sun had become strong, the air was quite mild, and the wasps became
lively. For all at once I heard the dreaded cry, "_Yellow-Jackets_!"
Then in a moment it was taken up by the cook just ahead of me.
"Yellow-Jackets! look out!" with a note almost of terror in his voice.
At once his horse began to plunge and buck. I saw the man of pots
clinging to the saddle and protecting his face as best he could, while
his mount charged into the bushes and disappeared.
Then "_bzz-z-z-z_" they went at the pot-horse and again the bucking and
squealing, with pots going clank, clink, rattle and away.
"_Bzz-z-z-z-z_" and in a moment the dark and raging little terrors came
at me in a cloud. I had no time to stop, or get off, or seek another
way. So I jerked up a coat collar to save my face, held my head low, and
tried to hold on, while the little pony went insane with the fiery
baptism now upon him. Plunging, kicking, and squealing he went, and I
stuck, to him for one--two--three jumps, but at number four, as I
remember it, I went flying over his head, fortunately up hill, and
landed in the bushes unhurt, but ready for peace at any price.
It is good old wisdom to "lay low in case of doubt," and very low I lay
there, waiting for the war to cease. It was over in a few seconds, for
my horse dashed after his fellows and passed through the bushes, so that
the winged scorpions were left behind. Presently I lifted my head and
looked cautiously toward the wasp's-nest. It was in a bank twenty feet
away, and the angry swarm was hovering over it, like smoke from a vent
hole. They were too angry, and I was too near, to run any risks, so I
sank down again and waited. In one or two minutes I peered once more,
getting a sight under a small log lying eight or ten feet away. And as I
gazed waspward my eye also took in a brown furry creature calmly sitting
under the log, wabbling his nose at me and the world about him. It was a
young Snowshoe Rabbit.
[Illustration]
BUNNY'S RIDE
There is a certain wild hunter instinct in us all, a wish to capture
every wood creature we meet. That impulse came on me in power. There was
no more danger from wasps, so I got cautiously above this log, put a
hand down at each side, grabbed underneath, and the Rabbit was my
prisoner. Now I had him, what was I going to do with him--kill him?
Certainly not. I began to talk to him. "Now what _did_ I catch you for?"
His only reply was a wobble of his nose, so I continued: "I didn't know
when I began, but I know now. I want to get your picture." And again the
nose wobbled.
I could not take it then as my camera had gone on with my horse. I had
nothing to put the Rabbit in. I could not put it in my pocket as that
would mean crushing it in some early tumble; I needed both my hands to
climb with and catch my horse, so for lack of a better place I took off
my hat and said, "Bunny, how would you like to ride in that?" He wobbled
his nose, which I understood to mean that he didn't care. So I put the
Rabbit on my head, and put the hat on again.
[Illustration]
Then I went forward and found that the cook had recovered his pots and
pans; all was well now and my horse was awaiting me.
I rode all the rest of that day with the Rabbit quietly nestling in my
hair. It was a long, hard day, for we continued till nightfall and then
made a dark camp in a thick pine woods. It was impossible to make
pictures then, so I put the little Rabbit under a leatheroid telescope
lid, on a hard level place, gave him food and water, and left him for
use in the morning.
THE RABBIT DANCE
About nine o'clock that night we were sitting about the fire, when from
the near woods was heard a tremendous "_tap-tap-taptrrr_," so loud and
so near that we all jumped and stared into the darkness. Again it came,
"_tap-tap-tap trrrrr_," a regular drum tattoo.
"What is that?" we all exclaimed, and at that moment a large Rabbit
darted across the open space lighted by the fire.
Again the tattoo and another Rabbit dashed across. Then it dawned on me
that that was the young Rabbit signalling to his friends. He was using
the side of his box for a drum.
Again the little prisoner rolled his signal call, and then a third
Snowshoe Rabbit appeared.
"Look at all the Rabbits!" exclaimed my friend. "Where is my gun?"
"No," I said, "you don't need your gun. Wait and see. There is something
up. That little chap is ringing up central."
"I never saw so many together in all my life," said he. Then added:
"I've got an acetylene lantern; perhaps we can get a picture."
