other birds, and drove them away, when he thought they were too
friendly with me. A catbird and a veery hopped about my hammock
mornings, and Wabbles attacked them so furiously that it made me wonder
why they did not keep away for good. Wabbles did not allow other birds
to eat in the dooryard until he had satisfied his appetite. Visitors
asserted that he was a tyrant, but I did not look at his warlike
actions in that light. He thought that he owned the dooryard, and
other birds were trespassers.
Near my cabin there is a notice posted forbidding trespass, and it
alludes sarcastically to "wood-cutting thieves." This sign was put up
because sometimes dead, worthless wood was carried away from the lot.
Wabbles is willing that the birds may enjoy the things in the dooryard
after he is satisfied, but the human fellow preferred to let the wood
rot on the ground.
The feathered biped's humanity contrasts sharply with the human biped's
brutality.
Mrs. Wabbles soon had four little mouths to feed, and she worked early
and late. The heat was so intense that every little while she would
seek the shade, and rest with her wings drooping and her bill open.
Notwithstanding the strain on her limited strength, she never showed
impatience, but was always the same confiding little bird.
The Wabbles family enjoyed life in the woods. Through the summer and
fall months, Wabbles set up a singing-school and trained his boys to
sing the mating-song of his species.
Late in the fall death entered the family circle. A boy from the city
mistook poor Mrs. Wabbles for an English sparrow and shot her to death.
Wabbles mourned for his little wife, and he was not the only mourner. I
had become attached to the gentle bird, and I was grievously pained by
her tragic death.
Wabbles lost his joyous manner. He watched over his motherless babies
with gentle care, but not a song did I hear after the tragedy. Later,
he conducted the young birds to a warmer climate, and was lost to me
until the next March.
When Wabbles returned in the spring he was alone, and his children did
not appear later. I suppose some motherly bird had adopted the bereaved
family, to take them into the fields or pastures.
In April, Wabbles deserted me for three days, then returned with
another wife. This was an old bird, probably a widow. It was evident
from the first that she thought Wabbles's first wife had spoiled him.
She bossed him around in grand style. I tried to get acquainted with
her, but, with a lordly air, she gave me to understand that she did
not associate with hermits. After two days she ordered Wabbles out to
the fields, and I did not see him again till October. He came in twice
before migration. That was all. Wabbles, the warrior, was henpecked.
The next spring Wabbles returned from the South early in March. I think
he was glad to escape from his wife, but three weeks later she swooped
down on him, and packed him off to the pastures.
For eleven years Wabbles has lived with his second wife. Every spring
he comes to the cabin for a long visit, but I seldom see much of him in
the fall. Once I did not see him at all, and reported that probably he
was dead, but the next spring he turned up as usual.
It is now fourteen years since I removed the shot from Wabbles's wing.
He does not grow old in looks and is yet good for many years, if his
wife does not worry him to death.
Dear old Wabbles. He has blessed me with a friendship as sincere and
lasting as any that can spring from the human heart. As the years go
by, I am more and more impressed with the little bird's individuality.
Long ago he proved to me that he possessed a moral sense.
When Wabbles finds birds in the dooryard he threatens them for a short
time, then darts at the nearest, and the feathers fly. After he has
satisfied his appetite he will let the other birds return to glean
the dooryard. He does not want to deprive them of food, but insists
that they shall await his pleasure. Sometimes he will sing while the
birds are eating. He firmly believes that he holds a mortgage on the
dooryard, or, perhaps, that he is a joint owner with me; but he insists
that his property rights must be respected.
[Illustration: WABBLES.]
One afternoon I found a wounded chickadee in the dooryard. Some wretch
had shot away one leg and had injured a wing besides. I thought Wabbles
would make short work of the helpless bird, but instead he hopped
around him and talked to him in a low tone. There was no threat in
his notes such as he uttered when angry. Up to the time that Wabbles
left in migration the chickadee was allowed the freedom of the cabin
dooryard.
When Wabbles's first wife was alive, he returned one spring the tenth
day of March, and brought with him a male linnet. I was surprised, for
it was peculiar that a linnet should return in migration three weeks
before the usual time. A week later Mrs. Wabbles returned, and with
her was the mate to the linnet. This incident opened up a wide field
for reflection. It proved that two species of the bird family could
communicate ideas to each other.
