BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
VOL. VII. APRIL, 1900. NO. 4.
CONTENTS.
Page
APRIL. 145
THE PROCESSION OF SPRING. 145
THE AMERICAN BITTERN. 146
OUR LITTLE MARTYRS. 146
LITTLE GUESTS IN FEATHERS. 149
PLANTING THE TREES. 150
ORIGIN OF THE EASTER EGG. 151
MORAL VALUE OF FORESTS. 152
EASTER LILIES. 152
THE SCARLET IBIS. 155
CHIPPY--A BABY MOCKING BIRD. 155
BIRDLAND SECRETS. 157
THE MASSENA QUAIL. 158
IN THE OLD LOG HOUSE. 158
ANIMALS AS PATIENTS. 162
THE TRIPLET TREE. 163
COUNTRIES DEVOID OF TREES. 163
SNOW PRISONS OF GAME BIRDS. 164
THE RING-BILLED DUCK. 167
A STRANGE BIRD HOUSE. 167
THE CHICKADEE. 168
REFLECTIONS. 169
FOXGLOVE. 170
FRUIT BATS OF THE PHILIPPINES. 173
MONKEYS AS GOLD FINDERS. 173
A PLEA FOR THE TREES. 174
"THAT I MAY HELP." 175
A TRAGEDY IN THREE PARTS. 175
STRANGE PLANTS. 175
A BRIGAND BIRD. 176
THE BROOK. 176
THE BLOOD-ROOT. 179
TANSY CAKES. 180
THE PARTRIDGE CALL. 180
OUR FEATHERED NEIGHBORS. 181
THE BLUE GROSBEAK. 182
ODD PLACES CHOSEN. 182
THE YOUNG NATURALIST. 185
BIRD LIFE IN INDIA. 187
IRELAND'S LOST GLORY. 188
BIRDS AND REPTILES RELATED. 188
THE ROCK SHELLS. 191
SPRING HAS COME. 192
APRIL.
These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,
Did I not know, that, in the early spring,
When wild March winds upon their errands sing,
Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air
Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair,
They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks
From icy cares, even as thy clear looks
Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care:
When drops with welcome rain the April day,
My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes,
Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay,
As loath to fall out of those happy skies;
Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May,
That comes with steady sun when April dies.
--_Lowell._
THE PROCESSION OF SPRING.
A morning of radiant lids
O'er the dance of the earth opened wide;
The bees chose their flowers, the snub kids
Upon hind legs went sportive, or plied,
Nosing, hard at the dugs to be filled;
There was milk, honey, music to make;
Up their branches the little birds billed;
Chirrup, drone, bleat, and buzz ringed the lake.
O shining in sunlight, chief
After water and water's caress,
Was the young bronze orange leaf,
That clung to the trees as a tress,
Shooting lucid tendrils to wed
With the vine hook tree or pole,
Like Arachne launched out on her thread.
Then the maiden her dusky stole,
In the span of the black-starred zone,
Gathered up for her footing fleet.
As one that had toil of her own
She followed the lines of wheat
Tripping straight through the field, green blades,
To the groves of olive gray,
Downy gray, golden-tinged; and to glades
Where the pear blossom thickens the spray
In a night, like the snow-packed storm;
Pear, apple, almond, plum;
Not wintry now; pushing warm.
And she touched them with finger and thumb,
As the vine hook closes; she smiled,
Recounting again and again,
Corn, wine, fruit, oil! like a child,
With the meaning known to men.
--_George Meredith._
[Illustration: AMERICAN BITTERN.
1/3 Life-size.
From COL. F. NUSSBAUMER & SON
A. M. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]
THE AMERICAN BITTERN
(_Botaurus lentiginosus._)
This curious bird has several local names. It is called the
"stake-driver," "booming bittern," and "thunder-pumper," in consequence
of its peculiar cry. It was once thought that this noise was made by
using a hollow reed, but the peculiar tone is possibly due to the odd
shaped neck of the bird. Gibson says you hear of the stake-driver but
can not find his "stake."
We have never seen a bittern except along water courses. He is a
solitary bird. When alarmed by the approach of someone the bird
sometimes escapes recognition by standing on its short tail motionless
with its bill pointing skyward, in which position, aided by its dull
coloring, it personates a small snag or stump or some other growth
about it.
This bird has long legs, yellow green in color, which trail awkwardly
behind it and serve as a sort of rudder when it flies. It has a long,
crooked neck, and lengthy yellow bill edged with black. The body is
variable as to size, but sometimes is said to measure thirty-four
inches. The tail is short and rounded. In color this peculiar bird is
yellowish brown mottled with various shades of brown above, and below
buff, white and brown.
It is not a skillful architect, but places its rude nest on the ground,
in which may be found three to five grayish brown eggs.
The habitat of the American bittern covers the whole of temperate and
tropical North America, north to latitude about 60 degrees, south to
Guatemala, Cuba, Jamaica and the Bermudas. It is occasionally found in
Europe.
Frank Forrester included the bittern among the list of his game birds,
and it is asked what higher authority we can have than his. The flesh
is regarded as excellent food.
OUR LITTLE MARTYRS.
GEORGE KLINGLE.
Do we care, you and I,
For the song-birds winging by,
Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,
Thrill of wing of gold or green,
Sapphire, crimson--gorgeous dye
Lost or found across the sky,
Midst the glory of the air;
Birds who tenderer colors wear?
What to us the free-bird's song,
Breath of passion, breath of wrong;
Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;
Breath of love and breath of strife;
Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;
Cries of doubt, and cries of death?
Shall we care when nesting-time
Brings no birds from any clime;
Not a voice or ruby wing,
Not a single nest to swing
Midst the reeds, or, higher up,
Like a dainty fairy-cup;
Not a single little friend,
All the way, as footsteps wend
Here and there through every clime,
Not a bird at any time?
Does it matter? Do we care
What the feathers women wear
Cost the world? Must all birds die?
May they never, never fly
Safely through their native air?
Slaughter meets them everywhere.
Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!
Let women pity and recoil
From traffic barbarous and grave,
And quickly strive the birds to save.
LITTLE GUESTS IN FEATHERS.
NELLY HART WOODWORTH.
A Brooklyn naturalist who gives much time to bird-study told me that as
his rooms became overfull of birds he decided to thin them out before
the approach of winter. Accordingly he selected two song sparrows
and turned one of them adrift, thinking to let the other go the next
morning.
The little captive was very happy for a few hours, flying about the
"wild garden" in the rear of the house--a few square rods where more
than 400 varieties of native plants were growing. It was not long,
however, before a homesick longing replaced the new happiness and the
bird returned to the cage which was left upon the piazza roof.
The next morning the second sparrow was given his freedom. Nothing was
seen of him for a week, when he came to the window, beat his tired
wings against the pane, and sank down upon the window sill so overjoyed
at finding himself at home that he was fairly bursting with song. His
throat trembled with the ecstasy; the feathers ruffling as the melody
rose from his heart and deluged the air with sweetness. His joy was too
complete for further experiment.
The first sparrow was again released only to return at nightfall and go
promptly to bed at the general retiring hour.
This hour, by the way, varied indefinitely; the whole aviary
accommodating their hours to those of their master, rising with him
and settling for the night as he turned off the gas. After this same
bird was repeatedly sent out, like Noah's dove, coming home at evening,
till after many days it came no more--an implicit confidence in the
rightness of all intention doubtless making it an easy prey to some
evil design.
