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WILD ANIMALS AT HOME
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| BY THE SAME AUTHOR |
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| THE BOOK OF WOODCRAFT AND INDIAN LORE |
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| WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN |
| |
| TWO LITTLE SAVAGES |
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| BIOGRAPHY OF A GRIZZLY |
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| LIFE HISTORIES OF NORTHERN ANIMALS |
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| ROLF IN THE WOODS |
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| THE FORESTERS' MANUAL |
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[Illustration: I. A Prairie-dog town
_In N. Y. Zoo. Photo by E. T. Seton_]
_Wild
Animals
At Home_
_by_
_ERNEST THOMPSON SETON_
Author of "_Wild Animals I Have Known_,"
"_Two Little Savages_," "_Biography of a Grizzly_,"
"_Life Histories of Northern Animals_,"
"_Rolf in the Woods_," "_The Book of Woodcraft_."
Head Chief of the
Woodcraft Indians
_With over 150 Sketches and
Photographs by the Author_
_Garden City New York_
_Doubleday, Page & Company_
_1923_
_Copyright, 1913, by_
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
_All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
Foreword
My travels in search of light on the "Animals at Home" have taken me up
and down the Rocky Mountains for nearly thirty years. In the canyons
from British Columbia to Mexico, I have lighted my campfire, far beyond
the bounds of law and order, at times, and yet I have found no place
more rewarding than the Yellowstone Park, the great mountain haven of
wild life.
Whenever travellers penetrate into remote regions where human hunters
are unknown, they find the wild things half tame, little afraid of man,
and inclined to stare curiously from a distance of a few paces. But very
soon they learn that man is their most dangerous enemy, and fly from him
as soon as he is seen. It takes a long time and much restraint to win
back their confidence.
In the early days of the West, when game abounded and when fifty yards
was the extreme deadly range of the hunter's weapons, wild creatures
were comparatively tame. The advent of the rifle and of the lawless
skin hunter soon turned all big game into fugitives of excessive shyness
and wariness. One glimpse of a man half a mile off, or a whiff of him on
the breeze, was enough to make a Mountain Ram or a Wolf run for miles,
though formerly these creatures would have gazed serenely from a point
but a hundred yards removed.
The establishment of the Yellowstone Park in 1872 was the beginning of a
new era of protection for wild life; and, by slow degrees, a different
attitude in these animals toward us. In this Reservation, and nowhere
else at present in the northwest, the wild things are not only abundant,
but they have resumed their traditional Garden-of-Eden attitude toward
man.
They come out in the daylight, they are harmless, and they are not
afraid at one's approach. Truly this is ideal, a paradise for the
naturalist and the camera hunter.
The region first won fame for its Canyon, its Cataracts and its Geysers,
but I think its animal life has attracted more travellers than even the
landscape beauties. I know it was solely the joy of being among the
animals that led me to spend all one summer and part of another season
in the Wonderland of the West.
My adventures in making these studies among the fourfoots have been very
small adventures indeed; the thrillers are few and far between. Any one
can go and have the same or better experiences to-day. But I give them
as they happened, and if they furnish no ground for hair-lifting
emotions, they will at least show what I was after and how I went.
I have aimed to show something of the little aspects of the creatures'
lives, which are those that the ordinary traveller will see; I go with
him indeed, pointing out my friends as they chance to pass, adding a few
comments that should make for a better acquaintance on all sides. And I
have offered glimpses, wherever possible, of the wild thing in its home,
embodying in these chapters the substance of many lectures given under
the same title as this book.
The cover design is by my wife, Grace Gallatin Seton. She was with me in
most of the experiences narrated and had a larger share in every part of
the work than might be inferred from the mere text.
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.
Contents
PAGE
=I. The Cute Coyote= 1
An Exemplary Little Beast, My Friend the Coyote 3
The Prairie-dog Outwitted 5
The Coyote's Sense of Humour 8
His Distinguishing Gift 11
The Coyote's Song 13
=II. The Prairie-dog and His Kin= 17
Merry Yek-Yek and His Life of Troubles 19
The Whistler in the Rocks 22
The Pack-rat and His Museum 23
A Free Trader 25
The Upheaver--The Mole-Gopher 27
=III. Famous Fur-bearers--Fox, Marten, Beaver and Otter= 29
The Most Wonderful Fur in the World 32
The Poacher and the Silver Fox 35
The Villain in Velvet--The Marten 47
The Industrious Beaver 48
The Dam 51
The Otter and His Slide 52
=IV. Horns and Hoofs and Legs of Speed= 55
The Bounding Blacktail 57
The Mother Blacktail's Race for Life 59
The Blacktail's Safety Is in the Hills 62
The Elk or Wapiti--The Noblest of all Deer 63
Stalking a Band of Elk 64
The Bugling Elk 66
Snapping a Charging Bull 69
The Hoodoo Cow 72
The Moose--The Biggest of all Deer 75
My Partner's Moose-hunt 76
The Siren Call 77
