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Long + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ways of Wood Folk + +Author: William J. Long + +Illustrator: Charles Copeland + +Release Date: April 17, 2006 [EBook #18193] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAYS OF WOOD FOLK *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin, Diane Monico, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 526px;"> +<img src="images/image001.jpg" width="526" height="600" alt="Cover: Ways of Wood Folk" title="" /> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 449px;"> +<img src="images/image002.jpg" width="449" height="650" alt="" title="" /> +</p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<h1>WAYS OF WOOD FOLK</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>WILLIAM J. LONG</h2> + + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/image003.png" width="500" height="375" alt="FIRST SERIES" title="" /> +</p> +<p class="center"> +BOSTON, U.S.A.<br /> +<big>GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS</big><br /> +<b>The Athenæum Press</b><br /> +1902<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center"> +<small>COPYRIGHT, 1899</small><br /> +BY WILLIAM J. LONG<br /> +<br /> +<small>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</small><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center"><big> +<span class="smcap">To Plato</span>, the owl, who looks<br /> +over my shoulder as I write, and<br /> +who knows all about the woods.<br /> +</big></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE.</h2> + +<p>"All crows are alike," said a wise man, speaking of +politicians. That is quite true—in the dark. By +daylight, however, there is as much difference, within and +without, in the first two crows one meets as in the first two +men or women. I asked a little child once, who was telling me +all about her chicken, how she knew her chicken from twenty +others just like him in the flock. "How do I know my +chicken? I know him by his little face," she said. And +sure enough, the face, when you looked at it closely, was +different from all other faces.</p> + +<p>This is undoubtedly true of all birds and all animals. They +recognize each other instantly amid multitudes of their kind; +and one who watches them patiently sees quite as many odd +ways and individualities among Wood Folk as among other +people. No matter, therefore, how well you know the habits +of crows or the habits of caribou in general, watch the first one +that crosses your path as if he were an entire stranger; open +eyes to see and heart to interpret, and you will surely find +some new thing, some curious unrecorded way, to give delight +to your tramp and bring you home with a new interest.</p> + +<p>This individuality of the wild creatures will account, perhaps, +for many of these Ways, which can seem no more +curious or startling to the reader than to the writer when he +first discovered them. They are, almost entirely, the records +of personal observation in the woods and fields. Occasionally, +when I know my hunter or woodsman well, I have taken his +testimony, but never without weighing it carefully, and proving +it whenever possible by watching the animal in question +for days or weeks till I found for myself that it was all true.</p> + +<p>The sketches are taken almost at random from old note-books +and summer journals. About them gather a host of +associations, of living-over-agains, that have made it a delight +to write them; associations of the winter woods, of apple +blossoms and nest-building, of New England uplands and +wilderness rivers, of camps and canoes, of snowshoes and +trout rods, of sunrise on the hills, when one climbed for the +eagle's nest, and twilight on the yellow wind-swept beaches, +where the surf sobbed far away, and wings twanged like reeds +in the wind swooping down to decoys,—all thronging about +one, eager to be remembered if not recorded. Among them, +most eager, most intense, most frequent of all associations, +there is a boy with nerves all a-tingle at the vast sweet +mystery that rustled in every wood, following the call of the +winds and the birds, or wandering alone where the spirit moved +him, who never studied nature consciously, but only loved it, +and who found out many of these Ways long ago, guided +solely by a boy's instinct.</p> + +<p>If they speak to other boys, as to fellow explorers in the +always new world, if they bring back to older children happy +memories of a golden age when nature and man were not +quite so far apart, then there will be another pleasure in +having written them.</p> + + +<p>My thanks are due, and are given heartily, to the editors +of <i>The Youth's Companion</i> for permission to use several +sketches that have already appeared, and to Mr. Charles +Copeland, the artist, for his care and interest in preparing +the illustrations.</p> + +<p class="citation"> +Wm. J. Long.</p> +<p class="address"><span class="smcap">Andover, Mass., June, 1899.</span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="5" summary="toc"> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Page</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Fox-Ways</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_1">1</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Merganser</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_27">27</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Queer Ways of Br'er Rabbit</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_41">41</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Wild Duck </span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_55">55</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">An Oriole's Nest</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_69">69</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Builders</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_77">77</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Crow-Ways</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_101">101</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">One Touch of Nature</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_117">117</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>IX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Moose Calling</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_121">121</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>X.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ch'geegee-lokh-sis</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_135">135</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Fellow of Expedients</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_152">152</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Temperance Lesson for the Hornets</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_161">161</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Snowy Visitors</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_167">167</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Christmas Carol</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_181">181</a> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Mooween the Bear</span></td><td align='right'> <a href="#Page_187">187</a> </td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h1><a name="WAYS_OF_WOOD_FOLK" id="WAYS_OF_WOOD_FOLK"></a>WAYS OF WOOD FOLK.<br /><br /><br /></h1> + + + + +<h2><a name="I_FOX-WAYS" id="I_FOX-WAYS"></a>I. FOX-WAYS.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap004"><span class="dropcap">D</span></span>id you ever meet a fox face to face, surprising +him quite as much as yourself? +If so, you were deeply impressed, no +doubt, by his perfect dignity and self-possession. +Here is how the meeting +generally comes about.</p> + +<p>It is a late winter afternoon. You are swinging +rapidly over the upland pastures, or loitering along +the winding old road through the woods. The color +deepens in the west; the pines grow black against it; +the rich brown of the oak leaves seems to glow everywhere +in the last soft light; and the mystery that +never sleeps long in the woods begins to rustle +again in the thickets. You are busy with your own +thoughts, seeing nothing, till a flash of yellow passes +before your eyes, and a fox stands in the path before +you, one foot uplifted, the fluffy brush swept aside in +graceful curve, the bright eyes looking straight into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> +yours—nay, looking through them to read the intent +which gives the eyes their expression. That is always +the way with a fox; he seems to be looking at your +thoughts.</p> + +<p>Surprise, eagerness, a lively curiosity are all in +your face on the instant; but the beautiful creature +before you only draws himself together with quiet +self-possession. He lifts his head slightly; a superior +look creeps into his eyes; he seems to be speaking. +Listen—</p> + +<p>"You are surprised?"—this with an almost imperceptible +lift of his eyebrows, which reminds you +somehow that it is really none of your affair. "O, +I frequently use this road in attending to some +matters over in the West Parish. To be sure, we +are socially incompatible; we may even regard each +other as enemies, unfortunately. I did take your +chickens last week; but yesterday your unmannerly +dogs hunted me. At least we may meet and pass as +gentlemen. You are the older; allow me to give +you the path."</p> + +<p>Dropping his head again, he turns to the left, +English fashion, and trots slowly past you. There is +no hurry; not the shadow of suspicion or uneasiness. +His eyes are cast down; his brow wrinkled, as if in +deep thought; already he seems to have forgotten +your existence. You watch him curiously as he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>reenters +the path behind you and disappears over the +hill. Somehow a queer feeling, half wonder, half +rebuke, steals over you, as if you had been outdone +in courtesy, or had passed a gentleman without sufficiently +recognizing him.</p> + +<p>Ah, but you didn't watch sharply enough! You +didn't see, as he circled past, that cunning side gleam +of his yellow eyes, which understood your attitude +perfectly. Had you stirred, he would have vanished +like a flash. You didn't run to the top of the hill +where he disappeared, to see that burst of speed the +instant he was out of your sight. You didn't see +the capers, the tail-chasing, the high jumps, the quick +turns and plays; and then the straight, nervous gallop, +which told more plainly than words his exultation +that he had outwitted you and shown his superiority.</p> + +<p>Reynard, wherever you meet him, whether on the +old road at twilight, or on the runway before the +hounds, impresses you as an animal of dignity and +calculation. He never seems surprised, much less +frightened; never loses his head; never does things +hurriedly, or on the spur of the moment, as a scatter-brained +rabbit or meddling squirrel might do. You +meet him, perhaps as he leaves the warm rock on the +south slope of the old oak woods, where he has been +curled up asleep all the sunny afternoon. (It is easy +to find him there in winter.) Now he is off on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +nightly hunt; he is trotting along, head down, brows +deep-wrinkled, planning it all out.</p> + +<p>"Let me see," he is thinking, "last night I hunted +the Draper woods. To-night I'll cross the brook just +this side the old bars, and take a look into that pasture-corner +among the junipers. There's a rabbit +which plays round there on moonlight nights; I'll +have him presently. Then I'll go down to the big +South meadow after mice. I haven't been there +for a week; and last time I got six. If I don't find +mice, there's that chicken coop of old Jenkins. +Only"—He stops, with his foot up, and listens a +minute—"only he locks the coop and leaves the dog +loose ever since I took the big rooster. Anyway I'll +take a look round there. Sometimes Deacon Jones's +hens get to roosting in the next orchard. If I can +find them up an apple tree, I'll bring a couple down +with a good trick I know. On the way—Hi, +there!"</p> + +<p>In the midst of his planning he gives a grasshopper-jump +aside, and brings down both paws hard on a +bit of green moss that quivered as he passed. He +spreads his paws apart carefully; thrusts his nose +down between them; drags a young wood-mouse +from under the moss; eats him; licks his chops +twice, and goes on planning as if nothing had +happened.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + +<p>"On the way back, I'll swing round by the Fales +place, and take a sniff under the wall by the old +hickory, to see if those sleepy skunks are still there +for the winter. I'll have that whole family before +spring, if I'm hungry and can't find anything else. +They come out on sunny days; all you have to do is +just hide behind the hickory and watch."</p> + +<p>So off he goes on his well-planned hunt; and if +you follow his track to-morrow in the snow, you will +see how he has gone from one hunting ground directly +to the next. You will find the depression where he +lay in a clump of tall dead grass and watched a while +for the rabbit; reckon the number of mice he caught +in the meadow; see his sly tracks about the chicken +coop, and in the orchard; and pause a moment at the +spot where he cast a knowing look behind the hickory +by the wall,—all just as he planned it on his way to +the brook.</p> + +<p>If, on the other hand, you stand by one of his runways +while the dogs are driving him, expecting, of +course, to see him come tearing along in a desperate +hurry, frightened out of half his wits by the savage +uproar behind him, you can only rub your eyes in +wonder when a fluffy yellow ball comes drifting +through the woods towards you, as if the breeze +were blowing it along. There he is, trotting down +the runway in the same leisurely, self-possessed way,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +wrapped in his own thoughts apparently, the same +deep wrinkles over his eyes. He played a trick or +two on a brook, down between the ponds, by jumping +about on a lot of stones from which the snow had +melted, without wetting his feet (which he dislikes), +and without leaving a track anywhere. While the +dogs are puzzling that out, he has plenty of time to +plan more devices on his way to the big hill, with its +brook, and old walls, and rail fences, and dry places +under the pines, and twenty other helps to an active +brain.</p> + +<p>First he will run round the hill half a dozen times, +crisscrossing his trail. That of itself will drive the +young dogs crazy. Then along the top rail of a +fence, and a long jump into the junipers, which hold +no scent, and another jump to the wall where there is +no snow, and then—</p> + +<p>"Oh, plenty of time, no hurry!" he says to himself, +turning to listen a moment. "That dog with the big +voice must be old Roby. He thinks he knows all +about foxes, just because he broke his leg last year, +trying to walk a sheep-fence where I'd been. I'll +give him another chance; and oh, yes! I'll creep up +the other side of the hill, and curl up on a warm rock +on the tiptop, and watch them all break their heads +over the crisscross, and have a good nap or two, and +think of more tricks."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + +<p>So he trots past you, still planning; crosses the +wall by a certain stone that he has used ever since +he was a cub fox; seems to float across an old pasture, +stopping only to run about a bit among some +cow tracks, to kill the scent; and so on towards his +big hill. Before he gets there he will have a skilful +retreat planned, back to the ponds, in case old Roby +untangles his crisscross, or some young fool-hound +blunders too near the rock whereon he sits, watching +the game.</p> + +<p>If you meet him now, face to face, you will see no +quiet assumption of superiority; unless perchance he +is a young fox, that has not learned what it means to +be met on a runway by a man with a gun when the +dogs are driving. With your first slightest movement +there is a flash of yellow fur, and he has vanished +into the thickest bit of underbrush at hand.—Don't +run; you will not see him again here. He +knows the old roads and paths far better than you +do, and can reach his big hill by any one of a dozen +routes where you would never dream of looking. +But if you want another glimpse of him, take the +shortest cut to the hill. He may take a nap, or sit +and listen a while to the dogs, or run round a swamp +before he gets there. Sit on the wall in plain sight; +make a post of yourself; keep still, and keep your +eyes open.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>Once, in just such a place, I had a rare chance to +watch him. It was on the summit of a great bare +hill. Down in the woods by a swamp, five or six +hounds were waking the winter echoes merrily on +a fresh trail. I was hoping for a sight of Reynard +when he appeared from nowhere, on a rock not fifty +yards away. There he lay, his nose between his +paws, listening with quiet interest to the uproar +below. Occasionally he raised his head as some +young dog scurried near, yelping maledictions upon +a perfect tangle of fox tracks, none of which went +anywhere. Suddenly he sat up straight, twisted his +head sideways, as a dog does when he sees the most +interesting thing of his life, dropped his tongue out +a bit, and looked intently. I looked too, and there, +just below, was old Roby, the best foxhound in a +dozen counties, creeping like a cat along the top +rail of a sheep-fence, now putting his nose down to +the wood, now throwing his head back for a great +howl of exultation.—It was all immensely entertaining; +and nobody seemed to be enjoying it more than +the fox.</p> + +<p>One of the most fascinating bits of animal study is +to begin at the very beginning of fox education, <i>i.e.</i>, +to find a fox den, and go there some afternoon in +early June, and hide at a distance, where you can +watch the entrance through your field-glass. Every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +afternoon the young foxes come out to play in the +sunshine like so many kittens. Bright little bundles +of yellow fur they seem, full of tricks and whims, +with pointed faces that change only from exclamation +to interrogation points, and back again. For +hours at a stretch they roll about, and chase tails, +and pounce upon the quiet old mother with fierce +little barks. One climbs laboriously up the rock +behind the den, and sits on his tail, gravely surveying +the great landscape with a comical little air of importance, +as if he owned it all. When called to come +down he is afraid, and makes a great to-do about it. +Another has been crouching for five minutes behind +a tuft of grass, watching like a cat at a rat-hole for +some one to come by and be pounced upon. Another +is worrying something on the ground, a cricket perhaps, +or a doodle-bug; and the fourth never ceases +to worry the patient old mother, till she moves away +and lies down by herself in the shadow of a ground +cedar.</p> + +<p>As the afternoon wears away, and long shadows +come creeping up the hillside, the mother rises suddenly +and goes back to the den; the little ones stop +their play, and gather about her. You strain your +ears for the slightest sound, but hear nothing; yet +there she is, plainly talking to them; and they are +listening. She turns her head, and the cubs scamper<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +into the den's mouth. A moment she stands listening, +looking; while just within the dark entrance +you get glimpses of four pointed black noses, and a +cluster of bright little eyes, wide open for a last look. +Then she trots away, planning her hunt, till she disappears +down by the brook. When she is gone, eyes +and noses draw back; only a dark silent hole in the +bank is left. You will not see them again—not +unless you stay to watch by moonlight till mother-fox +comes back, with a fringe of field-mice hanging +from her lips, or a young turkey thrown across her +shoulders.</p> + +<p>One shrewd thing frequently noticed in the conduct +of an old fox with young is that she never +troubles the poultry of the farms nearest her den. +She will forage for miles in every direction; will +harass the chickens of distant farms till scarcely a +handful remains of those that wander into the woods, +or sleep in the open yards; yet she will pass by and +through nearer farms without turning aside to hunt, +except for mice and frogs; and, even when hungry, +will note a flock of chickens within sight of her den, +and leave them undisturbed. She seems to know +perfectly that a few missing chickens will lead to a +search; that boys' eyes will speedily find her den, +and boys' hands dig eagerly for a litter of young +foxes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<p>Last summer I found a den, beautifully hidden, +within a few hundred yards of an old farmhouse. +The farmer assured me he had never missed a +chicken; he had no idea that there was a fox +within miles of his large flock. Three miles away +was another farmer who frequently sat up nights, +and set his boys to watching afternoons, to shoot a +fox that, early and late, had taken nearly thirty young +chickens. Driven to exasperation at last, he borrowed +a hound from a hunter; and the dog ran the +trail straight to the den I had discovered.</p> + +<p>Curiously enough, the cubs, for whose peaceful +bringing up the mother so cunningly provides, do +not imitate her caution. They begin their hunting +by lying in ambush about the nearest farm; the +first stray chicken they see is game. Once they +begin to plunder in this way, and feed full on their +own hunting, parental authority is gone; the mother +deserts the den immediately, leading the cubs far +away. But some of them go back, contrary to all +advice, and pay the penalty. She knows now that +sooner or later some cub will be caught stealing +chickens in broad daylight, and be chased by dogs. +The foolish youngster takes to earth, instead of trusting +to his legs; so the long-concealed den is discovered +and dug open at last.</p> + +<p>When an old fox, foraging for her young some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +night, discovers by her keen nose that a flock of hens +has been straying near the woods, she goes next +day and hides herself there, lying motionless for +hours at a stretch in a clump of dead grass or berry +bushes, till the flock comes near enough for a rush. +Then she hurls herself among them, and in the confusion +seizes one by the neck, throws it by a quick +twist across her shoulders, and is gone before the +stupid hens find out what it is all about.</p> + +<p>But when a fox finds an old hen or turkey straying +about with a brood of chicks, then the tactics are +altogether different. Creeping up like a cat, the fox +watches an opportunity to seize a chick out of sight +of the mother bird. That done, he withdraws, silent +as a shadow, his grip on the chick's neck preventing +any outcry. Hiding his game at a distance, he creeps +back to capture another in the same way; and so on +till he has enough, or till he is discovered, or some +half-strangled chick finds breath enough for a squawk. +A hen or turkey knows the danger by instinct, and +hurries her brood into the open at the first suspicion +that a fox is watching.</p> + +<p>A farmer, whom I know well, first told me how a +fox manages to carry a number of chicks at once. +He heard a clamor from a hen-turkey and her brood +one day, and ran to a wood path in time to see a +vixen make off with a turkey chick scarcely larger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +than a robin. Several were missing from the brood. +He hunted about, and presently found five more just +killed. They were beautifully laid out, the bodies at +a broad angle, the necks crossing each other, like the +corner of a corn-cob house, in such a way that, by +gripping the necks at the angle, all the chicks could +be carried at once, half hanging at either side of the +fox's mouth. Since then I have seen an old fox with +what looked like a dozen or more field-mice carried +in this way; only, of course, the tails were crossed +corn-cob fashion instead of the necks.</p> + +<p>The stealthiness with which a fox stalks his game +is one of the most remarkable things about him. +Stupid chickens are not the only birds captured. +Once I read in the snow the story of his hunt after +a crow—wary game to be caught napping! The +tracks showed that quite a flock of crows had been +walking about an old field, bordered by pine and +birch thickets. From the rock where he was sleeping +away the afternoon the fox saw or heard them, +and crept down. How cautious he was about it! +Following the tracks, one could almost see him stealing +along from stone to bush, from bush to grass +clump, so low that his body pushed a deep trail in +the snow, till he reached the cover of a low pine on +the very edge of the field. There he crouched with +all four feet close together under him. Then a crow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +came by within ten feet of the ambush. The tracks +showed that the bird was a bit suspicious; he +stopped often to look and listen. When his head was +turned aside for an instant the fox launched himself; +just two jumps, and he had him. Quick as he was, +the wing marks showed that the crow had started, and +was pulled down out of the air. Reynard carried +him into the densest thicket of scrub pines he could +find, and ate him there, doubtless to avoid the attacks +of the rest of the flock, which followed him screaming +vengeance.</p> + +<p>A strong enmity exists between crows and foxes. +Wherever a crow finds a fox, he sets up a clatter that +draws a flock about him in no time, in great excitement. +They chase the fox as long as he is in sight, +cawing vociferously, till he creeps into a thicket of +scrub pines, into which no crow will ever venture, +and lies down till he tires out their patience. In +hunting, one may frequently trace the exact course +of a fox which the dogs are driving, by the crows +clamoring over him. Here in the snow was a record +that may help explain one side of the feud.</p> + +<p>From the same white page one may read many +other stories of Reynard's ways and doings. Indeed +I know of no more interesting winter walk than an +afternoon spent on his last night's trail through the +soft snow. There is always something new, either in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +the track or the woods through which it leads; +always a fresh hunting story; always a disappointment +or two, a long cold wait for a rabbit that didn't +come, or a miscalculation over the length of the snow +tunnel where a partridge burrowed for the night. +Generally, if you follow far enough, there is also a +story of good hunting which leaves you wavering +between congratulation over a successful stalk after +nights of hungry, patient wandering, and pity for the +little tragedy told so vividly by converging trails, a few +red drops in the snow, a bit of fur blown about by the +wind, or a feather clinging listlessly to the underbrush. +In such a tramp one learns much of fox-ways and other +ways that can never be learned elsewhere.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The fox whose life has been spent on the hillsides +surrounding a New England village seems to have +profited by generations of experience. He is much +more cunning every way than the fox of the wilderness. +If, for instance, a fox has been stealing your +chickens, your trap must be very cunningly set if you +are to catch him. It will not do to set it near the +chickens; no inducement will be great enough to +bring him within yards of it. It must be set well +back in the woods, near one of his regular hunting +grounds. Before that, however, you must bait the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +fox with choice bits scattered over a pile of dry +leaves or chaff, sometimes for a week, sometimes for +a month, till he comes regularly. Then smoke your +trap, or scent it; handle it only with gloves; set it in +the chaff; scatter bait as usual; and you have one +chance of getting him, while he has still a dozen of +getting away. In the wilderness, on the other hand, +he may be caught with half the precaution. I know +a little fellow, whose home is far back from the settlements, +who catches five or six foxes every winter by +ordinary wire snares set in the rabbit paths, where +foxes love to hunt.