one that I cannot explain without resorting to a belief in hypnotism.
I was on the way to the city when a turn in the path brought into
sight a large mink, apparently coal-black. His peculiar actions caught
my attention first, but soon I saw a ruffed grouse about twelve feet
beyond the mink. Every feather on the grouse stood up, causing the
bird to look as large as a small turkey. The mink was making figure
eights, moving from side to side of the grassy path, which was over
five feet in width. His movements were so rapid the eye could see only
a black streak. While I could not see the mink move toward the grouse,
I saw that the distance between them grew less quite rapidly. Feeling
sure that the grouse was doomed, for it seemed unable to do anything
but follow the rapid motion of the mink, I stepped forward and gave a
shout. The grouse flew away, and the mink turned on me and let out a
yell that was fierce and loud enough for a tiger. He acted as if he
meant to attack me, but thought better of it, and ran into a stone
wall. From this safe retreat he yelled while I was in sight. This case
puzzled me. It appeared almost impossible that such a wary, muscular
bird as the grouse could be hypnotized. The mink was surely but slowly
nearing the grouse when I interfered. I am sorry I did not remain
quiet, and so find out if the grouse was able to fly away before the
danger-point was reached. As it is, I remain in doubt.
[Illustration: "THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM GREW LESS QUITE RAPIDLY."]
Returning from the city one morning in October, I turned off the old
highway into the woods. I thought that some of the wood-folk would
notice my visit and reward me with gossip for my note-book. I stopped
to rest near a red squirrel's nest. The nest was in the top of a tall
hemlock-tree and I was on the ground, but the proprietor knew I could
climb, and so was eager to drive me away. He did not dare to attack
me, for I suppose that sometime in his life he had worked the idea
through his little head that man was too big and powerful to be whipped
by a red squirrel, but he did the next thing. He flew into a passion
and abused me in the expressive and vehement language common to this
squirrel. He would run out on the limbs over my head and dance himself
into a frenzy, and chatter and bark and shriek as if that would drive
me away. He was wound up for a half-hour. After he had run down, he
stretched out on a limb and silently watched me. Soon after, I heard
a slight rustling of leaves, and a gray squirrel appeared from the
underbrush with an acorn in his mouth. The red saw the gray, but
remained silent. The gray squirrel selected a spot and proceeded to
bury the nut. When he had finished and was patting the dirt down, the
red set up a great laugh. The gray cast one look aloft, and instantly
his little paws were making the dirt fly. In less time than it takes me
to write it, he had dug up the nut and had disappeared. I don't think
the red squirrel thought to appropriate the nut. I think he enjoyed the
joke which was on the gray. I know that I did.
A thaw in the winter made trouble for me outside of the sloppy walking.
It brought out the skunk family, and each individual skunk thought he
owned the old highway, and he did, when I met him. Many and many times
I have had to climb through snow, or over ledges, to give the right of
way to some sleepy old fraud, that did not know enough about man to be
afraid of him.
[Illustration: "'HERMIT, YOU ARE OUT.'"]
One evening I went to the well for water, and left the cabin door
open. When I returned, I saw a big skunk climbing over the door-sill.
I shouted, in hopes to make him turn back, but he looked at me as much
as to say, "Hermit, you are out," and so I was. It was a cold, drizzly
evening, and I was in my shirt-sleeves. It was a good half-hour before
the scamp had satisfied himself that my stores were locked up. I was
glad that he did not try his teeth on my cupboard. In that case I
should have had to stop out all night.
[Illustration: The White-footed Mouse]
VI.
THE WHITE-FOOTED MOUSE
The white-footed mouse, unlike the house mouse, is a handsome fellow.
He sports a chestnut coat, a white vest, reddish brown trousers, and
white stockings. His eyes and ears are uncommonly large, causing his
head to resemble a deer's in miniature. This resemblance has bestowed
upon him the name of "deer-mouse." He is also called "wood-mouse," but
is known to science as _Hesperomys leucopus_.
My object in writing about these mice is to call attention to their
peculiar method of communication. I have summered and wintered them
over fifteen years, and never have I heard one of them utter a vocal
sound. They communicate with each other by drumming with their fore
feet, or, rather, they drum with their toes, for the foot in the act is
held rigid while the toes move.
If any writer has called attention to this peculiar method of
communication, it has escaped my reading. I am well satisfied that the
habit has never been published before, so it must prove interesting to
those who pry into the secrets of Dame Nature.
