That is familiar to all,[B] but it is well to remind the reader that it
was inevitable. The land was, or would be, needed for human settlement,
with which the Buffalo herds were incompatible; only we brought it on
forty or fifty years before it was necessary. "Could we not save the
Buffalo as range-cattle?" is the question that most ask. The answer is:
It has been tried a hundred times and all attempts have been eventually
frustrated by the creature's temper. Buffalo, male or female, are always
more or less dangerous; they cannot be tamed or trusted. They are always
subject to stampede, and once started, nothing, not even sure
destruction, stops them; so in spite of their suitability to the
climate, their hardihood, their delicious meat, and their valuable
robes, the attempts at domesticating the Buffalo have not yet been made
a success.
[Illustration]
A small herd of a dozen or so is kept in a fenced range near the Mammoth
Hot Springs, where the traveller should not fail to try for pictures,
and with them he will see the cowbirds, that in some regions replace the
true buffalo-birds. Perched on their backs or heads or running around
them on the ground are these cattle birds as of yore, like boats around
a man-o'-war, or sea-gulls around a whale; living their lives, snapping
up the tormenting flies, and getting in return complete protection from
every creature big enough to seem a menace in the eyes of the old time
King of the Plains.
THE DOOMED ANTELOPE AND HIS HELIOGRAPH
The Antelope, or Pronghorn, is one of the most peculiar animals in the
world. It is the only known ruminant that has hollow horns on a bony
core as with cattle, and also has them branched and shed each year as in
the Deer.
It is a creature of strangely mixed characteristics, for it has the feet
of a Giraffe, the glands of a goat, the coat of a Deer, the horns of an
ox and Deer combined, the eyes of a Gazelle, the build of an Antelope,
and--the speed of the wind. It is the swiftest four-footed creature
native to the plains, and so far as known there is nothing but a blooded
race horse that can outrun it on a mile.
But the peculiarity that is most likely to catch the eye of the
traveller is the white disc on its rear.
[Illustration: The Heliograph]
The first day I was in the Yellowstone I was riding along the upland
beyond Blacktail Creek with T. E. Hofer. Miles away to the southeast we
saw some white specks showing, flashing and disappearing. Then as far to
the northeasterly we saw others. Hofer now remarked, "Two bunches of
Antelope." Then later there were flashes _between_ and we knew that
these two bands had come together. How?
When you have a chance in a zoo or elsewhere to watch Antelope at short
range you will see the cause of these flashes. By means of a circular
muscle on each buttock they can erect the white hair of the rump patch
into a large, flat, snow-white disc which shines in the sun, and
shows afar as a bright white spot.
[Illustration: XX. Near Yellowstone Gate: (a) Antelope _Photo by F. Jay
Haynes_
(b) Captive Wolf _Photo by E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: XXI. Mountain Sheep on Mt. Evarts
_Photo by E. T. Seton_]
This action is momentary or very brief; the spread disc goes down again
in a few seconds. The flash is usually a signal of danger, although it
answers equally well for a recognition mark.
In 1897 the Antelope in the Park were estimated at 1,500. Now they have
dwindled to about one third of that, and, in spite of good protection,
continue to go down. They do not flourish when confined even in a large
area, and we have reason to fear that one of the obscure inexorable laws
of nature is working now to shelve the Antelope with the creatures that
have passed away. A small band is yet to be seen wintering on the
prairie near Gardiner.
THE RESCUED BIGHORN
At one time the Bighorn abounded along all the rivers where there was
rough land as far east as the western edge of the Dakotas, westerly to
the Cascades, and in the mountains from Mexico and Southern California
to Alaska.
In one form or another the Mountain Sheep covered this large region, and
it is safe to say that in the United States alone their numbers were
millions. But the dreadful age of the repeating rifle and lawless
skin-hunter came on, till the end of the last century saw the Bighorn in
the United States reduced to a few hundreds; they were well along the
sunset trail.
But the New York Zooelogical Society, the Camp Fire Club, and other
societies of naturalists and sportsmen, bestirred themselves mightily.
They aroused all thinking men to the threatening danger of extinction;
good laws were passed and then enforced. The danger having been
realized, the calamity was averted, and now the Sheep are on the
increase in many parts of the West.
During the epoch of remorseless destruction the few survivors were the
wildest of wild things; they would not permit the approach of a man
within a mile. But our new way of looking at the Bighorn has taught them
a new way of looking at us, as every traveller in Colorado or the
protected parts of Wyoming will testify.