A handsome hermit thrush from the same aviary, domesticated in my room,
after an hour or two "abroad" is as homesick for his cage as is a
child for its mother.
When this bird came into my possession his open and discourteous
disapproval of women was humiliating. His attitude was not simply
endurance but open revolt, a deep-rooted hatred for the entire sex.
When, after long weeks of acquaintance, this hostility was overcome he
followed me about the room, stood beside me at my work, and has since
been unchanging in a pathetic devotion.
He plants his tiny feet in my pen-tray and throws the pens upon the
floor. He stands on tiptoe before the mirror, staring with curious
eyes at the strange rival till awe is replaced by anger and the brown
wings beat in unavailing effort to reach the insolent mimic. When shown
a worm he trembles in excited anticipation, his little feet dancing
upon the floor, his wings moving rapidly, while he utters a coaxing,
entreating syllable. The song is sweetest when raindrops fall or when
the room is noisy and confused. I notice, too, that he is more tuneful
before a rain.
I must confess that he keeps late hours, that he is often busy getting
breakfast when orthodox birds should be dreaming, his active periods
being liable to fall at any hour of the night, more especially if there
be a moon. An intensely sentimental nature may be unable to sleep when
the beauty of the world is so strongly emphasized.
His last frolic was with a frog the children smuggled into the house,
chasing it around the room, darting at it with wide-open beak,
advancing and retreating in a frenzied merriment.
As the cage door is often left open he is sometimes "lost" briefly.
At one of these times I decided that he had gone to sleep under the
bed and would be quite safe till morning. Before day-light my mother
called to me from the next room that there was "something in her bed,"
and, sure enough, the truant stood upon her pillow, his wings almost
brushing her face.
The song of an indigo bird, kept in my room, is often followed by from
two to four subdued notes of exceeding richness and sweetness. Aside
from the ordinary song, sometimes reduced to the syllables, "meet,
meet, I'll meet you," words unheard save by aid of a vivid imagination,
the bird has an exquisite warble, loud and exhilarating, as rounded and
velvety as the bluebird's.
When the bird became familiar with the room, its occupants and the
sunshine streaming in through the window, his happiness crystallized
in song, a rarely beautiful strain unheard before. The feathers on his
throat would ruffle as a wave of song ran upward filling the room with
a delicious music.
Unlike the hermit thrush, which has silent, preoccupied hours and is
given to meditation, the indigo has no indolent days and is a happy,
sunny-hearted creature.
His attitudes are like the catbird's--erecting crest, flirting body
and tail, or drooping the latter in the precise manner of the catbird.
Judged by indigo dress-standards, this bird is in an undress uniform,
quite as undress as it is uniform; as somebody says, a result of the
late moult.
For all this his changeable suit is not only becoming, but decidedly
modern--warp of blue and woof of green that change with changing
light from indigo to intense emerald. Then there are browns and
drabs in striking contrasts--colors worn by indigoes while young and
inexperienced, the confused shades of the upper breast replaced by
sparrowy stripes beneath.
My bird is a night singer, pouring out his tuneful plaint as freely in
the "wee, sma' hours," as when the sun is shining; its notes as sweet
as if he knew that if we _must_ sing a night song it should be sweet
that some heart may hear and be the better for our singing. Later in
the day a purple finch in the cedar tangle challenged the vocalist in
notes so entrancing that one's breath was hushed involuntarily.
The same finch sang freely during the entire season in notes replete
with personality, a distinct translation of the heart language. Others
might sing and sing, but this superb voice rose easily above them all,
a warbling, gurgling, effervescing strain, finished and polished in
notes of infinite tenderness. Short conversations preceded and followed
the musical ecstasy, a love song intended for one ear only, while
wings twinkled and fluttered in rhythm with the pulsing heart of the
melodist. No doubt he was telling of a future castle in the air beside
which castles in Spain are of little value.
PLANTING THE TREES.
What do we plant when we plant the trees?
We plant the ships which will cross the seas.
We plant the mast to carry the sails,
We plant the planks to withstand the gales--
The keel, the keelson, and beams and knee;
We plant the ship when we plant the tree.
What do we plant when we plant the tree?
We plant the homes for you and me.
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors,
We plant the studding, the laths, the doors,
The beams, the sidings, all parts that be;
We plant the home when we plant the tree.
What do we plant when we plant the tree?
A thousand things that we daily see.
We plant the spires that outtower the crag,
We plant the staff for our country's flag,
We plant the shade, from the hot sun free;
We plant all these when we plant the tree.
ORIGIN OF THE EASTER EGG.
ELANORA KINSLEY MARBLE.
Now is the time of year when we feel called upon to inform our readers
that the peacock does not lay the pretty colored Easter eggs.
This valuable bit of information the great American humorist feels
called upon to make year after year, and though we elder folk smile,
and the young query, how many of us are familiar with the history of
the custom of observing the closing of Lent with the egg feast?
One must go back to the Persians for the first observance of the egg
day. According to one of the ancient cosmogonies, all things were
produced from an egg, hence called the mundane egg. This cosmogony
was received in Persia, and on this account there obtained, among the
people of that country, a custom of presenting each other with an egg,
the symbol of a new beginning of time on every New Year's day; that
is, on the day when the sun enters Aries, the Persians reckoning the
beginning of the new year from that day, which occurred in March. The
doctrine of the mundane egg was not confined to the limits of Persia,
but was spread, together with the practice of presenting New Year's
eggs, through various other countries. But the New Year was not kept on
the day when the sun enters Aries, or at least it ceased, in process
of time, to be so kept. In Persia itself the introduction of the
Mohammedan faith brought with it the removal of New Year's day.
Among the Jews the season of the ancient New Year became that of the
Passover, and among the Christians the season of the Passover has
become that of Easter. Among all these changes the custom of giving
an egg at the sun's entrance into Aries still prevails. The egg has
also continued to be held as a symbol, and the sole alteration is the
prototype. At first it was said to be the beginning of time and now it
is called the symbol of the resurrection. One sees, therefore, what
was the real origin of the Easter egg of the Greek and Roman churches.
From a book entitled "An Extract from the Ritual of Pope Paul V.," made
for Great Britain, it appears that the paschal egg is held by the Roman
church to be an emblem of the resurrection, and that it is made holy by
a special blessing of a priest.
In Russia Easter day is set apart for paying visits. The men go to each
other's house in the morning and introduce themselves by saying "Christ
is arisen." The answer is "Yes, he is risen!" Then they embrace,
exchange eggs, and sad to relate, drink a great deal of brandy.
An account of far older date says, "Every year against Easter day, the
Russians color or dye red with Brazil wood a great number of eggs, of
which every man and woman giveth one unto the priest of the parish
upon Easter day in the morning. And, moreover, the common people carry
in their hands one of these red eggs, not only upon Easter day but
also three or four days after. And gentlewomen and gentlemen have
eggs gilded, which they carry in like manner. They use the eggs, as
they say, for a great love and in token of the resurrection whereof
they rejoice. For when two friends meet during the Easter holidays,
they come and take one another by the hand; the one of them saith,
'The Lord, our Christ, is risen!' The other answereth, 'It is so of
a truth!' Then they kiss and exchange their eggs, both men and women
continuing in kissing four days together."
