flattened towards the end, which is rounded, the frontal angles narrow
and pointed. Upper mandible with the dorsal line at first straight
and declinate, then slightly concave, along the unguis curved, the
ridge broad at the base, narrowed at the middle, enlarged and convex
towards the end, the sides nearly erect at the base, becoming more
and more declinate and convex, the edges curved upwards, with about
forty lamellæ, the unguis small and oblong. Nostrils submedial,
oblong, rather large, pervious, near the ridge, in an oblong groove
with a soft membrane. Lower mandible flat, with the angle very long
and rather narrow, the dorsal line very short and straight, the
erect edges with about sixty lamellæ,—on the upper edge, however,
the lamellæ are more numerous,—the unguis broadly elliptical.
Head of moderate size. Eyes small. Neck of moderate length, rather
thick. Body comparatively short, compact, and depressed. Wings small.
Feet very short, strong, placed rather far behind; tarsus very short,
compressed, anteriorly with a series of broad scutella, externally
of which is another of smaller, the rest reticulated with angular
scales. Hind toe small, with a free membrane beneath; anterior toes
double the length of the tarsus, united by reticulated membranes
having a sinus at their free margins, the outer and inner with loose
somewhat lobed marginal membranes, all obliquely scutellate above,
the third and fourth about equal and longest. Claws small, that of
first toe very small and curved, of middle toe largest, with an inner
thin edge, of the rest very slender and pointed.
Plumage dense, soft, blended. Feathers of the head and neck short and
velvety, those of the hind head a little elongated. Wings shortish,
narrow, pointed; primary quills curved, strong, tapering, the first
longest, the second very little shorter, the rest rapidly graduated;
secondary broad and rounded, the inner elongated and tapering. Tail
very short, much rounded, of fourteen feathers.
Bill light greyish-blue, the unguis blackish. Iris yellow. Feet
greyish-blue, the webs and claws black. The head, the whole neck,
and the fore part of the back and breast black, the head and neck
glossed with purple and green, the rest tinged with brown. Hind
part of the back, rump, abdomen, and upper and lower tail-coverts
brownish-black. Middle of the back, scapulars, inner secondaries,
anterior part of abdomen, and sides greyish-white, beautifully marked
with undulating black lines. Middle of the breast white, wings light
brownish-grey. Alula, primaries at the base and end, and the greater
part of secondaries, brownish-black; the speculum on the latter white.
Length to end of tail 16-1/2 inches, to end of claws 18; extent of
wings 29; wing from flexure 8-1/4; tail 2-1/4; bill along the back
1-10/12, along the edge of lower mandible 2; tarsus 1-1/4; middle toe
2-2/12, its claw (5-1/2)/12. Weight 1 lb. 6 oz.
Adult Female. Plate CCXXIX. Fig. 2.
The female agrees with the male in the characters of the plumage,
and in the colours of the bare parts; but those of the former differ
considerably. The head, neck, and fore part of the back and breast,
are umber brown; and there is a broad patch of white along the fore
part of the forehead. The upper parts in general are brownish-black,
the middle of the back and the scapulars undulated with whitish
dots and bars. The primary quills are greyish in the middle, and the
speculum is white, but of less extent than in the male. The greater
part of the breast and abdomen is white; the sides and parts under
the tail umber brown.
Length 16-1/2 inches, extent of wings 28. Weight 1 lb. 6 oz.
The males, as has been said, vary greatly in size, but in adult
specimens there is little difference in colouring. The birds figured
in my Illustrations, and described above, were from the Mississippi;
but others seen in various parts presented no such differences as to
indicate permanent varieties.
THE SANDERLING.
_TRINGA ARENARIA_, BONAP.
PLATE CCXXX. MALE AND FEMALE.
Although the Sanderling extends its rambles along our Atlantic shores,
from the eastern extremities of Maine to the southernmost Keys of the
Floridas, it is only an autumnal and winter visitor. It arrives in
the more Eastern Districts about the 1st of August, on the sea-shores
of New York and New Jersey rarely before the 10th of August, and
seldom reaches the extensive sand-banks of East Florida previous to
the month of November. Along the whole of this extended coast, it is
more or less abundant, sometimes appearing in bands composed of a few
individuals, and at times in large flocks, but generally mingling with
other species of small shore-birds. Thus I have seen Turnstones and
Knots mixed with the Sanderlings, but in such cases they are perhaps
wanderers, which have not succeeded in meeting with companions of
their own species, that associate with the birds of which I here speak.
