Crows possess a language which enables them to communicate to each
other anything that relates to crow-life. They can hold long confabs,
and then act intelligently from evident conclusions.
In the years when I lived happily with my shotgun, before a divorce was
decreed, I planted a bushel of potatoes in the woods on the west side
of Magnolia Swamp. Fire had cleared the side-hill, and the prospect of
a crop was good.
The crows gathered in some dead trees, out of gunshot, to criticize my
work, and seemed to be highly elated. Raw potatoes are not down on the
crow bill of fare, so I thought there would be a great disappointment
when they investigated my work. The second day after I had finished
planting I visited the spot, and found that the crows had dug up every
hill on the south half of the field. There were three pieces of potato
beside each hill, so the crows did not dig them up for food. Why they
did so much hard work for nothing was beyond my knowledge of crow-life.
I nearly surrounded the other half of the field with white cotton
string, and retired to the swamp to await the crows. Twenty minutes
later a sentinel crow winged his way to a dead tree on the hill, and,
after looking for enemies, called out, "Caw, caw, caw." Immediately
eight crows appeared. They held a consultation, and it seems they
decided that it was a good time to dig up the rest of my potatoes, for
they started for the spot where they had left off. As this part of
the field was under a high ledge, the crows could not see the string
until they had passed the brow of the hill. The first crow over saw the
string, and nearly turned a somersault in trying to stop his speed.
He called out, "Cur-cur-cur. Cur-cur-cur," and instantly every crow
returned to the tree. For ten minutes a great confab took place. The
crow that had discovered the string was eagerly questioned by the
others, and replied in a hasty and excited manner. After talking it
over, a crow flew to the south end of the field, where he could look
to the north and see the string. He turned and reported. Another crow
flew to the north end of the field and stationed himself in a tall
pine-tree. This crow soon discovered that the string did not surround
the whole field; there was a wide gap in front of the pine-tree. He
called "Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw," and the crows flew down to the tree.
They were told about the gap, and one crow boldly flew through and
acted as sentinel from a tree in the potato-field. The other crows soon
followed, and began digging up the seed-potatoes. I think they tasted
of every piece, with the idea that somewhere I had planted something
good to eat. I shot two of the crows and hung them in the potato-field,
but a week later I found the seeds dug up, with the exception of a few
hills beneath the string.
The few hills left made quite a show two years later. They had produced
a crop each year without being discovered by hunters. But when the
weeds and shrubs made a rabbit-cover, "wild potatoes" were discovered
on that side-hill, and I was soon informed of the fact that the potato
was growing in a wild state "away back in the woods."
[Illustration: RUFFED GROUSE.]
I believe that crows destroy fully one-half the quail and grouse on
Cape Ann. A woods fire south of my cabin burned the nest of a ruffed
grouse late in the season. The grouse made a new nest north of my
cabin, and one day I found four eggs in it. The next morning I heard a
strange cry in the direction of the nest, and started to investigate.
I took to the path at the rear of my cabin, and when I had reached
the top of the hill I saw the grouse running toward me. She held one
wing close to her side, but with the other she was striking savagely
at two crows that hazed her as they flew above and around her. Just as
I came in sight of the trio, the grouse dropped an egg from under the
closed wing, and one of the crows seized it and flew so near me that I
could see the egg in his bill. The thing that impressed me most was the
silence of the crows. Not a sound did they utter. The scamps knew that
I was near by, and would be warned of crow mischief if I heard their
cries. The cry made by the grouse was new to me. It was a wild cry in
every sense of the word. The grouse, when she fled with her eggs, took
the path to the cabin, and I think she did it for protection.
[Illustration: The Crow]
Last spring I saw something that added to my knowledge of crow
intelligence.
Fuller Brook runs past my cabin, and after losing itself in a swamp,
takes up its course again between high granite hills, until it falls
into the sea at Fresh Water Cove. In the valley along the brook tall
pine and hemlock trees make an ideal nesting-site for crows and hawks.