There is an old English proverb on the subject of Easter eggs, namely:
"I'll warrant you an egg for Easter." In some parts of England, notably
in the north, the eggs are colored by means of dyeing drugs, in which
the eggs are boiled. These eggs are called "paste" eggs, also "pace"
and "pasche," all derived from "pascha"--Easter.
MORAL VALUE OF FORESTS.
A comparatively untouched phase of the question of forest destruction
is brought out in a book called "North American Forests and Forestry,"
by Ernest Bruncken, a prominent western forester. The author
incidentally discusses the part which our forests have had in shaping
American character and our national history. This phase of the matter
is interesting both as a historical study and as a suggestion of the
moral as well as economic loss which must come with the denudation of
our forest areas.
All thinking Americans know that the forests are an important factor
in our commercial life, and Mr. Bruncken makes an impressive statement
of the way in which the lumber industry permeates all the nation's
activities. But the part played by the vast primeval forests in
creating American character is not so generally realized. From the
earliest colonial times the forests have had a moral and political
effect in shaping our history. In the seventeenth century England was
dependent upon Norway and the Baltic provinces for its timber for
ships. This was in various ways disadvantageous for England, so the
American colonists were encouraged with bounties to cut ship timbers,
masts and other lumber for European export. This trade, however, was
found to be unprofitable on account of the long ocean voyage, so the
American lumbermen began to develop a profitable market in the West
Indies. This was straightway interdicted by the short-sighted British
government, and the bitter and violent opposition of the colonists
against this tyrannical policy ceased only with the end of British
dominion.
From that time to the present the forests of America have exercised
a most important influence upon the nation, especially in creating
the self-reliance which is the chief trait of the American character.
The trappers, hunters, explorers and backwoods settlers who went forth
alone into the dense forests received a schooling such as nothing else
could give. As the forest closed behind the settler he knew his future
and that of his family must henceforth depend upon himself, his ax,
his rifle, and the few simple utensils he had brought with him. It was
a school that did not teach the graces, but it made men past masters
in courage, pertinacity, and resourcefulness. It bred a new, simple,
and forceful type of man. Out of the midst of that backwoods life came
Abraham Lincoln, the greatest example of American statesmanship the
nation has produced. In him was embodied all the inherent greatness of
his early wilderness surroundings, with scarcely a trace of its coarser
characteristics.
As Mr. Bruncken says, mere remembrance of what the forests have given
us in the past should be enough to inspire a wish to preserve them as
long as possible, to stop wanton waste by forest fires, and even to
repair our losses by planting new forests, as they do in Europe. The
time has gone when the silence and dangers of the forest were our chief
molders of sturdy character, but it is undeniable that the pioneer
blood that still runs so richly in American veins has much to do with
causing the idea of Philippine expansion to appeal so powerfully to the
popular imagination. The prophets who see in the expansion idea the
downfall of the nation forget that the same spirit subdued the American
wilderness and created the freest government and some of the finest
specimens of manhood the world has ever seen.
EASTER LILIES.
Though long in wintry sleep ye lay,
The powers of darkness could not stay
Your coming at the call of day,
Proclaiming spring.
Nay, like the faithful virgins wise,
With lamps replenished ye arise
Ere dawn the death-anointed eyes
Of Christ, the king.
--_John B. Tabb._
[Illustration: SCARLET IBIS.
1/3 Life-size.
FROM COL. F. KAEMPFER,
A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
CHICAGO COLORTYPE CO.,
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]
THE SCARLET IBIS.
(_Guara rubra._)
Ibises are distributed throughout the warmer parts of the globe and
number, according to the best authorities, about thirty species, of
which four occur in North America. The scarlet ibis is a South American
species, though it has been recorded from Florida, Louisiana, and New
Mexico. The ibises are silent birds, and live in flocks during the
entire year. They feed along the shores of lakes, bays, and salt-water
lagoons, and on mud flats, over which the tide rises and falls. Their
food consists of crustaceans, frogs, and small fish.
Colonies of ibises build nests in reedy marshes, or in low trees and
bushes not far from good feeding-grounds. Three to five pale greenish
eggs, marked with chocolate, are found in the coarse, bulky nest of
reeds and weed stalks.
These birds are not so numerous as they once were. They have been
wantonly destroyed for their plumage alone, the flesh being unfit for
food.
CHIPPY--A BABY MOCKING BIRD.
MARTHA CROMBIE WOOD.
One bright day early in August I sat by my window writing. My attention
was soon attracted by a pair of mocking birds which were flying back
and forth between a peach-tree and a plum-tree near by.
These birds having been near neighbors of mine for some time, I had
named them Jack and Jill.
A family quarrel seemed brewing, for Jack evidently found more good
points in the plum-tree and scolded Jill for spending any time in the
peach-tree, while Jill was equally impressed with the favorable aspect
of the peach-tree. I thought they were trying to decide upon a location
for a nest and was soon convinced that I was right, for Jack ended
the family disagreement by taking a twig in his bill and carrying it
to the plum-tree, where he began balancing it among some of the small
branches. His mate continued to scold from her place in the peach-tree,
but when he paid no attention to her and went on with his work she soon
relented and flew down to offer her assistance.
With very little difficulty these birds could carry a twig six or eight
inches long and a quarter of an inch in diameter. Several of these
large twigs were laid loosely among the forks of three small branches
and then a more compact structure was placed upon this foundation.
This was made of smaller twigs, with roots and stems of Bermuda grass
twisted among them. A lining composed of horse hair, grass, cotton, a
piece of satin ribbon some three inches long, bits of paper, string and
rag completed the home.
There was very little weaving in the construction of the nest and the
most wonderful as well as the most curious thing about it was how it
could be made so loosely and not fall apart during the very high winds
which we have in central Texas.
While the eggs were being hatched there was a violent storm which
lasted all day, and several times I saw the tree bend nearly to the
ground. Each time I was afraid I should see the destruction of this
home, which had become so interesting to me. As I watched the tree
writhe in the storm I began to appreciate the wisdom shown by the bird
in the selection of the place for his nest, for it was in the part of
the tree least disturbed by the wind and most thoroughly protected from
the rain.
During the long nights the mocking bird often sang to his mate as she
patiently sat on the nest.
Nothing can be more delightful than the song of our mocking birds,
heard when the moonlight makes the night almost as light as the day
and the south wind is ladened with the delicious odors of roses and
honeysuckle.
At last the eggs were hatched and five baby birds demanded food. The
parent birds worked constantly from dawn till dark, but, from the loud
"_ce-ce-ce_" which greeted them each time they neared the nest, one
might suppose the supply of food never equaled the demand.
A young mocking bird seems all mouth and legs. He is a comical little
creature with his scant covering of gray down, long legs, large feet
and ever-open mouth, with its lining of bright orange.
As the old bird approaches the little ones squat flat in the nest,
throw back their heads and open their enormous mouths, which must seem
like so many bottomless pits to the parent birds when they are tired.
If my favorite cat, Mephistopheles, tried to take his nap anywhere in
the vicinity of their nest Jack and Jill would fly at him, screaming,
and, boldly lighting upon his head, try to peck at his eyes. He would
strike at them and spit, but they would only fly upon the fence or
rose-trellis and in a moment dart at him again. The battle would
continue until Mephistopheles retired to a safer place.