These birds must have met in the South. In the course of bird gossip
either the linnets or sparrows had announced that the summer home was
on Cape Ann. "That is where we live," is the glad reply, so the birds,
having come from the same locality, associate together. Wabbles tells
them about the hermit and the dooryard crowded with food. In some way
he induced the male linnet to accompany him, three weeks out of season,
with the understanding that Mrs. Wabbles, a week later, would pilot
the female linnet to her husband. It must be remembered that linnets
do not inhabit the woods. Wabbles gave the freedom of the dooryard to
the linnets. They were invited guests, and were treated as such. It
all goes to show that Wabbles knows what belongs to good breeding and
possesses a moral sense.
[Illustration]
IV.
BISMARCK, THE RED SQUIRREL
The red squirrel, or chickaree, leads all the wild things in the
woodlands of Cape Ann for intelligence and the ability to maintain an
existence under adverse circumstances.
His life during the spring and summer months is a grand hurrah, but in
the fall he sobers down and plods and toils in his harvest-fields like
a thrifty farmer.
Right or wrong, it is a fact that the red squirrel bears a disreputable
character. He is called a thief because he takes the farmers' corn, and
a bloodthirsty wretch for robbing birds' nests. From my experience with
the chickaree I am led to believe that he is not so black as painted.
I used to think that he spared neither eggs nor young, but savagely
robbed every bird's nest which he chanced to find. I certainly got this
idea from books, for I cannot recall an instance where a bird's nest
was robbed by a red squirrel.
For years I thought a squirrel was seeking food when he chased the
birds in my dooryard. Now my eyes are open, and I am heartily ashamed
of myself. I awoke from my trance to find that the red squirrel was
simply chasing the birds out of the dooryard and away from the food,
which he claimed as his own.
Twice last summer I saw a red squirrel pounce on a young
towhee-bunting, but both times he let the bird go without the loss of a
feather. It was evident that he did not intend to injure the bird, but
merely desired to frighten it away. The intention was so evident that I
could not ignore it, and it led me to do a lot of thinking.
[Illustration: PIGEON HAWK.]
I carefully examined my notes for proof of the squirrel's guilt, and
found no record against him. The guilty ones were the hawk, the owl,
the snake, the stoat, the crow, the cat, the irrepressible boy, and the
white-footed mouse. For fifteen years birds have nested around my cabin
unmolested by the red squirrel.
It was always a mystery to me why the birds were not afraid of the red
squirrel. Let a hawk, an owl, a weasel, a cat, a snake, or any of the
animals known to prey on birds, enter my dooryard while birds were
rearing their young, and the wildest alarm would prevail so long as
the intruder was in sight. The red squirrel can come and go without a
protest, which proves that the birds do not regard him as an enemy.
Whenever I have detected a squirrel investigating a bird's nest it has
turned out that curiosity was the motive.
A pair of chickadees nested in a box that I had placed in an oak-tree,
and a squirrel that spent the most of his time in the dooryard made it
a duty to investigate the nest several times a day. He did not harm
the young birds, and the old birds did not fear him.
While I was watching a red-eyed vireo's nest last season, I saw a red
squirrel run out to the nest, stretch his full length on the limb (it
was a very warm day), and look down on to the young birds that were
squirming about in their confined quarters. I counted ninety-six before
he left, and I did not begin at first. I think he was on the limb fully
two minutes. These young vireos were not molested, for I saw them leave
the nest when full fledged.
I have a record of an oven-bird that nested at the foot of a pine-tree
which contained a red squirrel's nest. Four young squirrels were reared
in a leafy nest in the top of the pine, and three young oven-birds in a
domed nest on the ground.
My experience with the red squirrel has caused me to change my mind,
and hereafter I shall hold him innocent until he is proved guilty.
The red squirrel in this locality is about seven and a half inches in
length, measuring from the nose to the base of the tail. The tail is
about six and a half inches in length, and is carried in a number of
ways to suit the convenience of its owner. As to color, it seems as
if there are two species, but it is only the difference between the
young and the very old. Young squirrels are bright red on the back and
sides, with the under parts usually a pure white. Old squirrels are red
along the back bone, gray on the sides, and a dirty white below. Some
specimens are shot that are nearly all gray. Gunners claim that such
squirrels are a cross between the red and the gray, but they are simply
old red squirrels.
