cur. He did not attack the
coon, but danced around him, yelping all the time. He distracted the
visitors with his incessant yelping. His master could not call him
off. Satan set a trap for the cur, and caught him, too. He went to the
stake, pulled in the chain, and then pretended to sleep. The dog was
deceived, and got bolder and bolder until he was near enough for Satan
to reach him. The coon made a swift rush and caught the yelping cur,
and handled him so roughly that I was obliged to rescue him. It is
needless to say that the cur was cured of yelping.
Satan whipped two other dogs before night, then for several weeks
had no trouble worth mentioning. Now and then, through the summer, a
strange dog would attack Satan and get whipped.
There is a class of writers that claim that the lower animals cannot
reason. That such animals are controlled by instinct. I have ever found
the lower animals as intelligent in relation to the needs of their
lives as we are to ours. Satan proved to me and to others that he
could reason, also that he could take advantage of new circumstances.
Visitors often gave Satan a dirty nut, which he would clean by rubbing
it between his paws. This trick was played on the coon constantly.
Satan invented a new way to clean a nut. He would take it to the mat
and roll it under his fore paw. How did he find out that he could clean
a nut on the mat? There was no instinct, as I afterward proved. When
visitors were feeding nuts to him I dusted his mat with ashes. Satan
would take a nut and start for the mat, but his keen sight would detect
the ashes, and he would stop, sit up, and clean the nut in the old way.
In November I trapped another coon, a young male. Doubtless he was
the son of Satan, for he was from the same den. I knew, too, that he
was born after Satan was captured, so they could have no knowledge of
each other. I thought I would put the young coon in Satan's cage and
see if the old fellow would recognize his own flesh and blood. If he
did, I would have to admit that it was a case of instinct. When I put
them together a desperate fight took place. The young coon was soon
whipped and tried to hide. Satan followed him up, but suddenly began to
sniff. He dropped his nose on to the young coon's ears, sniffing all
the time. Instantly his savage look changed for one of pleasure. His
ears, that just now were flat on his head, pricked up, and the lips,
which were drawn back, showing the cruel teeth, fell into place. He put
his arms around the young coon's neck and dragged him into the nest.
Then he licked his ears and head, purring all the time like a big cat.
Satan had recognized his son. I had noticed that the sense employed
was of smell, and not of sight. I readily understood the meaning. The
young coon carried the scent of his mother, and Satan had recognized
it, and with subtle reasoning had concluded that he had found his own
offspring. Afterward I trapped five coons. One was an adult. I put the
four young coons, one at a time, into Satan's cage. Two of these were
from the old den, and Satan recognized them at once after sniffing
them. The other two were from a distant den, and as soon as Satan put
his nose on their ears he fell to mauling them, and I was obliged to
take them out to save their lives.
I could handle Satan whenever or however I pleased, and he would not
lose his temper. It would be dangerous for a stranger to put a hand on
him. One could almost step on him and he would not take offence, but
he drew the line at touch. During the nine months that he was in my
possession he attacked but one person. I met the gentleman in question
at Barnum's Show, on Stage Fort. After the people had entered the main
tent I stopped some time in the animal tent. I noticed a dudish-looking
fellow acting in a peculiar manner before a cage containing two lions.
I was interested, and strolled over to the cage. The fellow was a dude
beyond a doubt. He wore a cowboy hat, a checkered coat, a crimson vest,
and lavender colored trousers. He was trying to look the lions out of
countenance. The big African lion, the male, seemed to feel uneasy
under the fixed gaze of the dude, and at last crowded behind his mate.
"See him cower and hide," cried the fellow, addressing me. "The human
eye, intelligently used, can subdue the most ferocious brute living. I
could enter that cage and handle those lions as I would kittens." I did
not dispute his assertion, and he asked if the woods about Gloucester
harbored wild animals. I told him about my raccoon. He suggested that
it would please him to tame the coon for me, and offered to accompany
me home.
[Illustration: "WITH A SAVAGE SNARL HE SPRANG ON TO THE DUDE."]
When the show was over I missed the lion-tamer, but the next day he
came down the hill to the cabin, resplendent in his checkered coat,
crimson vest, and lavender trousers. As soon as he had said good
morning he threw off his hat and coat and started the circus. He fixed
his gaze on the coon and slowly approached him, stamping his feet while
he cried, in a commanding tone, "Down, sir, down, sir!" Satan looked
at the dude, then looked toward me. This was something new, and he
wanted my opinion. When he found that I remained quiet, he concluded
to act for himself. With a savage snarl he sprang on to the dude and
fastened his claws in the lavender trousers. The dude, half-frightened
to death, jumped backward beyond the length of Satan's chain. Satan
held on, and the trousers were stripped from the hips to the knees.