The Biggest of Our Game--The Buffalo 80
The Shrunken Range 81
The Doomed Antelope and His Heliograph 83
The Rescued Bighorn 85
=V. Bats in the Devil's Kitchen= 89
=VI. The Well-meaning Skunk= 95
His Smell-gun 98
The Cruelty of Steel Traps 99
Friendliness of the Skunk 100
Photographing Skunks at Short Range 101
We Share the Shanty with the Skunks 103
The Skunk and the Unwise Bobcat 104
My Pet Skunks 106
=VII. Old Silver-grizzle--The Badger= 111
The Valiant Harmless Badger 112
His Sociable Bent 115
The Story of the Kindly Badger 116
The Evil One 118
The Badger that Rescued the Boy 119
Finding the Lost One 123
Home Again 125
The Human Brute 129
=VIII. The Squirrel and His Jerky-tail Brothers= 133
The Cheeky Pine Squirrel 134
Chipmunks and Ground-squirrels 137
The Ground-squirrel that Plays Picket-pin 137
Chink and the Picket-pins 139
Chipmunks 141
The Ground-squirrel that Pretends It's a Chipmunk 142
A Four-legged Bird--The Northern Chipmunk 143
A Striped Pigmy--The Least Chipmunk 147
=IX. The Rabbits and Their Habits= 151
Molly Cottontail--The Clever Freezer 152
The Rabbit that Wears Snowshoes 154
The Terror of the Mountain Trails 156
Bunny's Ride 158
The Rabbit Dance 160
The Ghost Rabbit 163
A Narrow-gauge Mule--The Prairie Hare 164
The Bump of Moss that Squeaks 165
The Weatherwise Coney 169
His Safety Is in the Rocks 171
=X. Ghosts of the Campfire= 175
The Jumping Mouse 177
The Calling Mouse 179
=XI. Sneak-cats, Big and Small= 185
The Bobcat or Mountain Wildcat 186
Misunderstood--The Canada Lynx 187
The Shyest Thing in the Woods 189
The Time I Met a Lion 191
In Peril of My Life 194
The Dangerous Night Visitor 196
=XII. Bears of High and Low Degree= 201
The Different Kinds of Bears 202
Bear-trees 203
A Peep Into Bear Family Life 204
The Day at the Garbage Pile 208
Lonesome Johnny 210
Further Annals of the Sanctuary 210
The Grizzly and the Can 216
=Appendix: Mammals of Yellowstone Park= 221
List of Half-tone Plates
A Prairie-dog town _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Chink's adventures with the Coyote and the Picket-pin 8
(a) The Whistler watching me from the rocks
(b) A young Whistler 9
Red Fox 32
Foxes quarrelling 33
Beaver 48
Mule-deer 49
Blacktail Family 60
Blacktail mother with her twins 61
A young investigator among the Deer at Fort Yellowstone 64
Elk in Wyoming 65
Elk on the Yellowstone in Winter 68
The first shots at the Hoodoo Cow 69
The last shots at the Hoodoo Cow 76
Elk on the Yellowstone 77
Moose--The Widow 80
Buffalo groups 81
Near Yellowstone Gate 84
Mountain Sheep on Mt. Evarts 85
Track record of Bobcat's adventure with a Skunk 98
The six chapters of the Bobcat's adventure 102
My tame Skunks 103
Red-squirrel storing mushrooms for winter use 134
Chink stalking the Picket-pin 135
The Snowshoe Hare is a cross between a Rabbit and a Snowdrift 150
The Cottontail freezing 151
The Baby Cottontail that rode twenty miles in my hat 162
Snowshoe Rabbits dancing in the light of the lantern 163
Snowshoe Rabbits fascinated by the lantern 170
The Ghost Rabbit 171
The Coney or Calling Hare 178
The Coney barns full of hay stored for winter use 179
(a) Tracks of Deer escaping and (b) Tracks of Mountain Lion
in pursuit 186
The Mountain Lion sneaking around us as we sleep 187
Sketch of the Bear Family as made on the spot 198
Two pages from my journal in the garbage heap 199
While I sketched the Bears, a brother camera-hunter
was stalking me without my knowledge 206
One meets the Bears at nearly every turn in the woods 207
The shyer ones take to a tree, if one comes too near 210
Clifford B. Harmon feeding a Bear 211
The Bears at feeding time 218
(a) Tom Newcomb pointing out the bear's mark,
(b) E. T. Seton feeding a Bear 219
Johnnie Bear: his sins and his troubles 222
Johnnie happy at last 223
* * * * *
I
The Cute Coyote
* * * * *
I
The Cute Coyote
AN EXEMPLARY LITTLE BEAST, MY FRIEND THE COYOTE
If you draw a line around the region that is, or was, known as the Wild
West, you will find that you have exactly outlined the kingdom of the
Coyote. He is even yet found in every part of it, but, unlike his big
brother the Wolf, he never frequented the region known as Eastern
America.
This is one of the few wild creatures that you can see from the train.
Each time I have come to the Yellowstone Park I have discovered the
swift gray form of the Coyote among the Prairie-dog towns along the
River flat between Livingstone and Gardiner, and in the Park itself have
seen him nearly every day, and heard him every night without exception.
[Illustration]
Coyote (pronounced _Ky-o'-tay_, and in some regions _Ky-ute_) is a
native Mexican contribution to the language, and is said to mean
"halfbreed," possibly suggesting that the Coyote looks like a cross
between the Fox and the Wolf. Such an origin would be a very
satisfactory clue to his character, for he does seem to unite in himself
every possible attribute in the mental make-up of the other two that can
contribute to his success in life.
He is one of the few Park animals not now protected, for the excellent
reasons, first that he is so well able to protect himself, second he is
even already too numerous, third he is so destructive among the
creatures that he can master. He is a beast of rare cunning; some of the
Indians call him God's dog or Medicine dog. Some make him the embodiment
of the Devil, and some going still further, in the light of their larger
experience, make the Coyote the Creator himself seeking amusement in
disguise among his creatures, just as did the Sultan in the "Arabian
Nights."