Dame Nature has been unusually kind to the red squirrel. She has
provided him with powerful weapons of offence and defence. She has
set in his muscular jaws long, cruel teeth, which are whet to a keen
edge on the hard-shelled nuts. She has conferred upon him claws sharp
as needles, and a muscular system which seemingly is controlled by an
electric current. There is a wicked wild fire in his bright eye that
stamps him the bravest wild thing of the forest. He will fight to the
death. He whips his great cousin, the gray squirrel, without effort,
and is a match for the large stoat.
When pursued by a dog he makes a dash for the nearest tree, which
he mounts, calling out "chickaree" as soon as he is out of danger.
He does not, like the gray squirrel, seek a hiding-place in the top
of the tree. No, he is far too bold to hide from a dog. He stops on
a low limb, just out of reach, and fairly boils over with rage and
fury. He barks, spits, and sputters; he makes furious rushes, as if he
intended to come right down the tree, and "whip that dog." He violently
jerks his tail, and pounds the limb with his hind feet, a picture of
impudent, fiery energy.
Every movement of this little squirrel is accomplished without
apparent muscular energy. He seems to float up a tree. If you are near
enough you may hear the pricking of his claws on the bark, but you
cannot detect a muscular effort. He flashes along the limbs in some
mysterious way, never stopping, like the gray squirrel, to measure
distances before a leap. If he misses and falls, he usually catches by
a claw to some twig, thus saving himself. If he falls to the ground,
it does not harm or disconcert him. He is up the tree in a jiffy,
spitefully saying things that sound to the listener very much like
swearing.
From the middle of April to the first of September the male squirrel
leads a jolly, rollicking life. He is as restless and noisy as a
schoolboy, and as full of fun. He will hang head down, holding on by
his hind claws, just for the fun of the thing. In the tree-tops he
is king. He rules the blue jays and crows, and races them out of the
pine-trees whenever he feels disposed. He hazes the gray squirrel, but
does not unsex him as alleged. This silly tale is on a par with snakes'
stingers and hoop snakes. Any one that has had the opportunity to
observe squirrels the year round, knows that chipmunks, red squirrels,
and gray squirrels show the same appearance of being unsexed, except
in the mating season.
The gray is no match for the red in a tree-top in a trial of speed.
He usually keeps to the ground, where his long leaps give him the
advantage over his fiery little foe. Many a sprinting match of this
kind takes place in my dooryard. If a red surprises a gray squirrel
stealing food, he sounds his war-cry, and in a mad rush is on to
the gray before he can make off with the bit of food which he has
appropriated. The gray, finding that he is hard pressed, runs around
the cabin with the red hot at his heels. Round and round they go, the
gray silent, the red yelling like a little demon. When the gray has had
several narrow escapes, he drops the food and retreats unmolested. The
red picks up the food and takes it to a favorite limb, where he devours
it, talking to himself, meanwhile, about "that gray thief."
[Illustration: "MANY A SPRINTING MATCH OF THIS KIND TAKES PLACE IN MY
DOORYARD."]
In all my years of observation, once only have I known a gray squirrel
to fight a red. I think it was hunger and desperation that induced the
gray to fight. The gray was an old male, certainly three times as large
as the red. The latter was an old male, and had held the dooryard for
several years against all comers. He was a sagacious, grizzled old
warrior, and I named him Bismarck. The fight took place in my dooryard.
It was a bloody battle for bread on a cold, drizzly day in midwinter.
The gray was whipped inside of three minutes. The snow was crimsoned
with his blood, and when he fled he left a bloody trail behind. At no
time was there a ghost of a chance for him to win. The muscular energy
of the red was astounding. His movements were too quick for the eye.
While the fight lasted, all I could see was a bounding mass of red and
gray. The red squirrel did not appear to be severely wounded, anyway he
remained out in the cold and rain to lick his wounds. Perhaps it was
squirrel surgery to prefer the cold to a warm nest.
From my observations I find that the reds seldom chase the grays,
unless the latter enter territory which the reds claim the right to
hold and protect.