</p> + +<p>In the wilderness one often finds tracks in the +snow, telling how a fox tried to catch a partridge +and only succeeded in frightening it into a tree. +After watching a while hungrily,—one can almost +see him licking his chops under the tree,—he trots +off to other hunting grounds. If he were an educated +fox he would know better than that.</p> + +<p>When an old New England fox in some of his +nightly prowlings discovers a flock of chickens roosting +in the orchard, he generally gets one or two. +His plan is to come by moonlight, or else just at +dusk, and, running about under the tree, bark sharply +to attract the chickens' attention. If near the house, +he does this by jumping, lest the dog or the farmer +hear his barking. Once they have begun to flutter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +and cackle, as they always do when disturbed, he +begins to circle the tree slowly, still jumping and +clacking his teeth. The chickens crane their necks +down to follow him. Faster and faster he goes, +racing in small circles, till some foolish fowl grows +dizzy with twisting her head, or loses her balance and +tumbles down, only to be snapped up and carried off +across his shoulders in a twinkling.</p> + +<p>But there is one way in which fox of the wilderness +and fox of the town are alike easily deceived. Both +are very fond of mice, and respond quickly to the +squeak, which can be imitated perfectly by drawing +the breath in sharply between closed lips. The next +thing, after that is learned, is to find a spot in which +to try the effect.</p> + +<p>Two or three miles back from almost all New England +towns are certain old pastures and clearings, +long since run wild, in which the young foxes love to +meet and play on moonlight nights, much as rabbits +do, though in a less harum-scarum way. When well +fed, and therefore in no hurry to hunt, the heart of a +young fox turns naturally to such a spot, and to fun +and capers. The playground may easily be found by +following the tracks after the first snowfall. (The +knowledge will not profit you probably till next +season; but it is worth finding and remembering.) +If one goes to the place on some still, bright night in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +autumn, and hides on the edge of the open, he stands +a good chance of seeing two or three foxes playing +there. Only he must himself be still as the night; +else, should twenty foxes come that way, he will +never see one.</p> + +<p>It is always a pretty scene, the quiet opening in +the woods flecked with soft gray shadows in the +moonlight, the dark sentinel evergreens keeping +silent watch about the place, the wild little creatures +playing about among the junipers, flitting through +light and shadow, jumping over each other and tumbling +about in mimic warfare, all unconscious of a +spectator as the foxes that played there before the +white man came, and before the Indians. Such +scenes do not crowd themselves upon one. He must +wait long, and love the woods, and be often disappointed; +but when they come at last, they are worth +all the love and the watching. And when the foxes +are not there, there is always something else that is +beautiful.—</p> + +<p>Now squeak like a mouse, in the midst of the play. +Instantly the fox nearest you stands, with one foot up, +listening. Another squeak, and he makes three or +four swift bounds in your direction, only to stand +listening again; he hasn't quite located you. Careful +now! don't hurry; the longer you keep him waiting, +the more certainly he is deceived. Another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +squeak; some more swift jumps that bring him within +ten feet; and now he smells or sees you, sitting motionless +on your boulder in the shadow of the pines.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 492px;"> +<img src="images/image019.jpg" width="492" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>He isn't surprised; at least he pretends he isn't; +but looks you over indifferently, as if he were used to +finding people sitting on that particular rock. Then +he trots off with an air of having forgotten something. +With all his cunning he never suspects you of being +the mouse. That little creature he believes to be +hiding under the rock; and to-morrow night he will +very likely take a look there, or respond to your +squeak in the same way.</p> + +<p>It is only early in the season, generally before the +snow blows, that one can see them playing; and +it is probably the young foxes that are so eager for +this kind of fun. Later in the season—either because +the cubs have lost their playfulness, or because they +must hunt so diligently for enough to eat that there +is no time for play—they seldom do more than take +a gallop together, with a playful jump or two, before +going their separate ways. At all times, however, +they have a strong tendency to fun and mischief-making. +More than once, in winter, I have surprised +a fox flying round after his own bushy tail so +rapidly that tail and fox together looked like a great +yellow pin-wheel on the snow.</p> + +<p>When a fox meets a toad or frog, and is not hungry,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +he worries the poor thing for an hour at a time; and +when he finds a turtle he turns the creature over with +his paw, sitting down gravely to watch its awkward +struggle to get back onto its feet. At such times he +has a most humorous expression, brows wrinkled and +tongue out, as if he were enjoying himself hugely.</p> + +<p>Later in the season he would be glad enough to +make a meal of toad or turtle. One day last March +the sun shone out bright and warm; in the afternoon +the first frogs began to tune up, <i>cr-r-r-runk, cr-r-runk-a-runk-runk</i>, +like a flock of brant in the distance. I +was watching them at a marshy spot in the woods, +where they had come out of the mud by dozens into +a bit of open water, when the bushes parted cautiously +and the sharp nose of a fox appeared. The +hungry fellow had heard them from the hill above, +where he was asleep, and had come down to see if he +could catch a few. He was creeping out onto the ice +when he smelled me, and trotted back into the woods.</p> + +<p>Once I saw him catch a frog. He crept down to +where Chigwooltz, a fat green bullfrog, was sunning +himself by a lily pad, and very cautiously stretched +out one paw under water. Then with a quick fling +he tossed his game to land, and was after him like a +flash before he could scramble back.</p> + +<p>On the seacoast Reynard depends largely on the +tides for a living. An old fisherman assures me that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +he has seen him catching crabs there in a very novel +way. Finding a quiet bit of water where the crabs +are swimming about, he trails his brush over the surface +till one rises and seizes it with his claw (a most +natural thing for a crab to do), whereupon the fox +springs away, jerking the crab to land. Though a +fox ordinarily is careful as a cat about wetting his +tail or feet, I shall not be surprised to find some day +for myself that the fisherman was right. Reynard is +very ingenious, and never lets his little prejudices +stand in the way when he is after a dinner.</p> + +<p>His way of beguiling a duck is more remarkable +than his fishing. Late one afternoon, while following +the shore of a pond, I noticed a commotion among +some tame ducks, and stopped to see what it was about. +They were swimming in circles, quacking and stretching +their wings, evidently in great excitement. A few +minutes' watching convinced me that something on +the shore excited them. Their heads were straight +up from the water, looking fixedly at something that +I could not see; every circle brought them nearer +the bank. I walked towards them, not very cautiously, +I am sorry to say; for the farmhouse where +the ducks belonged was in plain sight, and I was not +expecting anything unusual. As I glanced over the +bank something slipped out of sight into the tall +grass. I followed the waving tops intently, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +caught one sure glimpse of a fox as he disappeared +into the woods.</p> + +<p>The thing puzzled me for years, though I suspected +some foxy trick, till a duck-hunter explained to me +what Reynard was doing. He had seen it tried successfully +once on a flock of wild ducks.—</p> + +<p>When a fox finds a flock of ducks feeding near +shore, he trots down and begins to play on the beach +in plain sight, watching the birds the while out of the +"tail o' his ee," as a Scotchman would say. Ducks +are full of curiosity, especially about unusual colors +and objects too small to frighten them; so the playing +animal speedily excites a lively interest. They +stop feeding, gather close together, spread, circle, come +together again, stretching their necks as straight as +strings to look and listen.</p> + +<p>Then the fox really begins his performance. He +jumps high to snap at imaginary flies; he chases his +bushy tail; he rolls over and over in clouds of flying +sand; he gallops up the shore, and back like a whirlwind; +he plays peekaboo with every bush. The foolish +birds grow excited; they swim in smaller circles, +quacking nervously, drawing nearer and nearer to get +a better look at the strange performance. They are +long in coming, but curiosity always gets the better +of them; those in the rear crowd the front rank forward. +All the while the show goes on, the performer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +paying not the slightest attention apparently to his +excited audience; only he draws slowly back from the +water's edge, as if to give them room as they crowd +nearer.</p> + +<p>They are on shore at last; then, while they are lost +in the most astonishing caper of all, the fox dashes +among them, throwing them into the wildest confusion. +His first snap never fails to throw a duck back onto +the sand with a broken neck; and he has generally time +for a second, often for a third, before the flock escapes +into deep water. Then he buries all his birds but +one, throws that across his shoulders, and trots off, +wagging his head, to some quiet spot where he can +eat his dinner and take a good nap undisturbed.</p> + +<p>When with all his cunning Reynard is caught napping, +he makes use of another good trick he knows. +One winter morning some years ago, my friend, the +old fox-hunter, rose at daylight for a run with the +dogs over the new-fallen snow. Just before calling +his hounds, he went to his hen-house, some distance +away, to throw the chickens some corn for the day. +As he reached the roost, his steps making no sound +in the snow, he noticed the trail of a fox crossing the +yard and entering the coop through a low opening +sometimes used by the chickens. No trail came out; +it flashed upon him that the fox must be inside at +that moment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hardly had he reached this conclusion when a +wild cackle arose that left no doubt about it. On +the instant he whirled an empty box against the opening, +at the same time pounding lustily to frighten +the thief from killing more chickens. Reynard was +trapped sure enough. The fox-hunter listened at the +door, but save for an occasional surprised <i>cut-aa-cut</i>, +not a sound was heard within.</p> + +<p>Very cautiously he opened the door and squeezed +through. There lay a fine pullet stone dead; just +beyond lay the fox, dead too.</p> + +<p>"Well, of all things," said the fox-hunter, open-mouthed, +"if he hasn't gone and climbed the roost +after that pullet, and then tumbled down and broken +his own neck!"</p> + +<p>Highly elated with this unusual beginning of his +hunt, he picked up the fox and the pullet and laid +them down together on the box outside, while he fed +his chickens.</p> + +<p>When he came out, a minute later, there was the +box and a feather or two, but no fox and no pullet. +Deep tracks led out of the yard and up over the hill +in flying jumps. Then it dawned upon our hunter +that Reynard had played the possum-game on him, +getting away with a whole skin and a good dinner.</p> + +<p>There was no need to look farther for a good fox +track. Soon the music of the hounds went ringing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +over the hill and down the hollow; but though the +dogs ran true, and the hunter watched the runways +all day with something more than his usual interest, +he got no glimpse of the wily old fox. Late at night +the dogs came limping home, weary and footsore, but +with never a long yellow hair clinging to their chops +to tell a story.</p> + +<p>The fox saved his pullet, of course. Finding himself +pursued, he buried it hastily, and came back the +next night undoubtedly to get it.</p> + +<p>Several times since then I have known of his playing +possum in the same way. The little fellow whom +I mentioned as living near the wilderness, and snaring +foxes, once caught a black fox—a rare, beautiful +animal with a very valuable skin—in a trap which +he had baited for weeks in a wild pasture. It was +the first black fox he had ever seen, and, boylike, he +took it only as a matter of mild wonder to find the +beautiful creature frozen stiff, apparently, on his pile +of chaff with one hind leg fast in the trap.</p> + +<p>He carried the prize home, trap and all, over his +shoulder. At his whoop of exultation the whole family +came out to admire and congratulate. At last he +took the trap from the fox's leg, and stretched him +out on the doorstep to gloat over the treasure and +stroke the glossy fur to his heart's content. His +attention was taken away for a moment; then he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +a dazed vision of a flying black animal that seemed +to perch an instant on the log fence and vanish +among the spruces.</p> + +<p>Poor Johnnie! There were tears in his eyes when +he told me about it, three years afterwards.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>These are but the beginning of fox-ways. I have +not spoken of his occasional tree climbing; nor of his +grasshopper hunting; nor of his planning to catch +three quails at once when he finds a whole covey +gathered into a dinner-plate circle, tails in, heads out, +asleep on the ground; nor of some perfectly astonishing +things he does when hard pressed by dogs. But +these are enough to begin the study and still leave +plenty of things to find out for one's self. Reynard is +rarely seen, even in places where he abounds; we +know almost nothing of his private life; and there +are undoubtedly many of his most interesting ways +yet to be discovered. He has somehow acquired a +bad name, especially among farmers; but, on the +whole, there is scarcely a wild thing in the woods +that better repays one for the long hours spent in +catching a glimpse of him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="II_MERGANSER" id="II_MERGANSER"></a>II. MERGANSER.</h2> + + + + +<p><span class="dropcap027"><span class="dropcap">S</span></span>helldrake, or shellbird, is the +name by which this duck is generally +known, though how he came to +be called so would be hard to tell. +Probably the name was given by +gunners, who see him only in +winter when hunger drives him +to eat mussels—but even then +he likes mud-snails much better.</p> + +<p>The name fish-duck, which one hears occasionally, is +much more appropriate. The long slender bill, with +its serrated edges fitting into each other like the teeth +of a bear trap, just calculated to seize and hold a slimy +wriggling fish, is quite enough evidence as to the +nature of the bird's food, even if one had not seen +him fishing on the lakes and rivers which are his +summer home.</p> + +<p>That same bill, by the way, is sometimes a source +of danger. Once, on the coast, I saw a shelldrake +tying in vain to fly against the wind, which flung +rudely among some tall reeds near me. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +next moment Don, my old dog, had him. In a hungry +moment he had driven his bill through both shells of +a scallop, which slipped or worked its way up to his +nostrils, muzzling the bird perfectly with a hard shell +ring. The poor fellow by desperate trying could open +his mouth barely wide enough to drink or to swallow +the tiniest morsel. He must have been in this condition +a long time, for the bill was half worn through, +and he was so light that the wind blew him about like +a great feather when he attempted to fly.</p> + +<p>Fortunately Don was a good retriever and had +brought the duck in with scarcely a quill ruffled; so +I had the satisfaction of breaking his bands and letting +him go free with a splendid rush. But the wind +was too much for him; he dropped back into the +water and went skittering down the harbor like a lady +with too much skirt and too big a hat in boisterous +weather. Meanwhile Don lay on the sand, head up, +ears up, whining eagerly for the word to fetch. Then +he dropped his head, and drew a long breath, and +tried to puzzle it out why a man should go out on a +freezing day in February, and tramp, and row, and +get wet to find a bird, only to let him go after he had +been fairly caught.</p> + +<p>Kwaseekho the shelldrake leads a double life. In +winter he may be found almost anywhere along the +Massachusetts coast and southward, where he leads a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +dog's life of it, notwithstanding his gay appearance. +An hundred guns are roaring at him wherever he +goes. From daylight to dark he has never a minute +to eat his bit of fish, or to take a wink of sleep in +peace. He flies to the ocean, and beds with his fellows +on the broad open shoals for safety. But the +east winds blow; and the shoals are a yeasty mass +of tumbling breakers. They buffet him about; they +twist his gay feathers; they dampen his pinions, spite +of his skill in swimming. Then he goes to the creeks +and harbors.</p> + +<p>Along the shore a flock of his own kind, apparently, +are feeding in quiet water. Straight in he comes with +unsuspecting soul, the morning light shining full on +his white breast and bright red feet as he steadies +himself to take the water. But <i>bang, bang!</i> go the +guns; and <i>splash, splash!</i> fall his companions; and +out of a heap of seaweed come a man and a dog; +and away he goes, sadly puzzled at the painted +things in the water, to think it all over in hunger +and sorrow.</p> + +<p>Then the weather grows cold, and a freeze-up +covers all his feeding grounds. Under his beautiful +feathers the bones project to spoil the contour of his +round plump body. He is famished now; he watches +the gulls to see what they eat. When he finds out, he +forgets his caution, and roams about after stray <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>mussels +on the beach. In the spring hunger drives him +into the ponds where food is plenty—but such food! +In a week his flesh is so strong that a crow would +hardly eat it. Altogether, it is small wonder that as +soon as his instinct tells him the streams of the +North are open and the trout running up, he is off +to a land of happier memories.</p> + +<p>In summer he forgets his hardships. His life is +peaceful as a meadow brook. His home is the wilderness—on +a lonely lake, it may be, shimmering under +the summer sun, or kissed into a thousand smiling +ripples by the south wind. Or perhaps it is a forest +river, winding on by wooded hills and grassy points +and lonely cedar swamps. In secret shallow bays the +young broods are plashing about, learning to swim +and dive and hide in safety. The plunge of the fish-hawk +comes up from the pools. A noisy kingfisher +rattles about from tree to stump, like a restless busy-body. +The hum of insects fills the air with a drowsy +murmur. Now a deer steps daintily down the point, +and looks, and listens, and drinks. A great moose +wades awkwardly out to plunge his head under and +pull away at the lily roots. But the young brood +mind not these harmless things. Sometimes indeed, +as the afternoon wears away, they turn their little +heads apprehensively as the alders crash and sway on +the bank above; a low cluck from the mother bird<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +sends them all off into the grass to hide. How +quickly they have disappeared, leaving never a trace! +But it is only a bear come down from the ridge where +he has been sleeping, to find a dead fish perchance for +his supper; and the little brood seem to laugh as +another low cluck brings them scurrying back from +their hiding places.</p> + +<p>Once, perhaps, comes a real fright, when all their +summer's practice is put to the test. An unusual +noise is heard; and round the bend glides a bark +canoe with sound of human voices. Away go the +brood together, the river behind them foaming like +the wake of a tiny steamer as the swift-moving feet +lift them almost out of water. Visions of ocean, the +guns, falling birds, and the hard winter distract the +poor mother. She flutters wildly about the brood, +now leading, now bravely facing the monster; now +pushing along some weak little loiterer, now floundering +near the canoe as if wounded, to attract attention +from the young. But they double the point at last, +and hide away under the alders. The canoe glides +by and makes no effort to find them. Silence is again +over the forest. The little brood come back to the +shallows, with mother bird fluttering round them to +count again and again lest any be missing. The +kingfisher comes out of his hole in the bank. The river +flows on as before, and peace returns; and over all is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +the mystic charm of the wilderness and the quiet of a +summer day.</p> + +<p>This is the way it all looks and seems to me, sitting +over under the big hemlock, out of sight, and watching +the birds through my field-glass.</p> + +<p>Day after day I have attended such little schools +unseen and unsuspected by the mother bird. Sometimes +it was the a-b-c class, wee little downy fellows, +learning to hide on a lily pad, and never getting a +reward of merit in the shape of a young trout till they +hid so well that the teacher (somewhat over-critical, I +thought) was satisfied. Sometimes it was the baccalaureates +that displayed their talents to the unbidden +visitor, flashing out of sight, cutting through the water +like a ray of light, striking a young trout on the bottom +with the rapidity and certainty almost of the teacher. +It was marvelous, the diving and swimming; and +mother bird looked on and quacked her approval of +the young graduates.—That is another peculiarity: +the birds are dumb in winter; they find their voice +only for the young.</p> + +<p>While all this careful training is going on at home, +the drake is off on the lakes somewhere with his boon +companions, having a good time, and utterly neglectful +of parental responsibility. Sometimes I have +found clubs of five or six, gay fellows all, living by +themselves at one end of a big lake where the fishing +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>was good. All summer long they roam and gad +about, free from care, and happy as summer campers, +leaving mother birds meanwhile to feed and educate +their offspring. Once only have I seen a drake sharing +the responsibilities of his family. I watched +three days to find the cause of his devotion; but he +disappeared the third evening, and I never saw him +again. Whether the drakes are lazy and run away, +or whether they have the atrocious habit of many +male birds and animals of destroying their young, +and so are driven away by the females, I have not +been able to find out.</p> + +<p>These birds are very destructive on the trout +streams; if a summer camper spare them, it is +because of his interest in the young, and especially +because of the mother bird's devotion. When the +recreant drake is met with, however, he goes promptly +onto the bill of fare, with other good things.</p> + +<p>Occasionally one overtakes a brood on a rapid +river. Then the poor birds are distressed indeed. +At the first glimpse of the canoe they are off, churning +the water into foam in their flight. Not till they +are out of sight round the bend do they hear the cluck +that tells them to hide. Some are slow in finding +a hiding place on the strange waters. The mother +bird hurries them. They are hunting in frantic haste +when round the bend comes the swift-gliding canoe.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +With a note of alarm they are all off again, for she +will not leave even the weakest alone. Again they +double the bend and try to hide; again the canoe +overtakes them; and so on, mile after mile, till a +stream or bogan flowing into the river offers a road +to escape. Then, like a flash, the little ones run in +under shelter of the banks, and glide up stream noiselessly, +while mother bird flutters on down the river +just ahead of the canoe. Having lured it away to a +safe distance, as she thinks, she takes wing and +returns to the young.</p> + +<p>Their powers of endurance are remarkable. Once, +on the Restigouche, we started a brood of little ones +late in the afternoon. We were moving along in a +good current, looking for a camping ground, and had +little thought for the birds, which could never get far +enough ahead to hide securely. For five miles they +kept ahead of us, rushing out at each successive +stretch of water, and fairly distancing us in a straight +run. When we camped they were still below us. +At dusk I was sitting motionless near the river +when a slight movement over near the opposite bank +attracted me. There was the mother bird, stealing +along up stream under the fringe of bushes. The +young followed in single file. There was no splashing +of water now. Shadows were not more noiseless.</p> + +<p>Twice since then I have seen them do the same<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +thing. I have no doubt they returned that evening +all the way up to the feeding grounds where we first +started them; for like the kingfishers every bird +seems to have his own piece of the stream. He never +fishes in his neighbor's pools, nor will he suffer any +poaching in his own. On the Restigouche we found +a brood every few miles; on other rivers less plentifully +stocked with trout they are less numerous. On +lakes there is often a brood at either end; but though +I have watched them carefully, I have never seen +them cross to each other's fishing grounds.</p> + +<p>Once, up on the Big Toledi, I saw a curious bit +of their education. I was paddling across the lake +one day, when I saw a shellbird lead her brood into a +little bay where I knew the water was shallow; and +immediately they began dipping, though very awkwardly. +They were evidently taking their first lessons +in diving. The next afternoon I was near the same +place. I had done fishing—or rather, frogging—and +had pushed the canoe into some tall grass out of +sight, and was sitting there just doing nothing.</p> + +<p>A musquash came by, and rubbed his nose against +the canoe, and nibbled a lily root before he noticed me. +A shoal of minnows were playing among the grasses +near by. A dragon-fly stood on his head against a +reed—a most difficult feat, I should think. He was +trying some contortion that I couldn't make out,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +when a deer stepped down the bank and never saw +me. Doing nothing pays one under such circumstances, +if only by the glimpses it gives of animal life. +It is so rare to see a wild thing unconscious.</p> + +<p>Then Kwaseekho came into the shallow bay again +with her brood, and immediately they began dipping +as before. I wondered how the mother made them +dive, till I looked through the field-glass and saw that +the little fellows occasionally brought up something +to eat. But there certainly were no fish to be caught +in that warm, shallow water. An idea struck me, +and I pushed the canoe out of the grass, sending the +brood across the lake in wild confusion. There on +the black bottom were a dozen young trout, all freshly +caught, and all with the air-bladder punctured by the +mother bird's sharp bill. She had provided their +dinner, but she brought it to a good place and made +them dive to get it.