It is a pretty well known fact among hunters and students of Nature
generally that most flesh-eating animals, whether in fur or feathers,
can be more readily called by imitating the squeaking of mice than in
any other way, and proves conclusively enough that these creatures
depend largely on the sense of hearing in their struggle for a
livelihood.
My first practical illustration of this fact occurred so long ago that
it seems almost like ancient history.
For some reason or other one summer's vacation began some six hours
earlier than was expected, and although apparently insignificant
enough when compared with the entire three months that were to follow,
that extra half holiday was probably valued out of all due proportion
by the pupils, owing to its unexpectedness, and for that reason,
perhaps, more than any other, is still recalled by one at least as
distinctly as ever.
One of the boys had a contrivance known as a bird-call--a simple
instrument of wood and some soft metal--that, on being turned,
produced noises that bore not the slightest resemblance to the cries
of any bird, but were not entirely unlike the squeaking of a mouse in
distress.
Some of us were more or less skeptical as to its powers of attracting
birds, and decided to put it to the test. So we loafed about under the
apple trees working the thing for all it was worth, but no birds came
about us, and the bird-call was in danger of being thrown away in
disgrace, when a small brown beast appeared from under a pile of
boards and came running toward us, till suddenly scenting danger it
disappeared. There was some discussion at the time whether it was a
rat, chipmunk, or red squirrel; none had seen it very clearly or could
give any very definite description of it, but in all probability it
was a weasel attracted by what it supposed to be the voice of its
accustomed prey.
About halfway between that time and the present a young long-eared owl
became an important member of our family, a most original and amusing
bird, without the slightest fear of any of us. He was christened
Mephistopheles.
[Illustration: MEPHISTOPHELES.]
As he was learning to fly, it seemed advisable that he should be
taught to come at our call to be fed; and accordingly one day, by way
of experiment, I held out a piece of meat to him and squeaked like a
mouse. There was a rush of downy pinions, and his talons were neatly
arranged about my lips. He was evidently a good deal excited, but was
careful not to hurt me any more than was absolutely necessary in order
to secure the mouse which he fancied he had cornered in my mouth. I
was just reckless enough to try it again on the following day as he
perched on the low branch of an apple tree. His power of detecting the
direction whence the sound came proved fully equal to the occasion,
and the result was the same as in the first instance. The end of
Mephisto was tragic in the extreme. He was sometimes fastened by a
linen cord six or eight feet long and as large as a lead pencil, which
when not in use was hung across the perch where he slept. Evidently he
felt that the food furnished him was too effeminate, for the powerful
stomachs of all birds of prey require a certain amount of such
indigestible matter as hair, feathers, or bone to keep them in good
condition. So one ill-fated night, in looking about for something that
would answer that purpose, he unfortunately hit upon the cord as a
substitute, and proceeded to swallow one end of it. The first few feet
must have fully satisfied his cravings, but there was the rest to be
disposed of, and the most feasible method that presented itself
naturally was to go on swallowing. The thing must have grown extremely
dry and distasteful as inch after inch disappeared, still there was
nothing for it but to go on, which he did. In the morning he was
strangely silent and gloomy, with hardly a foot of cord protruding
from his beak. Any attempt on our part to remove the cord proved not
only fruitless but painful, so it was cut off close to his beak,
whereupon he swallowed what remained in his mouth and looked relieved.
His meal proved too much for him, however, and he only lived a few
days after it.
The different species of hawks vary greatly as regards the readiness
with which they may be called--most of them, in fact, absolutely
refusing to be lured in any way. As might be expected from its habits,
the marsh hawk is the most susceptible, and in still weather may be
brought from a distance of one hundred yards or more. At the first
squeak he wheels about in the air and comes directly toward you with
most unexpected impetuosity and swiftness. His discomposure on
discovering the fraud is usually most amusing, as he stops short in
mid air, with wings and legs asprawl, and turning his back on you,
hurries off in feverish haste.