Last spring I was much interested in a red-shouldered hawk's-nest
which was in this valley. There were two crow's nests some twenty rods
farther down the valley. One of my visits found the male hawk at home,
and when he discovered me he flew in circles above the trees, uttering
the loud scream that can be heard for a mile or more. Soon two crows
came sneaking through the tree-tops to find out what was disturbing the
hawk. The hawk flew to a tall pine, but continued his cries after he
had alighted. The crows flew to the same pine, and, taking a position
near the hawk, began to talk to him in a low tone. It was evident that
they were telling him that his loud screams would bring all the hunters
of Cape Ann to the spot. The hawk continued to scream, and one crow, in
a loud tone, called out, "Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw." Immediately five other
crows appeared, and all attacked the hawk, striking at him with their
wings until he ceased to scream.
The crafty crows did not care about the hawk's nest, but they did not
intend to have the hawk publish the fact. Well they knew that a search
would expose the two nests down the valley.
The red-shouldered hawk seems to be too slow and clumsy to wage war on
crows, and the birds nest near each other, without trouble, only as I
have related.
The crows in my locality have named me in the crow language. Two caws
is the way the sentinel announces my approach to his mates.
Several years ago I had occasion to pass every night a spot in the
woods where dead horses are buried. The crows would gather there
nightly, but always had a sentinel out. The sentinel took up a position
in a tall oak on a hill where he could overlook all the approaches.
When everything was quiet the sentinel called out, "Caw-caw-caw,"
which means "All is well." If a man approaches, the danger-signal is,
"Cur-cur-cur," sometimes repeated, and it means "Look out there." It is
uttered rapidly.
[Illustration: The Crow]
I noticed one night that the crow in the tree, as soon as he saw me,
called out, "Caw-caw," and in a short time repeated the call. He had
told his mates that the hermit was coming. My path passed within fifty
feet of the crows, but they did not fly away. They had long ago found
that I was not to be feared. Sometimes I had company, and the sentinel
would then give the danger-call, "Cur-cur-cur," and the crows would
fly away before we got in sight. I had this experience throughout the
summer, so there could be no mistake.
This fall a young crow became quite familiar. He would call to me in
the woods, "Caw-caw," and often fly near me. The old crows seemed to
think he was in danger, or they thought he was departing from the ways
of the fathers, and they always drove him away. They would beat him
with their wings until he was forced into flight to save himself. This
young crow had found food in my dooryard, and had heard the older crows
say that "Caw-caw" was harmless, so he wanted to be friendly, no doubt
with an eye to the food supply. I experimented with this fellow, in
hopes that I could tame him, and learn from him and his mates something
of the crow language.
As added to my knowledge of the young crow he proved to be a failure.
I am now convinced that this youngster is not of sound mind. He utters
the cry of a young crow, when calling for food, which shows that he has
not acquired the crow language. The only exception to this rule is when
he calls to me. Somehow he has been taught by other crows that my name
is "Caw-caw," and whenever he sees me he calls out in an eager manner.
Sometimes he steals away from his mates and comes to my dooryard. The
crows hear him when he calls to me, and rush in, and with loud cries
drive him into the woods.
There is another crow that "gobbles," and I have made up my mind that
he is unable to utter the common cries of other crows.
A few years ago I followed this crow for two days. Not a sound escaped
him other than the loud gobble. After this, I saw many things that
convinced me that the crow was deaf and dumb.
There is another deaf and dumb crow about four miles away. He is
located on the line between Gloucester and Essex.
Five years ago a Mr. Clark, a resident of Gloucester, told me about the
last-named crow. Mr. Clark was ninety years of age. He was as straight
and vigorous as a young man, and possessed a fund of amusing stories.
He told how, when he went to his farm and found the crows pulling up
his grain, the sentinel would call out, "Clark, Clark, Clark," and then
another crow would cry, "Bother-the-luck, bother-the-luck."
[Illustration: "THE NEXT SENTINEL TAKES UP THE CALL."]
In the winter months the crows visit the clam-flats for food. A
sentinel is sent down to the woods, overlooking the flats, and when the
tide goes out, this sentinel returns, and, flying in a circle above
the pines, calls out "Caw-caw-caw," continuing the cry until he has
completed the circuit.
