that makes the old road look like a cultivated shrub garden. Here the
wild roses are a blaze of color. I do not believe that there is another
spot on earth where the wild roses can compete with those on Cape Ann.
The city end of the old highway in mid-summer is white with the
fragrant bloom of the sweet pepperbush. Then, too, the wild orange-red
lily takes possession of the roadsides and waste places.
It is marvellous, that for one hundred and fifty years, this deserted
old highway has maintained an existence.
[Illustration: The Hermit's Wild Friends]
Brave Old Road! You are gullied by frost and flood; you are worried
by catbrier and choked by brambles. You are cursed by poison-ivy, and
blessed by climbing woodbine. By night, yours is the highway of the
skunk, the weasel, the raccoon, the fox, the mink, the woodchuck, and
the rabbit. By day, the grouse and quail seek your grassy spots for
food, and your tiny brooks for water. Birds of all kinds nest and sing
in the shrubby growth that borders your roadsides. May you never lose
the wildness, which, for one hundred and fifty years, you have rescued
from civilization.
I have mentioned poison-ivy and woodbine. It is easy to tell one
from the other. Poison-ivy has three leaflets, and the woodbine has
five. When leafless, examine the method of climbing. The stem of the
poison-ivy is covered thickly with fine rootlets, while the stem of the
woodbine is sparingly supplied with tendrils by which it clings and
climbs.
Thoreau writes: "It takes a savage or wild taste to appreciate a wild
apple." Again, "What is sour in the house, a bracing walk makes sweet.
Some of these apples might be labelled 'to be eaten in the wind.'"
I suppose my taste must be "savage or wild," for I do appreciate wild
apples. I don't know the wild apple that Thoreau describes, but those
that grow lavishly in the woods of Cape Ann are not to be despised. I
think I am safe in claiming that one-half of the wild trees bear sweet
fruit. Many of the other half bear cooking-apples as good, or better,
than can be found in most cultivated orchards. I know of several trees
that bear fruit resembling the Baldwin in color and taste, and not much
inferior in size. In a secluded spot, where a ledge on one side and a
dense mass of catbrier on all other sides hides it from prying eyes,
stands a wild apple-tree. Its fruit has no peer in woods or orchard. It
is large, with a thin skin greenish-yellow in color. To the taste it is
slightly acid, with a rich spicy flavor. Only three wood-folk know the
secret of this wild apple-tree. A grouse, a rabbit, and a hermit. The
grouse nests just over the ledge, the rabbit has a burrow underneath
the mass of catbrier, and the hermit nests in the open air, and lives
close to Nature, too.
[Illustration: The Hermit's Wild Friends]
Sometimes farmers with orchards offer to load me with windfalls, and
are incredulous when I tell them that I have an abundant supply of
apples, as good as those on their best trees. I am the proud owner
of an orchard as well as the farmer, and my orchard gives greater
enjoyment. The farmer visits his orchard to see how the fruit is
setting. It is a humdrum affair. He walks down this row and up that,
so the inspection is soon over. It takes me several days to inspect
my orchard, while each night I return loaded with wild flowers and
experience. There are no stiff rows to follow. My orchard is laid
out without regard to quadrangles or triangles. It is Nature's plan,
engineered on a grand scale, to supply the wants of the greatest
number of her wild children, the mice, rabbits, grouse, robins, quail,
squirrels, and woodchucks.
Where cattle are pastured in the woods, the evolution of an apple-tree,
as described by Thoreau, is going on now as it did in his day. During
the eighteen years of my hermit life some of the trees have emancipated
themselves, and now toss their branches above their old enemies. The
cattle, however, coolly appropriate the fruit of the trees they had so
persistently tried to browse to death.
X.
MR. AND MRS. CHEWINK
It was a May morning, clear and warm, the time was half-past five.