[Illustration]
The naturalist finds the Coyote interesting for other reasons. When you
see that sleek gray and yellow form among the mounds of the Prairie-dog,
at once creating a zone of blankness and silence by his very presence as
he goes, remember that he is hunting for something to eat; also, that
there is another, his mate, not far away. For the Coyote is an
exemplary and moral little beast who has only one wife; he loves her
devotedly, and they fight the life battle together. Not only is there
sure to be a mate close by, but that mate, if invisible, is likely to be
playing a game, a very clever game as I have seen it played.
Furthermore, remember there is a squealing brood of little Coyotes in
the home den up on a hillside a mile or two away. Father and mother must
hunt continually and successfully to furnish their daily food. The
dog-towns are their game preserves, but how are they to catch a
Prairie-dog! Every one knows that though these little yapping
Ground-squirrels will sit up and bark at an express train but twenty
feet away, they scuttle down out of sight the moment a man, dog or
Coyote enters into the far distant precincts of their town; and
downstairs they stay in the cyclone cellar until after a long interval
of quiet that probably proves the storm to be past. Then they poke their
prominent eyes above the level, and, if all is still, will softly hop
out and in due course, resume their feeding.
THE PRAIRIE-DOG OUTWITTED
[Illustration]
This is how the clever Coyote utilizes these habits. He and his wife
approach the dog-town unseen. One Coyote hides, then the other walks
forward openly into the town. There is a great barking of all the
Prairie-dogs as they see their enemy approach, but they dive down when
he is amongst them. As soon as they are out of sight the second Coyote
rushes forward and hides near any promising hole that happens to have
some sort of cover close by. Meanwhile, Coyote number one strolls on.
The Prairie-dogs that he scared below come up again. At first each puts
up the top of his head merely, with his eyes on bumps, much like those
of a hippopotamus, prominent and peculiarly suited for this observation
work from below, as they are the first things above ground. After a
brief inspection, if all be quiet, he comes out an inch more. Now he can
look around, the coast is clear, so he sits up on the mound and scans
his surroundings.
[Illustration]
Yes! Ho! Ho! he sees his enemy, that hated Coyote, strolling away off
beyond the possibility of doing harm. His confidence is fully restored
as the Coyote gets smaller in the distance and the other Prairie-dogs
coming out seem to endorse his decision and give him renewed confidence.
After one or two false starts, he sets off to feed. This means go ten or
twenty feet from the door of his den, for all the grass is eaten off
near home.
[Illustration]
Among the herbage he sits up high to take a final look around, then
burying his nose in the fodder, he begins his meal. This is the chance
that the waiting, watching, she-Coyote counted on. There is a flash of
gray fur from behind that little grease bush; in three hops she is upon
him. He takes alarm at the first sound and tries to reach the haven
hole, but she snaps him up. With a shake she ends his troubles. He
hardly knows the pain of death, then she bounds away on her back track
to the home den on the distant hillside. She does not come near it
openly and rashly. There is always the possibility of such an approach
betraying the family to some strong enemy on watch. She circles around a
little, scrutinizes the landscape, studies the tracks and the wind, then
comes to the door by more or less devious hidden ways. The sound of a
foot outside is enough to make the little ones cower in absolute
silence, but mother reassures them with a whining call much like that of
a dog mother. They rush out, tumbling over each other in their glee, six
or seven in number usually, but sometimes as high as ten or twelve.
Eagerly they come, and that fat Prairie-dog lasts perhaps three minutes,
at the end of which time nothing is left but the larger bones with a
little Coyote busy polishing each of them. Strewn about the door of the
den are many other kindred souvenirs, the bones of Ground-squirrels,
Chipmunks, Rabbits, Grouse, Sheep, and Fawns, with many kinds of
feathers, fur, and hair, to show the great diversity of Coyote diet.
[Illustration]
THE COYOTE'S SENSE OF HUMOUR
To understand the Coyote fully one must remember that he is simply a
wild dog, getting his living by his wits, and saving his life by the
tireless serviceability of his legs; so has developed both these gifts
to an admirable pitch of perfection. He is blessed further with a gift
of music and a sense of humour.
When I lived at Yancey's, on the Yellowstone, in 1897, I had a good
example of the latter, and had it daily for a time. The dog attached to
the camp on the inner circle was a conceited, irrepressible little puppy
named Chink. He was so full of energy, enthusiasm, and courage that
there was no room left in him for dog-sense. But it came after a vast
number of humiliating experiences.
[Illustration]
A Coyote also had attached himself to the camp, but on the outer circle.
At first he came out by night to feed on the garbage pile, but realizing
the peace of the Park he became bolder and called occasionally by day.
Later he was there every day, and was often seen sitting on a ridge a
couple of hundred yards away.
[Illustration: II. Chink's adventures with the Coyote and the Picket-pin
_Sketches by E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: IV. (a) The Whistler watching me from the rocks.
_Photo by E. T. Seton_
(b) A young Whistler
_Photo by G. G. Seton_]
One day he was sitting much nearer and grinning in Coyote fashion, when
one of the campers in a spirit of mischief said to the dog, "Chink, you
see that Coyote out there grinning at you. Go and chase him out of
that."
Burning to distinguish himself, that pup set off at full speed, and
every time he struck the ground he let off a war-whoop. Away went the
Coyote and it looked like a good race to us, and to the Picket-pin
Ground-squirrels that sat up high on their mounds to rejoice in the
spectacle of these, their enemies, warring against each other.