This cry can be translated into "Come-come-come," or,
"Clams-clams-clams." Anyhow, the crows understand, and a sentinel flies
to a pine-tree just south of my cabin. Another drops into a large
oak-tree on the hill looking to the east. Two more sentinels seek trees
for observation, one near the clam-flats. The crow near the flats calls
out "Caw-caw-caw," which means "All is well." The next sentinel takes
up the call, and thus it is carried to crows in the woods. The latter
fly to the sentinel-trees, if there is nothing to create fear. If a man
should approach either sentinel with or without a gun, the danger-cry
would be rapidly uttered. This cry "Cur-cur-cur," is usually quickly
repeated, and the crows rush to the shelter of the pines.
[Illustration]
Like human beings, crows have courts of justice. The jury, however,
tries, convicts, and punishes the criminal. Sometimes I have witnessed
these trials. Once, while sitting under a sentinel-tree, I saw six
crows flying across the swamp, headed for the tree. Five of the crows
were striking at one crow that was evidently trying to escape. When the
crows reached the tree, the criminal was surrounded by the others. This
was not to his liking, and he flew to an upper limb. One of the crows
said something to him, and he answered in a loud, defiant tone. For ten
minutes the trial went on. Each crow had something to say, while the
criminal replied in the most aggressive style. At last the criminal
seemed to be convicted, when he flew away with a string of caws that
doubtless, in crow language, meant, "Go to hades, the whole blooming
lot of you." One old crow shouted "Car-r-r-r-r," as much as to say, "I
told you so," The crows followed the criminal, and as they disappeared
in the deep woods beyond the swamp, they were making it extremely warm
for him. I do not know how the matter ended, but I am satisfied that
the bad crow received severe punishment.
I have read in books relating to natural history, that crows are in the
habit of playing games. I can only say from my observation that crows
take life very seriously. I have seen nothing like play in a lifetime
of careful watching.
Courting is a serious business. The male rushes at his intended,
mauling her, while he utters loud cries, in which he rolls his r's
in the most approved stage style. When he has forced the young lady
to say "yes," they are mated for life. Then he becomes tender in his
attentions. He will sit for a half-hour or more, singing the crow
love-song. It is not much of a song, but it is the best he can do. He
draws his beak down to his breast while he utters liquid notes that
remind one of the suction of a wooden pump.
[Illustration]
This spring the king-birds returned to Bond's Hill, and I hope they
will nest near by. If they do, the crows and hawks will have to walk
Spanish. Last season the crows destroyed many birds'-nests in the woods
in the immediate vicinity of my cabin. One pair of robins had four
nests looted. Only two towhee-buntings were reared, and two nests of
the chestnut-sided warbler escaped. The destruction in so small an area
shows how fearful the havoc must be on a large territory.
If the king-birds do not nest near by, I shall continue the study of
the crow at the muzzle of the shotgun, in defence of the song-birds
that inhabit the woods around me.
Those that praise the crow can have but little knowledge of his
destructive habits.
I sleep in the open air eight months of the twelve, and the crows awake
me each morning before it is fairly light. For a half-hour or more they
keep up a conversation in the crow language. They seem to be debating
and laying out a programme for the day.
They must have a crow almanac, for they know all about the tides.
If the tide is out in the morning they seek the clam-flats without a
report from a scout. At this early hour they make the flight without
posting sentinels. If it is high water they go down to the seashore to
see what the tide has brought in.
[Illustration: The Crow]
It is generally supposed that crows utter but one note, or cry, a loud
caw. The fact is the crow language is not confined to one note, for
"ker" is heard as frequently as "caw."
The cries of the crow can be modulated to express many of the feelings
common to the human voice.
In the old times, when I killed crows right and left, I often threw
dead birds into my cabin dooryard. If a crow passed over, his sharp
eyes always discovered his dead comrades, and he would immediately
circle above the bodies, repeating several times a cry, "ker-r-r-r,"
which most vividly expressed horror and indignation.
[Illustration: Bismark]
IX.
LIFE IN THE WOODS
The first years of my hermit life were passed rambling the woods of
Ward Eight, Rockport, Essex, and Manchester. I bought a double-barrel
shotgun, not on account of the game to be found in the woods, but
because I was told of the wonderful duck shooting in Ipswich Bay.