</p> + +<p>As I paddled back to camp, I thought of the way +the Indians taught their boys to shoot. They hung +their dinner from the trees, out of reach, and made +them cut the cord that held it, with an arrow. Did +the Indians originate this, I wonder, in their direct +way of looking at things, almost as simple as the +birds'? Or was the idea whispered to some Indian +hunter long ago, as he watched Merganser teach her +young to dive?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of all the broods I have met in the wilderness, only +one, I think, ever grew to recognize me and my canoe +a bit, so as to fear me less than another. It was on a +little lake in the heart of the woods, where we lingered +long on our journey, influenced partly by the beauty +of the place, and partly by the fact that two or three +bears roamed about there, which I sometimes met at +twilight on the lake shore. The brood were as wild +as other broods; but I met them often, and they +sometimes found the canoe lying motionless and +harmless near them, without quite knowing how it +came there. So after a few days they looked at me +with curiosity and uneasiness only, unless I came too +near.</p> + +<p>There were six in the brood. Five were hardy +little fellows that made the water boil behind them +as they scurried across the lake. But the sixth was a +weakling. He had been hurt, by a hawk perhaps, or +a big trout, or a mink; or he had swallowed a bone; +or maybe he was just a weak little fellow with no +accounting for it. Whenever the brood were startled, +he struggled bravely a little while to keep up; then +he always fell behind. The mother would come back, +and urge, and help him; but it was of little use. He +was not strong enough; and the last glimpse I always +had of them was a foamy wake disappearing round a +distant point, while far in the rear was a ripple where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +the little fellow still paddled away, doing his best +pathetically.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image038.jpg" width="600" height="406" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>One afternoon the canoe glided round a point and +ran almost up to the brood before they saw it, giving +them a terrible fright. Away they went on the instant, +<i>putter, putter, putter</i>, lifting themselves almost out +of water with the swift-moving feet and tiny wings. +The mother bird took wing, returned and crossed +the bow of the canoe, back and forth, with loud +quackings. The weakling was behind as usual; and +in a sudden spirit of curiosity or perversity—for +I really had a good deal of sympathy for the little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +fellow—I shot the canoe forward, almost up to him. +He tried to dive; got tangled in a lily stem in his +fright; came up, flashed under again; and I saw him +come up ten feet away in some grass, where he sat +motionless and almost invisible amid the pads and +yellow stems.</p> + +<p>How frightened he was! Yet how still he sat! +Whenever I took my eyes from him a moment I +had to hunt again, sometimes two or three minutes, +before I could see him there.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the brood went almost to the opposite +shore before they stopped, and the mother, satisfied +at last by my quietness, flew over and lit among them. +She had not seen the little one. Through the glass +I saw her flutter round and round them, to be quite +sure they were all there. Then she missed him. I +could see it all in her movements. She must have +clucked, I think, for the young suddenly disappeared, +and she came swimming rapidly back over the way +they had come, looking, looking everywhere. Round +the canoe she went at a safe distance, searching +among the grass and lily pads, calling him softly to +come out. But he was very near the canoe, and very +much frightened; the only effect of her calls was +to make him crouch closer against the grass stems, +while the bright little eyes, grown large with fear, +were fastened on me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>Slowly I backed the canoe away till it was out of +sight around the point, though I could still see the +mother bird through the bushes. She swam rapidly +about where the canoe had been, calling more loudly; +but the little fellow had lost confidence in her, or was +too frightened, and refused to show himself. At last +she discovered him, and with quacks and flutters that +looked to me a bit hysteric pulled him out of his +hiding place. How she fussed over him! How she +hurried and helped and praised and scolded him all +the way over; and fluttered on ahead, and clucked +the brood out of their hiding places to meet him! +Then, with all her young about her, she swept round +the point into the quiet bay that was their training +school.</p> + +<p>And I, drifting slowly up the lake into the sunset +over the glassy water, was thinking how human it all +was. "Doth he not leave the ninety and nine in the +wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he +find it?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="III_QUEER_WAYS_OF_BRER_RABBIT" id="III_QUEER_WAYS_OF_BRER_RABBIT"></a>III. QUEER WAYS OF BR'ER RABBIT.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap041"><span class="dropcap">B</span></span>r'er Rabbit is a funny fellow. No +wonder that Uncle Remus makes him +the hero of so many adventures! Uncle +Remus had watched him, no doubt, on +some moonlight night when he gathered +his boon companions together for a frolic. In the +heart of the woods it was, in a little opening where +the moonlight came streaming in through the pines, +making soft gray shadows for hide-and-seek, and +where no prowling fox ever dreamed of looking.</p> + +<p>With most of us, I fear, the acquaintance with +Bunny is too limited for us to appreciate his frolicsome +ways and his happy, fun-loving disposition. +The tame things which we sometimes see about +country yards are often stupid, like a playful kitten +spoiled by too much handling; and the flying glimpse +we sometimes get of a bundle of brown fur, scurrying +helter-skelter through and over the huckleberry +bushes, generally leaves us staring in astonishment +at the swaying leaves where it disappeared, and +wondering curiously what it was all about. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +only a brown rabbit that you almost stepped upon +in your autumn walk through the woods.</p> + +<p>Look under the crimson sumach yonder, there +in the bit of brown grass, with the purple asters +hanging over, and you will find his form, where +he has been sitting all the morning and where he +watched you all the way up the hill. But you need +not follow; you will not find him again. He never +runs straight; the swaying leaves there where he disappeared +mark the beginning of his turn, whether to +right or left you will never know. Now he has come +around his circle and is near you again—watching +you this minute, out of his bit of brown grass. As +you move slowly away in the direction he took, peering +here and there among the bushes, Bunny behind +you sits up straight in his old form again, with his +little paws held very prim, his long ears pointed +after you, and his deep brown eyes shining like the +waters of a hidden spring among the asters. And he +chuckles to himself, and thinks how he fooled you +that time, sure.</p> + +<p>To see Br'er Rabbit at his best, that is, at his +own playful comical self, one must turn hunter, and +learn how to sit still, and be patient. Only you +must not hunt in the usual way; not by day, for then +Bunny is stowed away in his form on the sunny slope +of a southern hillside, where one's eyes will never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +find him; not with gun and dog, for then the keen +interest and quick sympathy needed to appreciate +any phase of animal life gives place to the coarser +excitement of the hunt; and not by going about after +Bunny, for your heavy footsteps and the rustle of +leaves will only send him scurrying away into safer +solitudes. Find where he loves to meet with his +fellows, in quiet little openings in the woods. There +is no mistaking his playground when once you have +found it. Go there by moonlight and, sitting still in +the shadow, let your game find you, or pass by without +suspicion; for this is the best way to hunt, whether +one is after game or only a better knowledge of the +ways of bird and beast.</p> + +<p>The very best spot I ever found for watching +Bunny's ways was on the shore of a lonely lake in the +heart of a New Brunswick forest. I hardly think that +he was any different there, for I have seen some of his +pranks repeated within sight of a busy New England +town; but he was certainly more natural. He had +never seen a man before, and he was as curious about +it as a blue jay. No dog's voice had ever wakened +the echoes within fifty miles; but every sound of the +wilderness he seemed to know a thousand times better +than I. The snapping of the smallest stick under +the stealthy tread of fox or wildcat would send him +scurrying out of sight in wild alarm; yet I watched a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +dozen of them at play one night when a frightened +moose went crashing through the underbrush and +plunged into the lake near by, and they did not seem +to mind it in the least.</p> + +<p>The spot referred to was the only camping ground +on the lake; so Simmo, my Indian guide, assured +me; and he knew very well. I discovered afterward +that it was the only cleared bit of land for miles +around; and this the rabbits knew very well. Right +in the midst of their best playground I pitched +my tent, while Simmo built his lean-to near by, in +another little opening. We were tired that night, +after a long day's paddle in the sunshine on the river. +The after-supper chat before the camp fire—generally +the most delightful bit of the whole day, and +prolonged as far as possible—was short and sleepy; +and we left the lonely woods to the bats and owls +and creeping things, and turned in for the night.</p> + +<p>I was just asleep when I was startled by a loud +thump twice repeated, as if a man stamped on the +ground, or, as I thought at the time, just like the +thump a bear gives an old log with his paw, to see if +it is hollow and contains any insects. I was wide +awake in a moment, sitting up straight to listen. A +few minutes passed by in intense stillness; then, +<i>thump! thump! thump!</i> just outside the tent among +the ferns.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + +<p>I crept slowly out; but beyond a slight rustle as +my head appeared outside the tent I heard nothing, +though I waited several minutes and searched about +among the underbrush. But no sooner was I back +in the tent and quiet than there it was again, and +repeated three or four times, now here, now there, +within the next ten minutes. I crept out again, with +no better success than before.</p> + +<p>This time, however, I would find out about that +mysterious noise before going back. It isn't so +pleasant to go to sleep until one knows what things +are prowling about, especially things that make a +noise like that. A new moon was shining down +into the little clearing, giving hardly enough light +to make out the outlines of the great evergreens. +Down among the ferns things were all black and uniform. +For ten minutes I stood there in the shadow +of a big spruce and waited. Then the silence was +broken by a sudden heavy thump in the bushes just +behind me. I was startled, and wheeled on the +instant; as I did so, some small animal scurried +away into the underbrush.</p> + +<p>For a moment I was puzzled. Then it flashed +upon me that I was camped upon the rabbits' playground. +With the thought came a strong suspicion +that Bunny was fooling me.</p> + +<p>Going back to the fire, I raked the coals together<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +and threw on some fresh fuel. Next I fastened a +large piece of birch bark on two split sticks behind +the fireplace; then I sat down on an old log to wait. +The rude reflector did very well as the fire burned up. +Out in front the fern tops were dimly lighted to the +edge of the clearing. As I watched, a dark form shot +suddenly above the ferns and dropped back again. +Three heavy thumps followed; then the form shot up +and down once more. This time there was no mistake. +In the firelight I saw plainly the dangle of +Br'er Rabbit's long legs, and the flap of his big ears, +and the quick flash of his dark eyes in the reflected +light,—got an instantaneous photograph of him, as +it were, at the top of his comical jump.</p> + +<p>I sat there nearly an hour before the why and the +how of the little joker's actions became quite clear. +This is what happens in such a case. Bunny comes +down from the ridge for his nightly frolic in the little +clearing. While still in the ferns the big white +object, standing motionless in the middle of his playground, +catches his attention; and very much surprised, +and very much frightened, but still very +curious, he crouches down close to wait and listen. +But the strange thing does not move nor see him. To +get a better view he leaps up high above the ferns +two or three times. Still the big thing remains quite +still and harmless. "Now," thinks Bunny, "I'll<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +frighten him, and find out what he is." Leaping +high he strikes the ground sharply two or three +times with his padded hind foot; then jumps up +quickly again to see the effect of his scare. Once +he succeeded very well, when he crept up close +behind me, so close that he didn't have to spring up +to see the effect. I fancy him chuckling to himself +as he scurried off after my sudden start.</p> + +<p>That was the first time that I ever heard Bunny's +challenge. It impressed me at the time as one of his +most curious pranks; the sound was so big and +heavy for such a little fellow. Since then I have +heard it frequently; and now sometimes when I +stand at night in the forest and hear a sudden heavy +thump in the underbrush, as if a big moose were +striking the ground and shaking his antlers at me, +it doesn't startle me in the least. It is only Br'er +Rabbit trying to frighten me.</p> + +<p>The next night Bunny played us another trick. +Before Simmo went to sleep he always took off his +blue overalls and put them under his head for a +pillow. That was only one of Simmo's queer ways. +While he was asleep the rabbits came into his little +<i>commoosie</i>, dragged the overalls out from under his +head, and nibbled them full of holes. Not content +with this, they played with them all night; pulled +them around the clearing, as threads here and there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +plainly showed; then dragged them away into the +underbrush and left them.</p> + +<p>Simmo's wrath when he at last found the precious +garments was comical to behold; when he wore +them with their new polka-dot pattern, it was still +more comical. Why the rabbits did it I could never +quite make out. The overalls were very dirty, very +much stained with everything from a clean trout to +tobacco crumbs; and, as there was nothing about +them for a rabbit to eat, we concluded that it was +just one of Br'er Rabbit's pranks. That night Simmo, +to avenge his overalls, set a deadfall supported by a +piece of cord, which he had soaked in molasses and +salt. Which meant that Bunny would nibble the cord +for the salt that was in it, and bring the log down +hard on his own back. So I had to spring it, while +Simmo slept, to save the little fellow's life and learn +more about him.</p> + +<p>Up on the ridge above our tent was a third tiny +clearing, where some trappers had once made their +winter camp. It was there that I watched the rabbits +one moonlight night from my seat on an old log, just +within the shadow at the edge of the opening. The +first arrival came in with a rush. There was a sudden +scurry behind me, and over the log he came with a +flying leap that landed him on the smooth bit of +ground in the middle, where he whirled around and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +around with grotesque jumps, like a kitten after its +tail. Only Br'er Rabbit's tail was too short for him +ever to catch it; he seemed rather to be trying to get a +good look at it. Then he went off helter-skelter in +a headlong rush through the ferns. Before I knew +what had become of him, over the log he came again +in a marvelous jump, and went tearing around the +clearing like a circus horse, varying his performance +now by a high leap, now by two or three awkward +hops on his hind legs, like a dancing bear. It was +immensely entertaining.</p> + +<p>The third time around he discovered me in the +midst of one of his antics. He was so surprised that +he fell down. In a second he was up again, sitting +up very straight on his haunches just in front of me, +paws crossed, ears erect, eyes shining in fear and +curiosity. "Who are you?" he was saying, as plainly +as ever rabbit said it. Without moving a muscle I +tried to tell him, and also that he need not be afraid. +Perhaps he began to understand, for he turned his +head on one side, just as a dog does when you talk to +him. But he wasn't quite satisfied. "I'll try my +scare on him," he thought; and <i>thump! thump! +thump!</i> sounded his padded hind foot on the soft +ground. It almost made me start again, it sounded +so big in the dead stillness. This last test quite convinced +him that I was harmless, and, after a moment's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +watching, away he went in some astonishing jumps +into the forest.</p> + +<p>A few minutes passed by in quiet waiting before +he was back again, this time with two or three companions. +I have no doubt that he had been watching +me all the time, for I heard his challenge in the brush +just behind my log. The fun now began to grow +lively. Around and around they went, here, there, +everywhere,—the woods seemed full of rabbits, they +scurried around so. Every few minutes the number +increased, as some new arrival came flying in and +gyrated around like a brown fur pinwheel. They +leaped over everything in the clearing; they leaped +over each other as if playing leap-frog; they vied +with each other in the high jump. Sometimes they +gathered together in the middle of the open space +and crept about close to the ground, in and out and +roundabout, like a game of fox and geese. Then +they rose on their hind legs and hopped slowly +about in all the dignity of a minuet. Right in the +midst of the solemn affair some mischievous fellow +gave a squeak and a big jump; and away they all +went hurry-skurry, for all the world like a lot of boys +turned loose for recess. In a minute they were +back again, quiet and sedate, and solemn as bull-frogs. +Were they chasing and chastising the mischief-maker, +or was it only the overflow of abundant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +spirits as the top of a kettle blows off when the +pressure below becomes resistless?</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;"> +<img src="images/image051.jpg" width="387" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>Many of the rabbits saw me, I am sure, for they +sometimes gave a high jump over my foot; and one +came close up beside it, and sat up straight with his +head on one side, to look me over. Perhaps it was +the first comer, for he did not try his scare again. +Like most wild creatures, they have very little fear +of an object that remains motionless at their first +approach and challenge.</p> + +<p>Once there was a curious performance over across +the clearing. I could not see it very plainly, but it +looked very much like a boxing match. A queer +sound, <i>put-a-put-a-put-a-put</i>, first drew my attention +to it. Two rabbits were at the edge of the ferns, +standing up on their hind legs, face to face, and +apparently cuffing each other soundly, while they +hopped slowly around and around in a circle. I +could not see the blows but only the boxing attitude, +and hear the sounds as they landed on each other's +ribs. The other rabbits did not seem to mind it, as +they would have done had it been a fight, but stopped +occasionally to watch the two, and then went on +with their fun-making. Since then I have read of +tame hares that did the same thing, but I have never +seen it.</p> + +<p>At another time the rabbits were gathered together<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +in the very midst of some quiet fun, when they leaped +aside suddenly and disappeared among the ferns as if +by magic. The next instant a dark shadow swept +across the opening, almost into my face, and wheeled +out of sight among the evergreens. It was Kookoo-skoos, +the big brown owl, coursing the woods on his +nightly hunt after the very rabbits that were crouched +motionless beneath him as he passed. But how did +they learn, all at once, of the coming of an enemy +whose march is noiseless as the sweep of a shadow? +And did they all hide so well that he never suspected +that they were about, or did he see the ferns wave +as the last one disappeared, but was afraid to come +back after seeing me? Perhaps Br'er Rabbit was +well repaid that time for his confidence.</p> + +<p>They soon came back again, as I think they would +not have done had it been a natural opening. Had +it been one of Nature's own sunny spots, the owl +would have swept back and forth across it; for he +knows the rabbits' ways as well as they know his. +But hawks and owls avoid a spot like this, that men +have cleared. If they cross it once in search of prey, +they seldom return. Wherever man camps, he leaves +something of himself behind; and the fierce birds +and beasts of the woods fear it, and shun it. It +is only the innocent things, singing birds, and fun-loving +rabbits, and harmless little wood-mice—shy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +defenseless creatures all—that take possession of +man's abandoned quarters, and enjoy his protection. +Bunny knows this, I think; and so there is no other +place in the woods that he loves so well as an old +camping ground.</p> + +<p>The play was soon over; for it is only in the early +part of the evening, when Br'er Rabbit first comes +out after sitting still in his form all day, that he gives +himself up to fun, like a boy out of school. If one +may judge, however, from the looks of Simmo's overalls, +and from the number of times he woke me by +scurrying around my tent, I suspect that he is never +too serious and never too busy for a joke. It is a +way he has of brightening the more sober times of +getting his own living, and keeping a sharp lookout +for cats and owls and prowling foxes.</p> + +<p>Gradually the playground was deserted, as the +rabbits slipped off one by one to hunt their supper. +Now and then there was a scamper among the underbrush, +and a high jump or two, with which some +playful bunny enlivened his search for tender twigs; +and at times one, more curious than the rest, came +hopping along to sit erect a moment before the old +log, and look to see if the strange animal were still +there. But soon the old log was vacant too. Out +in the swamp a disappointed owl sat on his lonely +stub that lightning had blasted, and hooted that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +was hungry. The moon looked down into the little +clearing with its waving ferns and soft gray shadows, +and saw nothing there to suggest that it was the +rabbits' nursery.</p> + +<p>Down at the camp a new surprise was awaiting me. +Br'er Rabbit was under the tent fly, tugging away at +the salt bag which I had left there carelessly after +curing a bearskin. While he was absorbed in getting +it out from under the rubber blanket, I crept up +on hands and knees, and stroked him once from ears +to tail. He jumped straight up with a startled squeak, +whirled in the air, and came down facing me. So +we remained for a full moment, our faces scarcely two +feet apart, looking into each other's eyes. Then he +thumped the earth soundly with his left hind foot, to +show that he was not afraid, and scurried under the +fly and through the brakes in a half circle to a bush +at my heels, where he sat up straight in the shadow +to watch me.</p> + +<p>But I had seen enough for one night. I left a +generous pinch of salt where he could find it easily, +and crept in to sleep, leaving him to his own ample +devices.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IV_A_WILD_DUCK" id="IV_A_WILD_DUCK"></a>IV. A WILD DUCK.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap055"><span class="dropcap">T</span></span>he title will suggest to most boys a +line across the autumn sky at sunset, +with a bit of mystery about it; or else +a dark triangle moving southward, +high and swift, at Thanksgiving time. +To a few, who know well the woods +and fields about their homes, it may suggest a lonely +little pond, with a dark bird rising swiftly, far out of +reach, leaving the ripples playing among the sedges. +To those accustomed to look sharply it will suggest +five or six more birds, downy little fellows, hiding safe +among roots and grasses, so still that one seldom +suspects their presence. But the duck, like most +game birds, loves solitude; the details of his life he +keeps very closely to himself; and boys must be +content with occasional glimpses.</p> + +<p>This is especially true of the dusky duck, more +generally known by the name black duck among +hunters. He is indeed a wild duck, so wild that +one must study him with a gun, and study him long +before he knows much about him. An ordinary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +tramp with a field-glass and eyes wide open may +give a rare, distant view of him; but only as one +follows him as a sportsman winter after winter, meeting +with much less of success than of discouragement, +does he pick up many details of his personal +life; for wildness is born in him, and no experience +with man is needed to develop it. On the lonely +lakes in the midst of a Canada forest, where he meets +man perhaps for the first time, he is the same as +when he builds at the head of some mill pond within +sight of a busy New England town. Other ducks +may in time be tamed and used as decoys; but not +so he. Several times I have tried it with wing-tipped +birds; but the result was always the same. They +worked night and day to escape, refusing all food +and even water till they broke through their pen, or +were dying of hunger, when I let them go.</p> + +<p>One spring a farmer, with whom I sometimes go +shooting, determined to try with young birds. He +found a black duck's nest in a dense swamp near a +salt creek, and hatched the eggs with some others +under a tame duck. Every time he approached the +pen the little things skulked away and hid; nor could +they be induced to show themselves, although their +tame companions were feeding and running about, +quite contented. After two weeks, when he thought +them somewhat accustomed to their surroundings, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +let the whole brood go down to the shore just below +his house. The moment they were free the wild +birds scurried away into the water-grass out of sight, +and no amount of anxious quacking on the part of +the mother duck could bring them back into captivity. +He never saw them again.</p> + +<p>This habit which the young birds have of skulking +away out of sight is a measure of protection that they +constantly practise. A brood may be seen on almost +any secluded pond or lake in New England, where +the birds come in the early spring to build their +nests. Watching from some hidden spot on the +shore, one sees them diving and swimming about, +hunting for food everywhere in the greatest freedom. +The next moment they scatter and disappear so suddenly +that one almost rubs his eyes to make sure that +the birds are really gone. If he is near enough, which +is not likely unless he is very careful, he has heard a +low cluck from the old bird, which now sits with neck +standing straight up out of the water, so still as to be +easily mistaken for one of the old stumps or bogs +among which they are feeding. She is looking about +to see if the ducklings are all well hidden. After a +moment there is another cluck, very much like the +other, and downy little fellows come bobbing out of +the grass, or from close beside the stumps where you +looked a moment before and saw nothing. This is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +repeated at frequent intervals, the object being, apparently, +to accustom the young birds to hide instantly +when danger approaches.