I have seen many such battles, but never one where the bird was not
victorious.
One morning, when the birds were still quite small, one of them tumbled
from the nest. At first I thought the mother-bird might have pushed it
out that it might learn to fly, but after seeing the feathers of its
wings had only reached the tiny pin-feather stage, I knew it was too
young for such efforts and concluded that the nest was overcrowded. I
tried to put it in the nest for it was drenched with the dew from the
grass.
Jack and Jill objected so seriously to my assistance that I had to give
up this plan, for they flew at me just as they did at Mephistopheles.
Fearing the cat would hurt it I was compelled to take it into the
house.
Then my troubles began. It seemed to take all of my time to feed this
one bird, and I could not imagine how Jack and Jill could take care of
it and four others.
For awhile it seemed very much frightened, but at length began to
chirp. The old birds answered at once and soon came to the screen on
the window and called to it. Knowing they would feed it if they could
reach it I had to keep it away from them, for, should they discover it
was a prisoner, they would give it poison.
We named it Chippy and it soon became a great pet. Whenever anyone
entered the room where it was its mouth flew open, and from its shrill
"_chee-chee-chee_," one might easily imagine it was on the verge of
starvation.
When I had had it a week it would try to fly from the floor to the
lower rounds of a chair. When it had learned to fly, if left alone it
would call until someone answered, and then follow the sound until it
found them. I have known it to fly through two rooms, a downstairs
hall, up the stair-steps, through the upper hall, and into my room in
response to my whistle.
When it first made this journey it could fly only two or three feet at
a time and had to fly from step to step up the stairway.
Soon after this I took Chippy out of doors. He was very much delighted
when placed in a young hackberry tree, where he could fly from branch
to branch. When he reached the top of the tree Jill flew into a tree
near by and tried to coax him to come to her. I saw Chippy spread his
wings and supposed I had lost my pet. Imagine my surprise when he gave
a shrill scream and flew straight to me, lighting on my shoulder and
nestling against my face.
Jill followed him, resting in a vine some three or four feet from me.
When coaxing failed she flew away but soon returned with a grasshopper
in her bill.
I drove Chippy away from me, hoping he would return to his own family,
where his education could be carried on according to their ideas.
He flew into a tree, ate the grasshopper which Jill fed to him, and
then flew on the roof of the porch outside my window, where he sat
calling me. Going to my room I opened the screen to let him in, but
this startled him and he flew away.
The sun had gone down by this time and I supposed he had at last
returned to the nest. As I sat at the supper table I heard him calling
to me and went outside.
He was in a tree in a neighbor's yard, but when he saw me he at once
flew down on my head, and it was comical to see him try to express his
joy.
After that he spent his days among the trees, but at sunset always came
to the house and slept in a box in my room.
Whenever he was hungry he would come to the window and call for food.
His favorite resting-place was on my shoulder or head and he seemed to
be very fond of company.
One morning I saw Jack and Jill flying from tree to tree with him and
that is the last I ever saw of any of them.
BIRDLAND SECRETS.
SARA E. GRAVES.
Tell me what the bluebird sings
When from Southland up he springs
Into March's frosty skies
And to our New England flies,
Where, upon some sunny morn
Hear we first his note lovelorn.
Now he 'mong the maple flits,
Now upon a fencepost sits,
Lifting wings of heaven's own blue
As he warbles, clear and true,
Song so plaintive, soft and sweet,
All our hearts with welcome beat.
What the message full he brings
When in March's ear he sings?
Tell me what our robins think
When our April airs they drink,
Following close in Bluebird's train
With their blither, bolder strain.
Sit they high on maple tall
Chirping loud their earnest call,
Redbreasts glowing in the sun,
Then across the sward they run
Scampering briskly, then upright,
Flirt their tails and spring to flight.
Or, when drops the light of day
Down the westward golden way,
Robin mounts the tallest branch
Touched by sunset's quivering lance;
Carols forth his evening tune
Blithe as Earth were in her June.
Tell me what the sparrow says
In those first glad springtime days,
When the maples yield their sweet,
When Earth's waking pulses beat,
When the swollen streams and rills
Frolic down the pasture hills.
Winter birds and squirrels then
Grow more lively in the glen,
And, when warmer airs arise,
Sparrow sings her sweet surprise
From the lilac bushes near,
Song of faith and hope and cheer.
Tell me, when the longer train
Up from Southland sweeps again,
Filling fields and glens and woods--
Wildest, deepest solitudes--
With more brilliant life and song,
Golden lyre and silver tongue,
Bells that ring their morning chimes
Wood nymphs voicing soothing rhymes
Stirring all the sun-filled air
With hymns of praise and love and prayer.
Tell me whence their motive power,
Tell me whence so rich a dower,
Tell me why are _birds_ so gifted;
Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted;
Whither swells this tide of love
Flooding all the air above?
Whither these enchantments tend?
A brief bird life--is this its end?
[Illustration: MASSENA PARTRIDGE.
5/7 Life-size.
FROM COL. F. KAEMPFER.
A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]
THE MASSENA QUAIL.
(_Cyrtonyx Massena._)
This beautiful species is said to be by far the most gentle and
unsuspicious of our quails, and will permit a very close approach by
man, showing little or no fear of what most animals know so well to be
their most deadly enemy. While feeding they keep close together, and
constantly utter a soft clucking note, as though talking to one another.
This species is about the size of the eastern variety. Its head is
ornamented with a beautifully full, soft occipital crest. The head of
the male is singularly striped with black and white. The female is
smaller and is quite different in color, but may be recognized by the
generic characters. The tail is short and full, and the claws very
large.
The quail makes a simple nest on the ground, under the edge of some
old log, or in the thick grass on the prairie, lined with soft and
well-dried grass and a few feathers. From fifteen to twenty-four white
eggs are laid. The female sits three weeks. The young brood, as soon as
they are fairly out of the shell, leave the nest and seem abundantly
strong to follow the parent, though they are no bigger than the end of
one's thumb--covered with down. The massena quail is an inhabitant of
the western and southwestern states.
IN THE OLD LOG HOUSE.
BY BERTHA SEAVEY SAUNIER.
The big orchard on the Triggs place was also the old orchard. Grandpa
Triggs had planted it long ago in his young days when the country was
new. The year before he had hauled logs from yonder forest with his
ox-team and built the strong little house that still stands at the foot
of the orchard.
He brought young crab trees, too, and set them all about the house and
though, after the orchard was started, he often threatened to cut them
down, he never did it and they grew into a tangle of friendship and
protection until the little one-roomed house was nearly hidden.
The house was desolate now. The catbirds built their nests in the
crotches of the crabs and the jays came over from the woods across the
river and quarreled with them. An old zigzag rail fence separated the
orchard from the hay-field at one end and a tall uncared-for osage
hedge did scant duty at two sides. Once in a great while a sheep would
leave the aftermath and step through the wide spaces of the hedge
and, entering the doorless house, would walk curiously about and then
return. But that was all--no, not quite all. The children built fires
in the great fireplace and roasted potatoes or experimented at cooking
carrots, artichokes, apples and occasionally a pair of kidneys rolled
each in several thicknesses of brown paper and slowly cooked under
the hot ashes and coals. To be sure, the smoke came out into the room
and got into the children's eyes and passed out at the door--for the
chimney had crumbled to half its old time height--but the playtimes
went on in spite of that and the birds shouted and sang outside.