The red-tailed and red-shouldered hawks are also easily attracted in
this manner, but the rough-legged hawks, although they live almost
entirely on mice, are not so readily deceived, though this is
undoubtedly owing more to their extreme wariness than to any dullness
of hearing on their part.
None of the falcons or short-winged hawks pay the slightest attention
to the most lifelike squeaking, so that evidently when they do deign
to attack such ignoble quarry as a field mouse they depend more on
their eyesight than on the sense of hearing. One still October day the
red-tailed hawks were soaring and screaming above the pines beneath
which I was hidden; by mimicking their cries I enticed one of them
nearer and nearer, till at last he closed his wings and alighted bolt
upright on a dead stump not fifty feet away. Changing my tactics, I
endeavored to convince the hawk that a family quarrel was in progress
among the mice in the thick clump of pines below him, and was rewarded
by seeing him turn first one keen eye and then the other on my place
of concealment; then he leaned forward and crouched catlike on his
perch, half opening his broad wings and shifting his feet about in his
impatience. But he evidently desired more positive evidence than his
ears could give him before making the final dash for his breakfast.
There was a slender dead branch beside me, and cautiously taking this,
I shoved it slowly along under the carpet of pine needles out into the
opening, as one sometimes amuses a kitten with a pencil beneath the
tablecloth. The instant the hawk's eye caught the movement of the pine
needles he descended with a whir almost to the point of seizing the
stick in his claws; then, catching sight for the first time of the
author of his disappointment, he rose flapping into the air, shrieking
out his anger to the skies. If we had been more evenly matched in
weight, I fear I should have suffered the most extreme punishment for
my deceit.
The northern shrike is generally given the credit of living to a
certain extent on mice, but the only evidence pointing in that
direction that I have ever seen is that, like the mouse-eating hawks
and owls, he comes quickly enough to the call; nor is there any need
of concealment when dealing with this bird. He will come fearlessly
within a few yards of you, hopping and flying from twig to twig, with
his long tail continually moving up and down in his excitement,
apparently impelled more by motives of curiosity than hunger.
[Illustration: NORTHERN SHRIKE.]
But when it comes to calling up to you such shy creatures as the mink
or fox the utmost caution is necessary, for although lacking the
keenness of eyesight possessed by birds, the acuteness of their sense
of smell and hearing is something marvelous; yet when conditions are
favorable they may sometimes be brought quite close and studied to
advantage.
Standing one day beside an old tumble-down rail fence that ran along
between the woods and salt marshes, half hidden in the brambles and
tall grass, I caught the merest glimpse of a mink slipping along
between the bottom rails. As he was evidently unaware of my presence,
I determined to see more of him, and squeaked in as mouselike a manner
as possible, and quickly had the satisfaction of seeing him make his
appearance on a projecting stake much nearer than when I had first
seen him. Stretching himself along the stake, he appeared to listen
and look in my direction, but although I was standing in plain sight
on the edge of the marsh hardly a rod away, the fact that he was
obliged to look directly into the sun made it quite impossible for him
to clearly distinguish what he saw. At the end of a few moments he
dropped into the grass and started in my direction, the trembling
grass blades clearly indicating his progress as he approached nearer
and nearer, until almost at my feet he vanished, and, in spite of the
most patient waiting on my part, absolutely refused to show himself
again.
The last instance of the kind that has come under my notice happened
on a clear moonlight night as I was wheeling along a lonely road
between old apple orchards. Some part of the machine squeaked at
intervals in a way that might possibly have been mistaken for a mouse.
At all events, an owl appeared to have been deceived thereby, for he
came flapping out of the orchard and flew alongside, at times coming
quite close and again swinging off into the shadow, till at last,
convinced that his supper lay not in that direction, he put on fresh
speed and left me far behind. Perhaps he would have done as he did if
the bicycle had not squeaked, but, judging from his behavior, I am
inclined to think otherwise.