It was my breakfast-hour and a pert chickadee had just whistled
"Tea's ready," to the other birds, when I heard in the bushes near
by a bird voice call out "Chewink," in answer to the chickadee. My
breakfast-table was a dry-goods box and this morning it was under
a pine-tree. A newspaper served for a table-cloth. Breakfast under
the pines was a grand affair, and I was sorry when a year later I
had dropped the custom for a breakfast in the city. When I sat down
to breakfast my woodland orchestra was in full swing. The musicians
numbered one song sparrow, one robin, one chewink, or towhee-bunting,
one catbird, three veeries, two wood-thrushes, and a chestnut-sided
warbler. While I was sipping my coffee, and reading in Thoreau's "Maine
Woods" how to make tea from wild stuff, I again heard the bird voice
call out "Chewink." I looked up and saw a female chewink on the end of
the plank seat, not ten feet away. She had hopped into sight and had
introduced herself by announcing her name.
[Illustration: CHICKADEE.]
In some way, this little wild bird had discovered that I supplied free
food to the wild things, and she had called on me to establish friendly
relations. I threw a bit of cookie to her and it rolled to the ground.
She hopped down, found the food, and ate it on the spot, then looked up
for more. I gave her another piece which she carried to the bushes.
My dinner hour was three o'clock P. M., two meals instead of the usual
three. Miss Chewink was on hand and she was not alone. She had brought
along two young gentlemen, who cared more about showing their fine
clothes than they did about eating. They strutted around with their
tails spread out like fans, and I was soon convinced that they were
rivals. The little lady ignored them completely, while she dined with
me as freely as if she was not a self-invited guest.
I suppose it would be the proper thing to describe my guests. The
chewink, or towhee-bunting is nearly two-thirds the size of a robin.
The male has a coal-black head, black wings and tail. Below he is white
with orange sides. His eyes are red like the dove's. The tail when
spread is bordered with white. The female is a warm brown where the
male is black, otherwise the sexes are alike.
[Illustration: "I THREW A BIT OF COOKIE TO HER."]
[Illustration: Mr and Mrs Chewink]
After dinner my guests departed. Later I looked them up. The female
was perched on a horizontal limb, while about ten feet away the two
dudes strutted and spread their wings and tails, in an effort to affect
the choice of the demure maiden. For three days the rivals showed off
before the little lady in brown and orange. The morning of the fourth
day only two of the birds came to breakfast. The little lady had made
her choice, and was now a bride. The other suitor had disappeared,
perhaps to look up a second choice. Housekeeping was a failure with the
newly wedded pair for two years. Nest after nest was looted by snakes
until the third year. That year the birds reared a family of four.
Mrs. Chewink was very industrious, and worked early and late gathering
straws, rootlets, and bits of weed-stalk for a nest. Mr. Chewink turned
out to be a lazy, good-for-nothing, shiftless fellow. Not even a
feather did he carry to the new home. However, he had one redeeming
quality, he could sing. Somehow, his song seemed to fit into the
glorious spring mornings, and the listener felt that it was in perfect
harmony with wild flowers, with the drowsy hum of insect life and the
tinkling notes of the woodland brook. When the little ones were out of
the shell, Mrs. Chewink had all she could do to supply their wants. She
carried bread from the dooryard, and gleaned bugs and beetles in the
flower garden.
I was deeply interested in the food selected by Mrs. Chewink. As for
herself, she would never eat bread when she could get cup-cake. I
expected that she would feed this favorite food to her babies, and
that the sweet food would kill them, or make them sick, if no more.
I watched carefully, intending to remove the cake before the little
ones were injured. The morning, on which I had pitched to try the
experiment, proved to be rainy. The wet grass and foliage made it
difficult for the little mother to collect food, and I thought that
that would cause her to fall back on the cup-cake. As soon as she found
the cake, she stuffed herself and carried a load to her babies. I
followed, and when I had reached the nest she was feeding the last of
the cake. From what I saw, it was evident that she had divided the food
fairly. I returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Chewink followed me. She
passed by the cake to load up with bread. The next trip was made up of
bread. The fourth and fifth trips were gleaned from the flower garden.
The sixth trip was again made up of cup-cake. The next trip she carried
bread, and then I removed the bread. When Mrs. Chewink returned, she
looked for bread, but did not offer to take cup-cake in its place.