The Coyote has a way of slouching along, his tail dangling and tangling
with his legs, and his legs loose-jointed, mixing with his tail. He
doesn't seem to work hard but oh! how he does cover the prairie! And
very soon it was clear that in spite of his magnificent bounds and
whoops of glory, Chink was losing ground. A little later the Coyote
obviously had to slack up to keep from running away altogether. It had
seemed a good race for a quarter of a mile, but it was nothing to the
race which began when the Coyote turned on Chink. Uttering a gurgling
growl, a bark, and a couple of screeches, he closed in with all the
combined fury of conscious might and right, pitted against unfair
unprovoked attack.
And Chink had a rude awakening; his war-whoops gave place to yelps of
dire distress, as he wheeled and made for home. But the Coyote could run
all around him, and nipped him, here and there, and when he would, and
seemed to be cracking a series of good jokes at Chink's expense, nor
ever stopped till the ambitious one of boundless indiscretion was hidden
under his master's bed.
This seemed very funny at the time, and I am afraid Chink did not get
the sympathy he was entitled to, for after all he was merely carrying
out orders. But he made up his mind that from that time on, orders or no
orders, he would let Coyotes very much alone. They were not so easy as
they looked.
[Illustration]
The Coyote, however, had discovered a new amusement. From that day he
simply "laid" for that little dog, and if he found him a hundred yards
or so from camp, would chase and race him back in terror to some
shelter. At last things got so bad that if we went for a ride even, and
Chink followed us, the Coyote would come along, too, and continue his
usual amusement.
At first it was funny, and then it became tedious, and at last it was
deeply resented by Chink's master. A man feels for his dog; he wasn't
going to stand still and see his dog abused. He began to grumble vaguely
about "If something didn't happen pretty soon, something else would."
Just what he meant I didn't ask, but I know that the Coyote disappeared
one day, and never was seen or heard of again. I'm not supposed to know
any thing about it, but I have my suspicions, although in those days the
Coyote was a protected animal.
HIS DISTINGUISHING GIFT
The scientific name of the Coyote (_Canis latrans_), literally "Barking
Dog," is given for the wonderful yapping chorus with which they seldom
fail to announce their presence in the evening, as they gather at a safe
distance from the campfire. Those not accustomed to the sound are very
ready to think that they are surrounded by a great pack of ravening
Wolves, and get a sufficiently satisfactory thrill of mingled emotions
at the sound. But the guide will reassure you by saying that that great
pack of howling Wolves is nothing more than a harmless little Coyote,
perhaps two, singing their customary vesper song, demonstrating their
wonderful vocal powers. Their usual music begins with a few growling,
gurgling yaps which are rapidly increased in volume and heightened in
pitch, until they rise into a long squall or scream, which again, as it
dies away, breaks up into a succession of yaps and gurgles. Usually one
Coyote begins it, and the others join in with something like agreement
on the scream.
I believe I never yet camped in the West without hearing this from the
near hills when night time had come. Last September I even heard it back
of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel, and I must say I have learned to love
it. It is a wild, thrilling, beautiful song. Our first camp was at
Yancey's last summer and just after we had all turned in, the Coyote
chorus began, a couple of hundred yards from the camp. My wife sat up
and exclaimed, "Isn't it glorious? now I know we are truly back in the
West."
The Park authorities are making great efforts to reduce the number of
Coyotes because of their destructiveness to the young game, but an
animal that is endowed with extraordinary wits, phenomenal speed,
unexcelled hardihood, and marvellous fecundity, is not easily downed. I
must confess that if by any means they should succeed in exterminating
the Coyote in the West, I should feel that I had lost something of very
great value. I never fail to get that joyful thrill when the "Medicine
Dogs" sing their "Medicine Song" in the dusk, or the equally weird and
thrilling chorus with which they greet the dawn; for they have a large
repertoire and a remarkable register. The Coyote is indeed the Patti of
the Plains.
THE COYOTE'S SONG[A]
I am the Coyote that sings each night at dark;
It was by gobbling prairie-dogs that I got such a bark.
At least a thousand prairie-dogs I fattened on, you see,
And every bark they had in them is reproduced in me.
_Refrain_:
I can sing to thrill your soul or pierce it like a lance,
And all I ask of you to do is give me half a chance.
With a yap--yap--yap for the morning
And a yoop--yoop--yoop for the night
And a yow--wow--wow for the rising moon
And a yah-h-h-h for the campfire light.
Yap--yoop--yow--yahhh!
I gathered from the howling winds, the frogs and crickets too,
And so from each availing fount, my inspiration drew.
I warbled till the little birds would quit their native bush.
And squat around me on the ground in reverential hush.
_Refrain_:
I'm a baritone, soprano, and a bass and tenor, too.
I can thrill and slur and frill and whirr and shake you through
and through.
I'm a Jews' harp--I'm an organ--I'm a fiddle and a flute.
Every kind of touching sound is found in the coyoot.
_Refrain_:
I'm a whooping howling wilderness, a sort of Malibran.
With Lind, Labache and Melba mixed and all combined in one.
I'm a grand cathedral organ and a calliope sharp,
I'm a gushing, trembling nightingale, a vast AEolian harp.
_Refrain_:
I can raise the dead or paint the town, or pierce you like a lance
And all I ask of you to do is to give me half a chance.
Etc., etc., etc.
(Encore verses)
Although I am a miracle, I'm not yet recognized.