[Illustration]
The white-footed mouse has taken possession of my cabin. Until a year
ago the mice were kept in check by stoats, but for some reason the
stoats have failed to appear, and the mice are increasing rapidly. I
find their nests in every nook and corner. I go bareheaded the most of
the time, so it happens that when I do need a hat I find it occupied by
an enterprising mouse and her family. Now a few mice for company in the
winter evenings would not be objectionable, but I draw the line when
they become so numerous that I am forced to eat and sleep with them.
They are too cunning and intelligent to be kept in check by traps. I
have tried all kinds of traps, only to find them useless. Last winter
I bought a wire rat-trap--the kind with a trencher that tips and slides
the rat into the space below. The trap was a failure. The mice were
highly delighted with the contrivance, and from the first used the
trencher as a door leading into and out of the trap.
How does it happen that these shy inhabitants of the woods are more
intelligent than the cunning citrat?
Some writers tell us that the lower animals cannot reason. In such
case it ought to be an easy matter for man to outwit a lot of foolish
little mice. I tried the experiment by fixing a wire to the trencher
in such a way as to give me full control. When the mice were engaged
on the food in the trap I pulled my wire and made it fast. The next
morning my prisoners numbered twenty-eight. I was about to drown the
lot, when several pets clung to the upper wires of the trap, and the
mute appeal in their great wild eyes softened my foolish heart, and I
thought it would be more humane to lose them in the woods. I carried
them nearly a mile from the cabin, and turned them out near some big
boulders. I left a supply of food, and promised myself to feed them
from time to time. Two nights later they were all back in the cabin.
Upon investigation I found that they had followed my footsteps. I could
see their tracks in the snow where they had trooped along in short
journeys. At the end of each journey the tracks would disappear under
a boulder or a tree, only to appear again, but always heading for the
cabin.
I baited and fixed the trap, while the mice scampered about, evidently
celebrating their return. I told them plainly that this was their last
night on earth; that I had outwitted them once and would now outwit
them again. But all my boasting came to naught. Not a mouse would enter
that trap while the wire was on the trencher. The third night I removed
the wire, and the mice entered the trap without fear.
[Illustration]
Vainglorious man had pitted his wit against the wit of these little
rodents, and the rodents had triumphed. Every sportsman knows how it
is. He finds the wild things just as intelligent and crafty as man with
all his boasted superiority.
I desire to emphasize what I have already stated as to the peculiar
method employed by these mice when communicating with each other.
If any one has been fortunate enough to have heard a vocal sound
uttered by a white-footed mouse, I shall greatly like to hear of the
fact. A daily and nightly knowledge of these little mice for more than
fifteen years has led me to believe that they are completely dumb.
They talk with their toes just as deaf and dumb people talk with their
fingers, only they are guided by the ear instead of the eye. Proof that
they are talking together is found in the fact that they go on with
the drumming when in full view of each other. When calling to attract
attention, they drum a long roll which corresponds to the halloo of the
telephone. The answer is the same; afterward the rolls are variously
interrupted. Through the winter months the mice about my cabin look
to me for food. By catering to their wants I have mastered their calls
for food and water. I keep a loaf of bread on the floor, and it is no
unusual thing to see a dozen mice eating and fighting around the food.
Whenever I forget to supply the bread, the mice come out of their nests
and drum the long roll, the call over their telephone, to attract my
attention. If I am reading or writing and do not heed the call, they
continue the long roll, drumming on books, tinware, papers, and on
the wooden shelves. The moment I look up or speak, all hands drum the
food-call, a long followed by a short roll.
The call for water is two short rolls. The danger-call is two long
rolls drummed rapidly and vigorously. The young mice learn to drum
when nearly full-grown, but understand and answer the drumming of the
mother-mouse when quite young. I have had proof of this more times than
I can remember.
[Illustration]
An old mouse, a pet of long standing, on cool nights takes her family
to the roof of the cabin. The roof is warm and makes an ideal
playground for the little ones. Here they race and romp until daylight,
when the mother-mouse puts them to bed for the day. Soon after I hear
the mice on the roof, early in the evening, the old mouse comes down
to see if food and water are on hand. If she finds things all right,
she takes a drink and then calls her family down. As near as I can make
it out, she drums three rolls, a long roll between two short rolls.