In 1897 I spent several months rambling on the upper ranges of the
Yellowstone Park, and I saw not a single Sheep, although it was
estimated that there were nearly a hundred of the scared fugitives
hiding and flying among the rocks.
[Illustration]
In 1912 it was believed that in spite of poachers, Cougars, snow slides,
and scab contracted from domestic sheep, the Bighorn in the Yellowstone
Park had increased to considerably over two hundred, and the traveller
can find them with fair certainty if he will devote a few days to the
quest around Mt. Evarts, Washburn, or the well-known ranges.
[Illustration]
In September, 1912, I left Gardiner with Tom Newcomb's outfit. I was
riding at the end of the procession watching in all directions, when far
up on the slide rock I caught sight of a Sheep. A brief climb brought me
within plain though not near view, to learn that there were half a dozen
at least, and I took a few shots with my camera. I think there were many
more hidden in the tall sage behind, but I avoided alarming them, so did
not find out.
There were neither rams nor lambs with this herd of ewes. The rams keep
their own company all summer and live, doubtless, far higher in the
mountains.
On Mt. Washburn a week later I had the luck to find a dozen ewes with
their lambs; but the sky was dark with leaden clouds and the light so
poor that I got no good results.
In winter, as I learn from Colonel Brett, the Sheep are found in small
bands between the Mammoth Hot Springs and Gardiner, for there is good
feed there, and far less snow than in the upper ranges. I have just
heard that this winter four great rams are seen there every day with
about forty other Sheep; and they are so tame that one can get pictures
within ten feet if desired. Alas! that I have to be so far away with
such thrilling opportunities going to waste.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote B: See "Life Histories of Northern Animals," by E. T. Seton.]
* * * * *
V
Bats in the Devil's Kitchen
* * * * *
V
Bats in the Devil's Kitchen
It is unfortunate that the average person has a deep prejudice against
the Bat. Without looking or thinking for himself, he accepts a lot of
absurd tales about the winged one, and passes them on and on, never
caring for the injustice he does or the pleasure he loses. I have loved
the Bat ever since I came to know him; that is, all my mature life. He
is the climax of creation in many things, highly developed in brain,
marvellously keen in senses, clad in exquisite fur and equipped, above
all, with the crowning glory of flight. He is the prototype and the
realization of the Fairy of the Wood we loved so much as children, and
so hated to be robbed of by grown-ups, who should have known better.
I would give a good deal to have a Bat colony where I could see it
daily, and would go a long way to meet some new kind of Bat.
[Illustration]
I never took much interest in caverns, or geysers, or in any of the
abominable cavities of the earth that nature so plainly meant to keep
hidden from our eyes. I shall not forget the unpleasant sensations I had
when first, in 1897, I visited the Yellowstone Wonderland and stood
gazing at that abominable Mud Geyser, which is even worse to-day. The
entry in my journal of the time runs thus:
"The Mud Geyser is unlike anything that can be seen elsewhere. One hears
about the bowels of the earth; this surely is the end of one of them.
They talk of the mouth of hell; this is the mouth with a severe fit of
vomiting. The filthy muck is spewed from an unseen gullet at one side
into a huge upright mouth with sounds of oozing, retching and belching.
Then as quickly reswallowed with noises expressive of loathing on its
own part, while noxious steam spreads disgusting, unpleasant odours all
around. The whole process is quickly repeated, and goes on and on, and
has gone on for ages, and will go. And yet one feels that this is merely
the steam vent outside of the huge factory where all the actual work is
being done. One does not really see the thing at all, but only stands
outside the building where it is going on. One never wishes to see it a
second time. All are disgusted by it, but all are fascinated."
* * * * *
No, I like them not. I have a natural antipathy to the internal
arrangements of Mother Earth. I might almost say a delicacy about gazing
on such exposure. Anyhow, we shall all get underground soon enough; and
I usually drop off when our party prepares to explore dark, horrible,
smelly underground places that have no possible claim (I hold) for the
normal being of healthy instincts.