[Illustration]
As soon as he had his camera and lantern, we went cautiously to the
rabbity side of the woods; several ran past us. Then we sat down on a
smooth place. My friend held the camera, I held the light, but we rested
both on the ground. Very soon a Rabbit darted from the darkness into the
great cone of light from the lantern, gazed at that wonder for a moment,
gave a "thump" and disappeared. Then another came; then two or three.
They gazed into this unspeakably dazzling thing, then one gave the alarm
by thumping, and all were lost to sight.
But they came again and in ever-increasing numbers, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10 at
last, now in plain view, gazing wildly at the bright light, pushing
forward as though fascinated. Some two or three so close together that
they were touching each other. Then one gave the thumping alarm, and all
scattered like leaves, to vanish like ghosts. But they came back again,
to push and crawl up nearer to that blazing wonder. Some of the back
ones were skipping about but the front ones edged up in a sort of
wild-eyed fascination. Closer and closer they got, then the first one
was so near that reaching out to smell the lantern he burnt his nose,
and at his alarm thump, all disappeared in the woods. But they soon
returned to disport again in that amazing brightness; and, stimulated
by the light, they danced about, chasing each other, dodging around in
large circles till one of the outermost leaped over the camera box and
another following him, leaped up and sat on it. My friend was just
behind, hidden by the light in front, and he had no trouble in clutching
the impudent Rabbit with both hands. Instantly it set up a loud
squealing. The other Rabbits gave a stamping signal, and in a moment all
were lost in the woods, but the one we held. Quickly we transported it
to another leatheroid box, intending to take its picture in the morning,
but the prisoner had a means of attack that I had not counted on. Just
as we were going to sleep he began with his front feet on the resounding
box and beat a veritable drum tattoo of alarm. Every one in camp was
awakened, and again, as we were dropping off, the camp was roused by
another loud "tattoo." For nearly two hours this went on; then, about
midnight, utterly unable to sleep, I arose and let the drummer go about
his business, do anything or go anywhere, so only he would be quiet and
let us attend to ours.
[Illustration: XXIX. The Baby Cottontail that rode twenty miles in my
hat
_Photo by E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: XXX. Snowshoe Rabbits dancing in the light of the lantern
_Sketch by E. T. Seton_]
Next morning I photographed the little Bunny, and set him free to join
his kin. It is a surprising fact that though we spent two weeks in this
valley, and a month in those mountains, we did not see another wild
Rabbit.
This incident is unique in my experience. It is the only time when I
found the Snowshoe Hares gathered for a social purpose, and is the only
approach to a game that I ever heard of among them.
THE GHOST RABBIT
An entirely different side of Rabbit life is seen in another mysterious
incident that I have never been able to explain.
At one time when I lived in Ontario, I had a very good hound that was
trained to follow all kinds of trails. I used to take him out in the
woods at night, give him general instructions "to go ahead, and report
everything afoot"; then sit down on a log to listen to his reports. And
he made them with remarkable promptness. Slight differences in his bark,
and the course taken, enabled me to tell at once whether it was Fox,
Coon, Rabbit, Skunk, or other local game. And his peculiar falsetto yelp
when the creature treed, was a joyful invitation to "come and see for
yourself."
[Illustration]
The hound's bark for a Fox was deep, strong, and at regular intervals as
befitted the strong trail, and the straightaway run. But for a Rabbit
it was broken, uncertain, irregular and rarely a good deep bay.
[Illustration]
One night the dog bawled in his usual way, "Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit," and
soon leaving the woods he crossed an open field where the moon shone
brightly, and I could easily see to follow. Still yelping "Rabbit,
Rabbit, Rabbit," he dashed into a bramble thicket in the middle of the
field. But at once he dashed out again shrieking, "Police! Help!
Murder!" and took refuge behind me, cowering up against my legs. At the
same moment from the side of that bramble thicket there went out--_a
Rabbit_. Yes, a common Rabbit all right, but it was a _snow-white_ one.
The first albino Cottontail I had ever seen, and apparently the first
albino Cottontail that[C] Ranger had ever seen. Dogs are not supposed to
be superstitious, but on that occasion Ranger behaved exactly as though
he thought that he had seen a ghost.
A NARROW-GAUGE MULE--THE PRAIRIE HARE
[Illustration]
One has to see this creature with its great flopping ears, and its
stiff-legged jumping like a bucking mule, to realize the aptness of its
Western nickname.