One would expect that all this activity above board to be happily
interested without looking for new and startling circumstances under
ground. But, withal, life went on among the "underground lights,"
with its busy unconcern of affairs which it could not share or even
comprehend. Rarely when the fire warmed the bricks about the fireplace
did comely, plump Mrs. Acre Tidae fail to raise her song. She had a
way of building a home had Mrs. House Cricket. She tossed out a few
grains of earth from under the brick tiling of the hearth and presto!
she entered in backward and sat down waving her long slender antennæ
with a happy content that would shame many a one who, having more, is
not satisfied. Mr. Field Cricket, who happens also to be named Acre
Tidae, had built his home at the edge of the path in the sandy loam
just without the door. Two bodies of the same name and family would be
expected to live in the same house, but they couldn't quite come to do
that on account of tastes. For one thing they differed in the matter
of dress, though that was the least objection one to the other. Mrs.
House Cricket wore a grayish yellow dress, marked a little with brown
and Mr. Field Cricket wore darker colors. He built his home deeper,
too, which would never suit Mrs. Acre Tidae at all. Sometimes his home
is twelve inches deep, and six it is sure to be. And then, big fellow
that he is, quite a bit larger than she, he does not mind the cold. He
snuggles down in the deep darkness as soon as he sees the dew frozen
in the tiny crystals all over the long grass blades, and sleeps the
time away, however long and cold the winter may be; and such a life is
scorned by bright Mrs. House Cricket, who chooses the hearth on account
of the warmth and who chirps joyfully throughout the year, except when
the fire goes out, as it often does in the little old log house; for
there were days and days when the children did not come to play. At
such times Mrs. House Cricket was forced unwillingly to fall asleep.
"Shameful!" she would mutter, as the last flicker of feeling departed.
"Such a waste of time. If I had built in a bakery or by a brick oven
how much busier I might be--and happier. I'm no better than those
cousins of mine who make it a business to sleep half the year around."
These last words were so soft as she scraped them off on the ridges of
her wing covers that the children, who were just going home, stopped
and Linsey said, "Do hear the cricket--it says, 'Good night; good
night.'"
"By-by, Crick!" called Harry, as he leaped through the hedge and ran
to the brook to stamp on the thin ice with his heel. "I shall move
out," moaned Mrs. Cricket with her faintest note. But moving day did
not arrive for many weeks and Mrs. Cricket awoke and went to sleep as
many times; and finally the long hot days found her contentedly basking
in the field among the warm grasses, having forgotten the troubles of
the winter. "Dear me," she was softly drumming with her wing covers as
she stopped in her evening search for food. "Dear, dear! how that big
cousin of mine does scream! Perhaps he calls it music, but I don't."
She crept along slowly and hid in a fold of rain-worn paper near the
home of her much criticized relative. He was sitting in his doorway
singing his evening song as loud as he could, for he was singing with a
purpose. The source of his music lay within his wing covers. Nearly one
hundred and thirty fine ridges were on the under side of one wing cover
(which is hard and horny), and these are hastily scraped over a smooth
nervure which projects from the under side of the other wing cover.
And that is how he sings. His song is bound to be a love-song and
Mrs. House Cricket finding a few crumbs within the paper and deciding
to stay all night suddenly heard the loud, harsh tones softened and,
looking out, she saw her big cousin standing close to another dark
form like his own. He was crooning softly as he caressed her with his
slender, delicate antennæ--his mate, whom he had won to himself with
his song. Mrs. House Cricket looked on for a moment and changed her
mind about staying all night. "I'll creep under a leaf," she said, "and
leave the lovers to themselves." So she slipped away and saw them no
more until, some weeks later, she passed and, seeing her cousin in his
door, stopped:
"I have all my eggs laid," she said, "and I'm going up toward the big
house to stay until the weather gets cold."
"Mrs. Field Cricket has two hundred eggs right here under this long
grass," he answered with great pride. "She is welcome," returned his
cousin; "for my part I prefer quality to quantity." And she turned away
to take a peep at the nursery which was warmed and nourished only by
the sun.
"They will soon hatch out and dig homes each for himself like my own
little ones," she said as she left them and began her long journey
toward the farmhouse. "But mine will be wise enough to get near to
a barn or house when they are grown up," she mused, "so that they
need not sleep all winter, and they can be busy and useful to the
world--busy, useful, cheerful, hopeful." She stopped to say one or the
other of these good words often as she traveled on and sometimes she
said them all at one time, as she pruned her wings which when folded,
extended beyond her body into long, slender filaments like the antennæ.
At length, just as the maple leaves, all brown and dry, were blowing
into heaps against the rosebushes and the lilacs, Mrs. Acre Tidae
reached the farmhouse and slipped unobserved into the warm, clean
kitchen.
She found a wide crack in the floor near the big chimney and squeezed
in, digging it out to suit her body.
"The babies are all safe in their little holes by this time," she said,
"safe for the winter. Perhaps by next fall they will be with me and
we will all go out at night to eat crumbs," and she began singing,
"Useful, cheerful--busy, hopeful." "Do hear the cricket," said Linsey,
"It sounds like the one in the old log house."
"They are all alike, I guess," returned Harry, who was eating apples.
"They are always jolly sad, I reckon." "Use-ful, cheer-ful, hope-ful,"
sang Mrs. Cricket.
ANIMALS AS PATIENTS.
M. Lepinay, the presiding genius of the bird hospital in Paris, has
found by experience that his feathered patients chiefly exhibit
a tendency toward apoplexy--the dove is particularly addicted to
this complaint; consumption follows in order of unpopularity, with
internal complaints occupying the third place. In the case of
apoplexy, blood-letting--so popular a remedy in the days of our
great-grandparents--is resorted to by means of a diminutive lancet
inserted in a fleshy portion of the bird, and this is followed by small
doses of such drugs as quinine, bromide of camphor, etc.
Apropos of dog's teeth, about a year ago there was exhibited at a
certain show a very interesting and aged schipperke, who was at that
time the only dog in the world boasting a complete set of false teeth.
His owner, Mr. Moseley, is a dentist as well as a lover of animals, and
it is entirely due to his skill that the little dog is able to eat with
perfect comfort by the aid of the artificial molars provided for him
by his master, who, on another occasion, provided a dog who had lost a
limb in an accident with an artificial leg. The only horse possessing
a full set of false teeth was the property of Mr. Henry Lloyd of
Louisville, Ky., who had its diseased teeth extracted and replaced by a
set of false ones.
A swan that had had a leg run over by a cart-wheel, causing a compound
fracture, was recently successfully treated at Otley, England, while
yet another swan had an operation performed at Darlington some little
time ago that was very much out of the ordinary. In this instance, the
unlucky bird had the principal bone in its right wing fractured in
several places, the fracture presumably being caused by a brutal blow
dealt by some unknown ruffian. A veterinary surgeon was asked to give
his advice, and on his recommendation an amputation was decided upon,
and this he successfully performed. The bird, sans a wing, was, when
last heard of, well on the road to recovery.
THE TRIPLET TREE.
CHARLES COKE WOODS, PH.D.
Matter _per se_ is an evidence of mind. Every material thing enshrines
a thought. Essential nature has no superfluities. To the thinker
everything means something. In nature nothing happens. Everything is
ordered. There can be no portrait of a landscape without a painter.