The Sanderling obtains its food principally by probing the moist
sands of the sea-shores with its bill held in an oblique position. At
every step it inserts this instrument with surprising quickness, to a
greater or less depth, according to the softness of the sand, sometimes
introducing it a quarter of an inch, sometimes to the base. The holes
thus made may be seen on the borders of beaches, when the tide is
fast receding, in rows of twenty, thirty, or more; in certain spots
less numerous; for it appears that when a place proves unproductive
of the food for which they are searching, they very soon take to their
wings and remove to another, now and then in so hurried a manner that
one might suppose they had been suddenly frightened. The contents of
the stomach of those which I shot while thus occupied, were slender
sea-worms, about an inch in length, together with minute shell-fish
and gravel. At other times, when they were seen following the receding
waves, and wading up to the belly in the returning waters, I found
in them small shrimps and other crustacea.
In their flight the Sanderlings do not perform so many evolutions as
Sandpipers usually display. They generally alight about a hundred
yards of the place from which they started, and run for a yard or
so, keeping their wings partially extended. They move on the sand
with great activity, running so as to keep pace with a man walking
at a moderate rate. Their flight is rapid and straighter than that
of other small species, and when on wing they seldom exhibit each
surface of the body alternately, as many others are wont to do.
I have thought that the migrations of this bird are carried on under
night; but of this I am by no means certain, although I observed
some small flocks, composed of a few dozen individuals, crossing the
Gulf of St Lawrence, at a little height over the water, in the month
of June. The lateness of the season induced me to hope that I might
find some nests of the Sanderling on the coast of Labrador; but in
this I was disappointed, although some young birds were seen at Bras
d’Or, in little parties of four or five individuals. This was early
in August, and they were already on their way southward.
The Sanderling affords good eating, especially the young, and the
sportsman may occasionally kill six or seven at a shot, provided he
fires the moment the flock has alighted, for immediately after the
birds spread abroad in search of food.
The female may easily be distinguished from the male, by her superior
size; but in the colouring of birds of both sexes, I have observed
as much difference as in the Turnstone. Even during winter, some are
more or less marked with black and brownish-red, while others, which,
however, I easily ascertained to be younger birds, were of an almost
uniform light grey above, each feather edged with dull white; but in
all those which I have examined, whether old birds in the full spring
or summer dress, in which I have shot some in May, in the Middle
Districts, or young birds in autumn and during winter, I have seen
no difference in the colours of the bill, legs, and toes. My plate
of this species represents two birds in winter plumage, which were
obtained in East Florida in the month of December. The figure of a
fine male, which, being on another sheet of paper, was overlooked
during my absence from London, you will find in Plate CCLXXXV. of
“The Birds of America.”
CHARADRIUS CALIDRIS, _Linn._ Syst. Nat. vol. i. p.
255.—_Lath._ Ind. Ornith. vol. ii. p. 741, in Winter.
CHARADRIUS RUBIDUS, _Ibid._ p. 740, in Summer.
TRINGA ARENARIA, _Ch. Bonaparte_, Synops. of Birds of the
United States, p. 320.
CALIDRIS ARENARIA, SANDERLING, _Swains. and Richards._
Fauna Bor. Amer. part ii. p. 366.
RUDDY PLOVER, CHARADRIUS RUBIDUS, _Wils._ Amer. Ornith.
vol. vii. p. 129. pl. 63. fig. 3.—Summer dress.
SANDERLING PLOVER, _Ibidem_, vol. vii. p. 68. pl. 59. fig.
4. Winter dress.—_Nuttall_, Manual, vol. ii. p. 4.
Adult Male in winter. Plate CCXXX. Fig. 1.
Bill rather longer than the head, slender, subcylindrical, straight,
flexible, compressed at the base, the point rather depressed and
obtuse. Upper mandible with the dorsal line nearly straight, slightly
sloping to beyond the middle, the ridge convex, towards the end
flattened, at the point convex; sides sloping, edges rather blunt
and soft. Nasal groove long; nostrils basal, linear, pervious. Lower
mandible with the angle long and very narrow, the dorsal line slightly
convex, the sides sloping outwards, towards the end convex.