As it bounds away from your pathway its bushy snow-white tail and the
white behind the black-tipped ears will point out plainly that it is
neither the Texas Jackrabbit nor the Rocky Mountain Cottontail, but the
White-tailed Jackrabbit, the finest of all our Hares.
I have met it in woods, mountains, and prairies, from California to
Manitoba and found it the wildest of its race and almost impossible of
approach; _except_ in the great exceptional spot, the Yellowstone Park.
Here in the August of 1912 I met with two, close to the Mammoth Hot
Springs Hotel. At a distance of thirty feet they gave me good chances to
take pictures, and though the light was very bad I made a couple of
snaps. Fifteen years ago, when first I roamed in the Park, the Prairie
Hare was exceedingly rare, but now, like so many of the wild folk, it
has become quite common. Another evidence of the efficacy of protection.
This silvery-gray creature turns pure white in the winter, when the snow
mantle of his range might otherwise make it too conspicuous.
THE BUMP OF MOSS THAT SQUEAKS
No matter how horrible a certain climate or surroundings may seem to us,
they are sure to be the ideal of some wild creature, its very dream of
bliss. I suppose that slide rock, away up in cold, bleak, windy country
above the timber-line, is absolutely the unloveliest landscape and most
repulsive home ground that a man could find in the mountains and yet it
is the paradise, the perfect place of a wonderful little creature that
is found on the high peaks of the Rockies from California to Alaska.
It is not especially abundant in the Yellowstone Park, but it was there
that first I made its acquaintance, and Easterners will meet with it in
the great Reserve more often than in all other parts of its range put
together.
[Illustration]
As one reaches the Golden Gate, near Mammoth Hot Springs, many little
animals of the Ground-squirrel group are seen running about, and from
the distance comes a peculiar cry, a short squeak uttered every ten or
fifteen seconds. You stop, perhaps search with your eye the remote
hillside, but you are looking too far afield. Glance toward the tumbled
rock piles, look at every high point. There on top of one you note a
little gray lump, like a bump of moss, the size of your fist, clinging
to the point of the rock. Fix your glasses on it, and you will see
plainly that the squeak is made by this tiny creature, like a
quarter-grown Rabbit with short, round, white-rimmed ears and no
visible tail. This is the curious little animal that cannot be happy
anywhere but in the slide rock; this is the Calling Hare. "Little Chief
Hare" is its Indian name, but it has many others of much currency, such
as "Pika," and "Starved Rat," the latter because it is never fat. The
driver calls it a "Coney," or "Rock Rabbit." In its colour, size, shape,
and habits it differs from all other creatures in the region; it is
impossible to mistake it. Though a distant kinsman of the Rabbits, it is
unlike them in looks and ways. Thus it has, as noted, the very
un-rabbit-like habit of squeaking from some high lookout. This is
doubtless a call of alarm to let the rest of the company know that there
is danger about, for the Coney is a gregarious creature; there may be a
hundred of them in the rock-slide.
Some years ago, in Colorado, I sketched one of the Coneys by help of a
field glass. He was putting all the force of his energetic little soul
into the utterance of an alarm cry for the benefit of his people.
But the most interesting habit of this un-rabbity Rabbit is its way of
preparing for winter.
[Illustration]
When the grass, the mountain dandelions, and the peavines are at their
best growth for making hay, the Coney, with his kind, goes warily from
his stronghold in the rocks to the nearest stretch of herbage, and there
cuts as much as he can carry of the richest growths; then laden with a
bundle as big as himself, and very much longer, he makes for the rocks,
and on some flat open place spreads the herbage out to be cured for his
winter hay. Out in full blaze of the sun he leave it, and if some
inconsiderate rock comes in between, to cast a shadow on his hay
a-curing, he moves the one that is easiest to move; he never neglects
his hay. When dry enough to be safe, he packs it away into his barn, the
barn being a sheltered crevice in the rocks where the weather cannot
harm it, and where it will continue good until the winter time, when
otherwise there would be a sad pinch of famine in the Coney world. The
trappers say that they can tell whether the winter will be hard or open
by the amount of food stored up in the Coney barns.
[Illustration]
Many a one of these I have examined in the mountains of British Columbia
and Colorado, as well as in the Park. The quantity of hay in them varies
from what might fill a peck measure to what would make a huge armful.