Oh, when the world does waken up how highly I'll be prized.
Then managers and vocal stars--and emperors effete
Shall fling their crowns, their money bags, their persons, at my
feet.
_Refrain_:
I'm the voice of all the Wildest West, the Patti of the Plains;
I'm a wild Wagnerian opera of diabolic strains;
I'm a roaring, ranting orchestra with lunatics be-crammed;
I'm a vocalized tornado--I'm the shrieking of the damned.
_Refrain_:
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: All rights reserved.]
* * * * *
II
The Prairie-dog and His Kin
* * * * *
II
The Prairie-dog and His Kin
MERRY YEK-YEK AND HIS LIFE OF TROUBLES
The common Prairie-dog is typical of the West, more so than the Buffalo
is, and its numbers, even now, rival those of the Buffalo in its
palmiest days. I never feel that I am truly back on the open range till
I hear their call and see the Prairie-dogs once more upon their mounds.
As you travel up the Yellowstone Valley from Livingstone to Gardiner you
may note in abundance this "dunce of the plains." The "dog-towns" are
frequent along the railway, and at each of the many burrows you see from
one to six of the inmates. As you come near Gardiner there is a steady
rise of the country, and somewhere near the edge of the Park the
elevation is such that it imposes one of those mysterious barriers to
animal extension which seem to be as impassable as they are invisible.
The Prairie-dog range ends near the Park gates. General George S.
Anderson tells me, however, that individuals are occasionally found on
the flats along the Gardiner River, but always near the gate, and never
elsewhere in the Park. On this basis, then, the Prairie-dog is entered
as a Park animal.
[Illustration]
It is, of course, a kind of Ground-squirrel. The absurd name "dog"
having been given on account of its "bark." This call is a high-pitched
"yek-yek-yek-yeeh," uttered as an alarm cry while the creature sits up
on the mound by its den, and every time it "yeks" it jerks up its tail.
Old timers will tell you that the Prairie-dog's voice is tied to its
tail, and prove it by pointing out that one is never raised without the
other.
As we have seen, the Coyote looks on the dog-town much as a cow does on
a field of turnips or alfalfa--a very proper place, to seek for
wholesome, if commonplace, sustenance. But Coyotes are not the only
troubles in the life of Yek-yek.
Ancient books and interesting guides will regale the traveller with most
acceptable stories about the Prairie-dog, Rattlesnake, and the Burrowing
Owl, all living in the same den on a basis of brotherly love and
Christian charity; having effected, it would seem, a limited partnership
and a most satisfactory division of labour: the Prairie-dog is to dig
the hole, the Owl to mount sentry and give warning of all danger, and
the Rattler is to be ready to die at his post as defender of the
Prairie-dog's young. This is pleasing if true.
There can be no doubt that at times all three live in the same burrow,
and in dens that the hard-working rodent first made. But the simple fact
is that the Owl and the Snake merely use the holes abandoned (perhaps
under pressure) by the Prairie-dog; and if any two of the three
underground worthies happen to meet in the same hole, the fittest
survives. I suspect further that the young of each kind are fair game
and acceptable, dainty diet to each of the other two.
[Illustration]
Farmers consider Prairie-dogs a great nuisance; the damage they do to
crops is estimated at millions per annum. The best way to get rid of
them, practically the only way, is by putting poison down each and every
hole in the town, which medieval Italian mode has become the accepted
method in the West.
Poor helpless little Yek-yek, he has no friends; his enemies and his
list of burdens increase. The prey of everything that preys, he yet
seems incapable of any measure of retaliation. The only visible joy in
his life is his daily hasty meal of unsucculent grass, gathered between
cautious looks around for any new approaching trouble, and broken by so
many dodges down the narrow hole that his ears are worn off close to his
head. Could any simpler, smaller pleasure than his be discovered? Yet he
is fat and merry; undoubtedly he enjoys his every day on earth, and is
as unwilling as any of us to end the tale. We can explain him only if we
credit him with a philosophic power to discover happiness within in
spite of all the cold unfriendly world about him.
THE WHISTLER IN THE ROCKS
[Illustration]
When the far-off squirrel ancestor of Yek-yek took to the plains for a
range, another of the family selected the rocky hills.
He developed bigger claws for the harder digging, redder colour for the
red-orange surroundings, and a far louder and longer cry for signalling
across the peaks and canyons, and so became the bigger, handsomer, more
important creature we call the Mountain Whistler, Yellow Marmot or
Orange Woodchuck.
In all of the rugged mountain parts of the Yellowstone one may hear his
peculiar, shrill whistle, especially in the warm mornings.
[Illustration]
You carefully locate the direction of the note and proceed to climb
toward it. You may have an hour's hard work before you sight the
orange-breasted Whistler among the tumbled mass of rocks that surround
his home, for it is a far-reaching sound, heard half a mile away at
times.
Those who know the Groundhog of the East would recognize in the Rock
Woodchuck its Western cousin, a little bigger, yellower, and brighter in
its colours, living in the rocks and blessed with a whistle that would
fill a small boy with envy. Now, lest the critical should object to the
combination name of "Rock Woodchuck," it is well to remind them that
"Woodchuck" has nothing to do with either "wood" or "chucking," but is
our corrupted form of an Indian name "Ot-choeck," which is sometimes
written also "We-jack."
In the ridge of broken rocks just back of Yancey's is a colony of the
Whistlers; and there as I sat sketching one day, with my camera at hand,
one poked his head up near me and gave me the pose that is seen in the
photograph.