Anyhow, the young mice understand, and scamper down and drink and eat,
after a harum-scarum fashion. The old mouse drums to me if there is no
water in the dish. The young mice must hear this drumming, but pay no
attention to it, which proves that they understand the different calls.
The old mouse drums on the tin wash-dish, and her claws make a sound
that rings out loud and clear. She drums first the long roll to attract
my attention, and then drums the water-call. If food is wanted, she
drums the food-call after attracting attention.
[Illustration: "IT CARRIES ITS VICTIM BY THE MIDDLE."]
The white-footed mouse has a deadly enemy in the weasel family, the
stoat, or ermine, which pursues its defenceless victims every month in
the year. I seldom see a small weasel, but the stoat is common in this
vicinity.
While a stoat is rearing its young, the life of the white-footed
mouse is made miserable. By day and by night its bloodthirsty foe is
on the trail. It is no unusual thing to see a stoat running along
the wall back of the cabin with a mouse in its mouth. It carries its
victim by the middle, and always reminds me of the picture of a tiger
carrying off a Hottentot. Some of the old mice are quick-witted and
full of resource, and escape danger, otherwise the species would soon
be exterminated. There is an auger-hole in one of the logs inside the
cabin that affords a mouse a safe retreat. Several times I have seen a
stoat thrust its paw into the hole, only to jerk it out in hot haste. A
drop of blood on the log would show that the mouse had defended itself
with its sharp teeth.
There are three mice about my cabin that for years have managed to
escape the stoats. Time after time I have saved the lives of these
mice. The three are pets, and intelligent enough to know that I will
protect them from their fierce and relentless foe. In the night-time,
if hard pressed, they dive into my bed, while by day they sound the
danger-call, knowing full well that I will come to the rescue and drive
away their enemy.
To a stranger these mice look as much alike as peas in a pod, but for
me they possess individualities as marked and distinct as could be
found in three human beings. One of the three, the mouse that uses the
roof for a playground, always nests under a stone wall just back of
the cabin. Number two nests in the cabin summer and winter. When the
weather is warm she makes a nest on a high shelf, but in cold weather
her nest is on the floor under a pile of newspapers. Number three nests
where I nest. When I sleep in the cabin, the nest of this mouse is
always there. When I sleep in the open air, under a roof to keep off
the rain, the mouse follows me, nesting under newspapers or in a box
which I supply. If she has a family when I move, it does not prevent
her from following me. She makes ready a nest, and then takes her
family to the new quarters.
[Illustration]
For keen intelligence mouse number two takes the lead. All through
the summer months she makes a nest on a high shelf in the cabin. When
there is a fire in the stove the heat becomes oppressive in the top
of the cabin, and the young mice would perish if it were not for the
intelligence of the old mouse.
When I fill the stove with wood the old mouse understands just
what will take place. She knows that I am about to kindle a fire,
and she rushes to a shelf near the stove and frantically drums
the danger-signal. She also does a lot of drumming which I do not
understand. She tries to tell me in her dumb language that a fire will
destroy her little family. When the mouse finds that I do not heed her
appeal, she knows that her family will be destroyed, and can be saved
only by her own hasty efforts. The one thing to do is to remove her
babies to a place far away from the death-dealing heat. If the young
mice are small, in some mysterious way the mother-mouse induces each
youngster to cling to a teat, when the whole family is removed in this
novel manner to a safe retreat beneath the cabin. It is a comical
sight to see the old mouse crawling along a log with eight or ten raw,
shapeless things clinging to her like grim death. The hole in the wall
that leads outside is small, and the old mouse has a long struggle
to get her load safely through. Now and then a young mouse drops off
and remains squirming where it chances to fall. The mother invariably
returns and gathers in the missing.
When the young mice are half-grown, they are removed in a different
manner. They are now too large to be dragged as before. They are
also too large to be carried by the neck. The mother overcomes this
difficulty by doubling up the young mouse and then grasping it by the
crossed legs. The young mouse turns its head inward and holds it in
place by biting on to one of its own legs. In this way a young mouse
is made up into a round, compact bundle. When the hole in the wall is
reached it often happens that the mother cannot push her load through.
After several unsuccessful efforts she turns about and backs through
the hole, dragging the load after her.