She flew to the garden and hunted up insects. I tried a great many
experiments with this bird, and I found that she would not feed enough
cup-cake to injure her babies. When they were older and stronger, she
fed more cake to them.
Here was a little wild mother that knew better than to feed to her
babies food that she dearly loved herself. How did she know that such
food would hurt them? Well we know that the wild things manage their
domestic affairs in a way best suited to their needs and natures. But
it is only here and there that a human being can gain the confidence of
the wild things so far as to share the secrets o their lives.
Mrs. Chewink, like many human mothers, was overworked during the
warm weather. Often she would seek the shade for a few seconds'
rest. Her open bill and drooping wings gave evidence of how much she
was suffering from the heat. All this time Mr. Chewink haunted the
cool, shady spots, and left his clamorous family to the care of his
overworked wife. The little ones increased in size very fast, and soon
were as large as the old ones. One morning Mrs. Chewink brought the
brood into the dooryard. I think she wanted to be near the food supply.
Certainly it lessened her labors. She had another object in view,
which appeared later.
Two weeks passed, and one morning Mr. Chewink brought the young birds
to the dooryard. I was much worried, for I thought that my little
pet had been killed. I searched the shrub-land on the hill, and was
delighted to hear her call. She was gathering material for a new nest.
Then I understood why she had brought her family to the dooryard. She
had contemplated putting them under the care of her lazy husband, and
she thought that he would not be overworked where food was so plentiful.
The young birds did not take kindly to Mr. Chewink's care. When they
found that he was their sole dependence, they made his life miserable.
They followed him with open bills and fluttering wings, clamoring for
food. Mr. Chewink acted like a crazy bird. He would fly round and
gather food and jab it into an open bill, often, in his reckless haste,
knocking a little one off its feet. I pitied the poor birds, but there
was a ludicrous side to the whole affair. It proved that bird nature
and human nature are much alike.
[Illustration: Mr and Mrs Chewink]
A little miss, who had come from the city with her parents, was much
interested when I told her that the birds were Mr. Chewink's babies.
She looked on while the babies clamored for food, and when Mr. Chewink
knocked one of the little ones over in his rough, impatient way, the
sympathetic miss cried out: "Oh, mamma, how cross he is! He is just
like papa when the baby cries."
After awhile Mr. Chewink changed his tactics. I think he had grumbled
to his wife, and had threatened to let the hawks get the little
beggars, so she told him how to induce them to pick up their food. Mr.
Chewink took the hint, and dropped food before each bird, and probably
said, "Help yourself or starve." The poor things did get right down
hungry before they found out that they could feed themselves. Another
feature of bird life was brought to my attention two days before the
second brood was hatched out. Mr. Chewink enticed the young birds away
to a bird resort. This resort is a place where there is food and
water, and many birds that rear two broods take the first brood to
the spot, so the mother-bird can feed the second family unmolested.
Mr. Chewink visited the banished birds several times each day. The
bird resort was near a little pond on my road to the city. One of the
young birds was bright enough to remember me, and intelligent enough
to follow me to the cabin. His father found him in the dooryard, and
pecked and beat him and drove him into the bushes. But the plucky
little fellow insisted, and remained in spite of the whippings he got
from his father. I returned from the city one afternoon, and found a
black snake had swallowed the second brood, and was sleeping it off
on a sunny patch of bed-rock. I killed the snake. The next day the
banished birds were brought back.
Mrs. Chewink remained about the dooryard most of the time. She would
go after berries with the rest of the family, but her stay was short.