Head of moderate size, oblong, compressed. Eyes rather large. Neck
of moderate length. Body rather slender. Feet slender, of moderate
length; tibia bare a considerably way up; tarsus compressed, anteriorly
and posteriorly with numerous small scutella; hind toe wanting; toes
of moderate length, slender; inner toe shorter than outer, middle
toe considerably longer, all scutellate above and marginate, with
prominent papillæ, and free; claws small, slightly curved, extremely
compressed, blunt.
Plumage very soft, blended beneath, slightly distinct above. Wings
long and pointed; primaries tapering, obtuse, the first longest,
the second a little shorter, the rest rapidly graduated; secondaries
rather short, obliquely rounded, curved inwards, the inner elongated
and tapering. Tail rather short, rounded, of twelve feathers, the
two middle ones considerably longer.
Bill and feet black. Iris brown. The general colour of the plumage
above is ash-grey, the edges paler; the lower parts pure white. Alula
and primaries brownish-black, the latter with more or less white on
their outer webs or along the shaft; secondaries white, the outer
with a patch of brownish-black towards the end, the inner ash-grey;
primary coverts brownish-black, tipped with white; secondary coverts
greyish-brown, broadly tipped with white. Middle tail feathers
greyish-brown, their shafts white, the rest of a paler tint on the
outer webs, white on the inner, the lateral almost pure white.
Length to end of tail 7-10/12, to end of wings 7-10/12, to end of claws
8-1/4; extent of wings 12-1/2; wing from flexure 4-11/12; tail 2-2/12;
bill along the back 1; along the edge of lower mandible 1-(1/2)/12;
tarsus 1; middle toe 3/4, its claw 2/12. Weight 1-3/4 oz.
Adult Female in Winter. Plate CCXXX. Fig. 2.
The Female is precisely similar to the Male.
In its summer plumage, this species differs in the following
particulars. The bill, feet, and iris, are as described above, and the
lower parts are also pure white, excepting the fore part and sides of
the neck, which, as well as the upper parts of the head, and the hind
neck, are pale yellowish-red, spotted with brownish-black. The back
is similarly marked, the spots larger, and on the scapulars disposed
in bars; the tips of most of the feathers greyish-white, the wings
and tail are as in winter.
A RACOON HUNT IN KENTUCKY.
The Racoon, which is a cunning and crafty animal, is found in all our
woods, so that its name is familiar to every child in the Union. The
propensity which it evinces to capture all kinds of birds accessible
to it in its nightly prowlings, for the purpose of feasting on their
flesh, induces me to endeavour to afford you some idea of the pleasure
which our western hunters feel in procuring it. With your leave,
then, Reader, I will take you to a “Coon Hunt.”
A few hours ago the sun went down far beyond the “far west.” The
woodland choristers have disappeared, the matron has cradled her
babe, and betaken herself to the spinning-wheel; the woodsman, his
sons, and “the stranger” are chatting before a blazing fire, making
wise reflections on past events, and anticipating those that are to
come. Autumn, sallow and sad, prepares to bow her head to the keen
blast of approaching winter; the corn, though still on its stalk,
has lost its blades; the wood pile is as large as the woodsman’s
cabin; the nights have become chill, and each new morn has effected a
gradual change in the dews, which now crust the withered herbage with
a coat of glittering white. The sky is still cloudless; a thousand
twinkling stars reflect their light from the tranquil waters; all
is silent and calm in the forest, save the nightly prowlers that
roam in its recesses. In the cheerful cabin all is happiness; its
inmates generously strive to contribute to the comfort of the stranger
who has chanced to visit them; and, as racoons are abundant in the
neighbourhood, they propose a hunt. The offer is gladly accepted.
The industrious woman leaves her wheel, for she has listened to
her husband’s talk; now she approaches the fire, takes up the
board shovel, stirs the embers, produces a basket filled with sweet
potatoes, arranges its contents side by side in front of the hearth,
and covers them with hot ashes and glowing coals. All this she does,
because she “guesses” that hungry stomachs will be calling for food
when the sport is over. Ah! Reader, what “homely joys” there are in
such scenes, and how you would enjoy them! The rich may produce a
better, or a more sumptuous meal; but his feelings can never be like
those of the poor woodsman. Poor I ought not to call him, for nature
and industry bountifully supply all his wants; the woods and rivers
produce his chief dainties, and his toils are his pleasures.