</p> + +<p>So watchful is the old bird, however, that trouble +rarely threatens without her knowledge. When the +young are well hidden at the first sign of the enemy, +she takes wing and leaves them, returning when danger +is over to find them still crouching motionless in +their hiding places. When surprised she acts like +other game birds,—flutters along with a great splashing, +trailing one wing as if wounded, till she has led +you away from the young, or occupied your attention +long enough for them to be safely hidden; then she +takes wing and leaves you.</p> + +<p>The habit of hiding becomes so fixed with the +young birds that they trust to it long after the wings +have grown and they are able to escape by flight. +Sometimes in the early autumn I have run the bow of +my canoe almost over a full-grown bird, lying hidden +in a clump of grass, before he sprang into the air and +away. A month later, in the same place, the canoe +could hardly approach within a quarter of a mile +without his taking alarm.</p> + +<p>Once they have learned to trust their wings, they +give up hiding for swift flight. But they never forget +their early training, and when wounded hide with a +cunning that is remarkable. Unless one has a good<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +dog it is almost useless to look for a wounded duck, +if there is any cover to be reached. Hiding under a +bank, crawling into a muskrat hole, worming a way +under a bunch of dead grass or pile of leaves, swimming +around and around a clump of bushes just out +of sight of his pursuer, diving and coming up behind +a tuft of grass,—these are some of the ways by which +I have known a black duck try to escape. Twice +I have heard from old hunters of their finding a bird +clinging to a bunch of grass under water, though I +have never seen it. Once, from a blind, I saw a black +duck swim ashore and disappear into a small clump +of berry bushes. Karl, who was with me, ran over +to get him, but after a half-hour's search gave it up. +Then I tried, and gave it up also. An hour later +we saw the bird come out of the very place where +we had been searching, and enter the water. Karl +ran out, shouting, and the bird hid in the bushes +again. Again we hunted the clump over and over, +but no duck could be seen. We were turning away +a second time when Karl cried: "Look!"—and there, +in plain sight, by the very white stone where I had +seen him disappear, was the duck, or rather the red +leg of a duck, sticking out of a tangle of black roots.</p> + +<p>With the first sharp frost that threatens to ice over +the ponds in which they have passed the summer, the +inland birds betake themselves to the seacoast, where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +there is more or less migration all winter. The great +body of ducks moves slowly southward as the winter +grows severe; but if food is plenty they winter all +along the coast. It is then that they may be studied +to the best advantage.</p> + +<p>During the daytime they are stowed away in quiet +little ponds and hiding places, or resting in large +flocks on the shoals well out of reach of land and danger. +When possible, they choose the former, because +it gives them an abundance of fresh water, which is a +daily necessity; and because, unlike the coots which +are often found in great numbers on the same shoals, +they dislike tossing about on the waves for any length +of time. But late in the autumn they desert the ponds +and are seldom seen there again until spring, even +though the ponds are open. They are very shy about +being frozen in or getting ice on their feathers, and +prefer to get their fresh water at the mouths of creeks +and springs.</p> + +<p>With all their caution,—and they are very good +weather prophets, knowing the times of tides and +the approach of storms, as well as the days when +fresh water freezes,—they sometimes get caught. +Once I found a flock of five in great distress, frozen +into the thin ice while sleeping, no doubt, with heads +tucked under their wings. At another time I found +a single bird floundering about with a big lump of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +ice and mud attached to his tail. He had probably +found the insects plentiful in some bit of soft mud +at low tide, and stayed there too long with the thermometer +at zero.</p> + +<p>Night is their feeding time; on the seacoast they fly +in to the feeding grounds just at dusk. Fog bewilders +them, and no bird likes to fly in rain, because +it makes the feathers heavy; so on foggy or rainy +afternoons they come in early, or not at all. The +favorite feeding ground is a salt marsh, with springs +and creeks of brackish water. Seeds, roots, tender +grasses, and snails and insects in the mud left by +the low tide are their usual winter food. When +these grow scarce they betake themselves to the mussel +beds with the coots; their flesh in consequence +becomes strong and fishy.</p> + +<p>When the first birds come in to the feeding grounds +before dark, they do it with the greatest caution, examining +not only the little pond or creek, but the +whole neighborhood before lighting. The birds that +follow trust to the inspection of these first comers, +and generally fly straight in. For this reason it is +well for one who attempts to see them at this time +to have live decoys and, if possible, to have his blind +built several days in advance, in order that the birds +which may have been feeding in the place shall see +no unusual object when they come in. If the blind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +be newly built, only the stranger birds will fly straight +in to his decoys. Those that have been there before +will either turn away in alarm, or else examine the +blind very cautiously on all sides. If you know now +how to wait and sit perfectly still, the birds will at +last fly directly over the stand to look in. That is +your only chance; and you must take it quickly if +you expect to eat duck for dinner.</p> + +<p>By moonlight one may sit on the bank in plain +sight of his decoys, and watch the wild birds as long +as he will. It is necessary only to sit perfectly still. +But this is unsatisfactory; you can never see just +what they are doing. Once I had thirty or forty close +about me in this way. A sudden turn of my head, +when a bat struck my cheek, sent them all off in a +panic to the open ocean.</p> + +<p>A curious thing frequently noticed about these birds +as they come in at night is their power to make their +wings noisy or almost silent at will. Sometimes the +rustle is so slight that, unless the air is perfectly still, +it is scarcely audible; at other times it is a strong +<i>wish-wish</i> that can be heard two hundred yards away. +The only theory I can suggest is that it is done +as a kind of signal. In the daytime and on bright +evenings one seldom hears it; on dark nights it is +very frequent, and is always answered by the quacking +of birds already on the feeding grounds, probably<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +to guide the incomers. How they do it is uncertain; +it is probably in some such way as the night-hawk +makes his curious booming sound,—not by means +of his open mouth, as is generally supposed, but by +slightly turning the wing quills so that the air sets +them vibrating. One can test this, if he will, by +blowing on any stiff feather.</p> + +<p>On stormy days the birds, instead of resting on the +shoals, light near some lonely part of the beach and, +after watching carefully for an hour or two, to be +sure that no danger is near, swim ashore and collect +in great bunches in some sheltered spot under a +bank. It is indeed a tempting sight to see perhaps +a hundred of the splendid birds gathered close +together on the shore, the greater part with heads +tucked under their wings, fast asleep; but if you are +to surprise them, you must turn snake and crawl, +and learn patience. Scattered along the beach on +either side are single birds or small bunches evidently +acting as sentinels. The crows and gulls are +flying continually along the tide line after food; and +invariably as they pass over one of these bunches of +ducks they rise in the air to look around over all +the bank. You must be well hidden to escape those +bright eyes. The ducks understand crow and gull +talk perfectly, and trust largely to these friendly sentinels. +The gulls scream and the crows caw all day<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +long, and not a duck takes his head from under +his wing; but the instant either crow or gull utters +his danger note every duck is in the air and headed +straight off shore.</p> + +<p>The constant watchfulness of black ducks is perhaps +the most remarkable thing about them. When +feeding at night in some lonely marsh, or hidden away +by day deep in the heart of the swamps, they never +for a moment seem to lay aside their alertness, nor +trust to their hiding places alone for protection. Even +when lying fast asleep among the grasses with heads +tucked under their wings, there is a nervous vigilance +in their very attitudes which suggests a sense of danger. +Generally one has to content himself with studying +them through a glass; but once I had a very good +opportunity of watching them close at hand, of outwitting +them, as it were, at their own game of hide-and-seek. +It was in a grassy little pond, shut in by +high hills, on the open moors of Nantucket. The +pond was in the middle of a plain, perhaps a hundred +yards from the nearest hill. No tree or rock or bush +offered any concealment to an enemy; the ducks +could sleep there as sure of detecting the approach +of danger as if on the open ocean.</p> + +<p>One autumn day I passed the place and, looking +cautiously over the top of a hill, saw a single black +duck swim out of the water-grass at the edge of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +pond. The fresh breeze in my face induced me to +try to creep down close to the edge of the pond, to +see if it were possible to surprise birds there, should +I find any on my next hunting trip. Just below me, +at the foot of the hill, was a swampy run leading +toward the pond, with grass nearly a foot high growing +along its edge. I must reach that if possible.</p> + +<p>After a few minutes of watching, the duck went +into the grass again, and I started to creep down the +hill, keeping my eyes intently on the pond. Halfway +down, another duck appeared, and I dropped flat on +the hillside in plain sight. Of course the duck noticed +the unusual object. There was a commotion in the +grass; heads came up here and there. The next moment, +to my great astonishment, fully fifty black ducks +were swimming about in the greatest uneasiness.</p> + +<p>I lay very still and watched. Five minutes passed; +then quite suddenly all motion ceased in the pond; +every duck sat with neck standing straight up from +the water, looking directly at me. So still were they +that one could easily have mistaken them for stumps +or peat bogs. After a few minutes of this kind of +watching they seemed satisfied, and glided back, a +few at a time, into the grass.</p> + +<p>When all were gone I rolled down the hill and +gained the run, getting soaking wet as I splashed into +it. Then it was easier to advance without being <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>discovered; +for whenever a duck came out to look round—which +happened almost every minute at first—I +could drop into the grass and be out of sight.</p> + +<p>In half an hour I had gained the edge of a low +bank, well covered by coarse water-grass. Carefully +pushing this aside, I looked through, and almost held +my breath, they were so near. Just below me, within +six feet, was a big drake, with head drawn down so +close to his body that I wondered what he had done +with his neck. His eyes were closed; he was fast +asleep. In front of him were eight or ten more ducks +close together, all with heads under their wings. Scattered +about in the grass everywhere were small groups, +sleeping, or pluming their glossy dark feathers.</p> + +<p>Beside the pleasure of watching them, the first black +ducks that I had ever seen unconscious, there was the +satisfaction of thinking how completely they had been +outwitted at their own game of sharp watching. How +they would have jumped had they only known what +was lying there in the grass so near their hiding place! +At first, every time I saw a pair of little black eyes +wink, or a head come from under a wing, I felt myself +shrinking close together in the thought that I was +discovered; but that wore off after a time, when I +found that the eyes winked rather sleepily, and the +necks were taken out just to stretch them, much as +one would take a comfortable yawn.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image067.jpg" width="600" height="403" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>Once I was caught squarely, but the grass and +my being so near saved me. I had raised my head +and lay with chin in my hands, deeply interested in +watching a young duck making a most elaborate +toilet, when from the other side an old bird shot +suddenly into the open water and saw me as I dropped +out of sight. There was a low, sharp quack which +brought every duck out of his hiding, wide awake on +the instant. At first they all bunched together at the +farther side, looking straight at the bank where I +lay. Probably they saw my feet, which were outside +the covert as I lay full length. Then they drew +gradually nearer till they were again within the fringe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +of water-grass. Some of them sat quite up on their +tails by a vigorous use of their wings, and stretched +their necks to look over the low bank. Just keeping +still saved me. In five minutes they were quiet again; +even the young duck seemed to have forgotten her +vanity and gone to sleep with the others.</p> + +<p>Two or three hours I lay thus and watched them +through the grass, spying very rudely, no doubt, into +the seclusion of their home life. As the long shadow +of the western hill stretched across the pool till it +darkened the eastern bank, the ducks awoke one by +one from their nap, and began to stir about in preparation +for departure. Soon they were collected at the +center of the open water, where they sat for a moment +very still, heads up, and ready. If there was any signal +given I did not hear it. At the same moment +each pair of wings struck the water with a sharp +splash, and they shot straight up in that remarkable +way of theirs, as if thrown by a strong spring. An +instant they seemed to hang motionless in the air +high above the water, then they turned and disappeared +swiftly over the eastern hill toward the +marshes.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="V_AN_ORIOLES_NEST" id="V_AN_ORIOLES_NEST"></a>V. AN ORIOLE'S NEST.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap069"><span class="dropcap">H</span></span>ow suggestive it is, swinging there +through sunlight and shadow from the +long drooping tips of the old elm +boughs! And what a delightful cradle +for the young orioles, swayed all day +long by every breath of the summer breeze, +peeping through chinks as the world sweeps +by, watching with bright eyes the boy below +who looks up in vain, or the mountain of hay that +brushes them in passing, and whistling cheerily, blow +high or low, with never a fear of falling! The mother +bird must feel very comfortable about it as she goes +off caterpillar hunting, for no bird enemy can trouble +the little ones while she is gone. The black snake, +that horror of all low-nesting birds, will never climb +so high. The red squirrel—little wretch that he is, +to eat young birds when he has still a bushel of corn +and nuts in his old wall—cannot find a footing on +those delicate branches. Neither can the crow find +a resting place from which to steal the young; and +the hawk's legs are not long enough to reach down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +and grasp them, should he perchance venture near +the house and hover an instant over the nest.</p> + +<p>Besides all this, the oriole is a neighborly little +body; and that helps her. Though the young are +kept from harm anywhere by the cunning instinct +which builds a hanging nest, she still prefers to build +near the house, where hawks and crows and owls +rarely come. She knows her friends and takes advantage +of their protection, returning year after year +to the same old elm, and, like a thrifty little housewife, +carefully saving and sorting the good threads of +her storm-wrecked old house to be used in building +the new.</p> + +<p>Of late years, however, it has seemed to me that +the pretty nests on the secluded streets of New England +towns are growing scarcer. The orioles are +peace-loving birds, and dislike the society of those +noisy, pugnacious little rascals, the English sparrows, +which have of late taken possession of our streets. +Often now I find the nests far away from any house, +on lonely roads where a few years ago they were +rarely seen. Sometimes also a solitary farmhouse, +too far from the town to be much visited by sparrows, +has two or three nests swinging about it in +its old elms, where formerly there was but one.</p> + +<p>It is an interesting evidence of the bird's keen +instinct that where nests are built on lonely roads<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +and away from houses they are noticeably deeper, and +so better protected from bird enemies. The same +thing is sometimes noticed of nests built in maple or +apple trees, which are without the protection of drooping +branches, upon which birds of prey can find no +footing. Some wise birds secure the same protection +by simply contracting the neck of the nest, instead of +building a deep one. Young birds building their first +nests seem afraid to trust in the strength of their own +weaving. Their nests are invariably shallow, and so +suffer most from birds of prey.</p> + +<p>In the choice of building material the birds are +very careful. They know well that no branch supports +the nest from beneath; that the safety of the +young orioles depends on good, strong material well +woven together. In some wise way they seem to +know at a glance whether a thread is strong enough +to be trusted; but sometimes, in selecting the first +threads that are to bear the whole weight of the nest, +they are unwilling to trust to appearances. At such +times a pair of birds may be seen holding a little tug-of-war, +with feet braced, shaking and pulling the +thread like a pair of terriers, till it is well tested.</p> + +<p>It is in gathering and testing the materials for a +nest that the orioles display no little ingenuity. One +day, a few years ago, I was lying under some shrubs, +watching a pair of the birds that were building close<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +to the house. It was a typical nest-making day, the +sun pouring his bright rays through delicate green +leaves and a glory of white apple blossoms, the air +filled with warmth and fragrance, birds and bees busy +everywhere. Orioles seem always happy; to-day they +quite overflowed in the midst of all the brightness, +though materials were scarce and they must needs be +diligent.</p> + +<p>The female was very industrious, never returning +to the nest without some contribution, while the male +frolicked about the trees in his brilliant orange and +black, whistling his warm rich notes, and seeming +like a dash of southern sunshine amidst the blossoms. +Sometimes he stopped in his frolic to find a bit of +string, over which he raised an impromptu <i>jubilate</i>, +or to fly with his mate to the nest, uttering that soft +rich twitter of his in a mixture of blarney and congratulation +whenever she found some particularly +choice material. But his chief part seemed to be to +furnish the celebration, while she took care of the +nest-making.</p> + +<p>Out in front of me, under the lee of the old wall +whither some line-stripping gale had blown it, was +a torn fragment of cloth with loose threads showing +everywhere. I was wondering why the birds did not +utilize it, when the male, in one of his lively flights, +discovered it and flew down. First he hopped all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +around it; next he tried some threads; but, as the +cloth was lying loose on the grass, the whole piece +came whenever he pulled. For a few moments he +worked diligently, trying a pull on each side in succession. +Once he tumbled end over end in a comical +scramble, as the fragment caught on a grass stub but +gave way when he had braced himself and was pulling +hardest. Quite abruptly he flew off, and I thought +he had given up the attempt.</p> + +<p>In a minute he was back with his mate, thinking, +no doubt, that she, as a capable little manager, would +know all about such things. If birds do not talk, they +have at least some very ingenious ways of letting one +another know what they think, which amounts to the +same thing.</p> + +<p>The two worked together for some minutes, getting +an occasional thread, but not enough to pay for the +labor. The trouble was that both pulled together on +the same side; and so they merely dragged the bit +of cloth all over the lawn, instead of pulling out the +threads they wanted. Once they unraveled a long +thread by pulling at right angles, but the next +moment they were together on the same side again. +The male seemed to do, not as he was told, but +exactly what he saw his mate do. Whenever she +pulled at a thread, he hopped around, as close to +her as he could get, and pulled too.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 538px;"> +<img src="images/image074.png" width="538" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>Twice they had given up the attempt, only to return +after hunting diligently elsewhere. Good material was +scarce that season. I was wondering how long their +patience would last, when the female suddenly seized +the cloth by a corner and flew along close to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +ground, dragging it after her, chirping loudly the +while. She disappeared into a crab-apple tree in a +corner of the garden, whither the male followed her +a moment later.</p> + +<p>Curious as to what they were doing, yet fearing to +disturb them, I waited where I was till I saw both +birds fly to the nest, each with some long threads. +This was repeated; and then curiosity got the better +of consideration. While the orioles were weaving the +last threads into their nest, I ran round the house, +crept a long way behind the old wall, and so to a safe +hiding place near the crab-apple.</p> + +<p>The orioles had solved their problem; the bit of +cloth was fastened there securely among the thorns. +Soon the birds came back and, seizing some threads +by the ends, raveled them out without difficulty. It +was the work of but a moment to gather as much +material as they could use at one weaving. For an +hour or more I watched them working industriously +between the crab-apple and the old elm, where the +nest was growing rapidly to a beautiful depth. Several +times the bit of cloth slipped from the thorns as +the birds pulled upon it; but as often as it did they +carried it back and fastened it more securely, till at +last it grew so snarled that they could get no more +long threads, when they left it for good.</p> + +<p>That same day I carried out some bright-colored<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +bits of worsted and ribbon, and scattered them on +the grass. The birds soon found them and used +them in completing their nest. For a while a gayer +little dwelling was never seen in a tree. The bright +bits of color in the soft gray of the walls gave the +nest always a holiday appearance, in good keeping +with the high spirits of the orioles. But by the time +the young had chipped the shell, and the joyousness +of nest-building had given place to the constant duties +of filling hungry little mouths, the rains and the +sun of summer had bleached the bright colors to a +uniform sober gray.</p> + +<p>That was a happy family from beginning to end. +No accident ever befell it; no enemy disturbed its +peace. And when the young birds had flown away +to the South, I took down the nest which I had helped +to build, and hung it in my study as a souvenir of +my bright little neighbors.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VI_THE_BUILDERS" id="VI_THE_BUILDERS"></a>VI. THE BUILDERS.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap077"><span class="dropcap">A</span></span> curious bit of wild life came to me +at dusk one day in the wilderness. It +was midwinter, and the snow lay deep. +I was sitting alone on a fallen +tree, waiting for the moon to rise +so that I could follow the faint +snowshoe track across a barren, +three miles, then through a mile +of forest to another trail that led +to camp. I had followed a caribou too far that day, +and this was the result—feeling along my own track +by moonlight, with the thermometer sinking rapidly +to the twenty-below-zero point.</p> + +<p>There is scarcely any twilight in the woods; in ten +minutes it would be quite dark; and I was wishing +that I had blankets and an axe, so that I could camp +where I was, when a big gray shadow came stealing +towards me through the trees. It was a Canada lynx. +My fingers gripped the rifle hard, and the right mitten +seemed to slip off of itself as I caught the glare of his +fierce yellow eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> + +<p>But the eyes were not looking at me at all. Indeed, +he had not noticed me. He was stealing along, +crouched low in the snow, his ears back, his stub tail +twitching nervously, his whole attention fixed tensely +on something beyond me out on the barren. I wanted +his beautiful skin; but I wanted more to find out what +he was after; so I kept still and watched.</p> + +<p>At the edge of the barren he crouched under a dwarf +spruce, settled himself deeper in the snow by a wriggle +or two till his feet were well under him and his balance +perfect, and the red fire blazed in his eyes and his big +muscles quivered. Then he hurled himself forward—one, +two, a dozen mighty bounds through flying +snow, and he landed with a screech on the dome of +a beaver house. There he jumped about, shaking an +imaginary beaver like a fury, and gave another screech +that made one's spine tingle. That over, he stood very +still, looking off over the beaver roofs that dotted the +shore of a little pond there. The blaze died out of +his eyes; a different look crept into them. He put +his nose down to a tiny hole in the mound, the beavers' +ventilator, and took a long sniff, while his whole body +seemed to distend with the warm rich odor that poured +up into his hungry nostrils. Then he rolled his head +sadly, and went away.</p> + +<p>Now all that was pure acting. A lynx likes beaver +meat better than anything else; and this fellow had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +caught some of the colony, no doubt, in the well-fed +autumn days, as they worked on their dam and houses. +Sharp hunger made him remember them as he came +through the wood on his nightly hunt after hares. +He knew well that the beavers were safe; that +months of intense cold had made their two-foot mud +walls like granite. But he came, nevertheless, just +to pretend he had caught one, and to remember how +good his last full meal smelled when he ate it in +October.</p> + +<p>It was all so boylike, so unexpected there in the +heart of the wilderness, that I quite forgot that I +wanted the lynx's skin. I was hungry too, and went +out for a sniff at the ventilator; and it smelled good. +I remembered the time once when I had eaten beaver, +and was glad to get it. I walked about among the +houses. On every dome there were lynx tracks, old +and new, and the prints of a blunt nose in the snow. +Evidently he came often to dine on the smell of good +dinners. I looked the way he had gone, and began +to be sorry for him. But there were the beavers, safe +and warm and fearless within two feet of me, listening +undoubtedly to the strange steps without. And that +was good; for they are the most interesting creatures +in all the wilderness.