At meal-time she would hop on the table and look the food over. If
she discovered cup-cake, she helped herself without ceremony. After
dinner, she would preen her feathers standing on a rock near where my
writing-table stood. I liked to have her round, for she seemed to be
more like a human being than a bird. After the breeding season was
over, the old birds shed their feathers, and sorry-looking objects they
were. Mr. Chewink appeared to hate the sight of his wife, and he abused
her most unmercifully. He pecked her, and would not let her eat until
he had satisfied his own appetite. At one time, I threw a bit of cookie
to Mrs. Chewink, and it chanced to fall behind a box. While she was
eating it, I heard the male calling from the bushes, "Towhee, Chewink,"
and soon he came flying into the yard, to see, perhaps, if any dainty
morsels were about. Mrs. Chewink left her cookie and sauntered from
behind the box, as if there was nothing to eat in that spot. She made
a great pretence of eating dry corn and flour bread, but I don't
believe the artful thing swallowed a morsel. Mr. Chewink was just a
bit suspicious, and hopped toward the box, but seeing his wife eating,
he turned back to investigate. When he found she had only common food,
he flew at her, pecked her severely, and then flew away. Mrs. Chewink
returned at once to her cookie. I saw then that this wild bird could
reason. She had exercised thought to control action, with a definite
object in view. The first of November turned clear and cold. There was
a hint of winter in the air by day, and the nights were frosty. The
chewinks lingered awhile, but the cold was too severe for them, and at
last it drove them south. The next spring Mrs. Chewink did not return.
Mr. Chewink soon found a second wife. I do not know what became of
my pet. The chewinks are shot in the Southern rice-fields, and it is
always uncertain about a particular bird coming back in the spring.
Association with my little bird for three seasons had led me to become
so attached to her that her loss really gave me a heartache.
[Illustration: Mr and Mrs Chewink]
Mr. Chewink did not return the next year, and I was not a mourner. He
was tame enough to take food from my hand, although he would not hop on
to the table, but his disposition made him distasteful to me. He abused
his wives and children, and was as selfish as a hog.
Last year the chewinks did not rear a family, owing to the crows. The
year before they were successful in rearing three babies from the
first brood. The crows got the second brood. The intelligence of the
young birds have caused me much surprise. I have made it a practice,
while writing out-doors, to be well supplied with bird-food. Usually
there is a loaf of bread wired down in the dooryard, but the birds
will not eat from it if I will throw to them bits of cookie, cup-cake,
or doughnut. The old birds hop out of the bushes, twenty feet away,
and make a peculiar chuckling note, down in the throat, to attract my
attention. If I throw food, they scramble for it. They will come to
my feet for the food. When the three babies, mentioned before, were
full-grown, they were brought by the old birds to the bushes near the
dooryard. The parents, both male and female, carried bread, and the
food that I supplied, to the young birds. When all were satisfied, the
whole family flew away to the patches of huckleberry-bushes. While
writing one morning, I was surprised to see one of the young birds hop
out of the bushes to eat from the loaf of bread. He soon tired of the
bread, and hopped toward me. When he had approached within ten feet, he
stopped, and made the same notes in his throat common to the old birds
when attracting my attention. I threw to him a piece of doughnut, which
he took to the bushes. Three times he returned for food. That day the
other two went through the same performance. Did these birds learn the
trick by watching from the bushes the manner in which their parents
got the sweet food from me? Or, did their parents tell them what to
do? We must remember that these little wild things were only a few
weeks old, and however we decide, it appeals to us as an exhibition of
intelligence that would be wholly impossible to a human being of the
same age.
[Illustration: ENGLISH SPARROW.]
The English sparrow has not found its way to my cabin. I suppose it is
too far in the woods for these city dwellers. Some boys, of a Sunday,
brought to me a young English sparrow which they had rescued from a
cat. They found the bird near the old barn on the hill just above
Western Avenue. The bird was injured in both wings, with body wounds
beside. I thought the bird was dead, and placed it on a seat near a
tree. Shortly, a lady visitor said, "Your bird is coming to life."