Among the food plants used, I found many species of grass, thistle,
meadow-rue, peavine, heath, and the leaves of several composite plants.
I suspect that fuller observations will show that they use every herb
not actually poisonous, that grows in the vicinity of their citadel.
More than one of these wads of hay had in the middle of it a nest or
hollow; not, I suspect, the home nest where the young are raised, but a
sort of winter restaurant where they could go while the ground was
covered with snow, and sitting in the midst of their provisions, eat to
their heart's content.
It is not unlikely that in this we see the growth of the storage habit,
beginning first with a warm nest of hay, which it was found could be
utilized for food when none other was available. The fact that these
barns are used year after year is shown by the abundance of pellets in
several layers which were found in and about them.
THE WEATHERWISE CONEY
[Illustration]
A very wise little people is this little people of the Rocks. Not only
do they realize that in summer they must prepare for winter, but they
know how to face a present crisis, however unexpected. To appreciate the
following instance, we must remember that the central thought in the
Coney's life is his "grub pile" for winter use, and next that he is a
strictly daytime animal. I have often slept near a Coney settlement and
never heard a sound or seen a sign of their being about after dark.
Nevertheless, Merriam tells us that he and Vernon Bailey once carried
their blankets up to a Coney colony above timber-line in the Salmon
River Mountains of Idaho, intending to spend the night there and to
study the Coneys whose piles of hay were visible in all directions on
their rocks. As this was about the first of September, it was natural to
expect fair weather and a complete curing of the hay in a week or so.
But a fierce storm set in with the descending night. The rain changed to
hail and then to snow, and much to the surprise of the naturalists, they
heard the squeak of the Coneys all night long.
These animals love the sunshine, the warmth and the daylight, and dread
cold and darkness as much as we do. It must have been a bitter
experience when at the call of the older ones every little Coney had to
tumble out of his warm bed in the chill black hours and face the driving
sleet to save the winter's supplies. But tumble out they did, and
overtime they worked, hard and well, for when the morning dawned the
slide-rock and the whole world was covered deep in snow, but every
haycock had been removed to a safer place under the rocks, and the
wisdom of the Coney once more exemplified, with adequate energy to make
it effective.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: XXXI. Snowshoe Rabbits fascinated by the lantern
_Sketched in the Bitterroot Mts. by E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: XXXII. The Ghost Rabbit
_Sketch by E. T. Seton_]
HIS SAFETY IS IN THE ROCKS
No one has ever yet found the home nest of the Calling Hare. It is so
securely hidden under rocks, and in galleries below rocks, that all
attempts to dig it out have thus far failed. I know of several men, not
to mention Bears, Badgers, Wolverines, and Grizzlies, who have essayed
to unearth the secret of the Coney's inner life. Following on the trail
of a Coney that bleated derisively at me near Pagoda Peak, Col., I began
at once to roll rocks aside in an effort to follow him home to his den.
The farther I went the less satisfaction I found. The uncertain trail
ramified more and more as I laboured. Once or twice from far below me I
heard a mocking squeak that spurred me on, but that too, ceased. When
about ten tons of rock had been removed I was baffled. There were half a
dozen possible lines of continuation, and while I paused to wipe the
"honest sweat" from my well-meaning brow, I heard behind me the "weak,"
"weak," of my friend as though giving his estimate of my resolution, and
I descried him--I suppose the same--on a rock point like a moss-bump
against the sky-line away to the left. Only, one end of the moss-bump
moved a little each time a squeak was cast upon the air. I had not time
to tear down the whole mountain, so I did as my betters, the Bears and
Badgers have done before me, I gave it up. I had at least found out why
the Coney avoids the pleasant prairie and the fertile banks, and I
finished with a new and profounder understanding of the Scripture text
which says in effect, "As for the Coney, his safe refuge is in the
rocks."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote C: It proved later to be an albino domestic Rabbit run wild.]