For three years there was a great supply of acorns, and gray squirrels
swarmed in the woods of the Cape. The next four years were years of
famine to all animal life that depended on acorns. The gray squirrels
died off by hundreds, and the second year the most of the survivors
migrated. Two years ago there was a great crop of sweet acorns, and
some of the gray squirrels returned. As last year was a nut year for
bitter acorns, the squirrels would have become plentiful if it had not
been for the gunners.
Ward Eight has been cursed by a State law. Rockport and the seven wards
of Gloucester, on the east side of Annisquam River, and the town of
Essex on the west, were given a close time on all kinds of land game
for five years. Ward Eight was the only outlet for the gunners in a
population of forty-five thousand. Every living thing wearing fur or
feathers was shot at, song and insectivorous birds as well as lawful
game. Almost total extermination has been the result of this unwise
legislation.
[Illustration]
One of my first ventures was a flower garden. I had trailed a few vines
over the cabin, and had planted a small bed of favorite garden flowers.
The summer visitors offered to buy the flowers, and I saw an opening
for another year. I cleared away a small spot for a garden, and made me
a hotbed, so the next year, and for the seven following years, I drove
a thriving trade in cut flowers. This flower business did not leave me
much time for gadding the woods.
The care and sale of flowers, and my last trip to Ipswich Bay, decided
me to discard my gun. The study of the wild things at the muzzle of a
shotgun did not give me the satisfaction I thought I could obtain in
some other way. I found the Bay shooting was expensive, and the birds,
which were mostly coots, were not edible so far as I was concerned.
My last trip to Ipswich Bay convinced me that I did not care for such
unsatisfactory dangerous sport. I had engaged a young man, and he
had hired a gunning boat and decoys for one day. We embarked at the
Cut Bridge about midnight. We rowed down the stream, and at daylight
crossed the bar at the mouth of the river. While we were crossing the
bar I saw several boats returning. I hailed the nearest to find out why
they were coming back. "Too much wind," was the answer.
[Illustration: "I SHOT TWO DUCKS."]
[Illustration: COOT'S HEAD]
I should have turned back with the crowd, but like most any other
tenderfoot, I did not understand the danger. We anchored in the Bay,
and put out our decoys. I was pleased to see that we had the shooting
to ourselves. Not a boat was in sight. I shot two ducks, and we slipped
our anchor and picked them up inside of five minutes. When we essayed
to return to our decoys, I found that the wind was kicking up a rough
sea. I think we were over an hour getting back to the decoys. After
this the wind increased, and the choppy sea begun to look ugly. The
boat took in water, and we realized that we were in danger of being
swamped at any moment. The young man wanted to leave the anchor and
decoys, and make for the bar. I was ready to go, but refused to leave
the decoys. I knew that I would have them to pay for, and there was a
good reason for taking them on board: they would help to keep the boat
afloat. The young fellow bailed the boat, while I pulled in the decoys.
We got under way, and for two hours we had all we could do to keep our
boat from going ashore on the rocks. We did not get to the bar. At
the end of two hours there came a lull in the wind, and we gradually
worked the boat toward the bar. When we saw a big wave coming, we
swung the boat bow on, and thus kept from being swamped. After a
terrible struggle, we crossed the bar and made fast to a boat-landing
in the river just in time to escape from a fierce tornado. If we had
encountered such wind while in the bay, some other fellow would have
told this story.
[Illustration]
I did not get home until after dark. Supper over, I turned to my
note-book, and the record made was a sorry one. Expense three dollars,
without a pound of meat that I could eat, or the memory of sport
enjoyed, to offset, and besides, I had barely escaped with my life.
This I thought was due to my love of the gun. There was another waste
of time which I laid to the door of the gun. I would feel uneasy
mornings, until at last I would compromise with myself, by thinking
that I would go out for two hours, and then certainly return and put
away the gun. I am sorry to have to admit that it was usually the
gloom of night that sent me back to the cabin. I hardly think that
the gun should be held wholly guilty. My love for nature, and the
keen enjoyment of finding wild flowers, little wayward brooks, or
huge masses of bed rock hid away in the deep recesses of the woods,
accounted for much of the time spent. However, I sold my gun, and did
my hunting with note-book and pencil.
The pupils from the High School botanical class flocked to the woods
about my cabin in search for flowers to identify and mount.