Four-footed wild animals, with a few exceptions, own farms, gardens, or
house-lots. That is, they hold exclusive control over a limited area
around their nesting sites. You seldom see two woodchuck holes near
each other, or two rabbit burrows. The red squirrel runs a fruit farm.
He owns and controls trees that bear nuts or cones, and other reds
respect his rights, and do not invade his territory unless there is a
famine. A red squirrel will fight savagely for his home and property,
and usually drives all intruders from his domain.
Young squirrels remain with their parents through the first winter,
but in April the female turns the family over to the male, and makes
another nest of moss, leaves, and dry grass in the top of a tall pine
or hemlock-tree. While she is engaged by new duties, the male looks
after the young squirrels that are now full grown. He finishes their
education, and locates the young males on territory which they ever
after hold. The young females, later on, are mated, and remove to the
locality inhabited by their mates. Whether the parents have anything
to do in selecting sons-in-law is beyond my knowledge. I have known an
old male to fly into a passion when a smart young red tried to flirt
with his daughter. The flirtation was cut short by the angry father,
who run the young dandy off his territory. Kicked him out-of-doors, so
to speak. Another young red that courted the daughter was tolerated, if
not welcomed, by the father. He was the choice of the old fellow beyond
doubt, but I do not know how the young lady decided the matter. Perhaps
she eloped with the smart young red.
Bismarck, the grizzled old warrior, held my dooryard for several
years. One winter, when there was a famine in the land because the nut
crop had failed, a muscular young red thought he could drive Bismarck
away. A fierce battle was the consequence, and Bismarck killed his
antagonist, but was disfigured for life by the loss of the end of his
tail.
While Bismarck reigned, the only squirrel that gained a foothold in
the dooryard without his consent was his wife. He chased her away time
after time, but like some human wives, she persisted, and won the day.
Bismarck gave in when, instead of running away, his wife adopted the
plan of running spirally up and down the tree-trunks. Mrs. Bismarck's
favorite tree was a large hemlock, which was about eighteen inches in
diameter. The trunk of the tree was very short, not over eight feet in
length from the ground to the lower limbs. The squirrels made two turns
in either going up or down the tree, and their speed was too swift for
the human eye. A brown band seemed for a moment wound about the tree,
shifting as the squirrels ascended or descended. It was two weeks
before Bismarck would allow his mate to remain in the dooryard. When
peace was declared the two would eat side by side, but with Bismarck
always scolding and growling, while his wife discreetly remained silent.
Bismarck was my schoolmaster. He taught me that squirrels think, plan,
and reason just as human beings do. Every time I threw to him a nut or
bit of bread, I would see him do the thinking act. He would take the
food to a boulder, where he would stop, hold up one foot ready to start
again, and think out a good hiding-place. When he had thought out a
spot, he would run directly to it and conceal the food under leaves or
pine-needles, and return to the dooryard for more. No two nuts or bits
of bread were concealed in the same place. Several times I experimented
to find out how many trips Bismarck would make. The greatest number
was fifty-one. While the experiment was going on, I noted each
hiding-place, as well as I could, and afterward saw the squirrel go to
many. He certainly remembered each spot, and his keen scent did the
rest.
Bismarck was a thrifty squirrel. He did not disturb his hidden store
while the food held out in the dooryard. He would call around early
in the morning, and if he found me eating breakfast under the trees,
he would run to a limb just over my head and look down in a cute way
that meant "breakfast for two." If I did not respond he would probably
say to himself, "The hermit don't mean to feed me to-day. I must fall
back on the food that I hid away yesterday. Let me see, that first nut
is under the edge of a boulder just back of the cabin." Off he goes
straight to the spot. He noses out the nut, which he eats on the limb
over my head, scattering the bits of shell on to the breakfast-table.
He is very sociable while eating, for he stops now and then to say
something to me. I do not understand his exact language, but I know by
the tone that he means to be friendly.
Bismarck did not always hide bread beneath pine-needles or leaves. At
a certain season of the year the trees about my cabin were made into
storehouses. This season was governed by the blue jays. When they were
nesting they did not come to the cabin and Bismarck could store food in
the trees without fear of being robbed.