But near the Mammoth Hot Springs is a hellhole that did attract me. It
is nothing else than the stuffy, blind alley known as the Devil's
Kitchen. There is no cooking going on at present, probably because it is
not heated up enough, but there is a peculiarly hot, close feeling
suggestive of the Monkey house in an old-time zoo. I went down this, not
that I was interested in the Satanic cuisine, but because my ancient
antipathy was routed by my later predilection--I was told that Bats
"occurred" in the kitchen. Sure enough, I found them, half a dozen, so
far as one could tell in the gloom, and thanks to the Park
Superintendent, Colonel L. M. Brett, I secured a specimen which, to my
great surprise, turned out to be the long-eared Bat, a Southern species
never before discovered north of Colorado. It will be interesting to
know whether they winter here or go south, as do many of their kin. They
would have to go a long way before they would find another bedroom so
warm and safe. Even if they go as far as the equator, with its warmth
and its pests, they would probably have reason to believe that the
happiest nights of their lives were those spent in the Devil's Kitchen.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
VI
The Well-meaning Skunk
* * * * *
VI
The Well-meaning Skunk
[Illustration]
I have a profound admiration for the Skunk. Indeed, I once maintained
that this animal was the proper emblem of America. It is, first of all,
peculiar to this continent. It has stars on its head and stripes on its
body. It is an ideal citizen; minds its own business, harms no one, and
is habitually inoffensive, as long as it is left alone; but it will face
any one or any number when aroused. It has a wonderful natural ability
to take the offensive; and no man ever yet came to grips with a Skunk
without being sadly sorry for it afterward.
Nevertheless, in spite of all this, and the fact that several other
countries have prior claims on the Eagle, I could not secure, for my
view, sufficient popular support to change the national emblem.
From Atlantic to Pacific and from Mexico far north into the wilds of
Canada the Skunk is found, varying with climate in size and colour
indeed, but everywhere the same in character and in mode of defense.
It abounds in the broken country that lies between forest and prairie,
but seems to avoid the thicker woods as well as the higher peaks.
In Yellowstone Park it is not common, but is found occasionally about
Mammoth Hot Springs and Yancey's, at which latter place I had much
pleasant acquaintance with its kind.
HIS SMELL-GUN
Every one knows that the animal can make a horrible smell in defending
itself, but most persons do not realize what the smell is, or how it is
made. First of all, and this should be in capitals, it has nothing at
all to do with the kidneys or with the sex organs. It is simply a highly
specialized musk secreted by a gland, or rather, a pair of them, located
under the tail. It is used for defense when the Skunk is in peril of his
life, or thinks he is. But a Skunk may pass his whole life without using
it.
[Illustration]
He can throw it to a distance of seven to ten feet according to his
power or the wind. If it reaches the eyes of his assailant it blinds him
temporarily. If it enters his mouth it sets up a frightful nausea. If
the vapour gets into his lungs, it chokes as well as nauseates. There
are cases on record of men and dogs being permanently blinded by this
awful spray. And there is one case of a boy being killed by it.
Most Americans know somewhat of its terrors, but few of them realize the
harmlessness of the Skunk when let alone. In remote places I find men
who still think that this creature goes about shooting as wildly and
wantonly as any drunken cowboy.
THE CRUELTY OF STEEL TRAPS
A few days ago while walking with a friend in the woods we came on a
Skunk. My companion shouted to the dog and captured him to save him from
a possible disaster, then called to me to keep back and let the Skunk
run away. But the fearless one in sable and ermine did not run, and I
did not keep back, but I walked up very gently. The Skunk stood his
ground and raised his tail high over his back, the sign of fight. I
talked to him, still drawing nearer; then, when only ten feet away, was
surprised to see that one of his feet was in a trap and terribly
mangled.
[Illustration]
I stooped down, saying many pleasant things about my friendliness, etc.
The Skunk's tail slowly lowered and I came closer up. Still, I did not
care to handle the wild and tormented thing on such short acquaintance,
so I got a small barrel and quietly placed it over him, then removed the
trap and brought him home, where he is now living in peace and comfort.
I mention this to show how gentle and judicious a creature the Skunk is
when gently and judiciously approached. It is a sad commentary on our
modes of dealing with wild life when I add that as afterward appeared
this Skunk had been struggling in the tortures of that trap for three
days and three nights.
FRIENDLINESS OF THE SKUNK
These remarks are preliminary to an account of my adventures with a
family of Skunks in the Park. During the summer I spent in the little
shanty still to be seen, opposite Yancey's, I lost no opportunity of
making animal investigations. One of my methods was to sweep the dust on
the trail and about the cabin quite smooth at night so that any creature
passing should leave me his tracks and I should be sure that they were
recent.