[Illustration]
All in all, the white-footed mouse has afforded me much pleasure,
but at times it becomes a nuisance. At one time my cabin was haunted
by a strange sound. The sound was simple enough, only a sharp click
repeated over and over. Sometimes, however, the performance would
change to a succession of clicks. For six weeks I vainly tried to solve
the mystery. At last the clicking became downright annoying. It would
break up my line of thought when writing. It would confuse my mind when
reading, and I often jokingly asserted that this mysterious ghostly
click, click would send me to the insane asylum.
At last I traced the sound to a shelf where I had placed an empty
cigar-box. I investigated, and the mystery was solved. A dozen mice
occupied the box as a safe retreat from their enemy, the stoat.
Whenever a mouse entered or left the box the cover was raised, and,
falling into its place again, made the click that had so annoyed me.
The box-cover was heavy enough to severely pinch a mouse's tail, but
the cunning mice had provided for this danger. A hole about the size of
a lead-pencil had been gnawed in the side of the box, just below the
cover, and afforded a channel for the tail, while it was too small to
attract the attention of a stoat.
A more cunningly contrived retreat from an enemy could not be invented.
It shows that this wild mouse of the woods possesses intelligence which
passes far beyond the powers of instinct.
It would take a volume to record the incidents that have transpired in
connection with these mice during the fifteen years of my hermit life.
[Illustration: MOLE.]
Some of these incidents are comical, others pathetic, and, alas! others
are tragic. One in the comical line happened to a young man from the
city who thirsted for more knowledge of the wild things. He stayed one
moonlight evening to see the mice eat. It often happened, when the
mice were gathered about a loaf of bread, that a star-nosed mole would
appear and scatter them in all directions. If I chanced to be sitting
near, it was no unusual thing for a mouse to run up my trousers-leg.
I kindly allowed the young man the post of honor near the bread. Just
what I expected took place. The mole appeared, and a frightened mouse
rushed up the young man's trousers-leg. With a war-whoop that would
have frightened an Indian, he bounded into the dooryard. The mouse
escaped from beneath his coat-collar before he got out of the cabin.
The young fellow danced around like a crazy man. Whenever his clothes
touched him he thought the mouse was getting in its deadly work, and
administered slaps that must have raised blisters. When I could control
my laughter I told him that the mouse had escaped. I could not induce
him to enter the cabin again.
The nests of these mice are globular, but are varied to fit the
surroundings. Near the cabin they are made of bits of paper matted
with cotton-batting and a soft wool manufactured by the mice from my
old clothes.
The nests remote from the cabin are made of bits of dried leaves,
grasses, and plant-down. These last are usually placed in a tangle
of catbrier. Many of these nests are occupied through the winter. I
examined one last week. It was about five inches in diameter, and was
composed of bits of leaves and milk-weed silk. It was rain and frost
proof.
I sometimes find nests in tin cans. Once I found a nest in a paper bag.
The paper bag was in a tangle of catbrier. It was nearly three feet
from the ground, and doubtless was lodged where found by the wind.
The mother-mouse is devoted to the welfare of her little family, which
may number anywhere from four to ten. When the young mice are small
they are raw-looking things, but are tough, wiry, and tenacious of
life. At this stage, full-grown moles would destroy a family in a few
seconds, if it were not for the watchful care of the mother.
[Illustration]
As the young mice grow they change their coats to a dark lead color,
which they retain until the first moult.
The white-footed mouse will eat about everything edible found in the
woods. It is fond of mushrooms, and never, like human beings, eats of
the poisonous varieties. I am sorry to state that it will eat young
birds if small and helpless. It eats insects, berries, seeds, nuts,
bread, cheese, and all kinds of meat.
It stores up food for winter in holes in the ground and in hollow trees
and logs. The mice about my cabin store food in anything that comes
handy. I sometimes find a shoe half-full of nuts and corn.
The white-footed mouse makes an interesting pet when caged. One that
reared a family in captivity afforded me many proofs of intelligence.
When the cabin was too cold for the little ones she made them warm and
cozy in a globular nest. If the temperature went up she removed the top
of the nest, and if the heat from the stove fell directly into the cage
she piled up the surplus nesting material on the side to protect her
young.
The mole that I mentioned before, the one that scatters the mice, is
a singing mole. He zigzags about the cabin floor, picking up crumbs,
while he sings birdlike notes that are as sweet and distinct as the
canary's low twitter. I see other moles, but I have never heard but
this one sing.