I was employed by the parents of some of these pupils to gather
specimens and tag them with their Latin names. This method saved the
pupil a lot of trouble, but it did not tend to advance the knowledge of
botany. It occupied some of my time in the spring months, and gave me
the pleasure of searching the woods without thinking that I was wasting
my time.
It must be remembered that during my eighteen years of hermit life,
I have been obliged to earn my living expenses, and to feed the
wild things that come to my cabin dooryard as well. Referring to my
note-book, I find that the last item foots up nearly four hundred
dollars, but there are some rebates. I mounted one raccoon, many birds
and squirrels, the receipts for which lessened the debtor side of the
ledger.
I find that my note-book is filled with notes on flowers and other
things besides birds. Early in the spring, or at other times, when the
frost was coming out of the ground, I noticed that the stones, or small
rocks, in the grassy highway did not fit their beds. There would be a
space around each stone; the width of the space would be gauged by the
shape of the stone. If the stone was conical, the space would be quite
noticeable. If round, the space was much smaller. I suppose the cause
was expansion, owing to the freezing of the ground. It was the water in
the ground that expanded, carrying the dirt and rocks with it. Under
the influence of a thaw, the rocks dropped back to their beds, leaving
a space because the part of the rock above the ground is almost always
smaller than the part underground. That is, a rock stands on its base
and not on its apex.
[Illustration: The Hermit's Wild Friends]
Another thing that has puzzled me is the behavior of dead pine-limbs.
One would suppose a dead limb ought to remain decently quiet and not
move about like some living thing. I had occasion to make a path
through a thick growth of small pines. The dead limbs extended on each
tree from the ground to a height of ten feet. I broke off the limbs so
I could pass under them without trouble. After the path was completed,
it turned cold for two days. When I undertook to pass that way during
the cold spell, the dead limbs were so much depressed that I was
obliged to break the path anew.
I experimented on dead limbs at different times, and found it was
a fact that lifeless pine-limbs will fall in cold and rise in warm
weather. I am unable to give a reason for this movement.
On my way to the city, the first wild flower to greet me in the spring
is the snowy white bloom of the shadbush, or June-berry, as it is
called here. It grows in great masses all along the old highway. Bond's
Hill is pretty well covered with a variety unknown to any botany. I
have referred this variety of the Amelanchier to some of our professors
in botany. I suppose in time it will find its place in the botanical
works. It grows like the dwarf blueberry, fruiting when less than a
foot in height. Some patches of this low variety cover two square rods
or more.
After the shadbush is in full bloom, the other early wild flowers,
that grow beside the old road, come into bloom in rapid succession.
As I pass along to or from the city, I see in the distance patches of
white which, if I did not know better, would lead me to think that I
had discovered some beautiful low white flower. When I reach the spot
I find it is spring everlasting (_Antennaria plantaginifolia_). I give
the scientific name of this insignificant flower, because every spring
scores of woodland ramblers bring it to me and ask its name. Early in
the spring the flower is a very good white, but as the season advances,
it becomes a dirty greenish white. The stem is cottony and the leaves,
when young, are covered with a silky wool. With age, the leaves become
green above and grayish below. One should make its acquaintance early
in the spring, before other and better flowers become plentiful.
There is a clump of bushes near the brook that attracts my attention
early. It is the fly honeysuckle. The pale green leaves appear while
other shrubs can boast only swelling buds. Later, its slender branches
are covered with honey-colored bell-shaped flowers. The flowers hang in
pairs, and are airy and graceful.
On a hillside, near the road, the slender but wiry wild columbine
swings its Chinese lanterns above its humble neighbors, the star-flower
and the windflower. Near Western Avenue, where the bed rock overlooks
the harbor, the cliffs are white with saxifrage. Scattered along the
old highway may be found the common cinquefoil. Its yellow flower
looks like a strawberry blossom, and strawberry blossom it is to most
persons. If one is in doubt let him or her place the two side by side.
The strawberry leaves are in three divisions, while the cinquefoil is
in five. The stems of the strawberry are hairy, while the stems of
cinquefoil are clean, brown, and wiry. The silvery cinquefoil grows all
along the roadsides of Western Avenue, from the Cut to the drawbridge.