Fortunately, the coon's claws did not reach the flesh.
The dude put on a pair of my trousers, and with needle and silk I
essayed to mend the lavender wreck. My work was rather clumsy. I should
starve to death if I depended on the needle. I toiled and wrestled for
two hours with that piece of work. It was a warm day, and I was nearly
drowned in my own perspiration.
The dude put on the mended trousers and left me without saying so much
as "thank you." Thus was Hood's "Song of the Shirt" verified.
On the approach of cold weather I made arrangements to winter Satan in
the cabin. I placed a box inside, and the cage outside, and connected
the two by a passage made of boards. The passage was eight inches
square, and near the end that entered the cage I had hung a swinging
door to keep the cold air from the nest inside. I expected Satan would
have to be taught the use of the swinging door. After everything was
arranged I put Satan into the cage, and at once he saw the change that
had been made. He investigated the passage with his handy paws, and
when he found he could move the swinging door he passed through into
the box inside. After he had satisfied himself that the nest was all
right, he came out.
To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised by the ingenuity displayed.
Satan's comprehension was equal to that of a human being. I removed the
chain and collar, and the coon and I settled down for the winter. I had
arranged a cover to Satan's nest-box, and evenings I would give him
the freedom of the cabin. Inside of a week he knew the contents of the
cabin better than I did. The light puzzled him. Once, and once only, he
touched the lamp-chimney. He would look on gravely while I would blow
out the lamp and relight it again.
One night I forgot to fasten the cover in his nest-box. That night
something touched me on the face and awoke me. I remained quiet, and
soon I felt a cold, soft touch on my cheek. A swift clutch and I had
Satan by one paw. I held him until I had lighted the lamp. He looked
innocent and grieved, and tried to show me that he did not mean any
wrong. He wanted to know if I were asleep or dead. When I released him
he went to his box and raised the cover so quickly and neatly that it
seemed a slight-of-hand performance.
One morning I neglected to secure the door to Satan's cage. When I
returned that night the door was open and the coon was missing. The
next day I took some food to the den under the boulder, but Satan did
not care for food. He was fat enough to go into hibernation, and had
probably entered upon the sleep that would last till spring. The next
spring Satan would come to the mouth of the den and take food from my
hand, but he was so crafty that I could not get hold of his neck. I
thought to arrange a box-trap in which to catch him, when I could get
time. One day I missed him, and when I heard that a farmer had caught
a coon in his poultry-house, and had killed him, I knew that Satan had
sacrificed his life to his appetite for poultry. The reckless act did
not indicate a lack of reason.
Human beings sacrifice their lives to appetite, so which of us will
throw the first stone at Satan?
III.
WABBLES
Wabbles is the name of a wild bird. Not a book name, for the bird is
known to naturalists as the song-sparrow (_Melospiza fasciata_).
[Illustration: SONG-SPARROW.]
I made Wabbles's acquaintance some years ago. On returning to my
log cabin one afternoon, I had found him in the dooryard, wounded,
bleeding, and exhausted. An examination disclosed a number four shot
bedded in the muscle of the wing-joint. While I was removing the lead
Wabbles struggled violently, and when released, hopped into the bushes
and hid himself. I think he held a poor opinion of my surgical skill.
The next day he was about the dooryard with other sparrows, but for
many days his flight was a peculiar wabble, hence his name.
Wabbles was left behind when, on the approach of cold weather, the
song-sparrows migrated southward. He seemed contented, and I thought he
would stop with me through the winter, but one cold day he was missing.
Early in the following March, I looked out upon the snow-banks one
blustering morning, and saw Wabbles in the dooryard. He had returned in
the night, two weeks ahead of his mates. I do not know how far south
he had wintered, but doubtless he had remembered the little log cabin
in the woods, and all the time had understood that food and a welcome
awaited his return.
That spring the sparrows lingered about my dooryard three weeks or
more, and then dispersed to the neighboring fields and pastures, for
the song-sparrow does not nest in the woods. Wabbles did not leave with
the rest, and when spring merged into summer and he yet remained, I
understood the reason. The male song-sparrow is obliged to do battle
for the possession of a mate, and Wabbles, with his tender wing, wisely
forbore to enter the lists. He preferred the cool woods and free food
to the sun-scorched fields and a mate-less life.
Wabbles and I became fast friends. He was constantly hopping about the
dooryard, and was always on hand to greet me whenever I returned from
town.
[Illustration: "WABBLES MADE IT HIS BUSINESS TO AWAKE ME AT
DAYLIGHT."]
I slept in the open air in a hammock, with only a canvas roof to keep
off the rain, and Wabbles made it his business to awake me at daylight.