There can be no landscape without a maker.
The visible forms that nature takes may be changed. Her invisible
forms are changeless. The search for the changeless is the great and
delightful task of art, literature, science, philosophy and religion.
The ultimate in nature and in art is divine. The permanent principle
survives the fleeting form. Nature's principles are relatively few. Her
forms are multifarious. Tree life is true life. It is natural. It is
therefore true. Nature's garb may be odd. It may even be deformed. But
her inner self is never false. Sap, fiber, leaf, blossom, fruit; this
is nature's apocalypse. It is Queen Beauty's progressive revelation.
Trees usually grow singly. Under certain conditions they may as
naturally grow otherwise. The unusual is not necessarily the unnatural.
Nature's resources are vast. She may at any time manifest herself in an
unfamiliar form.
A triplet tree grows on what is known as "Green's Ranch" in Cowley
County, Kansas. The ranch is located five miles northeast of Arkansas
City. The trees are about three hundred yards from the west bank of
the Walnut River. They range in a line running north and south. They
are between forty-five and fifty feet high. The first two on the north
are eighteen inches apart. The third tree standing at the south end
of the row is fifteen feet from the middle one. They are water elms,
and average about three and one-half feet in girth. The tree standing
at the north end of the row is hollow at the base and, leaning over
southward intersects the central tree two feet from the ground; thence
it extends to the one at the south end of the row, and intersects it
with a limb from either side twelve feet above the ground. The segment
of the circle described by the leaning tree is about twenty feet. At
the points where the cross tree intersects the other two, it is not
merely a case of contiguity, but of actual identification.
Another feature of the leaning tree is that half way between its base
and the trunk of the second, and on the lower side is an unsightly knot
about as large as a half bushel measure. Half way between the center
tree and the one on the south, and on the under side of the leaning
tree is another lump similar to the first, about half the size. These
unsightly warts appear to have been produced by a congestion of sap in
the tissue of the intersecting tree. This triplet tree is a curiosity.
It presents a strange phenomenon in tree formation. But nature is
everywhere full of mystery and surprises.
COUNTRIES DEVOID OF TREES.
Anyone who has traveled through the comparatively treeless countries
around the Mediterranean, such as Spain, Sicily, Greece, northern
Africa, and large portions of Italy, must fervently pray that our own
country may be preserved from so dismal a fate, says President Charles
W. Eliot. It is not the loss of the forests only that is to be dreaded,
but the loss of agricultural regions now fertile and populous, which
may be desolated by the floods that rush down from the bare hills and
mountains, bringing with them vast quantities of sand and gravel to be
spread over the lowlands.
Traveling a few years ago through Tunisie, I came suddenly upon a fine
Roman bridge of stone over a wide, bare, dry river bed. It stood some
thirty feet above the bed of the river and had once served the needs
of a prosperous population. Marveling at the height of the bridge
above the ground, I asked the French station master if the river
ever rose to the arches which carried the roadway of the bridge. His
answer testified to the flooding capacity of the river and to the
strength of the bridge. He said: "I have been here four years, and
three times I have seen the river running over the parapets of that
bridge. That country was once one of the richest granaries of the Roman
empire. It now yields a scanty support for a sparse and semi-barbarous
population." The whole region round-about is treeless. The care of
the national forests is a provision for future generations, for the
permanence over vast areas of our country of the great industries
of agriculture and mining upon which the prosperity of the country
ultimately depends. A good forest administration would soon support
itself.--_From January Atlantic._
SNOW PRISONS OF GAME BIRDS.
A late season snowstorm, with the heavy precipitation that marked the
storm of Feb. 28, gives the heart of the sportsman as well as that
of the bird protector a touch of anxiety on the score of the ruffed
grouse and quail. A downfall of that kind, followed by a thaw and then
by a freeze at night, means the death of hundreds of game birds. The
quail simply get starved and cold killed, while the ruffed grouse, or
partridges, get locked up by Jack Frost and die of hunger in their
prisons.
There is a patch of woods not far from Delavan, Wis., where there was
until recently an abundance of these game birds. There was a local
snowstorm there late in February last year, which was followed by a
day of sunshine and then by a frost which covered the snow with a heavy
crust. Grouse have a habit of escaping from the cold and blustering
winds by burying themselves in the big snow drifts at the edges of the
woods. There they lie snug and warm and are perhaps loath to leave
their comfortable quarters. They sometimes stay in the drift until the
delay costs them their lives, the crust forming and walling them in. It
so happened to sixteen partridges in the woodland patch near Delavan.
With the melting of the season's snows the bodies of the birds were
found. They were separated from one another by only a few feet. It was
a veritable grouse graveyard.--_Tribune._
Warm grows the wind, and the rain hammers daily,
Making small doorways to let in the sun;
Flowers spring up, and new leaves flutter gaily;
Back fly the birdlings for winter is done.
--_Justine Sterns._
[Illustration: RING-BILLED DUCK.
5/11 Life-size.
FROM COL. F. NUSSBAUMER & SON.
A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]
THE RING-BILLED DUCK.
(_Aythya collaris._)
This duck has many popular synonyms, among others ring-necked,
ring-billed shuffler, ring-necked scaup duck, or blue-bill fall duck
(Minnesota), black jack (Illinois), moon-bill (South Carolina). It is
found throughout the whole of North America, south to Guatemala and the
West Indies; breeding from Iowa, southern Wisconsin, Minnesota and
Maine northward. It is accidental in Europe.
The chief variation in the plumage of this species consists in the
distinctness of the chestnut collar in the male, which is usually well
defined, particularly in front. There is very little in its habits to
distinguish it from the other "black-heads." Like them, it usually
associates in small flocks. Its flesh is excellent, being fat, tender
and juicy.
A STRANGE BIRD HOUSE.
ADDIE L. BOOKER.
Wrens are famous for choosing queer places for nesting-sites. They
will nest in almost any situation about the house or yard that can
be entered through any semblance of a hole. I place all kinds of odd
receptacles about the yard for them every spring, which they seldom
fail to occupy. These friendly and interesting little creatures
appreciate such thoughtfulness, and repay it by fairly bubbling over
with grateful song.
But the pair that afforded me the most amusement pre-empted a homestead
that was not intended for them.
Our acquaintance began when preparing to remove the cook stove to the
summer kitchen in May. In winter this kitchen is used as a sort of
lumber room, and when clearing it of various odd and ends it was found
that a pair of wrens had taken possession of an overshoe and laid the
foundation of a home. The pair of overshoes had been tied together and
hung on a nail in the wall, about five feet from the floor.
Needless to say they were left undisturbed, though not without many
doubts of the feasibility of the enterprise, on account of the
proximity of the stove. The shoes were the ordinary kind, fleece-lined
rubber, and were only a few feet from where the stove would be set.
These conditions warranted the expectation of disastrous results from
extreme heat--at least so it seemed to me, but my little neighbors
thought otherwise, and nest-building progressed rapidly. Being
remarkably industrious midgets, the nest of sticks was soon finished
and lined with soft feathers from the poultry yard.