</p> + +<p>Most of us know the beaver chiefly in a simile. +"Working like a beaver," or "busy as a beaver," is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +one of those proverbial expressions that people accept +without comment or curiosity. It is about one-third +true, which is a generous proportion of truth for a +proverb. In winter, for five long months at least, he +does nothing but sleep and eat and keep warm. "Lazy +as a beaver" is then a good figure. And summer time—ah! +that's just one long holiday, and the beavers +are jolly as grigs, with never a thought of work from +morning till night. When the snow is gone, and the +streams are clear, and the twitter of bird songs meets +the beaver's ear as he rises from the dark passage +under water that leads to his house, then he forgets +all settled habits and joins in the general heyday of +nature. The well built house that sheltered him from +storm and cold, and defied even the wolverine to dig +its owner out, is deserted for any otter's den or chance +hole in the bank where he may sleep away the sunlight +in peace. The great dam, upon which he toiled +so many nights, is left to the mercy of the freshet or +the canoeman's axe; and no plash of falling water +through a break—that sound which in autumn or +winter brings the beaver like a flash—will trouble +his wise little head for a moment.</p> + +<p>All the long summer he belongs to the tribe of +Ishmael, wandering through lakes and streams wherever +fancy leads him. It is as if he were bound to +see the world after being cooped up in his narrow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +quarters all winter. Even the strong family ties, +one of the most characteristic and interesting things +in beaver life, are for the time loosened. Every +family group when it breaks up housekeeping in the +spring represents five generations. First, there are +the two old beavers, heads of the family and absolute +rulers, who first engineered the big dam and houses, +and have directed repairs for nobody knows how long. +Next in importance are the baby beavers, no bigger +than musquashes, with fur like silk velvet, and eyes +always wide open at the wonders of the first season +out; then the one-and two-year-olds, frisky as boys +let loose from school, always in mischief and having +to be looked after, and occasionally nipped; then +the three-year-olds, who presently leave the group +and go their separate happy ways in search of mates. +So the long days go by in a kind of careless summer +excursion; and when one sometimes finds their camping +ground in his own summer roving through the +wilderness, he looks upon it with curious sympathy. +Fellow campers are they, pitching their tents by +sunny lakes and alder-fringed, trout-haunted brooks, +always close to Nature's heart, and loving the wild, +free life much as he does himself.</p> + +<p>But when the days grow short and chill, and the +twitter of warblers gives place to the <i>honk</i> of passing +geese, and wild ducks gather in the lakes, then the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +heart of the beaver goes back to his home; and presently +he follows his heart. September finds them +gathered about the old dam again, the older heads +filled with plans of repair and new houses and winter +food and many other things. The grown-up males +have brought their mates back to the old home; the +females have found their places in other family groups. +It is then that the beaver begins to be busy.</p> + +<p>His first concern is for a stout dam across the +stream that will give him a good-sized pond and +plenty of deep water. To understand this, one must +remember that the beaver intends to shut himself in +a kind of prison all winter. He knows well that he +is not safe on land a moment after the snow falls; +that some prowling lucivee or wolverine would find +his tracks and follow him, and that his escape to +water would be cut off by thick ice. So he plans a +big claw-proof house with no entrance save a tunnel +in the middle, which leads through the bank to the +bottom of his artificial pond. Once this is frozen +over, he cannot get out till the spring sun sets him +free. But he likes a big pond, that he may exercise +a bit under water when he comes down for his dinner; +and a deep pond, that he may feel sure the hardest +winter will never freeze down to his doorway and shut +him in. Still more important, the beaver's food is +stored on the bottom; and it would never do to trust<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +it to shallow water, else some severe winter it would +get frozen into the ice, and the beavers starve in +their prison. Ten to fifteen feet usually satisfies their +instinct for safety; but to get that depth of water, +especially on shallow streams, requires a huge dam +and an enormous amount of work, to say nothing +of planning.</p> + +<p>Beaver dams are solid structures always, built up +of logs, brush, stones, and driftwood, well knit together +by alder poles. One summer, in canoeing a wild, +unknown stream, I met fourteen dams within a space +of five miles. Through two of these my Indian and +I broke a passage with our axes; the others were so +solid that it was easier to unload our canoe and make +a portage than to break through. Dams are found +close together like that when a beaver colony has +occupied a stream for years unmolested. The food-wood +above the first dam being cut off, they move +down stream; for the beaver always cuts on the +banks above his dam, and lets the current work for +him in transportation. Sometimes, when the banks +are such that a pond cannot be made, three or four +dams will be built close together, the back-water of +one reaching up to the one above, like a series of +locks on a canal. This is to keep the colony together, +and yet give room for play and storage.</p> + +<p>There is the greatest difference of opinion as to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +intelligence displayed by the beavers in choosing a +site for their dam, one observer claiming skill, ingenuity, +even reason for the beavers; another claiming +a mere instinctive haphazard piling together of materials +anywhere in the stream. I have seen perhaps a +hundred different dams in the wilderness, nearly all +of which were well placed. Occasionally I have found +one that looked like a stupid piece of work—two or +three hundred feet of alder brush and gravel across +the widest part of a stream, when, by building just +above or below, a dam one-fourth the length might +have given them better water. This must be said, +however, for the builders, that perhaps they found a +better soil for digging their tunnels, or a more convenient +spot for their houses near their own dam; or +that they knew what they wanted better than their +critic did. I think undoubtedly the young beavers +often make mistakes, but I think also, from studying +a good many dams, that they profit by disaster, and +build better; and that on the whole their mistakes +are not proportionally greater than those of human +builders.</p> + +<p>Sometimes a dam proves a very white elephant on +their hands. The site is not well chosen, or the +stream difficult, and the restrained water pours round +the ends of their dam, cutting them away. They build +the dam longer at once; but again the water pours<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +round on its work of destruction. So they keep on +building, an interminable structure, till the frosts come, +and they must cut their wood and tumble their houses +together in a desperate hurry to be ready when the ice +closes over them.</p> + +<p>But on alder streams, where the current is sluggish +and the soil soft, one sometimes finds a wonderfully +ingenious device for remedying the above difficulty. +When the dam is built, and the water deep enough +for safety, the beavers dig a canal around one end of +the dam to carry off the surplus water. I know of +nothing in all the woods and fields that brings one +closer in thought and sympathy to the little wild folk +than to come across one of these canals, the water +pouring safely through it past the beaver's handiwork, +the dam stretching straight and solid across the stream, +and the domed houses rising beyond.</p> + +<p>Once I found where the beavers had utilized man's +work. A huge log dam had been built on a wilderness +stream to secure a head of water for driving logs +from the lumber woods. When the pines and fourteen-inch +spruce were all gone, the works were abandoned, +and the dam left—with the gates open, of +course. A pair of young beavers, prospecting for a +winter home, found the place and were suited exactly. +They rolled a sunken log across the gates for a foundation, +filled them up with alder bushes and stones,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +and the work was done. When I found the place +they had a pond a mile wide to play in. Their house +was in a beautiful spot, under a big hemlock; and +their doorway slanted off into twenty feet of water. +That site was certainly well chosen.</p> + +<p>Another dam that I found one winter when caribou-hunting +was wonderfully well placed. No engineer +could have chosen better. It was made by the same +colony the lynx was after, and just below where he +went through his pantomime for my benefit; his +tracks were there too. The barrens of which I spoke +are treeless plains in the northern forest, the beds of +ancient shallow lakes. The beavers found one with +a stream running through it; followed the stream +down to the foot of the barren, where two wooded +points came out from either side and almost met. +Here was formerly the outlet; and here the beavers +built their dam, and so made the old lake over again. +It must be a wonderfully fine place in summer—two +or three thousand acres of playground, full of cranberries +and luscious roots. In winter it is too shallow +to be of much use, save for a few acres about the +beavers' doorways.</p> + +<p>There are three ways of dam-building in general +use among the beavers. The first is for use on sluggish, +alder-fringed streams, where they can build up +from the bottom. Two or three sunken logs form<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +the foundation, which is from three to five feet broad. +Sticks, driftwood, and stout poles, which the beavers +cut on the banks, are piled on this and weighted with +stones and mud. The stones are rolled in from the +bank or moved considerable distances under water. +The mud is carried in the beaver's paws, which he +holds up against his chin so as to carry a big handful +without spilling. Beavers love such streams, with +their alder shade and sweet grasses and fringe of +wild meadow, better than all other places. And, by +the way, most of the natural meadows and half the +ponds of New England were made by beavers. If +you go to the foot of any little meadow in the woods +and dig at the lower end, where the stream goes out, +you will find, sometimes ten feet under the surface, +the remains of the first dam that formed the meadow +when the water flowed back and killed the trees.</p> + +<p>The second kind of dam is for swift streams. Stout, +ten-foot brush is the chief material. The brush is +floated down to the spot selected; the tops are +weighted down with stones, and the butts left free, +pointing down stream. Such dams must be built out +from the sides, of course. They are generally arched, +the convex side being up stream so as to make a +stronger structure. When the arch closes in the middle, +the lower side of the dam is banked heavily with +earth and stones. That is shrewd policy on the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>beaver's +part; for once the arch is closed by brush, the +current can no longer sweep away the earth and +stones used for the embankment.</p> + +<p>The third kind is the strongest and easiest to build. +It is for places where big trees lean out over the +stream. Three or four beavers gather about a tree +and begin to cut, sitting up on their broad tails. One +stands above them on the bank, apparently directing +the work. In a short time the tree is nearly cut +through from the under side. Then the beaver above +begins to cut down carefully. With the first warning +crack he jumps aside, and the tree falls straight across +where it is wanted. All the beavers then disappear +and begin cutting the branches that rest on the bottom. +Slowly the tree settles till its trunk is at the +right height to make the top of the dam. The upper +branches are then trimmed close to the trunk, and +are woven with alders among the long stubs sticking +down from the trunk into the river bed. Stones, mud, +and brush are used liberally to fill the chinks, and in +a remarkably short time the dam is complete.</p> + +<p>When you meet such a dam on the stream you are +canoeing don't attempt to break through. You will find +it shorter by several hours to unload and make a carry.</p> + +<p>All the beaver's cutting is done by chisel-edged +front teeth. There are two of these in each jaw, +extending a good inch and a half outside the gums,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +and meeting at a sharp bevel. The inner sides of the +teeth are softer and wear away faster than the outer, +so that the bevel remains the same; and the action of +the upper and lower teeth over each other keeps them +always sharp. They grow so rapidly that a beaver +must be constantly wood cutting to keep them worn +down to comfortable size.</p> + +<p>Often on wild streams you find a stick floating +down to meet you showing a fresh cut. You grab it, +of course, and say: "Somebody is camped above here. +That stick has just been cut with a sharp knife." But +look closer; see that faint ridge the whole length of +the cut, as if the knife had a tiny gap in its edge. +That is where the beaver's two upper teeth meet, and +the edge is not quite perfect. He cut that stick, +thicker than a man's thumb, at a single bite. To +cut an alder having the diameter of a teacup is the +work of a minute for the same tools; and a towering +birch tree falls in a remarkably short time when +attacked by three or four beavers. Around the stump +of such a tree you find a pile of two-inch chips, thick, +white, clean cut, and arched to the curve of the beaver's +teeth. Judge the workman by his chips, and +this is a good workman.</p> + +<p>When the dam is built the beaver cuts his winter +food-wood. A colony of the creatures will often fell +a whole grove of young birch or poplar on the bank<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +above the dam. The branches with the best bark are +then cut into short lengths, which are rolled down the +bank and floated to the pool at the dam.</p> + +<p>Considerable discussion has taken place as to how +the beaver sinks his wood—for of course he must +sink it, else it would freeze into the ice and be useless. +One theory is that the beavers suck the air +from each stick. Two witnesses declare to me they +have seen them doing it; and in a natural history +book of my childhood there is a picture of a beaver +with the end of a three-foot stick in his mouth, sucking +the air out. Just as if the beavers didn't know +better, even if the absurd thing were possible! The +simplest way is to cut the wood early and leave it in +the water a while, when it sinks of itself; for green +birch and poplar are almost as heavy as water. They +soon get waterlogged and go to the bottom. It is +almost impossible for lumbermen to drive spool wood +(birch) for this reason. If the nights grow suddenly +cold before the wood sinks, the beavers take it down +to the bottom and press it slightly into the mud; +or else they push sticks under those that float against +the dam, and more under these; and so on till the +stream is full to the bottom, the weight of those above +keeping the others down. Much of the wood is lost +in this way by being frozen into the ice; but the +beaver knows that, and cuts plenty.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> + +<p>When a beaver is hungry in winter he comes down +under the ice, selects a stick, carries it up into his +house, and eats the bark. Then he carries the peeled +stick back under the ice and puts it aside out of the +way.</p> + +<p>Once, in winter, it occurred to me that soaking +spoiled the flavor of bark, and that the beavers might +like a fresh bite. So I cut a hole in the ice on the +pool above their dam. Of course the chopping scared +the beavers; it was vain to experiment that day. +I spread a blanket and some thick boughs over the +hole to keep it from freezing over too thickly, and +went away.</p> + +<p>Next day I pushed the end of a freshly cut birch +pole down among the beavers' store, lay down with +my face to the hole after carefully cutting out the +thin ice, drew a big blanket round my head and the +projecting end of the pole to shut out the light, and +watched. For a while it was all dark as a pocket; +then I began to see things dimly. Presently a darker +shadow shot along the bottom and grabbed the pole. +It was a beaver, with a twenty dollar coat on. He +tugged; I held on tight—which surprised him so +that he went back into his house to catch breath.</p> + +<p>But the taste of fresh bark was in his mouth, and +soon he was back with another beaver. Both took +hold this time and pulled together. No use! They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +began to swim round, examining the queer pole on +every side. "What kind of a stick are you, anyway?" +one was thinking. "You didn't grow here, because +I would have found you long ago." "And you're +not frozen into the ice," said the other, "because you +wriggle." Then they both took hold again, and I +began to haul up carefully. I wanted to see them +nearer. That surprised them immensely; but I think +they would have held on only for an accident. The +blanket slipped away; a stream of light shot in; +there were two great whirls in the water; and that +was the end of the experiment. They did not come +back, though I waited till I was almost frozen. But +I cut some fresh birch and pushed it under the ice +to pay for my share in the entertainment.</p> + +<p>The beaver's house is generally the last thing +attended to. He likes to build this when the nights +grow cold enough to freeze his mortar soon after it +is laid. Two or three tunnels are dug from the +bottom of the beaver pond up through the bank, +coming to the surface together at the point where +the center of the house is to be. Around this he +lays solid foundations of log and stone in a circle +from six to fifteen feet in diameter, according to the +number of beavers to occupy the house. On these +foundations he rears a thick mass of sticks and grass, +which are held together by plenty of mud. The top<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +is roofed by stout sticks arranged as in an Indian +wigwam, and the whole domed over with grass, +stones, sticks, and mud. Once this is solidly frozen, +the beaver sleeps in peace; his house is burglar +proof.</p> + +<p>If on a lake shore, where the rise of water is never +great, the beaver's house is four or five feet high. On +streams subject to freshets they may be two or three +times that height. As in the case of the musquash +(or muskrat), a strange instinct guides the beaver as +to the height of his dwelling. He builds high or low, +according to his expectations of high or low water; +and he is rarely drowned out of his dry nest.</p> + +<p>Sometimes two or three families unite to build a +single large house, but always in such cases each +family has its separate apartment. When a house +is dug open it is evident from the different impressions +that each member of the family has his own +bed, which he always occupies. Beavers are exemplary +in their neatness; the house after five months' +use is as neat as when first made.</p> + +<p>All their building is primarily a matter of instinct, +for a tame beaver builds miniature dams and houses +on the floor of his cage. Still it is not an uncontrollable +instinct like that of most birds; nor blind, +like that of rats and squirrels at times. I have found +beaver houses on lake shores where no dam was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +built, simply because the water was deep enough, +and none was needed. In vacation time the young +beavers build for fun, just as boys build a dam wherever +they can find running water. I am persuaded +also (and this may explain some of the dams that +seem stupidly placed) that at times the old beavers +set the young to work in summer, in order that they +may know how to build when it becomes necessary. +This is a hard theory to prove, for the beavers work +by night, preferably on dark, rainy nights, when they +are safest on land to gather materials. But while +building is instinctive, skilful building is the result<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +of practice and experience. And some of the beaver +dams show wonderful skill.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image095.jpg" width="600" height="402" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>There is one beaver that never builds, that never +troubles himself about house, or dam, or winter's +store. I am not sure whether we ought to call him +the genius or the lazy man of the family. The bank +beaver is a solitary old bachelor living in a den, like +a mink, in the bank of a stream. He does not build +a house, because a den under a cedar's roots is as safe +and warm. He never builds a dam, because there are +deep places in the river where the current is too swift +to freeze. He finds tender twigs much juicier, even +in winter, than stale bark stored under water. As +for his telltale tracks in the snow, his wits must +guard him against enemies; and there is the open +stretch of river to flee to.</p> + +<p>There are two theories among Indians and trappers +to account for the bank beaver's eccentricities. The +first is that he has failed to find a mate and leaves +the colony, or is driven out, to lead a lonely bachelor +life. His conduct during the mating season certainly +favors this theory, for never was anybody more diligent +in his search for a wife than he. Up and down +the streams and alder brooks of a whole wild countryside +he wanders without rest, stopping here and there +on a grassy point to gather a little handful of mud, +like a child's mud pie, all patted smooth, in the midst<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +of which is a little strong smelling musk. When +you find that sign, in a circle of carefully trimmed +grass under the alders, you know that there is a +young beaver on that stream looking for a wife. +And when the young beaver finds his pie opened +and closed again, he knows that there is a mate there +somewhere waiting for him. But the poor bank +beaver never finds his mate, and the next winter +must go back to his solitary den. He is much more +easily caught than other beavers, and the trappers +say it is because he is lonely and tired of life.</p> + +<p>The second theory is that generally held by Indians. +They say the bank beaver is lazy and refuses to work +with the others; so they drive him out. When +beavers are busy they are very busy, and tolerate no +loafing. Perhaps he even tries to persuade them +that all their work is unnecessary, and so shares +the fate of reformers in general.</p> + +<p>While examining the den of a bank beaver last +summer another theory suggested itself. Is not this +one of the rare animals in which all the instincts of +his kind are lacking? He does not build because +he has no impulse to build; he does not know how. +So he represents what the beaver was, thousands of +years ago, before he learned how to construct his +dam and house, reappearing now by some strange +freak of heredity, and finding himself wofully out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +place and time. The other beavers drive him away +because all gregarious animals and birds have a +strong fear and dislike of any irregularity in their +kind. Even when the peculiarity is slight—a wound, +or a deformity—they drive the poor victim from their +midst remorselessly. It is a cruel instinct, but part +of one of the oldest in creation, the instinct which +preserves the species. This explains why the bank +beaver never finds a mate; none of the beavers will +have anything to do with him.</p> + +<p>This occasional lack of instinct is not peculiar to +the beavers. Now and then a bird is hatched here +in the North that has no impulse to migrate. He +cries after his departing comrades, but never follows. +So he remains and is lost in the storms of winter.</p> + +<p>There are few creatures in the wilderness more +difficult to observe than the beavers, both on account +of their extreme shyness and because they work only +by night. The best way to get a glimpse of them at +work is to make a break in their dam and pull the +top from one of their houses some autumn afternoon, +at the time of full moon. Just before twilight you +must steal back and hide some distance from the +dam. Even then the chances are against you, for +the beavers are suspicious, keen of ear and nose, and +generally refuse to show themselves till after the +moon sets or you have gone away. You may have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +to break their dam half a dozen times, and freeze as +often, before you see it repaired.</p> + +<p>It is a most interesting sight when it comes at last, +and well repays the watching. The water is pouring +through a five-foot break in the dam; the roof of a +house is in ruins. You have rubbed yourself all over +with fir boughs, to destroy some of the scent in your +clothes, and hidden yourself in the top of a fallen +tree. The twilight goes; the moon wheels over the +eastern spruces, flooding the river with silver light. +Still no sign of life. You are beginning to think of +another disappointment; to think your toes cannot +stand the cold another minute without stamping, +which would spoil everything, when a ripple shoots +swiftly across the pool, and a big beaver comes out +on the bank. He sits up a moment, looking, listening; +then goes to the broken house and sits up again, +looking it all over, estimating damages, making plans. +There is a commotion in the water; three others +join him—you are warm now.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile three or four more are swimming about +the dam, surveying the damage there. One dives to +the bottom, but comes up in a moment to report all +safe below. Another is tugging at a thick pole just +below you. Slowly he tows it out in front, balances +a moment and lets it go—<i>good!</i>—squarely across +the break. Two others are cutting alders above;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +and here come the bushes floating down. Over at +the damaged house two beavers are up on the walls, +raising the rafters into place; a third appears to be +laying on the outer covering and plastering it with +mud. Now and then one sits up straight like a +rabbit, listens, stretches his back to get the kinks +out, then drops to his work again.</p> + +<p>It is brighter now; moon and stars are glimmering +in the pool. At the dam the sound of falling water +grows faint as the break is rapidly closed. The +houses loom larger. Over the dome of the one +broken, the dark outline of a beaver passes triumphantly. +Quick work that. You grow more interested; +you stretch your neck to see—<i>splash!</i> A +beaver gliding past has seen you. As he dives he +gives the water a sharp blow with his broad tail, the +danger signal of the beavers, and a startling one in +the dead stillness. There is a sound as of a stick +being plunged end first into the water; a few eddies +go running about the pool, breaking up the moon's +reflection; then silence again, and the lap of ripples +on the shore.</p> + +<p>You can go home now; you will see nothing more +to-night. There's a beaver over under the other +bank, in the shadow where you cannot see him, just +his eyes and ears above water, watching you. He will +not stir; nor will another beaver come out till you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +go away. As you find your canoe and paddle back +to camp, a ripple made by a beaver's nose follows +silently in the shadow of the alders. At the bend +of the river where you disappear, the ripple halts a +while, like a projecting stub in the current, then turns +and goes swiftly back. There is another splash; the +builders come out again; a dozen ripples are scattering +star reflections all over the pool; while the little +wood folk pause a moment to look at the new works +curiously, then go their ways, shy, silent, industrious, +through the wilderness night.