[Illustration]
One morning on going out I found the fresh tracks of a Skunk. Next night
these were seen again, in fact, there were two sets of them. A day or so
later the cook at the nearby log hotel announced that a couple of
Skunks came every evening to feed at the garbage bucket outside the
kitchen door. That night I was watching for them. About dusk one came,
walking along sedately with his tail at half mast. The house dog and the
house cat both were at the door as the Skunk arrived. They glanced at
the newcomer; then the cat discreetly went indoors and the dog rumbled
in his chest, but discreetly he walked away, very stiffly, and looked at
the distant landscape, with his hair on his back still bristling. The
Skunk waddled up to the garbage pail, climbed in, though I was but ten
feet away, and began his evening meal.
[Illustration]
Another came later. Their tails were spread and at each sharp noise rose
a little higher, but no one offered them harm, and they went their way
when they were filled.
After this it was a regular thing to go out and see the Skunks feed when
evening came.
PHOTOGRAPHING SKUNKS AT SHORT RANGE
I was anxious to get a picture or two, but was prevented by the poor
light; in fact, it was but half light, and in those days we had no
brilliant flash powders. So there was but one thing to do, that was trap
my intended sitters.
Next night I was ready for them with an ordinary box trap, and even
before the appointed time we saw a fine study in black and white come
marching around the cow stable with banner-tail aloft, and across the
grass toward the kitchen. The box trap was all ready and we--two women
including my wife, and half a dozen men of the mountaineer type--were
watching. The cat and the dog moved sullenly aside. The Skunk, with the
calm confidence of one accustomed to respect, sniffed his way to the box
trap with its tempting odorous bait. A Mink or a Marten, not to say a
Fox, would have investigated a little before entering. The Skunk
indulged in no such waste of time. What had he to fear--he the little
lord of all things with the power of smell? He went in like one going
home, seized the bait, and down went the door. The uninitiated onlookers
expected an explosion from the Skunk, but I knew quite well he never
wasted a shot, and did not hesitate to approach and make all safe. Now I
wanted to move the box with its captive to my photographic studio, but
could not carry it alone, so I asked the mountaineers to come and help.
Had I asked them to join me in killing a man, shooting up the town, or
otherwise taking their lives in their hands, I would doubtless have had
half a dozen cheerful volunteers; but to carry a box in which was a wild
Skunk--"not for a hundred dollars," and the warriors melted into the
background.
Then I said to my wife, "Haven't _you_ got nerve enough to help with
this box? I'll guarantee that nothing will happen." So she came and we
took the box to my prepared enclosure, where next day I photographed him
to my heart's content. More than once as I worked around at a distance
of six or eight feet, the Skunk's tail flew up, but I kept perfectly
still then; talked softly, apologizing and explaining: "Now don't shoot
at me. We are to be good friends. I wouldn't hurt you for anything. Now
do drop that fighting flag, if you please, and be good."
[Illustration]
Gradually the tail went down and the captive looked at me in mere
curiosity as I got my pictures.
I let him go by simply removing the wire netting of the fence, whereupon
he waddled off under the cabin that I called "home."
WE SHARE THE SHANTY WITH THE SKUNKS
[Illustration]
The next night as I lay in my bunk I heard a sniffing and scratching on
the cabin floor. On looking over the edge of the bed I came face to face
with my friend the Skunk. Our noses were but a foot apart and just
behind him was another; I suppose his mate. I said: "Hello! Here you
are again. I'm glad to see you. Who's your friend?" He did not tell me,
neither did he seem offended. I suppose it was his mate. That was the
beginning of his residence under the floor of my cabin. My wife and I
got very well acquainted with him and his wife before the summer was
over. For though we had the cabin by day, the Skunks had it by night. We
always left them some scraps, and regularly at dusk they came up to get
them. They cleaned up our garbage, so helped to rid us of flies and
mice. We were careful to avoid hurting or scaring our nightly visitors,
so the summer passed without offense. We formed only the kindest
feelings toward each other, and we left them in possession of the cabin,
where, so far as I know, they are living yet, if you wish to call.
THE SKUNK AND THE UNWISE BOBCAT
[Illustration]
As already noted, I swept the dust smooth around our shanty each night
to make a sort of visitors' book. Then each morning I could go out and
by study of the tracks get an exact idea of who had called. Of course
there were many blank nights; on others the happenings were trifling,
but some were full of interest. In this way I learned of the Coyote's
visits to the garbage pail and of the Skunk establishment under the
house, and other interesting facts as in the diagram. I have always used
this method of study in my mountain trips, and recall a most interesting
record that rewarded my patience some twenty years ago when I lived in
New Mexico.