My attention was called early to the fact that a gale of wind did not
dislodge the pieces of bread which the squirrel had stored on the limbs
of a hemlock-tree. I found that each piece was held in place by a small
twig. Scores of times afterward I saw Bismarck lift up a twig with his
hands and then push the piece of bread with his nose to the junction of
twig and limb. Of course the natural spring of the twig held the bread
in place.
Bismarck always stored mushrooms in the trees, for he knew that the
blue jays did not eat such food. He would drop the stem of the mushroom
between the prongs of a forked limb, if there was cap enough left to
hold the same in place, otherwise he treated it just as he would a
piece of bread.
How Bismarck acquired a knowledge of the edible mushrooms is a mystery
beyond my powers. Doubtless, when he attended the Chickaree College,
he studied natural history instead of the dead languages. He knew how
to harvest mushrooms. He gathered them soon after they appeared above
the ground. Gathered thus, they would keep several days, while a few
hours' growth would spoil them if left in the ground.
Bismarck knew how to eat mushrooms. He did not begin on the freshly
gathered ones; he knew they would keep, and he selected those that
would decay shortly. Human beings eat the specked apples from motives
of economy, and the same impulse controls the squirrel.
[Illustration]
In the woods about my cabin grow many varieties of the poisonous
mushrooms. One deadly variety--the "Destroying Angel"--possesses a
form most pleasing to the eye. Its symmetrical shape and pearly white
color give it a look of innocence that has lured many a human being to
an early grave. I have never seen a tooth-mark by a squirrel, mouse,
or mole in one of these deadly mushrooms, which goes to prove that the
wild things know more than some human beings.
A few years ago, while out on a walk with the Appalachian Mountain
Club, I told a professor, who was an expert on mushrooms, that I used
the mushrooms which were approved by the squirrels, and no others. He
said that I was risking my life, for he claimed that squirrels could
eat poisonous varieties that might kill human beings. I thought that
the professor knew more about mushrooms than he did about squirrels, so
his warning was wasted on me. Up to date I have found the squirrels all
right, and I feel no fear when eating what they eat.
For years I attended a squirrels' school, and Bismarck was the
schoolmaster. He taught me many things relating to squirrel life. Much
of the knowledge acquired was wholly unknown to me before.
When Bismarck first introduced himself to me I think he was an old
bachelor or a widower. Three years later he excavated a storehouse in
a bank, beneath a boulder, and made a sleeping-nest in a pine-tree,
both in the dooryard. The storehouse was used but little after the
first winter. The next spring he took to himself a mate, but did not
introduce her to the dooryard. Some distance from the cabin, in a
swamp, Bismarck's mate made a neat little nest in a hemlock-tree. Here
she reared two baby squirrels. Bismarck did not take much interest
in his family through the summer. He spent most of the time in the
dooryard, sleeping in his own nest by night. By day his time was
occupied in fighting the crows, and in driving squirrels and birds from
the dooryard.
There was always a good lot of food for Bismarck to choose from, and I
thought he would give up hard work and lead a life of ease. But I did
not know the thrifty ways of the red squirrel. When the harvest season
for hazelnuts drew near, Bismarck buckled down to hard work. He began
his new life by calling often on his family in the hemlock-tree. One
day I found Bismarck and his wife digging beneath a pine-tree that
grew on the high land just out of the swamp. They brought out a great
quantity of pine rootlets during the next two days. There was not much
soil, which indicated that the squirrels had discovered a natural
cavity, partly filled with pine rootlets. The third day, about four
o'clock in the afternoon, the work stopped.
[Illustration: "THE WINTER STOREHOUSE WAS COMPLETED."]
Mrs. Bismarck ran to a pine-root, sat up straight, folded her hands,
and said something. Mr. Bismarck ran to her side, folded his hands, and
made a reply. Both squirrels looked toward the hole beneath the tree
by turning half-way round. Then they looked at each other, and Mrs.
Bismarck ran into the hole, and immediately appeared and said something
that sounded very much like "It is well." Then both squirrels scampered
away. The winter storehouse was completed.
When the hazelnuts were ripe Bismarck and his mate began to fill the
storehouse. Bismarck gathered the hazelnuts about the cabin, while
his mate gathered those around the home nest. Bismarck did a lot of
running, for he carried but one nut at a time. He always worked under
high pressure, running to and fro at the top of his speed.