[Illustration: The White-footed Mouse]
VII.
THREE YEARS LATER
The next spring, after my attempt to thin out the white-footed mice,
the stoats returned. I did not molest them, and they reduced the number
of mice in short order. Mouse number two had a little family in a nest
on a shelf. They were mice-babies, helpless and sprawling. They were
dragged out of the nest by one of the stoats, and were killed one at a
time. The stoat was obliged to make three trips to remove the pile of
dead mice. The mother had escaped by way of the stone wall at the rear
of the cabin. After the slaughter was over, she returned and did a lot
of drumming. I think she was reproaching me because I did not drive
the stoat away. It made me feel guilty, but I had hardened my heart,
on account of a valuable manuscript which this mouse had purloined and
reduced to scraps, with which to decorate her last nest.
The following morning I saw the mother come into the cabin with a baby
mouse in her mouth. I thought it might be one of her own dropped by the
stoat. But I was soon undeceived. The mouse left, and soon returned
with another little one. This time I examined the young mice. They
did not belong to my mouse family. They were strangers to me. The old
mouse cared for these babies as if they were her own. I expect that the
stoats had killed the mother, and my mouse had adopted the orphans.
The young mice increased in size rapidly, and soon took on the
adult form and color. Then I recognized them. They were the gray
_Hesperomys_, while my mice were the fulvous _Hesperomys_. The first
is found in deep woods, the latter near farm-buildings and in the
neighboring woodlands.
I don't know where their foster-parent found the little imps, but it
was a sorry find for her. As they increased in strength, it was evident
that they conspired to take possession of the cabin. They worked in
concert and fought in concert. While they were yet small the two would
attack a full-grown mouse. If it chanced to be an old male, the little
imps were sure to get mauled, until they would flee to their mother for
protection. When full grown, they proved to be a match, single-handed,
for any mouse in the cabin. Together, they were invincible.
[Illustration]
The cabin became a battle-field every night. After a few weeks the
white-foots were completely vanquished, and left. The two warriors
drove their foster-mother out-doors, then for three months held
undisputed possession of the food supply.
The white-foots are destructive gnawers, but the new mice could do more
damage in one night than all the others could in a week. I had made a
poor exchange. The two scamps were on friendly terms with me, and did
not allow me to eat a meal without their company. They would come at
my call, and would have proved desirable pets, if it had not been for
the gnawing habit.
I had made up my mind to kill them, for I knew it would be only a
matter of time when they would destroy every book and paper in the
cabin. I got rid of them, however, without resorting to violence. A
young married couple from the city saw and admired the mice, and when
I offered to give them away, gladly accepted the offer. I do not know
what became of them, and do not care to meet any of their race.
In a short time the white-foots returned to the cabin, and are with me
now. The foster-mother that was turned out-doors did not return. She
was one of the missing, and so sacrificed her life, after all her care
of two ungrateful imps.
[Illustration: The Crow]
VIII.
THE CROW
The intelligence of the crow is admitted by those who deny reason to
the lower animals. This bird is so large and is so meddlesome in human
affairs that he has forced mankind to acknowledge his intelligence.
While I admire his ability to look out for number one, I do not believe
that he is in any way beneficial to the farmer. In my opinion, he is a
great deal blacker than he is painted by our wise men at Washington.
After a lifetime knowledge of the crow, with ten years' close
observation of his habits, I have nothing to say in his favor.
[Illustration: KINGBIRD.]
While farming in Maine I was a sworn enemy of the crow. Not because he
pulled up my corn, thinned out my barley, and carried off my chickens;
these things I could provide against; I was his enemy because he robbed
birds' nests by the wholesale. It did not take me long to find out
that this black imp prevented the increase of song-birds in cultivated
fields and the adjoining woodlands.
I brought with me my hatred of the crow when I dropped into the woods
of Cape Ann, and for several years I made life miserable for his kind
with trap and shotgun.
Ten years ago, influenced by the articles in Forest and Stream on
game protection, I laid aside my gun and devoted more time to the
study of the wild things. The crows got the benefit of this change. I
should have continued my warfare if the crows had plundered the birds'
nests in my vicinity. King-birds nested near my cabin, and during the
nesting-season crows and hawks were very careful to give the locality
a wide berth. At other times the king-birds did not go far from home
to attack the crows, and the latter made themselves at home in my
dooryard, after I had ceased to persecute them.