Wrens are noted for their industry; unless in a very restricted
situation the outside dimensions of the nest are enormous when compared
with the interior, or cavity. And the twigs that compose the structure
are out of all proportion to the size of the architects. I have seen
twigs a foot long and half the size of a lead pencil, used in the
construction of their nests. That birds so diminutive could carry
such burdens in their tiny bills is indeed wonderful. It is said that
a single pair have been known to fill a barrel, but no nest quite so
mammoth as this has ever come under my observation.
To return to the home in the shoes. After the completion of the nest
five wee eggs were deposited therein, and incubation began. And in
spite of the heat everything went on happily in this unique domicile.
We soon became the most sociable friends. Their quaint and charming
ways made them very amusing pets. They became so tame that they would
approach me fearlessly, even alighting on my head, and would let me
examine their nest without being frightened.
The wren is a very lively and active bird, and sings incessantly
throughout the breeding-season, and these were not an exception, but
were forever darting in and out, their actions accompanied by a sweet
warble. Mr. Wren would positively quiver all over with delight, while
regaling Mrs. Wren and me with his exuberant melody. They were the
cheeriest little companions imaginable. Every morning as I entered the
kitchen I was greeted heartily by my small neighbors, who bustled about
in the preparation of the morning meal as busily as I. Meanwhile Mr.
Wren merrily sang his innocent matin song, and spontaneously I would
find myself singing too, as I went about my work.
One day there was great excitement in the shoe and, when I looked in,
five featherless mites with huge mouths were to be seen. Mrs. Wren was
now a veritable "old woman who lived in a shoe." But she did not treat
her children as did the old woman of nursery fame, though she was kept
very busy in supplying their wants, even with the assistance of Mr.
Wren.
These birds subsist on small insects and consume a considerable
quantity. With much satisfaction I watched them slay a host of ants
that were invading the kitchen; running up and down the wall with much
agility, they picked the ants off.
Real warm weather had set in by the time the nestlings were ready to
try their wings, and I thought, of course, my friends would desert me
for a cooler resort out of doors, in which to pass the heated term.
But O, no, they were too loyal for that, so to make their house more
commodious, another room was added by building a nest in the other
shoe. And the family raised in the second shoe was not a whit less
interesting than the first.
THE CHICKADEE.
SIDNEY DAYRE.
"Were it not for me,"
Said a chickadee,
"Not a single flower on earth would be;
For under the ground they soundly sleep
And never venture an upward peep,
Till they hear from me,
Chickadee-dee!
"I tell Jack Frost when 'tis time to go
And carry away the ice and snow;
And then I hint to the jolly old sun,
'A little spring work, sir, should be done.'
And he smiles around
On the frozen ground,
And I keep up my cheery, cheery sound,
Till echo declares in glee, in glee,
'Tis he! 'tis he!
The chickadee-dee!"
"And then I waken the birds of spring--
'Ho, ho! 'tis time to be on the wing.'
They trill and twitter and soar aloft,
And I send the winds to whisper soft,
Down by the little flower-beds,
Saying, 'Come show your pretty heads!
The spring is coming, you see, you see!'
For so sings he,
The chickadee-dee!"
The sun he smiled; and the early flowers
Bloomed to brighten the blithesome hours,
And song-birds gathered in bush and tree;
But the wind he laughed right merrily,
As the saucy mite of a snowbird he
Chirped away, "Do you see, see, see?
I did it all!
Chickadee-dee!"
REFLECTIONS.
CHARLES C. MARBLE.
Vice often epitomizes ancestry.
The wisest are not so wise as silence.
Experience is the grave of enthusiasm.
Experience is the enemy of dogmatism.
Our faith is often nothing more than our hope.
Should we despise anything that God has made?
In bestowing benefits we imperil friendship.
Innocence and guilt are alike suffused with blushes.
If vice did not exist wisdom could not predicate itself.
Disappointment leaves a scar which hope cannot remove.
Success is an excellent proof of the wisdom which achieved it.
The vices of some men are more endurable than the virtues of others.
Beauty is a reproach without virtue, while virtue is itself the highest
beauty.
The sun at noon gives no more light than at morn, but its glow has more
warmth and power.
Without the accessories life were of little worth, and hope gives it
its permanence and serenity.
Marriage should be in harmony with nature, in which what is seemingly
discordant but illuminates and purifies it.
Our conduct toward one another should be based upon a conception of the
infinite mischances of life and the exquisite poignancy of regret.
Misfortune seeks consolation in communicating itself. But when it
no longer needs sympathy it is silent, and ashamed of its former
volubility.
We can overcome even our prejudices where some interest is subserved
by it. So much stronger is self-interest than color, social status, or
education.
The poet should know, better than another, his limitations. Parnassus
is always higher than our dreams, and his summit more radiant than the
vision of any mortal.
The lily of the valley, which hides its chaste head in dewy leaflets,
is a thousand times less modest than the maiden whose conscious blush
reveals the innocence of reason.
If we were to judge all men by what they seem to have achieved, we
would be harsh and unjust. We cannot always see the scar left by a
heroic deed, and modesty conceals it.
Complete benevolence implies simplicity of living. The Christian cannot
have if he knows that others have not. Thoreau was perhaps the wisest
man of his time; he practiced what he preached; and there are few
examples of simplicity to compare with his.
Nothing, perhaps, is more humiliating than to observe the precocious
development of the negative virtues, especially prudence. There is
a subtle suspiciousness in early prudence which is at war with all
generous impulses. Think of the pinched heart of a little miser.
There is a selfishness which deals generously with its own: my wife, my
child shall be arrayed in the richest, shall feed upon the daintiest;
my servant, my handmaid they are naught to me. Nature hath made nothing
better than my desert; she hath made nothing poor enough for thee and
thine.
In an old man conceit may be so comprehensive as to include the
race. Has he been reasonably successful with the fair sex, all are
the subjects of his whim or desire; and he will sententiously and
confidently repel any claim of virtue or purity. So blind is he to the
centuries made splendid by her virtue and self-sacrifice, and so little
is his judgment affected by objects unconnected with self.
FOXGLOVE.
(_Digitalis purpurea L._)
DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER,
Northwestern University School of Pharmacy.
Pan through the pastures often times hath runne
To plucke the speckled fox-gloves from their stems.
--_W. Browne, Britannias Pastorals, II. 4._
The fox-glove is a biennial herb from two to seven feet in height
with a solitary, sparingly branched stem. The basal leaves are very
large and broad, gradually becoming narrower and smaller toward the
apex of the stem and its branches, dark green in color, pubescent,
margin dentate, venation very prominent. The inflorescence is very
characteristic. The large, numerous flowers are closely crowded and
pendulous from one side of the arched stalk. The corolla is purple and
spotted on the inside. It is a very handsome plant, widely distributed,
preferring a sandy or gravelly soil in open woods. When abundant and
in full bloom it makes a beautiful exhibit. It is a garden favorite in
many lands.
This plant is apparently not mentioned in the works of older authors.
It was not known to the ancient Greeks and Romans. It was, however,
used medicinally in the northern countries of Europe since very remote
times. The Anglo-Saxon word fox-glove is derived from the Welsh (11th
century), _foxes-glew_, meaning fox music in allusion to an ancient
musical instrument consisting of bells hung on an arched support. In
the Scandinavian idioms the plant bears the name of foxes' bells. The
German name _Fingerhut_, meaning finger hat, hence thimble, is derived
from the resemblance of the flower to a thimble. Still more poetical is
the name _Wald-glöcklein_, meaning little forest bells, in reference to
the inflorescence. In England the flowers are known as foxes' fingers,
ladies' fingers and dead men's bells.