* * * * *
X
Ghosts of the Campfire
* * * * *
[Illustration]
X
Ghosts of the Campfire
It is always worth while to cultivate the old guides. Young guides are
often fresh and shallow, but the quiet old fellows, that have spent
their lives in the mountains, must be good or they could not stay in the
business; and they have seen so much and been so far that they are like
rare old manuscript volumes, difficult to read, but unique and full of
value. It is not easy to get them to talk, but there is a combination
that often does it. First, show yourself worthy of their respect by
holding up your end, be it in an all-day climb or breakneck ride; then
at night, after the others have gone to bed, you sit while the old guide
smokes, and by a few brief questions and full attention, show that you
value any observations he may choose to make. Many happy hours and much
important information have been my reward for just such cautious play,
and often as we sat, there flitted past, in the dim light, the silent
shadowy forms of the campfire ghosts. Swift, not twinkling, but looming
light and fading, absolutely silent. Sometimes approaching so near that
the still watcher can get the glint of beady eyes or even of a snowy
breast, for these ghosts are merely the common Mice of the mountains,
abounding in every part of the West.
[Illustration]
There are half a dozen different kinds, yet most travellers will be
inclined to bunch them all, and pass them by as mere Mice. But they are
worthy of better treatment. Three, at least, are so different in form
and ways that you should remember them by their names.
First is the _Whitefooted or Deer-mouse_. This is the one that you find
in the coffee pot or the water bucket in the morning; this is the one
that skips out of the "grub box" when the cook begins breakfast; and
this is the one that runs over your face with its cold feet as you sleep
nights. It is one of the most widely diffused mammals in North America
to-day, and probably the most numerous.
It is an elegant little creature, with large, lustrous black eyes like
those of a Deer, a fact which, combined with its large ears, the
fawn-coloured back, and the pure white breast, has given it the name of
"Deer-mouse." It is noted for drumming with one foot as a call to its
mate, and for uttering a succession of squeaks and trills that serve it
as a song.
Sometimes its nest is underground; and sometimes in a tree, whence the
name Tree-mouse. It breeds several times in a year and does not
hibernate, so is compelled to lay up stores of food for winter use. To
help it in doing this it has a very convenient pair of capacious
pockets, one in each cheek, opening into the mouth.
THE JUMPING MOUSE
He glides around the fire much as the others do, but at the approach of
danger, he simply fires himself out of a catapult, afar into the night.
Eight or ten feet he can cover in one of these bounds and he can, and
does, repeat them as often as necessary. How he avoids knocking out his
own brains in his travels I have not been able to understand.
This is the New World counterpart of the Jerboa, so familiar in our
school books as a sort of diminutive but glorified kangaroo that
frequents the great Pyramids. It is so like a Jerboa in build and
behaviour that I was greatly surprised and gratified to find my
scientist friends quite willing that I should style it the American
representative of the African group.
[Illustration]
The country folk in the East will tell you that there are "seven
sleepers" in our woods, and enumerate them thus: the Bear, the Coon, the
Skunk, the Woodchuck, the Chipmunk, the Bat, and the Jumping Mouse. All
are good examples, but the longest, soundest sleeper of the whole
somnolent brotherhood is the Jumping Mouse. Weeks before summer is ended
it has prepared a warm nest deep underground, beyond the reach of cold
or rain, and before the early frost has nipped the aster, the Jumping
Mouse and his wife curl up with their long tails around themselves like
cords on a spool, and sleep the deadest kind of a dead sleep, unbroken
by even a snore, until summer is again in the land, and frost and snow
unknown. This means at least seven months on the Yellowstone.
[Illustration]
Since the creature is chiefly nocturnal, the traveller is not likely to
see it, excepting late at night when venturesome individuals often come
creeping about the campfire, looking for scraps or crumbs; or sometimes
other reckless youngsters of the race, going forth to seek their
fortunes, are found drowned in the tanks or wells about the hotels.
[Illustration: XXXIV. The Coney or Calling Hare
_Photo by W. E. Carlin_]
[Illustration: XXXV. The Coney barns full of hay stored for winter use
_Photos by E. T. Seton_]
Here is a diagram of a Jumper in the act of living up to its reputation.
And at once one asks what is the reason for this interminable tail. The
answer is, it is the tail to the kite, the feathering to the arrow;
and observation shows that a Jumping Mouse that has lost its tail is
almost helpless to escape from danger. A good naturalist records that
one individual that was de-tailed by a mowing machine, jumped
frantically and far, but had no control of the direction, and just as
often as not went straight up or landed wrong end to, and sometimes on a
second bound was back where it had started from.
It is very safe to say that all unusual developments serve a very vital
purpose in the life of the creature, but we are not always so fortunate
as in this case, to know what that purpose is.
THE CALLING MOUSE