Now mark him! the bold Kentuckian is on his feet; his sons and the
stranger prepare for the march. Horns and rifles are in requisition.
The goodman opens the wooden-hinged door, and sends forth a blast loud
enough to scare a wolf. The racoons scamper away from the cornfields,
break through the fences, and hie to the woods. The hunter has taken
an axe from the wood-pile, and returning, assures us that the night
is clear, and that we shall have rare sport. He blows through his
rifle, to ascertain that it is clear, examines his flint, and thrusts
a feather into the touch-hole. To a leathern bag swung at his side is
attached a powder-horn; his sheathed knife is there also; below hangs
a narrow strip of home-spun linen. He takes from his bag a bullet,
pulls with his teeth the wooden stopper from his powder-horn, lays the
ball on one hand, and with the other pours the powder upon it until
it is just overtopped. Raising the horn to his mouth, he again closes
it with the stopper, and restores it to its place. He introduces
the powder into the tube; springs the box of his gun, greases the
“patch” over with some melted tallow, or damps it; then places it
on the honeycombed muzzle of his piece. The bullet is placed on the
patch over the bore, and pressed with the handle of the knife, which
now trims the edges of the linen. The elastic hickory rod, held with
both hands, smoothly pushes the ball to its bed: once, twice, thrice
has it rebounded. The rifle leaps as it were into the hunter’s arms,
the feather is drawn from the touch-hole, the powder fills the pan,
which is closed. “Now I’m ready,” cries the woodsman. His companions
say the same. Hardly more than a minute has elapsed. I wish, Reader,
you had seen this fine fellow—but hark! the dogs are barking.
All is now bustle within and without: a servant lights a torch, and
off we march to the woods. “Don’t mind the boys, my dear sir,” says
the woodsman, “follow me close, for the ground is covered with logs,
and the grape vines hang everywhere across.” “Toby, hold up the
light, man, or we’ll never see the gullies.” “Trail your gun, sir,
as General CLARK used to say,—not so, but this way—that’s it; now
then, no danger you see; no fear of snakes, poor things! They are
stiff enough, I’ll be bound. The dogs have treed one. Toby, you old
fool, why don’t you turn to the right—not so much there—go a-head,
and give us light—What’s that?—Who’s there?—Ah, you young rascals!
you’ve played us a trick, have you. It’s all well enough, but now,
just keep behind, or I’ll”—and in fact, the boys, with eyes good
enough to see in the dark, although not quite so well as an Owl’s,
had cut directly across the dogs, which had surprised a racoon on the
ground and bayed it, until the lads knocked it on the head. “Seek
him, boys,” cries the hunter.—The dogs, putting their noses to the
ground, pushed off at a good rate. “Master, they’re making for the
creek,” says old Toby. On towards it therefore we push. What woods,
to be sure! No gentleman’s park this, I assure you, Reader. We are
now in a low flat; the soil thinly covers the hard clay; nothing but
beech trees hereabouts, unless now and then a maple. Hang the limbs!
say I—hang the supple-jacks too—here I am, fast by the neck—cut it
with your knife. My knee has had a tremendous rub against a log—now,
my foot is jammed between two roots—and here I stick. “Toby, come
back—don’t you know the stranger is not up to the woods. Halloo,
Toby, Toby!” There I stood perfectly shackled, the hunter laughing
heartily, and the lads glad of an opportunity of slipping off. Toby
arrived, and held the torch near the ground, on which the hunter
cutting one of the roots with his hatchet, set me free. “Are you
hurt, Sir?”—no, not in the least. Off we start again. The boys had
got up with the dogs, which were baying a Racoon in a small puddle.
We soon joined them with the light. “Now, stranger! watch and see!”
The Racoon was all but swimming, and yet had hold of the bottom of
the pool with his feet. The glare of the lighted torch was doubtless
distressing to him; his coat was ruffled, and his rounded tail seemed
thrice its ordinary size, his eyes shone like emeralds; with foaming
jaws he watched the dogs, ready to seize each by the snout if it
came within reach. They kept him busy for several minutes; the water
became thick with mud; his coat now hung dripping, and his draggled
tail lay floating on the surface. His guttural growlings, in place
of intimidating his assailants, excited them the more; and they very
unceremoniously closed upon him, curs as they were, and without the
breeding of gentle dogs! One seized him by the rump and tugged, but
was soon forced to let go; another stuck to his side, but soon taking
a better directed bite of his muzzle than another dog had just done of
his tail, coon made him yelp; and pitiful were the cries of luckless
Tyke. The Racoon would not let go, but in the mean time the other
dogs seized him fast, and worried him to death, yet to the last he
held by his antagonist’s snout. Knocked on the head by an axe, he lay
gasping his last breath, and the heaving of his chest was painful to
see. The hunters stood gazing at him in the pool, while all around
was by the flare of the torch rendered trebly dark and dismal. It
was a good scene for a skilful painter.