According to an old English work on medicine the early physicians of
Wales and England applied this drug externally only. It was not until
1775 when the English physician Withering began to use it internally,
especially in the treatment of hydrophobia. Modern physicians consider
digitalis one of the most important medicinal plants. It is a very
powerful, hence very poisonous drug, its action being due to an active
principle known as _digitalin_. Its principal use is in the treatment
of deficient heart action due to various causes but especially when due
to valvular lesions. The physician must, however, observe great care in
its administration, not only because of its powerful action but also
because of its "cumulative action;" that is, the effect of the drug
increases although only normal medicinal doses are given at regular
intervals, so that fatal poisoning may result, especially if the
patient should attempt to rise suddenly. The physician guards against
this by gradually decreasing the dose or by discontinuing it for a time
and by requiring the patient to remain in a recumbent position while
under the influence of the drug.
For medicinal use the leaves from the wild-growing plants are preferred
because they contain more of the active principle. The leaves are
collected when about half of the flowers are expanded and, since it is
a biennial, that would be during the second year. The first year leaves
are, however, often used or added. Like all valuable drugs it is often
adulterated, the leaves of _Inula Conyza_ (ploughman's spikenard),
_Symphytum officinale_ (comfrey), and _Verbascum Thapsus_ (mullein)
being used for that purpose. The odor of the bruised green leaves
is heavy or nauseous, while that of the dried leaves is fragrant,
resembling the odor of tea. The taste is quite bitter. Formerly the
roots, flowers and seeds were also used medicinally.
[Illustration: DIGITALIS.
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
A. W. MUMFORD. CHICAGO.]
DESCRIPTION OF PLATE.--_A_, _B_, plant somewhat reduced. 1,
flower; 2, 3, 4, stamens; 5, pollen; 6, 7, style and stigma; 8, 9,
ovary; 10, fruit; 11, 12, 13, seed.
FRUIT BATS OF THE PHILIPPINES.
The Agricultural Department at Washington is taking precautions to
prevent the importation into the United States of any of the animal
pests which are found in Porto Rico, the Philippines, and the other new
colonies. Among these none is more feared than the great fruit bats
which abound in the Philippines. A full grown specimen of the fruit
bat measures five feet from tip to tip of its wings. The fruit bats
live together in immense communities and feed almost altogether on
tropical and subtropical fruits. They crowd together so thickly on the
trees that sometimes large branches are broken down by their weight. In
Australia they have increased so rapidly that great sums of money have
been spent in their destruction, one organized movement of the fruit
growers of New South Wales recently resulting in the killing of 100,000
bats at a cost of 30 cents each. Another possible immigrant which is
much dreaded is the mongoose, which abounds in Cuba, Porto Rico, and
the other West Indian Islands. The mongoose was first brought to the
islands for the purpose of destroying the rats and mice, which it did
so thoroughly that it was soon forced to adapt itself to another diet.
It was found that the mongoose thrived on young poultry, birds, and
even young pigs and lambs, while it also consumed great quantities of
pineapples, bananas, corn and other vegetable products.
MONKEYS AS GOLD FINDERS.
Captain E. Moss of the Transvaal tells the following story of the
monkeys who work for him in the mines: "I have twenty-four monkeys,"
said he, "employed about my mines. They do the work of seven
able-bodied men. In many instances they lend valuable aid where a man
is useless. They gather up the small pieces of quartz that would be
passed unnoticed by the workingmen, and pile them up in little heaps
that can easily be gathered up in a shovel and thrown into a mill. They
work just as they please, sometimes going down into the mines when
they have cleared up all the débris on the outside. They live and
work together without quarreling any more than men do. They are quite
methodical in their habits, and go to work and finish up in the same
manner as human beings would do under similar circumstances. It is very
interesting to watch them at their labor, and see how carefully they
look after every detail of the work they attempt. They clean up about
the mines, follow the wheelbarrows and carts used in mining and pick up
everything that falls off on the way."--_Tit Bits._
A PLEA FOR THE TREES.
ANNE WAKELY JACKSON.
Much has been written, and more has been said, in regard to the
"prevention of cruelty to children," and the "prevention of cruelty to
animals;" but has anyone ever urged upon the public the prevention of
cruelty to _trees_?
It is time someone did, for people nowadays seem to have no regard
whatever for a tree's feelings, but saw and hack a limb off here or
there at any season of the year the notion happens to seize them, and
leave the poor thing maimed and disfigured, and perhaps pouring out its
life-blood from the ugly wound.
If you are insensible to the beauty, the blessing and benignity of
trees, there is no use in appealing to you. But surely you are not!
Surely you can call to mind some old tree that brings up memories of
the past, and appeals to you with almost human tenderness!
Then, for the sake of these old, tried, and well-beloved friends, look
with compassion upon all trees, and discourage those who would spoil
and disfigure them.
Have you ever thought how sad a tree must feel when it is transplanted
from the forest to the city or town? How it must miss its tall and
stalwart companions the shy woodland birds, and the flowers that spring
up around it each year! The parting from them all is bad enough, but
there is worse to come. It little dreams of the hideous and deforming
"trimming" that will begin as soon as it commences to spread its tiny
branches! Poor little tree! I wonder it does not die of grief and pain!
Doubtless, it sighs and sobs out its longing for the old free home, in
the ears of the passing wind, though we are too dull to understand its
murmuring voice.
If the wind is in a good humor, he caresses it gently, and tries to
comfort it; but sometimes he is angry, and then he shakes the poor tree
fiercely. But it loves him always, whether he is gentle or rough.
I suppose it is sometimes necessary to trim trees. I hear people say
so. But I think a tree of beautiful and perfect shape is more desirable
than the little patch of lawn that might be gained by "trimming it up."
Ought not one to consider, and carefully study the tree, as a whole,
before venturing to remove any of its branches? To examine it from
every point of view? Above all, if your trees _must_ be trimmed, see
about it _yourself_, and don't trust them to the ruthless hands of
people insensible to beauty--those to whom a tree is only so much wood!
And be very sure your "cause" is "justifiable" before you allow them to
be touched.
Remember that the finest trees are of slow growth; and if ever you are
tempted to cut down a really fine one, just stop a moment and reflect
that it may take half a lifetime to replace it.
If these people who have a mania for cutting down trees could but be
persuaded to plant a new one for every old one they sacrifice, what a
blessing it would be to future generations!
Then as a little helpless, innocent bird,
That has but one plain passage of few notes,
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er
For all an April morning, till ear
Wearies to hear it.
--_Tennyson._
The sycophant succeeds where the self-respecting man fails, yet the
former is despised and the latter revered. The first is happy if he
secure the favor of the great; the latter is content if he can secure
that of himself.--_Charles Churchill Marble._
"THAT I MAY HELP."
The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest, Who hast made the fire,
Thou knowest, Who hast made the clay.
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread temple of Thy Worth,
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
Take not that vision from my ken;
O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men
That I may help such men as need.
--_Rudyard Kipling._
A TRAGEDY IN THREE PARTS.
PART I.--_The Bonnet._
A bit of foundation as big as your hand;
Bows of ribbon and lace;
Wire sufficient to make them stand;
A handful of roses, a velvet band--
It lacks but one crowning grace.