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VII_CROW-WAYS" id="VII_CROW-WAYS"></a>VII. CROW-WAYS.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap101"><span class="dropcap">T</span></span>he crow is very much of a rascal—that +is, if any creature can be called a +rascal for following out natural and rascally +inclinations. I first came to this +conclusion one early morning, several +years ago, as I watched an old crow diligently exploring +a fringe of bushes that grew along the wall of a +deserted pasture. He had eaten a clutch of thrush's +eggs, and carried off three young sparrows to feed his +own young, before I found out what he was about. +Since then I have surprised him often at the same +depredations.</p> + +<p>An old farmer has assured me that he has also +caught him tormenting his sheep, lighting on their +backs and pulling the wool out by the roots to get +fleece for lining his nest. This is a much more serious +charge than that of pulling up corn, though the +latter makes almost every farmer his enemy.</p> + +<p>Yet with all his rascality he has many curious and +interesting ways. In fact, I hardly know another bird +that so well repays a season's study; only one must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +be very patient, and put up with frequent disappointments +if he would learn much of a crow's peculiarities +by personal observation. How shy he is! How cunning +and quick to learn wisdom! Yet he is very easily +fooled; and some experiences that ought to teach him +wisdom he seems to forget within an hour. Almost +every time I went shooting, in the old barbarian days +before I learned better, I used to get one or two crows +from a flock that ranged over my hunting ground by +simply hiding among the pines and calling like a +young crow. If the flock was within hearing, it was +astonishing to hear the loud chorus of <i>haw-haws</i>, and +to see them come rushing over the same grove where +a week before they had been fooled in the same way. +Sometimes, indeed, they seemed to remember; and +when the pseudo young crow began his racket at the +bottom of some thick grove they would collect on a +distant pine tree and <i>haw-haw</i> in vigorous answer. +But curiosity always got the better of them, and they +generally compromised by sending over some swift, +long-winged old flier, only to see him go tumbling +down at the report of a gun; and away they would +go, screaming at the top of their voices, and never +stopping till they were miles away. Next week they +would do exactly the same thing.</p> + +<p>Crows, more than any other birds, are fond of excitement +and great crowds; the slightest unusual object<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +furnishes an occasion for an assembly. A wounded +bird will create as much stir in a flock of crows as a +railroad accident does in a village. But when some +prowling old crow discovers an owl sleeping away the +sunlight in the top of a great hemlock, his delight and +excitement know no bounds. There is a suppressed +frenzy in his very call that every crow in the neighborhood +understands. <i>Come! come! everybody come!</i> +he seems to be screaming as he circles over the tree-top; +and within two minutes there are more crows +gathered about that old hemlock than one would +believe existed within miles of the place. I counted +over seventy one day, immediately about a tree in +which one of them had found an owl; and I think +there must have been as many more flying about +the outskirts that I could not count.</p> + +<p>At such times one can approach very near with a +little caution, and attend, as it were, a crow caucus. +Though I have attended a great many, I have never +been able to find any real cause for the excitement. +Those nearest the owl sit about in the trees cawing +vociferously; not a crow is silent. Those on the +outskirts are flying rapidly about and making, if possible, +more noise than the inner ring. The owl meanwhile +sits blinking and staring, out of sight in the +green top. Every moment two or three crows leave +the ring to fly up close and peep in, and then go<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +screaming back again, hopping about on their perches, +cawing at every breath, nodding their heads, striking +the branches, and acting for all the world like excited +stump speakers.</p> + +<p>The din grows louder and louder; fresh voices are +coming in every minute; and the owl, wondering in +some vague way if he is the cause of it all, flies off to +some other tree where he can be quiet and go to sleep. +Then, with a great rush and clatter, the crows follow, +some swift old scout keeping close to the owl and +screaming all the way to guide the whole cawing +rabble. When the owl stops they gather round again +and go through the same performance more excitedly +than before. So it continues till the owl finds some +hollow tree and goes in out of sight, leaving them to +caw themselves tired; or else he finds some dense +pine grove, and doubles about here and there, with +that shadowy noiseless flight of his, till he has thrown +them off the track. Then he flies into the thickest +tree he can find, generally outside the grove where +the crows are looking, and sitting close up against +the trunk blinks his great yellow eyes and listens +to the racket that goes sweeping through the grove, +peering curiously into every thick pine, searching +everywhere for the lost excitement.</p> + +<p>The crows give him up reluctantly. They circle +for a few minutes over the grove, rising and falling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +with that beautiful, regular motion that seems like the +practice drill of all gregarious birds, and generally end +by collecting in some tree at a distance and <i>hawing</i> +about it for hours, till some new excitement calls +them elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Just why they grow so excited over an owl is an +open question. I have never seen them molest him, +nor show any tendency other than to stare at him +occasionally and make a great noise about it. That +they recognize him as a thief and cannibal I have no +doubt. But he thieves by night when other birds are +abed, and as they practise their own thieving by open +daylight, it may be that they are denouncing him as +an impostor. Or it may be that the owl in his nightly +prowlings sometimes snatches a young crow off the +roost. The great horned owl would hardly hesitate +to eat an old crow if he could catch him napping; +and so they grow excited, as all birds do in the presence +of their natural enemies. They make much the +same kind of a fuss over a hawk, though the latter +easily escapes the annoyance by flying swiftly away, +or by circling slowly upward to a height so dizzy that +the crows dare not follow.</p> + +<p>In the early spring I have utilized this habit of the +crows in my search for owls' nests. The crows are +much more apt to discover its whereabouts than the +most careful ornithologist, and they gather about it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +frequently for a little excitement. Once I utilized the +habit for getting a good look at the crows themselves. +I carried out an old stuffed owl, and set it up on a +pole close against a great pine tree on the edge of a +grove. Then I lay down in a thick clump of bushes +near by and <i>cawed</i> excitedly. The first messenger +from the flock flew straight over without making any +discoveries. The second one found the owl, and I had +no need for further calling. <i>Haw! haw!</i> he cried +deep down in his throat—<i>here he is! here's the rascal!</i> +In a moment he had the whole flock there; and for +nearly ten minutes they kept coming in from every +direction. A more frenzied lot I never saw. The +<i>hawing</i> was tremendous, and I hoped to settle at last +the real cause and outcome of the excitement, when +an old crow flying close over my hiding place caught +sight of me looking out through the bushes. How +he made himself heard or understood in the din I do +not know; but the crow is never too excited to heed +a danger note. The next moment the whole flock +were streaming away across the woods, giving the +scatter-cry at every flap.</p> + +<p>There is another way in which the crows' love of +variety is manifest, though in a much more dignified +way. Occasionally a flock may be surprised sitting +about in the trees, deeply absorbed in watching a +performance—generally operatic—by one of their <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>number. +The crow's chief note is the hoarse <i>haw, haw</i> +with which everybody is familiar, and which seems +capable of expressing everything, from the soft chatter +of going to bed in the pine tops to the loud derision +with which he detects all ordinary attempts to +surprise him. Certain crows, however, have unusual +vocal abilities, and at times they seem to use them +for the entertainment of the others. Yet I suspect +that these vocal gifts are seldom used, or even discovered, +until lack of amusement throws them upon their +own resources. Certain it is that, whenever a crow +makes any unusual sounds, there are always several +more about, <i>hawing</i> vigorously, yet seeming to listen +attentively. I have caught them at this a score of +times.</p> + +<p>One September afternoon, while walking quietly +through the woods, my attention was attracted by an +unusual sound coming from an oak grove, a favorite +haunt of gray squirrels. The crows were cawing in +the same direction; but every few minutes would +come a strange cracking sound—<i>c-r-r-rack-a-rack-rack</i>, +as if some one had a giant nutcracker and were snapping +it rapidly. I stole forward through the low woods +till I could see perhaps fifty crows perched about in +the oaks, all very attentive to something going on +below them that I could not see.</p> + +<p>Not till I had crawled up to the brush fence, on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +very edge of the grove, and peeked through did I see +the performer. Out on the end of a long delicate +branch, a few feet above the ground, a small crow was +clinging, swaying up and down like a bobolink on a +cardinal flower, balancing himself gracefully by spreading +his wings, and every few minutes giving the strange +cracking sound, accompanied by a flirt of his wings +and tail as the branch swayed upward. At every +repetition the crows <i>hawed</i> in applause. I watched +them fully ten minutes before they saw me and flew +away.</p> + +<p>Several times since, I have been attracted by unusual +sounds, and have surprised a flock of crows which +were evidently watching a performance by one of their +number. Once it was a deep musical whistle, much +like the <i>too-loo-loo</i> of the blue jay (who is the crow's +cousin, for all his bright colors), but deeper and fuller, +and without the trill that always marks the blue jay's +whistle. Once, in some big woods in Maine, it was +a hoarse bark, utterly unlike a bird call, which made +me slip heavy shells into my gun and creep forward, +expecting some strange beast that I had never before +met.</p> + +<p>The same love of variety and excitement leads the +crow to investigate any unusual sight or sound that +catches his attention. Hide anywhere in the woods, +and make any queer sound you will—play a jews'-harp,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +or pull a devil's fiddle, or just call softly—and first +comes a blue jay, all agog to find out all about it. +Next a red squirrel steals down and barks just over +your head, to make you start if possible. Then, if +your eyes are sharp, you will see a crow gliding from +thicket to thicket, keeping out of sight as much as +possible, but drawing nearer and nearer to investigate +the unusual sound. And if he is suspicious or unsatisfied, +he will hide and wait patiently for you to come +out and show yourself.</p> + +<p>Not only is he curious about you, and watches you +as you go about the woods, but he watches his neighbors +as well. When a fox is started you can often +trace his course, far ahead of your dogs, by the crows +circling over him and calling <i>rascal, rascal</i>, whenever +he shows himself. He watches the ducks and +plover, the deer and bear; he knows where they are, +and what they are doing; and he will go far out of his +way to warn them, as well as his own kind, at the +approach of danger. When birds nest, or foxes den, +or beasts fight in the woods, he is there to see it. +When other things fail he will even play jokes, as +upon one occasion when I saw a young crow hide in +a hole in a pine tree, and for two hours keep a whole +flock in a frenzy of excitement by his distressed cawing. +He would venture out when they were at a +distance, peek all about cautiously to see that no one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +saw him, then set up a heart-rending appeal, only to +dodge back out of sight when the flock came rushing +in with a clamor that was deafening.</p> + +<p>Only one of two explanations can account for his +action in this case; either he was a young crow who +did not appreciate the gravity of crying <i>wolf, wolf!</i> +when there was no wolf, or else it was a plain game +of hide-and-seek. When the crows at length found +him they chased him out of sight, either to chastise +him, or, as I am inclined now to think, each one +sought to catch him for the privilege of being the +next to hide.</p> + +<p>In fact, whenever one hears a flock of crows <i>hawing</i> +away in the woods, he may be sure that some +excitement is afoot that will well repay his time and +patience to investigate.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Since the above article was written, some more +curious crow-ways have come to light. Here is one +which seems to throw light on the question of their +playing games. I found it out one afternoon last +September, when a vigorous cawing over in the +woods induced me to leave the orchard, where I was +picking apples, for the more exciting occupation of +spying on my dark neighbors.</p> + +<p>The clamor came from an old deserted pasture,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +bounded on three sides by pine woods, and on the +fourth by half wild fields that straggled away to the +dusty road beyond. Once, long ago, there was a +farm there; but even the cellars have disappeared, +and the crows no longer fear the place.</p> + +<p>It was an easy task to creep unobserved through +the nearest pine grove, and gain a safe hiding place +under some junipers on the edge of the old pasture. +The cawing meanwhile was intermittent; at times it +broke out in a perfect babel, as if every crow were +doing his best to outcaw all the others; again there +was silence save for an occasional short note, the +<i>all's well</i> of the sentinel on guard. The crows are +never so busy or so interested that they neglect this +precaution.</p> + +<p>When I reached the junipers, the crows—half a +hundred of them—were ranged in the pine tops +along one edge of the open. They were quiet enough, +save for an occasional scramble for position, evidently +waiting for something to happen. Down on my +right, on the fourth or open side of the pasture, a +solitary old crow was perched in the top of a tall +hickory. I might have taken him for a sentry but +for a bright object which he held in his beak. It +was too far to make out what the object was; but +whenever he turned his head it flashed in the sunlight +like a bit of glass.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> + +<p>As I watched him curiously he launched himself +into the air and came speeding down the center of +the field, making for the pines at the opposite end. +Instantly every crow was on the wing; they shot out +from both sides, many that I had not seen before, +all cawing like mad. They rushed upon the old +fellow from the hickory, and for a few moments it +was impossible to make out anything except a whirling, +diving rush of black wings. The din meanwhile +was deafening.</p> + +<p>Something bright dropped from the excited flock, +and a single crow swooped after it; but I was too +much interested in the rush to note what became of +him. The clamor ceased abruptly. The crows, after +a short practice in rising, falling, and wheeling to +command, settled in the pines on both sides of the +field, where they had been before. And there in +the hickory was another crow with the same bright, +flashing thing in his beak.</p> + +<p>There was a long wait this time, as if for a breathing +spell. Then the solitary crow came skimming +down the field again without warning. The flock +surrounded him on the moment, with the evident +intention of hindering his flight as much as possible. +They flapped their wings in his face; they zig-zagged +in front of him; they attempted to light on his back. +In vain he twisted and dodged and dropped like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +a stone. Wherever he turned +he found fluttering wings to oppose +his flight. The first object of +the game was apparent: he was trying +to reach the goal of pines opposite +the hickory, and the others +were trying to prevent it. Again +and again the leader was lost to +sight; but whenever the sunlight +flashed from the bright +thing he carried, he +was certain to be +found in the very +midst of a clamoring +crowd. Then the second object was clear: the crows +were trying to confuse him and make him drop +the talisman.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 552px;"> +<img src="images/image113.png" width="552" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> +<p>They circled rapidly down the field and back +again, near the watcher. Suddenly the bright thing +dropped, reaching the ground before it was discovered. +Three or four crows swooped upon it, and +a lively scrimmage began for its possession. In the +midst of the struggle a small crow shot under the +contestants, and before they knew what was up he +was scurrying away to the hickory with the coveted +trinket held as high as he could carry it, as if in +triumph at his sharp trick.</p> + +<p>The flock settled slowly into the pines again with +much <i>hawing</i>. There was evidently a question whether +the play ought to be allowed or not. Everybody had +something to say about it; and there was no end of +objection. At last it was settled good-naturedly, and +they took places to watch till the new leader should +give them opportunity for another chase.</p> + +<p>There was no doubt left in the watcher's mind by +this time as to what the crows were doing. They +were just playing a game, like so many schoolboys, +enjoying to the full the long bright hours of the September +afternoon. Did they find the bright object as +they crossed the pasture on the way from Farmer B's +corn-field, and the game so suggest itself? Or was the +game first suggested, and the talisman brought afterwards? +Every crow has a secret storehouse, where +he hides every bright thing he finds. Sometimes it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +is a crevice in the rocks under moss and ferns; sometimes +the splintered end of a broken branch; sometimes +a deserted owl's nest in a hollow tree; often +a crotch in a big pine, covered carefully by brown +needles; but wherever it is, it is full of bright things—glass, +and china, and beads, and tin, and an old spoon, +and a silvered buckle—and nobody but the crow +himself knows how to find it. Did some crow fetch +his best trinket for the occasion, or was this a special +thing for games, and kept by the flock where any crow +could get it?</p> + +<p>These were some of the interesting things that were +puzzling the watcher when he noticed that the hickory +was empty. A flash over against the dark green revealed +the leader. There he was, stealing along in +the shadow, trying to reach the goal before they saw +him. A derisive <i>haw</i> announced his discovery. Then +the fun began again, as noisy, as confusing, as thoroughly +enjoyable as ever.</p> + +<p>When the bright object dropped this time, curiosity +to get possession of it was stronger than my interest +in the game. Besides, the apples were waiting. I +jumped up, scattering the crows in wild confusion; +but as they streamed away I fancied that there was +still more of the excitement of play than of alarm in +their flight and clamor.</p> + +<p>The bright object which the leader carried proved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +to be the handle of a glass cup or pitcher. A fragment +of the vessel itself had broken off with the handle, +so that the ring was complete. Altogether it was +just the thing for the purpose—bright, and not too +heavy, and most convenient for a crow to seize and +carry. Once well gripped, it would take a good deal +of worrying to make him drop it.</p> + +<p>Who first was "it," as children say in games? +Was it a special privilege of the crow who first found +the talisman, or do the crows have some way of counting +out for the first leader? There is a school-house +down that same old dusty road. Sometimes, when at +play there, I used to notice the crows stealing silently +from tree to tree in the woods beyond, watching our +play, I have no doubt, as I now had watched theirs. +Only we have grown older, and forgotten how to play; +and they are as much boys as ever. Did they learn +their game from watching us at tag, I wonder? And +do they know coram, and leave-stocks, and prisoners' +base, and bull-in-the-ring as well? One could easily +believe their wise little black heads to be capable of +any imitation, especially if one had watched them a +few times, at work and play, when they had no idea +they were being spied upon.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VIII_ONE_TOUCH_OF_NATURE" id="VIII_ONE_TOUCH_OF_NATURE"></a>VIII. ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap117"><span class="dropcap">T</span></span>he cheery whistle of a quail +recalls to most New England +people a vision of breezy +upland pastures and a mottled +brown bird calling melodiously +from the topmost +slanting rail of an old sheep-fence. +Farmers say he foretells +the weather, calling, +<i>More-wet</i>—<i>much-more-wet!</i> +Boys say he only proclaims +his name, <i>Bob White! I'm +Bob White!</i> But whether +he prognosticates or introduces himself, his voice is +always a welcome one. Those who know the call +listen with pleasure, and speedily come to love the +bird that makes it.</p> + +<p>Bob White has another call, more beautiful than his +boyish whistle, which comparatively few have heard. +It is a soft liquid yodeling, which the male bird uses +to call the scattered flock together. One who walks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +in the woods at sunset sometimes hears it from a tangle +of grapevine and bullbrier. If he has the patience +to push his way carefully through the underbrush, he +may see the beautiful Bob on a rock or stump, uttering +the softest and most musical of whistles. He is +telling his flock that here is a nice place he has found, +where they can spend the night and be safe from owls +and prowling foxes.</p> + +<p>If the visitor be very patient, and lie still, he will +presently hear the pattering of tiny feet on the leaves, +and see the brown birds come running in from every +direction. Once in a lifetime, perhaps, he may see +them gather in a close circle—tails together, heads +out, like the spokes of a wheel, and so go to sleep for +the night. Their soft whistlings and chirpings at such +times form the most delightful sound one ever hears +in the woods.</p> + +<p>This call of the male bird is not difficult to imitate. +Hunters who know the birds will occasionally use it to +call a scattered covey together, or to locate the male +birds, which generally answer the leader's call. I have +frequently called a flock of the birds into a thicket at +sunset, and caught running glimpses of them as they +hurried about, looking for the bugler who called taps.</p> + +<p>All this occurred to me late one afternoon in the +great Zoological Gardens at Antwerp. I was watching +a yard of birds—three or four hundred representatives +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>of the pheasant family from all over the earth +that were running about among the rocks and artificial +copses. Some were almost as wild as if in their native +woods, especially the smaller birds in the trees; others +had grown tame from being constantly fed by visitors.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 558px;"> +<img src="images/image119.jpg" width="558" height="700" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>It was rather confusing to a bird lover, familiar only +with home birds, to see all the strange forms and +colors in the grass, and to hear a chorus of unknown +notes from trees and underbrush. But suddenly there +was a touch of naturalness. That beautiful brown +bird with the shapely body and the quick, nervous run! +No one could mistake him; it was Bob White. And +with him came a flash of the dear New England +landscape three thousand miles away. Another and +another showed himself and was gone. Then I thought +of the woods at sunset, and began to call softly.</p> + +<p>The carnivora were being fed not far away; a frightful +uproar came from the cages. The coughing roar of +a male lion made the air shiver. Cockatoos screamed; +noisy parrots squawked hideously. Children were +playing and shouting near by. In the yard itself fifty +birds were singing or crying strange notes. Besides +all this, the quail I had seen had been hatched far +from home, under a strange mother. So I had little +hope of success.</p> + +<p>But as the call grew louder and louder, a liquid +yodel came like an electric shock from a clump of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +bushes on the left. There he was, looking, listening. +Another call, and he came running toward me. +Others appeared from every direction, and soon a +score of quail were running about, just inside the +screen, with soft gurglings like a hidden brook, doubly +delightful to an ear that had longed to hear them.</p> + +<p>City, gardens, beasts, strangers,—all vanished in an +instant. I was a boy in the fields again. The rough +New England hillside grew tender and beautiful in +sunset light; the hollows were rich in autumn glory. +The pasture brook sang on its way to the river; a +robin called from a crimson maple; and all around +was the dear low, thrilling whistle, and the patter of +welcome feet on leaves, as Bob White came running +again to meet his countryman.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IX_MOOSE_CALLING" id="IX_MOOSE_CALLING"></a>IX. MOOSE CALLING.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap121"><span class="dropcap">M</span></span>idnight in the wilderness. +The belated moon wheels +slowly above the eastern ridge, +where for a few minutes past +a mighty pine and hundreds of +pointed spruce tops have been +standing out in inky blackness +against the gray and brightening background. The +silver light steals swiftly down the evergreen tops, +sending long black shadows creeping before it, and +falls glistening and shimmering across the sleeping +waters of a forest lake. No ripple breaks its polished +surface; no plash of musquash or leaping trout sends +its vibrations up into the still, frosty air; no sound of +beast or bird awakens the echoes of the silent forest. +Nature seems dying, her life frozen out of her by the +chill of the October night; and no voice tells of her +suffering.</p> + +<p>A moment ago the little lake lay all black and +uniform, like a great well among the hills, with only +glimmering star-points to reveal its surface. Now,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +down in a bay below a grassy point, where the dark +shadows of the eastern shore reach almost across, a +dark object is lying silent and motionless on the lake. +Its side seems gray and uncertain above the water; +at either end is a dark mass, that in the increasing +light takes the form of human head and shoulders. +A bark canoe with two occupants is before us; but +so still, so lifeless apparently, that till now we thought +it part of the shore beyond.</p> + +<p>There is a movement in the stern; the profound +stillness is suddenly broken by a frightful +roar: <i>M-wah-úh! M-waah-úh! M-w-wã-a-ã-ã-a!