The little rogue pursued the same method each morning. He would hop
about in the bushes near the hammock, and chirp to me in the loud,
sharp call-note peculiar to the sparrow family. If I remained quiet he
would break into song. He confined his singing usually to the morning
and evening hours. But on my return after a long absence, he would
sing for a short time, regardless of the time of day. It was a bird's
method of expressing joy. I thought that he prized my companionship and
disliked to be left alone.
That fall Wabbles migrated with his mates, but the next spring he
returned as before, two weeks ahead of the main flock. He lingered
about the cabin until the mating season approached, when he disappeared
for five days. On his return he brought with him a mate--a shy, demure
little wife.
Wabbles wanted to set up housekeeping in the woods, so he showed Mrs.
Wabbles all the nooks, sly corners, and sheltered spots, but it was
useless; she positively refused to build a nest beneath the trees. She
flew away to the fields, and Wabbles followed her.
Three weeks later, when returning from town, I heard his familiar call
by the roadside. He came hurriedly through the bushes and fluttered
to my feet. He appeared overjoyed to see me, and greedily ate the
cracker-crumbs I gave him. When he flew away, I followed him. He led me
a long distance to a field, where I found Mrs. Wabbles sitting on four
dainty, speckled eggs. The nest was in the open field, beneath a tuft
of grass.
Three baby sparrows were reared from this nest. When they were big
enough to fly, I expected that Wabbles would move his whole family to
the woods, provided Mrs. Wabbles would consent, which I much doubted.
Sure enough, early in autumn Wabbles returned, but he was alone. I
fancied that he had deserted his family for my companionship and a life
in the woods. But not so. His visit was a matter of business. He wanted
to know how the supplies of food held out. After he had satisfied
himself he flew away, but the next day returned with one of the baby
birds. Wabbles fussed over this bird all day long. He called the little
one into the dooryard and stuffed it with crumbs, then into the garden
and stuffed it with insects. He kept up a constant chirping meanwhile,
and I thought he made much of the fuss and bustle to keep the baby from
being homesick. That night he flew away with his charge, and the next
day did not appear. Undoubtedly Mrs. Wabbles had given him a piece of
her mind for taking her baby to the woods.
Three days later, however, Wabbles returned, and brought with him two
of the babies. This day, for fuss and bustle, was like the first, but
that night, instead of taking the birds out to the fields, he put them
to bed in a hemlock-tree near my hammock, after which he flew away. The
next day he brought in the other baby, leaving Mrs. Wabbles childless
and alone. That night Wabbles put the three little ones to bed in the
same hemlock-tree, and then flew back to his deserted mate.
Before dark I looked for the young birds, and found them on a twig
about a man's height from the ground, sitting side by side and
cunningly concealed by hemlock spray. When I approached, three little
heads turned and six bright eyes looked on me, but not with fear. I
suppose Wabbles had told them all about the hermit, and they knew I
would not harm them.
The next morning Wabbles returned, and Mrs. Wabbles was with him. She
at once took charge of her babies, and tried to entice them away. But
Wabbles, the sly rogue, hopped into the dooryard, and I heard him
calling, "_Tsp, tsp_," and the little fellows heard him, too, and,
remembering the food, flew to him. Mrs. Wabbles was obliged to give in.
Wabbles is not wholly unknown to notoriety. Many of the summer
residents that visited my cabin had made his acquaintance, and the
story of the little bird that would desert the fields for a hermit-life
in the woods has doubtless often been told in many a distant home.
Before the birds had departed in migration, Wabbles's little wife
had become contented and happy in the cabin dooryard. She was of
a confiding nature, and in a remarkably short time would take food
from my hand. Wabbles and his family lingered about the cabin until
the thermometer registered ten above. The fifteenth of March Wabbles
returned to my dooryard. His wife and family appeared a week later.
For some reason, known only to bird-life, the male birds of most
species return from the south about a week before the females and young
birds.
When the nesting-season approached Wabbles and his wife located their
family in a less wooded growth, on the road to the city. The old birds
returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Wabbles made a nest where a little
patch of grass had sprung up between the ledges.
Wabbles and I, during the summer, renewed the friendly relations that
had existed when he led the life of a bachelor. He would come to me
for food at all hours of the day. When I gave him his favorite food,
cookie, he would reward me with a song. He would fly to a limb about
four feet above my head and sing one song, and then fly away to his
mate. Sometimes I could coax him to repeat the song by talking to him
earnestly and rapidly. My visitors thought that the song was strange,
and often it was suggested that it was on account of the nearness of
the singer. But the song was not the one with which they were familiar.
It was a new song, low, sweet, and tender, with nothing in it to remind
one of the loud, joyous carol heard in the springtime.