Sure enough, he had got on to his feet, but was sadly crippled. I
gave him some crumbs, and he ate a hearty meal. It was evident that
he did not intend to starve to death if he could get food. That night
he hopped over to the cabin and climbed the banking to where he could
get into a barberry-bush. He could not move his wings, but his feet
were all right. The next day he hopped to me for food and water. I fed
him, then put him on a rock where he could find water for himself. He
did not forget the spot. For three days he followed the same methods,
sleeping in the barberry-bush every night. The fourth day, while I was
feeding him, an old chewink hopped to the loaf of bread and called the
sparrow. The sparrow did not respond at first, but after awhile hopped
over to find out what the chewink wanted. He seemed surprised to find
the bread, and began at once to help himself. The chewink called him
into the bushes. I suppose he intended to give him an introduction to
his family. The next day the sparrow came into the dooryard alone. He
made for the bread and did not look at me. I tried to catch him, but
he hopped into the bushes, apparently filled with terror. I think that
old chewink had told the sparrow that I was a very bad man. The old
fellow might have been jealous, and had frightened the young sparrow,
so that he would fly from me in wild alarm. The next time the sparrow
visited the yard the chewink was with him. They departed together,
and three days later I saw the sparrow near the old barn. He was with
other sparrows, but he knew me, and, more than that, he had lost his
wildness. He would eat from my hand. It was evident that the chewink
had piloted him three-fourths of a mile to his friends. The sparrow had
to hop all the way. The old chewink must have exercised much patience
to have accompanied the sparrow in such a slow way. How did the chewink
know where to take the sparrow? Did he do a deed of charity by
restoring the lost one to his friends, or did he entice him away for
selfish purposes? It is barely possible that he might think that the
sparrow would recover his wing power, and would go out and bring in his
uncles and his aunts, so took him out by devious ways that could not be
held in the memory.
[Illustration: SPARROW.]
XI.
SOME OF THE WILD THINGS
On Sunday, May 30, 1897, while the church bells were calling saint and
sinner to worship in the city of Gloucester, and a catbird's blithe
music, supplemented by the silvery bells of a veery, was calling me
to worship in my cabin dooryard, I turned to the path that leads to
Magnolia Swamp.
Two years before, on the west side of the swamp, I had discovered a
woodpecker's sap orchard. For two seasons I had carefully noted the
work of the woodpeckers in their curious method of tapping trees, and I
desired now to add to my knowledge by a few hours of observation.
[Illustration: "FOUND HIS OWLSHIP ON A LOW LIMB."]
It was a glorious morning, bright with sunshine, tempered by a crisp
air. It was one of the few sunshiny days rescued from a cold, rainy
spring month. The trees were forward, and for the most part covered
with full-grown leaves. The white oaks were late, as usual, their
leaves were tiny, and at a distance looked to be a silvery gray in the
sunshine. The hillsides west of Magnolia Swamp were lighted up by this
immature gray foliage, while here and there the dark green of the pines
afforded a pleasing contrast.
I found the sap orchard deserted. The trees, red maples and
canoe-birches, were dead or dying. The sapsuckers and their
self-invited guests, the humming-birds, had drained the life-blood of
their helpless victims. All of the maples were still standing, but many
of the gray birches had been broken off by the wind just below the belt
of punctures.
[Illustration]
While I was searching for another sap orchard, I saw a barred owl, with
something in his bill, fly to a grove of small hemlocks. I followed
on my hands and knees, and found his owlship on a low limb. Evidently
this was his breakfast-hour. The thing in his bill proved to be a
leopard frog. He was preparing to swallow the frog by crushing the
bones of the legs and joints. He did not see me, or, if he did, he
ignored my presence, and continued leisurely to prepare and swallow his
breakfast. Afterward he spent several minutes preening his feathers
before settling down for a Sunday nap. A pair of saucy chickadees,
scouring the woods for a Sunday breakfast, discovered the owl and gave
the alarm. Inside of two minutes I counted thirty-six birds, all called
together by the cries of the chickadees. These birds included cuckoos,
warblers, blue jays, thrushes, vireos, flycatchers, and buntings. How
they did jeer and abuse the owl, but all were careful to keep at a safe
distance. The blue jays seemed to be filled with fury, and if birds can
swear, doubtless that owl listened to some very emphatic language.
For twenty minutes that patch of young hemlocks contained noise and
life enough to stock a first-class aviary. The owl seemed bored, but
was apparently fearless.
[Illustration: OWL CHASED.]