</i> The +echoes rouse themselves swiftly, and rush away confused +and broken, to and fro across the lake. As +they die away among the hills there is a sound from +the canoe as if an animal were walking in shallow +water, <i>splash, splash, splash, klop!</i> then silence again, +that is not dead, but listening.</p> + +<p>A half-hour passes; but not for an instant does +the listening tension of the lake relax. Then the +loud bellow rings out again, startling us and the +echoes, though we were listening for it. This time +the tension increases an hundredfold; every nerve +is strained; every muscle ready. Hardly have the +echoes been lost when from far up the ridges comes +a deep, sudden, ugly roar that penetrates the woods +like a rifle-shot. Again it comes, and nearer! Down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +in the canoe a paddle blade touches the water noiselessly +from the stern; and over the bow there is the +glint of moonlight on a rifle barrel. The roar is now +continuous on the summit of the last low ridge. +Twigs crackle, and branches snap. There is the +thrashing of mighty antlers among the underbrush, +the pounding of heavy hoofs upon the earth; and +straight down the great bull rushes like a tempest, +nearer, nearer, till he bursts with tremendous crash +through the last fringe of alders out onto the grassy +point.—And then the heavy boom of a rifle rolling +across the startled lake.</p> + +<p>Such is moose calling, in one of its phases—the +most exciting, the most disappointing, the most trying +way of hunting this noble game.</p> + +<p>The call of the cow moose, which the hunter always +uses at first, is a low, sudden bellow, quite impossible +to describe accurately. Before ever hearing it, I had +frequently asked Indians and hunters what it was like. +The answers were rather unsatisfactory. "Like a +tree falling," said one. "Like the sudden swell of a +cataract or the rapids at night," said another. "Like +a rifle-shot, or a man shouting hoarsely," said a third; +and so on till like a menagerie at feeding time was +my idea of it.</p> + +<p>One night as I sat with my friend at the door of +our bark tent, eating our belated supper in tired<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +silence, while the rush of the salmon pool near and +the sigh of the night wind in the spruces were lulling +us to sleep as we ate, a sound suddenly filled the +forest, and was gone. Strangely enough, we pronounced +the word <i>moose</i> together, though neither +of us had ever heard the sound before. 'Like a +gun in a fog' would describe the sound to me better +than anything else, though after hearing it many +times the simile is not at all accurate. This first +indefinite sound is heard early in the season. Later +it is prolonged and more definite, and often repeated +as I have given it.</p> + +<p>The answer of the bull varies but little. It is a +short, hoarse, grunting roar, frightfully ugly when +close at hand, and leaving no doubt as to the mood +he is in. Sometimes when a bull is shy, and the +hunter thinks he is near and listening, though no +sound gives any idea of his whereabouts, he follows +the bellow of the cow by the short roar of the bull, +at the same time snapping the sticks under his feet, +and thrashing the bushes with a club. Then, if the +bull answers, look out. Jealous, and fighting mad, +he hurls himself out of his concealment and rushes +straight in to meet his rival. Once aroused in this way +he heeds no danger, and the eye must be clear and +the muscles steady to stop him surely ere he reaches +the thicket where the hunter is concealed. Moonlight +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>is poor stuff to shoot by at best, and an enraged +bull moose is a very big and a very ugly customer. +It is a poor thicket, therefore, that does not have at +least one good tree with conveniently low branches. +As a rule, however, you may trust your Indian, who +is an arrant coward, to look out for this very carefully.</p> + +<p>The trumpet with which the calling is done is +simply a piece of birch bark, rolled up cone-shaped +with the smooth side within. It is fifteen or sixteen +inches long, about four inches in diameter at the +larger, and one inch at the smaller end. The right +hand is folded round the smaller end for a mouthpiece; +into this the caller grunts and roars and +bellows, at the same time swinging the trumpet's +mouth in sweeping curves to imitate the peculiar +quaver of the cow's call. If the bull is near and +suspicious, the sound is deadened by holding the +mouth of the trumpet close to the ground. This, +to me, imitates the real sound more accurately than +any other attempt.</p> + +<p>So many conditions must be met at once for successful +calling, and so warily does a bull approach, +that the chances are always strongly against the +hunter's seeing his game. The old bulls are shy from +much hunting; the younger ones fear the wrath of +an older rival. It is only once in a lifetime, and far +back from civilization, where the moose have not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +been hunted, that one's call is swiftly answered by +a savage old bull that knows no fear. Here one is +never sure what response his call will bring; and the +spice of excitement, and perhaps danger, is added to +the sport.</p> + +<p>In illustration of the uncertainty of calling, the +writer recalls with considerable pride his first attempt, +which was somewhat startling in its success. It was +on a lake, far back from the settlements, in northern +New Brunswick. One evening, late in August, +while returning from fishing, I heard the bellow +of a cow moose on a hardwood ridge above me. +Along the base of the ridge stretched a bay with +grassy shores, very narrow where it entered the lake, +but broadening out to fifty yards across, and reaching +back half a mile to meet a stream that came down +from a smaller lake among the hills. All this I +noted carefully while gliding past; for it struck me +as an ideal place for moose calling, if one were +hunting.</p> + +<p>The next evening, while fishing alone in the cold +stream referred to, I heard the moose again on the +same ridge; and in a sudden spirit of curiosity determined +to try the effect of a roar or two on her, in +imitation of an old bull. I had never heard of a cow +answering the call; and I had no suspicion then that +the bull was anywhere near. I was not an expert<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +caller. Under tuition of my Indian (who was himself +a rather poor hand at it) I had practised two or +three times till he told me, with charming frankness, +that possibly a <i>man</i> might mistake me for a moose, +if he hadn't heard one very often. So here was a +chance for more practice and a bit of variety. If it +frightened her it would do no harm, as we were not +hunting.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> +<img src="images/image127.jpg" width="401" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>Running the canoe quietly ashore below where the +moose had called, I peeled the bark from a young +birch, rolled it into a trumpet, and, standing on the +grassy bank, uttered the deep grunt of a bull two +or three times in quick succession. The effect was +tremendous. From the summit of the ridge, not +two hundred yards above where I stood, the angry +challenge of a bull was hurled down upon me out +of the woods. Then it seemed as if a steam engine +were crashing full speed through the underbrush. +In fewer seconds than it takes to write it the canoe +was well out into deep water, lying motionless with +the bow inshore. A moment later a huge bull plunged +through the fringe of alders onto the open bank, +gritting his teeth, grunting, stamping the earth savagely, +and thrashing the bushes with his great antlers—as +ugly a picture as one would care to meet in +the woods.</p> + +<p>He seemed bewildered at not seeing his rival, ran<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +swiftly along the bank, turned and came swinging +back again, all the while uttering his hoarse challenge. +Then the canoe swung in the slight current; in getting +control of it again the movement attracted his +attention, and he saw me for the first time. In a +moment he was down the bank into shallow water, +striking with his hoofs and tossing his huge head +up and down like an angry bull. Fortunately the +water was deep, and he did not try to swim out; for +there was not a weapon of any kind in the canoe.</p> + +<p>When I started down towards the lake, after baiting +the bull's fury awhile by shaking the paddle and +splashing water at him, he followed me along the +bank, keeping up his threatening demonstrations. +Down near the lake he plunged suddenly ahead +before I realized the danger, splashed out into the +narrow opening in front of the canoe—and there I +was, trapped.</p> + +<p>It was dark when I at last got out of it. To get by +the ugly beast in that narrow opening was out of the +question, as I found out after a half-hour's trying. +Just at dusk I turned the canoe and paddled slowly +back; and the moose, leaving his post, followed as +before along the bank. At the upper side of a little +bay I paddled close up to shore, and waited till he +ran round, almost up to me, before backing out into +deep water. Splashing seemed to madden the brute,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +so I splashed him, till in his fury he waded out +deeper and deeper, to strike the exasperating canoe +with his antlers. When he would follow no further, +I swung the canoe suddenly, and headed for the +opening at a racing stroke. I had a fair start before +he understood the trick; but I never turned to see +how he made the bank and circled the little bay. +The splash and plunge of hoofs was fearfully close +behind me as the canoe shot through the opening; +and as the little bark swung round on the open waters +of the lake, for a final splash and flourish of the paddle, +and a yell or two of derision, there stood the bull in +the inlet, still thrashing his antlers and gritting his +teeth; and there I left him.</p> + +<p>The season of calling is a short one, beginning +early in September and lasting till the middle of +October. Occasionally a bull will answer as late as +November, but this is unusual. In this season a perfectly +still night is perhaps the first requisite. The +bull, when he hears the call, will often approach to +within a hundred yards without making a sound. It +is simply wonderful how still the great brute can be +as he moves slowly through the woods. Then he +makes a wide circuit till he has gone completely +round the spot where he heard the call; and if there +is the slightest breeze blowing he scents the danger, +and is off on the instant. On a still night his big<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +trumpet-shaped ears are marvelously acute. Only +absolute silence on the hunter's part can insure +success.</p> + +<p>Another condition quite as essential is moonlight. +The moose sometimes calls just before dusk and just +before sunrise; but the bull is more wary at such +times, and very loth to show himself in the open. +Night diminishes his extreme caution, and unless he +has been hunted he responds more readily. Only a +bright moonlight can give any accuracy to a rifle-shot. +To attempt it by starlight would result simply +in frightening the game, or possibly running into +danger.</p> + +<p>By far the best place for calling, if one is in a +moose country, is from a canoe on some quiet lake +or river. A spot is selected midway between two +open shores, near together if possible. On whichever +side the bull answers, the canoe is backed silently +away into the shadow against the opposite bank; +and there the hunters crouch motionless till their +game shows himself clearly in the moonlight on the +open shore.</p> + +<p>If there is no water in the immediate vicinity of +the hunting ground, then a thicket in the midst of an +open spot is the place to call. Such spots are found +only about the barrens, which are treeless plains scattered +here and there throughout the great northern<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +wilderness. The scattered thickets on such plains +are, without doubt, the islands of the ancient lakes +that once covered them. Here the hunter collects a +thick nest of dry moss and fir tips at sundown, and +spreads the thick blanket that he has brought on his +back all the weary way from camp; for without it +the cold of the autumn night would be unendurable +to one who can neither light a fire nor move about to +get warm. When a bull answers a call from such a +spot he will generally circle the barren, just within +the edge of the surrounding forest, and unless enraged +by jealousy will seldom venture far out into the open. +This fearfulness of the open characterizes the moose +in all places and seasons. He is a creature of the +forest, never at ease unless within quick reach of its +protection.</p> + +<p>An exciting incident happened to Mitchell, my +Indian guide, one autumn, while hunting on one of +these barrens with a sportsman whom he was guiding. +He was moose calling one night from a thicket near +the middle of a narrow barren. No answer came to +his repeated calling, though for an hour or more he +had felt quite sure that a bull was within hearing, +somewhere within the dark fringe of forest. He was +about to try the roar of the bull, when it suddenly +burst out of the woods behind them, in exactly the +opposite quarter from that in which they believed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +their game was concealed. Mitchell started to creep +across the thicket, but scarcely had the echoes +answered when, in front of them, a second challenge +sounded sharp and fierce; and they saw, directly +across the open, the underbrush at the forest's edge +sway violently, as the bull they had long suspected +broke out in a towering rage. He was slow in +advancing, however, and Mitchell glided rapidly +across the thicket, where a moment later his excited +hiss called his companion. From the opposite fringe +of forest the second bull had hurled himself out, and +was plunging with savage grunts straight towards +them.</p> + +<p>Crouching low among the firs they awaited his +headlong rush; not without many a startled glance +backward, and a very uncomfortable sense of being +trapped and frightened, as Mitchell confessed to me +afterward. He had left his gun in camp; his employer +had insisted upon it, in his eagerness to kill +the moose himself.</p> + +<p>The bull came rapidly within rifle-shot. In a +minute more he would be within their hiding place; +and the rifle sight was trying to cover a vital spot, +when right behind them—at the thicket's edge, it +seemed—a frightful roar and a furious pounding of +hoofs brought them to their feet with a bound. A +second later the rifle was lying among the bushes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +and a panic-stricken hunter was scratching and smashing +in a desperate hurry up among the branches of +a low spruce, as if only the tiptop were half high +enough. Mitchell was nowhere to be seen; unless +one had the eyes of an owl to find him down among +the roots of a fallen pine.</p> + +<p>But the first moose smashed straight through the +thicket without looking up or down; and out on the +open barren a tremendous struggle began. There +was a minute's confused uproar, of savage grunts +and clashing antlers and pounding hoofs and hoarse, +labored breathing; then the excitement of the fight +was too strong to be resisted, and a dark form wriggled +out from among the roots, only to stretch itself +flat under a bush and peer cautiously at the struggling +brutes not thirty feet away. Twice Mitchell hissed +for his employer to come down; but that worthy was +safe astride the highest branch that would bear his +weight, with no desire evidently for a better view of +the fight. Then Mitchell found the rifle among the +bushes and, waiting till the bulls backed away for one +of their furious charges, killed the larger one in his +tracks. The second stood startled an instant, with +raised head and muscles quivering, then dashed away +across the barren and into the forest.</p> + +<p>Such encounters are often numbered among the +tragedies of the great wilderness. In tramping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +through the forest one sometimes comes upon two +sets of huge antlers locked firmly together, and white +bones, picked clean by hungry prowlers. It needs +no written record to tell their story.</p> + +<p>Once I saw a duel that resulted differently. I +heard a terrific uproar, and crept through the woods, +thinking to have a savage wilderness spectacle all to +myself. Two young bulls were fighting desperately +in an open glade, just because they were strong and +proud of their first big horns.</p> + +<p>But I was not alone, as I expected. A great flock +of crossbills swooped down into the spruces, and +stopped whistling in their astonishment. A dozen +red squirrels snickered and barked their approval, +as the bulls butted each other. Meeko is always +glad when mischief is afoot. High overhead floated +a rare woods' raven, his head bent sharply downward +to see. Moose-birds flitted in restless excitement +from tree to bush. Kagax the weasel postponed his +bloodthirsty errand to the young rabbits. And just +beside me, under the fir tips, Tookhees the wood-mouse +forgot his fear of the owl and the fox and his +hundred enemies, and sat by his den in broad daylight, +rubbing his whiskers nervously.</p> + +<p>So we watched, till the bull that was getting the +worst of it backed near me, and got my wind, and the +fight was over.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="X_CHGEEGEE-LOKH-SIS" id="X_CHGEEGEE-LOKH-SIS"></a>X. CH'GEEGEE-LOKH-SIS.</h2> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image135.png" width="600" height="321" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="dropcap135a"><span class="dropcap">T</span></span>hat is the name which the northern +Indians give to the black-capped tit-mouse, +or chickadee. "Little friend +Ch'geegee" is what it means; for the +Indians, like everybody else who knows +Chickadee, are fond of this cheery little brightener of +the northern woods. The first time I asked Simmo +what his people called the bird, he answered with a +smile. Since then I have asked other Indians, and +always a smile, a pleased look lit up the dark grim<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +faces as they told me. It is another tribute to the +bright little bird's influence.</p> + +<p>Chickadee wears well. He is not in the least a +creature of moods. You step out of your door some +bright morning, and there he is among the shrubs, +flitting from twig to twig; now hanging head down +from the very tip to look into a terminal bud; now +winding upward about a branch, looking industriously +into every bud and crevice. An insect must hide well +to escape those bright eyes. He is helping you raise +your plants. He looks up brightly as you approach, +hops fearlessly down and looks at you with frank, +innocent eyes. <i>Chick a dee dee dee dee! Tsic a +de-e-e?</i>—this last with a rising inflection, as if he were asking +how you were, after he had said good-morning. +Then he turns to his insect hunting again, for he +never wastes more than a moment talking. But he +twitters sociably as he works.</p> + +<p>You meet him again in the depths of the wilderness. +The smoke of your camp fire has hardly risen +to the spruce tops when close beside you sounds the +same cheerful greeting and inquiry for your health. +There he is on the birch twig, bright and happy and +fearless! He comes down by the fire to see if anything +has boiled over which he may dispose of. He +picks up gratefully the crumbs you scatter at your +feet. He trusts you.—See! he rests a moment on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +the finger you extend, looks curiously at the nail, +and sounds it with his bill to see if it shelters any +harmful insect. Then he goes back to his birch +twigs.</p> + +<p>On summer days he never overflows with the rollicksomeness +of bobolink and oriole, but takes his +abundance in quiet contentment. I suspect it is +because he works harder winters, and his enjoyment +is more deep than theirs. In winter when the snow +lies deep, he is the life of the forest. He calls to you +from the edges of the bleak caribou barrens, and his +greeting somehow suggests the May. He comes into +your rude bark camp, and eats of your simple fare, +and leaves a bit of sunshine behind him. He goes +with you, as you force your way heavily through the +fir thickets on snowshoes. He is hungry, perhaps, +like you, but his note is none the less cheery and +hopeful.</p> + +<p>When the sun shines hot in August, he finds you +lying under the alders, with the lake breeze in your +face, and he opens his eyes very wide and says: "<i>Tsic +a dee-e-e?</i> I saw you last winter. Those were hard +times. But it's good to be here now." And when the +rain pours down, and the woods are drenched, and camp +life seems beastly altogether, he appears suddenly with +greeting cheery as the sunshine. "<i>Tsic a de-e-e-e?</i> +Don't you remember yesterday? It rains, to be sure,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +but the insects are plenty, and to-morrow the sun +will shine." His cheerfulness is contagious. Your +thoughts are better than before he came.</p> + +<p>Really, he is a wonderful little fellow; there is no +end to the good he does. Again and again I have +seen a man grow better tempered or more cheerful, +without knowing why he did so, just because Chickadee +stopped a moment to be cheery and sociable. I +remember once when a party of four made camp +after a driving rain-storm. Everybody was wet; everything +soaking. The lazy man had upset a canoe, and +all the dry clothes and blankets had just been fished +out of the river. Now the lazy man stood before the +fire, looking after his own comfort. The other three +worked like beavers, making camp. They were in +ill humor, cold, wet, hungry, irritated. They said +nothing.</p> + +<p>A flock of chickadees came down with sunny greetings, +fearless, trustful, never obtrusive. They looked +innocently into human faces and pretended that they +did not see the irritation there. "<i>Tsic a dee</i>. I wish +I could help. Perhaps I can. <i>Tic a dee-e-e?</i>"—with +that gentle, sweetly insinuating up slide at the end. +Somebody spoke, for the first time in half an hour, +and it wasn't a growl. Presently somebody whistled—a +wee little whistle; but the tide had turned. +Then somebody laughed. "'Pon my word," he said,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +hanging up his wet clothes, "I believe those chickadees +make me feel good-natured. Seem kind of +cheery, you know, and the crowd needed it."</p> + +<p>And Chickadee, picking up his cracker crumbs, +did not act at all as if he had done most to make +camp comfortable.</p> + +<p>There is another way in which he helps, a more +material way. Millions of destructive insects live and +multiply in the buds and tender bark of trees. Other +birds never see them, but Chickadee and his relations +leave never a twig unexplored. His bright eyes find +the tiny eggs hidden under the buds; his keen ears +hear the larvæ feeding under the bark, and a blow of +his little bill uncovers them in their mischief-making. +His services of this kind are enormous, though rarely +acknowledged.</p> + +<p>Chickadee's nest is always neat and comfortable +and interesting, just like himself. It is a rare treat +to find it. He selects an old knot-hole, generally on +the sheltered side of a dry limb, and digs out the +rotten wood, making a deep and sometimes winding +tunnel downward. In the dry wood at the bottom he +makes a little round pocket and lines it with the +very softest material. When one finds such a nest, +with five or six white eggs delicately touched with +pink lying at the bottom, and a pair of chickadees +gliding about, half fearful, half trustful, it is altogether<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +such a beautiful little spot that I know hardly a boy +who would be mean enough to disturb it.</p> + +<p>One thing about the nests has always puzzled me. +The soft lining has generally more or less rabbit fur. +Sometimes, indeed, there is nothing else, and a softer +nest one could not wish to see. But where does he +get it? He would not, I am sure, pull it out of Br'er +Rabbit, as the crow sometimes pulls wool from the +sheep's backs. Are his eyes bright enough to find it +hair by hair where the wind has blown it, down among +the leaves? If so, it must be slow work; but Chickadee +is very patient. Sometimes in spring you may +surprise him on the ground, where he never goes for +food; but at such times he is always shy, and flits up +among the birch twigs, and twitters, and goes through +an astonishing gymnastic performance, as if to distract +your attention from his former unusual one. That is +only because you are near his nest. If he has a bit +of rabbit fur in his bill meanwhile, your eyes are not +sharp enough to see it.</p> + +<p>Once after such a performance I pretended to go +away; but I only hid in a pine thicket. Chickadee +listened awhile, then hopped down to the ground, +picked up something that I could not see, and flew +away. I have no doubt it was the lining for his nest +near by. He had dropped it when I surprised him, +so that I should not suspect him of nest-building.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> + +<p>Such a bright, helpful little fellow should have +never an enemy in the world; and I think he has to +contend against fewer than most birds. The shrike +is his worst enemy, the swift swoop of his cruel beak +being always fatal in a flock of chickadees. Fortunately +the shrike is rare with us; one seldom finds +his nest, with poor Chickadee impaled on a sharp +thorn near by, surrounded by a varied lot of ugly +beetles. I suspect the owls sometimes hunt him at +night; but he sleeps in the thick pine shrubs, close +up against a branch, with the pine needles all about +him, making it very dark; and what with the darkness, +and the needles to stick in his eyes, the owl generally +gives up the search and hunts in more open woods.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the hawks try to catch him, but it takes +a very quick and a very small pair of wings to follow +Chickadee. Once I was watching him hanging head +down from an oak twig to which the dead leaves were +clinging; for it was winter. Suddenly there was a +rush of air, a flash of mottled wings and fierce yellow +eyes and cruel claws. Chickadee whisked out of +sight under a leaf. The hawk passed on, brushing +his pinions. A brown feather floated down among +the oak leaves. Then Chickadee was hanging head +down, just where he was before. "<i>Tsic a dee?</i> Didn't +I fool him!" he seemed to say. He had just gone +round his twig, and under a leaf, and back again; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +the danger was over. When a hawk misses like that +he never strikes again.</p> + +<p>Boys generally have a kind of sympathetic liking +for Chickadee. They may be cruel or thoughtless to +other birds, but seldom so to him. He seems somehow +like themselves.</p> + +<p>Two barefoot boys with bows and arrows were +hunting, one September day, about the half-grown +thickets of an old pasture. The older was teaching +the younger how to shoot. A robin, a chipmunk, +and two or three sparrows were already stowed away +in their jacket pockets; a brown rabbit hung from +the older boy's shoulder. Suddenly the younger +raised his bow and drew the arrow back to its head. +Just in front a chickadee hung and twittered among +the birch twigs. But the older boy seized his arm.</p> + +<p>"Don't shoot—don't shoot him!" he said.</p> + +<p>"But why not?"</p> + +<p>"'Cause you mustn't—you must never kill a chickadee."</p> + +<p>And the younger, influenced more by a certain +mysterious shake of the head than by the words, +slacked his bow cheerfully; and with a last wide-eyed +look at the little gray bird that twittered and swung +so fearlessly near them, the two boys went on with +their hunting.