THE PACK-RAT AND HIS MUSEUM
Among my school fellows was a boy named Waddy who had a mania for
collecting odds, ends, curios, bits of brass or china, shiny things,
pebbles, fungus, old prints, bones, business cards, carved peach stones,
twisted roots, distorted marbles, or freak buttons. Anything odd or
glittering was his especial joy. He had no theory about these things.
He did not do anything in particular with them. He found gratification
in spreading them out to gloat over, but I think his chief joy was in
the collecting. And when some comrade was found possessed of a novelty
that stirred his cupidity, the pleasure of planning a campaign to secure
possession, the working out of the details, and the glory of success,
were more to Waddy than any other form of riches or exploit.
[Illustration]
The Pack-rat is the Waddy of the mountains, or Waddy was the Pack-rat of
the school. Imagine, if you would picture the Pack-rat, a small creature
like a common rat, but with soft fur, a bushy tail, and soulful eyes,
living the life of an ordinary rat in the woods, except that it has an
extraordinary mania for collecting curios.
There can be little doubt that this began in the nest-building idea, and
then, because it was necessary to protect his home, cactus leaves and
thorny branches were piled on it. The instinct grew until to-day the
nest of a Pack-rat is a mass of rubbish from one to four feet high, and
four to eight feet across. I have examined many of these collections.
They are usually around the trunks in a clump of low trees, and consist
of a small central nest about eight inches across, warm and soft, with a
great mass of sticks and thorns around and over this, leaving a narrow
entrance well-guarded by an array of cactus spines; then on top of all,
a most wonderful collection of pine cones, shells, pebbles, bones,
scraps of paper and tin, and the skulls of other animals. And when the
owner can add to these works of art or vertu a brass cartridge, a buckle
or a copper rivet, his little bosom is doubtless filled with the same
high joy that any great collector might feel on securing a Raphael or a
Rembrandt.
I remember finding an old pipe in one Rat museum. Pistol cartridges are
eagerly sought after, so are saddle buckles, even if he has to cut them
surreptitiously from the saddle of some camper. And when any of these
articles are found missing it is usual to seek out the nearest Rat
house, and here commonly the stolen goods are discovered shamelessly
exposed on top. I remember hearing of a set of false teeth that were
lost in camp, but rescued in this very way.
A FREE TRADER
"Pack" is a Western word meaning "carry," and thus the Rat that carries
off things is the "Pack-rat." But it has another peculiarity. As though
it had a conscience disturbed by pilfering the treasure of another, it
often brings back what may be considered a fair exchange. Thus a
silver-plated spoon may have gone from its associate cup one night, but
in that cup you may find a long pine cone or a surplus nail, by which
token you may know that a Pack-rat has called and collected. Sometimes
this enthusiastic fancier goes off with food, but leaves something in
its place; in one case that I heard of, the Rat, either with a sense of
humour or a mistaken idea of food values, after having carried off the
camp biscuit, had filled the vacant dish with the round pellets known as
"Elk sign." But evidently there is a disposition to deal fair; not to
steal, but to trade. For this reason the creature is widely known as the
"Trade Rat."
[Illustration]
Although I have known the Pack-rat for years in the mountains, I never
saw one within the strict lines of the Yellowstone sanctuary. But the
guides all assure me that they are found and manifest the same
disposition here as elsewhere. So that if you should lose sundry bright
things around camp, or some morning find your boots stuffed with
pebbles, deer sign, or thorns, do not turn peevish or charge the guide
with folly; it means, simply, you have been visited by a Mountain Rat,
and any _un_eatables you miss will doubtless be found in his museum,
which will be discovered within a hundred yards--a mass of sticks and
rubbish under a tree--with some bright and shiny things on the top
where the owner can sit amongst them on sunny days, and gloat till his
little black eyes are a-swim, and his small heart filled with holy joy.
THE UPHEAVER--THE MOLE-GOPHER
[Illustration: Pack-rat nest]
As you cross any of the level, well-grassed prairie regions in the
Yellowstone you will see piles of soft earth thrown up in little
hillocks, sometimes a score or more of them bunched together. The
drivers will tell you that these are molehills, which isn't quite true.
For the Mole is a creature unknown in the Park, and the animal that
makes these mounds is exceedingly abundant. It is the common
Mole-gopher, a gopher related very distantly to the Prairie-dog and
Mountain Whistler, but living the underground life of a Mole, though not
even in the same order as that interesting miner, for the Mole-gopher is
a rodent (Order _Rodentia_) and the Mole a bug-eater (Order
_Insectivora_); just as different as Lion and Caribou.
The Mole-gopher is about the size of a rat, but has a short tail and
relatively immense forepaws and claws. It is indeed wonderfully
developed as a digger.
Examine the mound of earth thrown up. If it is a fair example, it will
make fully half a bushel. Next count the mounds that are within a
radius of fifty paces; probably all are the work of this Gopher, or
rather this pair, for they believe in team play.
Search over the ground carefully, and you will discern that there are
scores of ancient mounds flattened by the weather, and traces of
hundreds, perhaps, that date from remote years.
Now multiply the size of one mound by the number of mounds, and you will
have some idea of the work done by this pair. Finally, remembering that
there may be a pair of Gophers for every acre in the Park, estimate the
tons of earth moved by one pair and multiply it by the acres in the
Park, and you will get an idea of the work done by those energetic
rodents as a body, and you will realize how well he has won his Indian
name, the "Upheaver."