We had now two coons, whose furs were worth two quarters of a dollar,
and whose bodies, which I must not forget, as Toby informed us, would
produce two more. “What now,” I asked—“What now,” quoth the father,
“why go after more to be sure.” So we did, the dogs ahead, and I far
behind. In a short time the curs treed another, and when we came up,
we found them seated on their haunches, looking upwards, and barking.
The hunters now employed their axes, and sent the chips about at such
a rate that one of them coming in contact with my cheek marked it
so, that a week after several of my friends asked me where, in the
name of wonder, I had got that black eye. At length the tree began to
crack, and slowly leaning to one side, the heavy mass swung rustling
through the air, and fell to the earth with a crash. It was not one
coon that was surprised here, but three—aye three of them, one of
which, more crafty than the rest, leaped fairly from the main top
while the tree was staggering. The other two stuck to the hollow of
a branch, from which they were soon driven by one of the dogs. Tyke
and Lion having nosed the cunning old one, scampered after him, not
mouthing like the well-trained hounds of our southern fox hunters,
but yelling like furies. The hunter’s sons attacked those on the tree,
while the woodsman and I, preceded by Toby, made after the other; and
busy enough we all were. Our animal was of extraordinary size, and
after some parley, a rifle ball was sent through his brain. He reeled
once only,—next moment he lay dead. The rest were dispatched by the
axe and the club, for a shot in those days was too valuable to be
spent when it could be saved. It could procure a deer, and therefore
was worth more than a coon’s skin.
Now, look at the moon! how full and clear has she risen on the Racoon
hunters! Now is the time for sport! Onward we go, one following the
long shadow of his precursor. The twigs are no impediment, and we
move at a brisker pace, as we return to the hills. What a hue and
cry!—here are the dogs. Overhead and all around, on the forks of each
tree, the hunter’s keen eye searches for something round, which is
likely to prove a coiled up Racoon. There’s one! Between me and the
moon I spied the cunning thing crouched in silence. After taking aim,
I raise my barrel ever so little, the trigger is pressed; down falls
the Racoon to the ground. Another and another are on the same tree.
Off goes a bullet, then a second; and we secure the prey. “Let us go
home, stranger,” says the woodsman; and contented with our sport,
towards his cabin we trudge. On arriving there, we find a cheerful
fire. Toby stays without, prepares the game, stretches the skins on a
frame of cane, and washes the bodies. The table is already set; the
cake and the potatoes are all well done; four bowls of butter-milk
are ranged in order; and now the hunters fall to.
The Racoon is a cunning animal, and makes a pleasant pet. Monkey-like,
it is quite dexterous in the use of its fore feet, and it will amble
after its master, in the manner of a bear, and even follow him into
the street. It is fond of eggs, but prefers them raw, and it matters
not whether it be morning, noon, or night, when it finds a dozen in
the pheasant’s nest, or one placed in your pocket to please him. He
knows the habits of mussels better than most conchologists. Being
an expert climber, he ascends to the hole of the woodpecker, and
devours the young birds. He knows, too, how to watch the soft-shelled
turtle’s crawl, and, better still, how to dig up her eggs. Now by the
edge of the pond, grimalkin-like, he lies seemingly asleep, until the
summer-duck comes within reach. No Negro knows better when the corn
is juicy and pleasant to eat; and although squirrels and woodpeckers
know this too, the Racoon is found in the corn-field longer in the
season than any of them, the havock he commits there amounting to a
tithe. His fur is good in winter, and many think his flesh good also;
but for my part I prefer a live Racoon to a dead one, and should find
more pleasure in hunting one than in eating him.
THE LONG-BILLED CURLEW.
_NUMENIUS LONGIROSTRIS_, WILS.
PLATE CCXXXI. MALE AND FEMALE.