[Illustration: XXII. Track record of Bobcat's adventure with a Skunk]
During the night I had been aroused by a frightful smell of Skunk,
followed by strange muffled sounds that died away. So forth I went at
sunrise and found the odour of Skunk no dream but a stern reality. Then
a consultation of my dust album revealed an inscription which after a
little condensing and clearing up appeared much as in Plate XXII. At A a
Skunk had come on the scene, at B he was wandering about when a hungry
Wild Cat or Bobcat Lynx appeared, C. Noting the promise of something to
kill for food, he came on at D. The Skunk observing the intruder said,
"You better let me alone." And not wishing to make trouble moved off
toward E. But the Bobcat, evidently young and inexperienced, gave chase.
At F the Skunk wheeled about, remarking, "Well, if you will have it,
here goes!" At G the Lynx was hit. The tremendous bound from G to H
shows the effect. At J he bumped into a stone, showing probably that he
was blinded, after which he went bouncing and bounding away. The Skunk
merely said, "I told you so!" then calmly resumed the even tenor of his
way. At K he found the remains of a chicken, on which he feasted, then
went quietly home to bed.
This is my reading of the tracks in the dust. The evidence was so clear
that I have sketched here from imagination the succession of events
which it seemed to narrate.
[Illustration: XXIII. The six chapters of the Bobcat's adventure. (a)
The Bobcat appears on the scene; (b) "Ha," he says, "A meal for me."
"Beware," says the Skunk; (c) "No! Then take that," says the Skunk; (d)
"Ow-w-ow-w"; (e) "I told you so"; (f) "How pleasant is a peaceful meal"
_Sketches by E. T. Seton_]
MY PET SKUNKS
It would not be doing justice to the Skunk if I did not add a word about
certain of the kind that I have at home.
For many years I have kept at least one pet Skunk. Just now I have about
sixty. I keep them close to the house and would let them run loose
indoors but for the possibility of some fool dog or cat coming around,
and provoking the exemplary little brutes into a perfectly justifiable
endeavour to defend themselves as nature taught them. But for this I
should have no fear. Not only do I handle them myself, but I have
induced many of my wild-eyed visitors to do so as a necessary part of
their education. For few indeed there are in the land to-day that
realize the gentleness and forbearance of this righteous little brother
of ours, who, though armed with a weapon that will put the biggest and
boldest to flight or disastrous defeat, yet refrains from using it until
in absolute peril of his life, and then only after several warnings.
By way of rounding out this statement, I present a picture of my little
daughter playing among the Skunks, and need add only that they are
full-grown specimens in full possession of all their faculties. Plate
XXIV.
[Illustration: XXIV. My tame Skunks: (a) Mother Skunk and her brood; (b)
Ann Seton feeding her pets
_Photos by E. T. Seton_]
* * * * *
VII
Old Silver-grizzle--The Badger
* * * * *
[Illustration]
VII
Old Silver-grizzle--The Badger
A brilliant newspaper man once gave vast publicity to the story that at
last a use had been found for the Badger, with his mania for digging
holes in the ground. By kindness and care and the help of an attached
little steam-gauge speedometer plumb compass, that gave accurate aim,
improved perpendicularity, and increased efficiency to the efforts of
the strenuous excavator, he had been able to produce a dirigible Badger
that was certain to displace all other machinery for digging postholes.
Unfortunately I was in a position to disprove this pretty conceit. But I
think of it every time I put my foot in a Badger hole. Such lovely
holes, so plentiful, so worse than useless where the Badger has
thoughtlessly located them. If only we could harness and direct such
excavatory energies.
[Illustration]
This, indeed, is the only quarrel civilized man can pick with the honest
Badger. He _will_ dig holes that endanger horse's legs and rider's
necks. He may destroy Gophers, Ground-squirrels, Prairie-dogs, insects,
and a hundred enemies of the farm; he may help the crops in a thousand
different ways, _but he will dig post-holes where they are not wanted_,
and this indiscretion has made many enemies for the kindest and
sturdiest of all the squatters on the plains.
THE VALIANT, HARMLESS BADGER
From the Saskatchewan to Mexico he ranges, and from Illinois to
California, wherever there are dry, open plains supplied with
Ground-squirrels and water.
[Illustration]