We are accustomed to talk of upheaval in geology as a frightful upset of
all nature, but here before our eyes is going on an upheaval of enormous
extent and importance, but so gently and pleasantly done that we enjoy
every phase of the process.
[Illustration: The Mole-gopher]
* * * * *
III
Famous Fur-bearers--
* * * * *
III
Famous Fur-bearers
FOX, MARTEN, BEAVER, AND OTTER
Fair Lady Multo Millionaire riding in the dusty stagecoach, comparing as
you go the canyons of the Yellowstone with memories of Colorado,
Overland, and Stalheim, you, in your winter home, know all about fur as
it enters your world with its beauty, its warmth, its price--its gauge
of the wearer's pocket. Let me add a segment of the circle to round your
knowledge out.
When nature peopled with our four-foot kin the cold north lands, it was
necessary to clothe these little brethren of ours in a coat that should
be absolutely warm, light, durable, of protective colour, thick in cold
weather, thin in warm. Under these conditions she produced _fur_, with
its densely woolly undercoat and its long, soft, shining outer coat, one
for warmth, the other for wet and wear. Some northern animals can store
up food in holes or in the fat of their bodies, so need not be out when
the intensest cold is on the land. Some have to face the weather all
winter, and in these we find the fur of its best quality. Of this class
are the Marten and the Northern Fox. They are the finest, warmest,
lightest, softest of all furs. But colour is a cardinal point when
beauty is considered and where fashion is Queen. So the choicest colours
are the soft olive brown with silver hairs, found in the Russian Sable,
and the glossy black with silver hairs, found in the true Silver Fox of
the North.
THE MOST WONDERFUL FUR IN THE WORLD
What is the Silver Fox? Simply a black freak, a brunette born into a
red-headed family. But this does not cast any reflection on the mother
or on father's lineage. On the contrary, it means that they had in them
an element of exceptional vigour, which resulted in a peculiar
intensifying of all pigments, transmuting red into black and carrying
with it an unusual vigour of growth and fineness of texture, producing,
in short, the world-famed Silver Fox, the lightest, softest, thickest,
warmest, and most lustrous of furs, the fur worth many times its weight
in gold, and with this single fault, that it does not stand long wear.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: V. Red Fox
_Captive; photo by E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: VI. Foxes quarrelling
_Captive; photo by E. T. Seton_]
Cold and exposure are wonderful stimulants of the skin, and so it is not
surprising that the real Silver Fox should appear only in very cold
climates. Owing to its elevation the Yellowstone Park has the winter
climate of northern Canada, and, as might have been predicted, the
Silver Fox occurs among the many red-headed or bleached blonde Foxes
that abound in the half open country.
You may travel all round the stage route and neither see nor hear a Fox,
but travel quietly on foot, or better, camp out, and you will soon
discover the crafty one in yellow, or, rather, he will discover you.
How? Usually after you have camped for the night and are sitting quietly
by the fire before the hour of sleep, a curious squall is heard from the
dark hillside or bushes, a squall followed by a bark like that of a toy
terrier. Sometimes it keeps on at intervals for five minutes, and
sometimes it is answered by a similar noise. This is the bark of a Fox.
It differs from the Coyote call in being very short, very squally, much
higher pitched, and without any barks in it that would do credit to a
fair-sized dog. It is no use to go after him. You won't see him. You
should rather sit and enjoy the truly wildwood ring of his music.
In the morning if you look hard in the dust and mud, you may find his
tracks, and once in a while you will see his yellow-brown form drifting
on the prairie as though wind-blown under sail of that enormous tail.
For this is the big-tailed variety of Red Fox.
But if you wish to see the Fox in all his glory you must be here in
winter, when the deep snow cutting off all other foods brings all the
Fox population about the hotels whose winter keepers daily throw out
scraps for which the Foxes, the Magpies, and a dozen other creatures
wait and fight.
From a friend, connected with one of the Park hotels during the early
'90's, I learned that among the big-tailed pensioners of the inn, there
appeared one winter a wonderful Silver Fox; and I heard many rumours
about that Fox. I was told that he disappeared, and did not die of
sickness, old age, or wild-beast violence; and what I heard I may tell
in a different form, only, be it remembered, the names of the persons
and places are disguised, as well as the date; and my informant may have
brought in details that belonged elsewhere. So that you are free to
question much of the account, but the backbone of it is not open to
doubt, and some of the guides in the Park can give you details that I do
not care to put on paper.
THE POACHER AND THE SILVER FOX
How is it that all mankind has a sneaking sympathy with a poacher? A
burglar or a pickpocket has our unmitigated contempt; he clearly is a
criminal; but you will notice that the poacher in the story is generally
a reckless dare-devil with a large and compensatory amount of
good-fellow in his make-up--yes, I almost said, of good citizenship. I
suppose, because in addition to the breezy, romantic character of his
calling, seasoned with physical danger as well as moral risk, there is
away down in human nature a strong feeling that, in spite of man-made
laws, the ancient ruling holds that "wild game belongs to no man till
some one makes it his property by capture." It may be wrong, it may be
right, but I have heard this doctrine voiced by red men and white, as
primitive law, once or twice; and have seen it lived up to a thousand
times.
Well, Josh Cree was a poacher. This does not mean that every night in
every month he went forth with nefarious tricks and tools, to steal the
flesh and fur that legally were not his. Far from it. Josh never poached
but once. But that's enough; he had crossed the line, and this is how it
came about:
As you roll up the Yellowstone from Livingston to Gardiner you may note
a little ranch-house on the west of the track with its log stables, its
corral, its irrigation ditch, and its alfalfa patch of morbid green. It
is a small affair, for it was founded by the handiwork of one honest
man, who with his wife and small boy left Pennsylvania, braved every
danger of the plains, and secured this claim in the late '80's. Old man
Cree--he was only forty, but every married man is "Old Man" in the
West--was ready to work at any honest calling from logging or sluicing
to grading and muling. He was strong and steady, his wife was steady and
strong. They saved their money, and little by little they got the small
ranch-house built and equipped; little by little they added to their
stock on the range with the cattle of a neighbour, until there came the
happy day when they went to live on their own ranch--father, mother, and
fourteen-year-old Josh, with every prospect of making it pay. The
spreading of that white tablecloth for the first time was a real
religious ceremony, and the hard workers gave thanks to the All-father
for His blessing on their every effort.
One year afterward a new event brought joy; there entered happily into
their happy house a little girl, and all the prairie smiled about them.
Surely their boat was well beyond the breakers.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
But right in the sunshine of their joy the trouble cloud arose to block
the sky. Old man Cree was missing one day. His son rode long and far on
the range for two hard days before he sighted a grazing pony, and down a
rocky hollow near, found his father, battered and weak, near death, with
a broken leg and a gash in his head.
He could only gasp "Water" as Josh hurried up, and the boy rushed off to
fill his hat at the nearest stream.
[Illustration]
They had no talk, for the father swooned after drinking, and Josh had to
face the situation; but he was Western trained. He stripped himself of
all spare clothing, and his father's horse of its saddle blanket; then,
straightening out the sick man, he wrapped him in the clothes and
blanket, and rode like mad for the nearest ranch-house. The neighbour, a
young man, came at once, with a pot to make tea, an axe, and a rope.
They found the older Cree conscious but despairing. A fire was made, and
hot tea revived him. Then Josh cut two long poles from the nearest
timber and made a stretcher, or travois, Indian fashion, the upper ends
fast to the saddle of a horse, while the other ends trailed on the
ground. Thus by a long, slow journey the wounded man got back. All he
had prayed for was to get home. Every invalid is sure that if only he
can get home all will soon be well. Mother was not yet strong, the baby
needed much care, but Josh was a good boy, and the loving best of all
was done for the sick one. His leg, set by the army surgeon of Fort
Yellowstone, was knit again after a month, but had no power. He had no
force; the shock of those two dire days was on him. The second month
went by, and still he lay in bed. Poor Josh was the man of the place
now, and between duties, indoors and out, he was worn body and soul.
Then it was clear they must have help. So Jack S---- was engaged at the
regular wages of $40 a month for outside work, and a year of struggle
went by, only to see John Cree in his grave, his cattle nearly all gone,
his widow and boy living in a house on which was still $500 of the
original mortgage. Josh was a brave boy and growing strong, but
unboyishly grave with the weight of care. He sold off the few cattle
that were left, and set about keeping the roof over his mother and baby
sister by working a truck farm for the market supplied by the summer
hotels of the Park, and managed to come out even. He would in time have
done well, but he could not get far enough ahead to meet that 10 per
cent mortgage already overdue.
The banker was not a hard man, but he was in the business for the
business. He extended the time, and waited for interest again and again,
but it only made the principal larger, and it seemed that the last ditch
was reached, that it would be best to let the money-man foreclose,
though that must mean a wipe-out and would leave the fatherless family
homeless.
[Illustration]
Winter was coming on, work was scarce, and Josh went to Gardiner to see
what he could get in the way of house or wage. He learned of a chance to
'substitute' for the Park mail-carrier, who had sprained his foot. It
was an easy drive to Fort Yellowstone, and there he readily agreed, when
they asked him, to take the letters and packages and go on farther to
the Canyon Hotel. Thus it was that on the 20th day of November 189--,
Josh Cree, sixteen years old, tall and ruddy, rode through the snow to
the kitchen door of the Canyon Hotel and was welcomed as though he were
old Santa Claus himself.
[Illustration]
Two Magpies on a tree were among the onlookers. The Park Bears were
denned up, but there were other fur-bearers about. High on the wood-pile
sat a Yellow Red Fox in a magnificent coat. Another was in front of the
house, and the keeper said that as many as a dozen came some days. And
sometimes, he said, there also came a wonderful Silver Fox, a size
bigger than the rest, black as coal, with eyes like yellow diamonds, and
a silver frosting like little stars on his midnight fur.
"My! but he's a beauty. That skin would buy the best team of mules on
the Yellowstone." That was interesting and furnished talk for a while.
In the morning when they were rising for their candlelight breakfast,
the hotel man glancing from the window exclaimed, "Here he is now!" and
Josh peered forth to see in the light of sunrise something he had often
heard of, but never before seen, a coal-black Fox, a giant among his
kind. How slick and elegant his glossy fur, how slim his legs, and what
a monstrous bushy tail; and the other Foxes moved aside as the patrician
rushed in impatient haste to seize the food thrown out by the cook.
"Ain't he a beauty?" said the hotel man. "I'll bet that pelt would fetch
five hundred."
Oh, why did he say "five hundred," the exact sum, for then it was that
the tempter entered into Josh Cree's heart. Five hundred dollars! just
the amount of the mortgage. "Who owns wild beasts? The man that kills
them," said the tempter, and the thought was a live one in his breast as
Josh rode back to Fort Yellowstone.
[Illustration]