</p> + +<p>No one ever taught the older boy to discriminate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +between a chickadee and other birds; no one else +ever instructed the younger. Yet somehow both felt, +and still feel after many years, that there is a difference. +It is always so with boys. They are friends +of whatever trusts them and is fearless. Chickadee's +own personality, his cheery ways and trustful nature +had taught them, though they knew it not. And +among all the boys of that neighborhood there is +still a law, which no man gave, of which no man +knows the origin, a law as unalterable as that of the +Medes and Persians: <i>Never kill a chickadee</i>.</p> + +<p>If you ask the boy there who tells you the law, +"Why not a chickadee as well as a sparrow?" he +shakes his head as of yore, and answers dogmatically: +"'Cause you mustn't."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p class="center">CHICKADEE'S SECRET.</p> + +<p>If you meet Chickadee in May with a bit of rabbit +fur in his mouth, or if he seem preoccupied or absorbed, +you may know that he is building a nest, +or has a wife and children near by to take care of. +If you know him well, you may even feel hurt that +the little friend, who shared your camp and fed from +your dish last winter, should this spring seem just as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +frank, yet never invite you to his camp, or should +even lead you away from it. But the soft little nest +in the old knot-hole is the one secret of Chickadee's +life; and the little deceptions by which he tries to +keep it are at times so childlike, so transparent, that +they are even more interesting than his frankness.</p> + +<p>One afternoon in May I was hunting, without a +gun, about an old deserted farm among the hills—one +of those sunny places that the birds love, because +some sense of the human beings who once lived there +still clings about the half wild fields and gives protection. +The day was bright and warm. The birds +were everywhere, flashing out of the pine thickets +into the birches in all the joyfulness of nest-building, +and filling the air with life and melody. It is poor +hunting to move about at such a time. Either the +hunter or his game must be still. Here the birds +were moving constantly; one might see more of them +and their ways by just keeping quiet and invisible.</p> + +<p>I sat down on the outer edge of a pine thicket, and +became as much as possible a part of the old stump +which was my seat. Just in front an old four-rail +fence wandered across the deserted pasture, struggling +against the blackberry vines, which grew profusely +about it and seemed to be tugging at the lower rail +to pull the old fence down to ruin. On either side it +disappeared into thickets of birch and oak and pitch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +pine, planted, as were the blackberry vines, by birds +that stopped to rest a moment on the old fence or +to satisfy their curiosity. Stout young trees had +crowded it aside and broken it. Here and there a +leaning post was overgrown with woodbine. The +rails were gray and moss-grown. Nature was trying +hard to make it a bit of the landscape; it could +not much longer retain its individuality. The wild +things of the woods had long accepted it as theirs, +though not quite as they accepted the vines and +trees.</p> + +<p>As I sat there a robin hurled himself upon it +from the top of a young cedar where he had been, +a moment before, practising his mating song. He +did not intend to light, but some idle curiosity, like +my own, made him pause a moment on the old gray +rail. Then a woodpecker lit on the side of a post, +and sounded it softly. But he was too near the +ground, too near his enemies to make a noise; so +he flew to a higher perch and beat a tattoo that made +the woods ring. He was safe there, and could make +as much noise as he pleased. A wood-mouse stirred +the vines and appeared for an instant on the lower +rail, then disappeared as if very much frightened at +having shown himself in the sunlight. He always +does just so at his first appearance.</p> + +<p>Presently a red squirrel rushes out of the thicket<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +at the left, scurries along the rails and up and down the +posts. He goes like a little red whirlwind, though he +has nothing whatever to hurry about. Just opposite my +stump he stops his rush with marvelous suddenness; +chatters, barks, scolds, tries to make me move; then +goes on and out of sight at the same breakneck rush. +A jay stops a moment in a young hickory above the +fence to whistle his curiosity, just as if he had not +seen it fifty times before. A curiosity to him never +grows old. He does not scream now; it is his nesting +time.—And so on through the afternoon. The +old fence is becoming a part of the woods; and every +wild thing that passes by stops to get acquainted.</p> + +<p>I was weaving an idle history of the old fence, +when a chickadee twittered in the pine behind me. +As I turned, he flew over me and lit on the fence +in front. He had something in his beak; so I +watched to find his nest; for I wanted very much +to see him at work. Chickadee had never seemed +afraid of me, and I thought he would trust me now. +But he didn't. He would not go near his nest. +Instead he began hopping about the old rail, and +pretended to be very busy hunting for insects.</p> + +<p>Presently his mate appeared, and with a sharp note +he called her down beside him. Then both birds +hopped and twittered about the rail, with apparently +never a care in the world. The male especially<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +seemed just in the mood for a frolic. He ran up +and down the mossy rail; he whirled about it till +he looked like a little gray pinwheel; he hung head +down by his toes, dropped, and turned like a cat, so +as to light on his feet on the rail below. While +watching his performance, I hardly noticed that his +mate had gone till she reappeared suddenly on the +rail beside him. Then he disappeared, while she +kept up the performance on the rail, with more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +of a twitter, perhaps, and less of gymnastics. In a +few moments both birds were together again and +flew into the pines out of sight.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image148.png" width="600" height="526" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>I had almost forgotten them in watching other +birds, when they reappeared on the rail, ten or fifteen +minutes later, and went through a very similar performance. +This was unusual, certainly; and I sat +very quiet, very much interested, though a bit puzzled, +and a bit disappointed that they had not gone +to their nest. They had some material in their +beaks both times when they appeared on the rail, +and were now probably off hunting for more—for +rabbit fur, perhaps, in the old orchard. But what had +they done with it? "Perhaps," I thought, "they +dropped it to deceive me." Chickadee does that sometimes. +"But why did one bird stay on the rail? +Perhaps"—Well, I would look and see.</p> + +<p>I left my stump as the idea struck me, and began +to examine the posts of the old fence very carefully. +Chickadee's nest was there somewhere. In the second +post on the left I found it, a tiny knot-hole, which +Chickadee had hollowed out deep and lined with +rabbit fur. It was well hidden by the vines that +almost covered the old post, and gray moss grew all +about the entrance. A prettier nest I never found.</p> + +<p>I went back to my stump and sat down where I +could just see the dark little hole that led to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +nest. No other birds interested me now till the +chickadees came back. They were soon there, hopping +about on the rail as before, with just a wee note +of surprise in their soft twitter that I had changed +my position. This time I was not to be deceived +by a gymnastic performance, however interesting. I +kept my eyes fastened on the nest. The male was +undoubtedly going through with his most difficult +feats, and doing his best to engage my attention, +when I saw his mate glide suddenly from behind the +post and disappear into her doorway. I could hardly +be sure it was a bird. It seemed rather as if the +wind had stirred a little bundle of gray moss. Had +she moved slowly I might not have seen her, so +closely did her soft gray cloak blend with the weather-beaten +wood and the moss.</p> + +<p>In a few moments she reappeared, waited a moment +with her tiny head just peeking out of the knot-hole, +flashed round the post out of sight, and when I saw +her again it was as she reappeared suddenly beside +the male.</p> + +<p>Then I watched him. While his mate whisked +about the top rail he dropped to the middle one, +hopped gradually to one side, then dropped suddenly +to the lowest one, half hidden by vines, and disappeared. +I turned my eyes to the nest. In a moment +there he was—just a little gray flash, appearing for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +an instant from behind the post, only to disappear +into the dark entrance. When he came out again +I had but a glimpse of him till he appeared on the +rail near me beside his mate.</p> + +<p>Their little ruse was now quite evident. They had +come back from gathering rabbit fur, and found me +unexpectedly near their nest. Instead of making a +fuss and betraying it, as other birds might do, they +lit on the rail before me, and were as sociable as only +chickadees know how to be. While one entertained +me, and kept my attention, the other dropped to the +bottom rail and stole along behind it; then up behind +the post that held their nest, and back the same way, +after leaving his material. Then he held my attention +while his mate did the same thing.</p> + +<p>Simple as their little device was, it deceived me at +first, and would have deceived me permanently had I +not known something of chickadees' ways, and found +the nest while they were away. Game birds have +the trick of decoying one away from their nest. I +am not sure that all birds do not have more or less of +the same instinct; but certainly none ever before or +since used it so well with me as Ch'geegee.</p> + +<p>For two hours or more I sat there beside the pine +thicket, while the chickadees came and went. Sometimes +they approached the nest from the other side, +and I did not see them, or perhaps got only a glimpse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +as they glided into their doorway. Whenever they +approached from my side, they always stopped on the +rail before me and went through with their little +entertainment. Gradually they grew more confident, +and were less careful to conceal their movements +than at first. Sometimes only one came, and after +a short performance disappeared. Perhaps they +thought me harmless, or that they had deceived me +so well at first that I did not even suspect them of +nest-building. Anyway, I never pretended I knew.</p> + +<p>As the afternoon wore away, and the sun dropped +into the pine tops, the chickadees grew hungry, and +left their work until the morrow. They were calling +among the young birch buds as I left them, busy and +sociable together, hunting their supper.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XI_A_FELLOW_OF_EXPEDIENTS" id="XI_A_FELLOW_OF_EXPEDIENTS"></a>XI. A FELLOW OF EXPEDIENTS.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap152"><span class="dropcap">A</span></span>mong the birds there is one whose personal +appearance is rapidly changing. +He illustrates in his present life a +process well known historically to all +naturalists, viz., the modification of form +resulting from changed environment. +I refer to the golden-winged woodpecker, perhaps +the most beautifully marked bird of the North, +whose names are as varied as his habits and accomplishments.</p> + +<p>Nature intended him to get his living, as do the +other woodpeckers, by boring into old trees and +stumps for the insects that live on the decaying +wood. For this purpose she gave him the straight, +sharp, wedge-shaped bill, just calculated for cutting +out chips; the very long horn-tipped tongue for +thrusting into the holes he makes; the peculiar +arrangement of toes, two forward and two back; and +the stiff, spiny tail-feathers for supporting himself +against the side of a tree as he works. But getting +his living so means hard work, and he has discovered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +for himself a much easier way. One now frequently +surprises him on the ground in old pastures and +orchards, floundering about rather awkwardly (for his +little feet were never intended for walking) after the +crickets and grasshoppers that abound there. Still +he finds the work of catching them much easier than +boring into dry old trees, and the insects themselves +much larger and more satisfactory.</p> + +<p>A single glance will show how much this new way +of living has changed him from the other woodpeckers. +The bill is no longer straight, but has a +decided curve, like the thrushes; and instead of the +chisel-shaped edge there is a rounded point. The +red tuft on the head, which marks all the woodpecker +family, would be too conspicuous on the ground. In +its place we find a red crescent well down on the neck, +and partially hidden by the short gray feathers about +it. The point of the tongue is less horny, and from +the stiff points of the tail-feathers lamina are beginning +to grow, making them more like other birds'. +A future generation will undoubtedly wonder where +this peculiar kind of thrush got his unusual tongue +and tail, just as we wonder at the deformed little feet +and strange ways of a cuckoo.</p> + +<p>The habits of this bird are a curious compound of +his old life in the woods and his new preference for +the open fields and farms. Sometimes the nest is in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +the very heart of the woods, where the bird glides in +and out, silent as a crow in nesting time. His feeding +place meanwhile may be an old pasture half a mile +away, where he calls loudly, and frolics about as if he +had never a care or a fear in the world. But the nest +is now more frequently in a wild orchard, where the +bird finds an old knot-hole and digs down through +the soft wood, making a deep nest with very little +trouble. When the knot-hole is not well situated, +he finds a large decayed limb and drills through the +outer hard shell, then digs down a foot or more +through the soft wood, and makes a nest. In this +nest the rain never troubles him, for he very providently +drills the entrance on the under side of the +limb.</p> + +<p>Like many other birds, he has discovered that the +farmer is his friend. Occasionally, therefore, he neglects +to build a deep nest, simply hollowing out an +old knot-hole, and depending on the presence of man +for protection from hawks and owls. At such times +the bird very soon learns to recognize those who +belong in the orchard, and loses the extreme shyness +that characterizes him at all other times.</p> + +<p>Once a farmer, knowing my interest in birds, invited +me to come and see a golden-winged woodpecker, +which in her confidence had built so shallow a nest +that she could be seen sitting on the eggs like a robin.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +She was so tame, he said, that in going to his work he +sometimes passed under the tree without disturbing +her. The moment we crossed the wall within sight +of the nest, the bird slipped away out of the orchard. +Wishing to test her, we withdrew and waited till she +returned. Then the farmer passed within a few feet +without disturbing her in the least. Ten minutes +later I followed him, and the bird flew away again +as I crossed the wall.</p> + +<p>The notes of the golden-wing—much more varied +and musical than those of other woodpeckers—are +probably the results of his new free life, and the modified +tongue and bill. In the woods one seldom hears +from him anything but the rattling <i>rat-a-tat-tat</i>, as he +hammers away on a dry old pine stub. As a rule he +seems to do this more for the noise it makes, and the +exercise of his abilities, than because he expects to +find insects inside; except in winter time, when he +goes back to his old ways. But out in the fields he +has a variety of notes. Sometimes it is a loud <i>kee-uk</i>, +like the scream of a blue jay divided into two syllables, +with the accent on the last. Again it is a loud cheery +whistling call, of very short notes run close together, +with accent on every other one. Again he teeters +up and down on the end of an old fence rail with a +rollicking <i>eekoo, eekoo, eekoo</i>, that sounds more like a +laugh than anything else among the birds. In most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +of his musical efforts the golden-wing, instead of +clinging to the side of a tree, sits across the limb, like +other birds.</p> + +<p>A curious habit which the bird has adopted with +advancing civilization is that of providing himself +with a sheltered sleeping place from the storms and +cold of winter. Late in the fall he finds a deserted +building, and after a great deal of shy inspection, +to satisfy himself that no one is within, drills a hole +through the side. He has then a comfortable place to +sleep, and an abundance of decaying wood in which +to hunt insects on stormy days. An ice-house is a +favorite location for him, the warm sawdust furnishing +a good burrowing place for a nest or sleeping +room. When a building is used as a nesting place, +the bird very cunningly drills the entrance close up +under the eaves, where it is sheltered from storms, and +at the same time out of sight of all prying eyes.</p> + +<p>During the winter several birds often occupy one +building together. I know of one old deserted barn +where last year five of the birds lived very peaceably; +though what they were doing there in the daytime I +could never quite make out. At almost any hour of the +day, if one approached very cautiously and thumped +the side of the barn, some of the birds would dash out +in great alarm, never stopping to look behind them. +At first there were but three entrances; but after I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +had surprised them a few times, two more were added; +whether to get out more quickly when all were inside, +or simply for the sake of drilling the holes, I do not +know. Sometimes a pair of birds will have five or +six holes drilled, generally on the same side of the +building.</p> + +<p>Two things about my family in the old barn aroused +my curiosity—what they were doing there by day, +and how they got out so quickly when alarmed. The +only way it seemed possible for them to dash out on +the instant, as they did, was to fly straight through. +But the holes were too small, and no bird but a bank-swallow +would have attempted such a thing.</p> + +<p>One day I drove the birds out, then crawled in +under a sill on the opposite side, and hid in a corner +of the loft without disturbing anything inside. It was +a long wait in the stuffy old place before one of the +birds came back. I heard him light first on the roof; +then his little head appeared at one of the holes as he +sat just below, against the side of the barn, looking +and listening before coming in. Quite satisfied after +a minute or two that nobody was inside, he scrambled +in and flew down to a corner in which was a lot of +old hay and rubbish. Here he began a great rustle +and stirring about, like a squirrel in autumn leaves, +probably after insects, though it was too dark to see +just what he was doing. It sounded part of the time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +as if he were scratching aside the hay, much as a hen +would have done. If so, his two little front toes must +have made sad work of it, with the two hind ones +always getting doubled up in the way. When I +thumped suddenly against the side of the barn, he +hurled himself like a shot at one of the holes, alighting +just below it, and stuck there in a way that +reminded me of the chewed-paper balls that boys +used to throw against the blackboard in school. I +could hear plainly the thump of his little feet as he +struck. With the same movement, and without pausing +an instant, he dived through headlong, aided by a +spring from his tail, much as a jumping jack goes over +the head of his stick, only much more rapidly. Hardly +had he gone before another appeared, to go through +the same program.</p> + +<p>Though much shyer than other birds of the farm, +he often ventures up close to the house and doorway +in the early morning, before any one is stirring. One +spring morning I was awakened by a strange little +pattering sound, and, opening my eyes, was astonished +to see one of these birds on the sash of the open window +within five feet of my hand. Half closing my +eyes, I kept very still and watched. Just in front of +him, on the bureau, was a stuffed golden-wing, with +wings and tail spread to show to best advantage the +beautiful plumage. He had seen it in flying by, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +now stood hopping back and forth along the window +sash, uncertain whether to come in or not. Sometimes +he spread his wings as if on the point of flying in; +then he would turn his head to look curiously at me +and at the strange surroundings, and, afraid to venture +in, endeavor to attract the attention of the stuffed bird, +whose head was turned away. In the looking-glass +he saw his own movements repeated. Twice he began +his love call very softly, but cut it short, as if frightened. +The echo of the small room made it seem so different +from the same call in the open fields that I think he +doubted even his own voice.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;"> +<img src="images/image159.jpg" width="394" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>Almost over his head, on a bracket against the wall, +was another bird, a great hawk, pitched forward on +his perch, with wings wide spread and fierce eyes +glaring downward, in the intense attitude a hawk +takes as he strikes his prey from some lofty watch +tree. The golden-wing by this time was ready to +venture in. He had leaned forward with wings spread, +looking down at me to be quite sure I was harmless, +when, turning his head for a final look round, he +caught sight of the hawk just ready to pounce down +on him. With a startled <i>kee-uk</i> he fairly tumbled +back off the window sash, and I caught one glimpse +of him as he dashed round the corner in full flight.</p> + +<p>What were his impressions, I wonder, as he sat on +a limb of the old apple tree and thought it all over?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +Do birds have romances? How much greater wonders +had he seen than those of any romance! And +do they have any means of communicating them, as +they sing their love songs? What a wonderful story +he could tell, a real story, of a magic palace full of +strange wonders; of a glittering bit of air that made +him see himself; of a giant, all in white, with only his +head visible; of an enchanted beauty, stretching her +wings in mute supplication for some brave knight to +touch her and break the spell, while on high a fierce +dragon-hawk kept watch, ready to eat up any one who +should dare enter!</p> + +<p>And of course none of the birds would believe him. +He would have to spend the rest of his life explaining; +and the others would only whistle, and call him <i>Iagoo</i>, +the lying woodpecker. On the whole, it would be +better for a bird with such a very unusual experience +to keep still about it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XII_A_TEMPERANCE_LESSON_FOR_THE_HORNETS" id="XII_A_TEMPERANCE_LESSON_FOR_THE_HORNETS"></a>XII. A TEMPERANCE LESSON FOR THE HORNETS.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap161"><span class="dropcap">Last</span></span> spring a hornet, one of those long brown +double chaps that boys call mud-wasps, +crept out of his mud shell at the top of +my window casing, and buzzed in the sunshine +till I opened the window and let him +go. Perhaps he remembered his warm quarters, or +told a companion; for when the last sunny days of +October were come, there was a hornet, buzzing +persistently at the same window till it opened and +let him in.</p> + +<p>It was a rather rickety old room, though sunny and +very pleasant, which had been used as a study by +generations of theological students. Moreover, it was +considered clean all over, like a boy with his face +washed, when the floor was swept; and no storm of +general house cleaning ever disturbed its peace. So +overhead, where the ceiling sagged from the walls, +and in dusty chinks about doors and windows that no +broom ever harried, a family of spiders, some mice, a +daddy-long-legs, two crickets, and a bluebottle fly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +besides the hornet, found snug quarters in their +season, and a welcome.</p> + +<p>The hornet stayed about, contentedly enough, for +a week or more, crawling over the window panes till +they were thoroughly explored, and occasionally taking +a look through the scattered papers on the table. +Once he sauntered up to the end of the penholder I +was using, and stayed there, balancing himself, spreading +his wings, and looking interested while the greater +part of a letter was finished. Then he crawled down +over my fingers till he wet his feet in the ink; whereupon +he buzzed off in high dudgeon to dry them in +the sun.</p> + +<p>At first he was sociable enough, and peaceable as +one could wish; but one night, when it was chilly, he +stowed himself away to sleep under the pillow. When +I laid my head upon it, he objected to the extra weight, +and drove me ignominiously from my own bed. Another +time he crawled into a handkerchief. When I +picked it up to use it, after the light was out, he stung +me on the nose, not understanding the situation. In +whacking him off I broke one of his legs, and made +his wings all awry. After that he would have nothing +more to do with me, but kept to his own window as +long as the fine weather lasted.</p> + +<p>When the November storms came, he went up +to a big crack in the window casing, whence he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +emerged in the spring, and crept in, and went to +sleep. It was pleasant there, and at noontime, on +days when the sun shone, it streamed brightly into +his doorway, waking him out of his winter sleep. As +late as December he would come out occasionally at +midday to walk about and spread his wings in the +sun. Then a snow-storm came, and he disappeared +for two weeks.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/image163.png" width="500" height="461" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>One day, when a student was sick, a tumbler of +medicine had been carelessly left on the broad window +sill. It contained a few lumps of sugar, over +which a mixture of whiskey and glycerine had been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +poured. The sugar melted gradually in the sun, and +a strong odor of alcohol rose from the sticky stuff. +That and the sunshine must have roused my hornet +guest, for when I came back to the room, there he lay +by the tumbler, dead drunk.</p> + +<p>He was stretched out on his side, one wing doubled +under him, a forward leg curled over his head, a +sleepy, boozy, perfectly ludicrous expression on his +pointed face. I poked him a bit with my finger, to +see how the alcohol affected his temper. He rose +unsteadily, staggered about, and knocked his head +against the tumbler; at which fancied insult he raised +his wings in a limp kind of dignity and defiance, buzzing +a challenge. But he lost his legs, and fell down; +and presently, in spite of pokings, went off into a +drunken sleep again.</p> + +<p>All the afternoon he lay there. As it grew cooler +he stirred about uneasily. At dusk he started up for +his nest. It was a hard pull to get there. His head +was heavy, and his legs shaky. Half way up, he +stopped on top of the lower sash to lie down awhile. +He had a terrible headache, evidently; he kept rubbing +his head with his fore legs as if to relieve the +pain. After a fall or two on the second sash, he +reached the top, and tumbled into his warm nest to +sleep off the effects of his spree.</p> + +<p>One such lesson should have been enough; but it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +wasn't. Perhaps, also, I should have put temptation +out of his way; for I knew that all hornets, especially +yellow-jackets, are hopeless topers when they get a +chance; that when a wasp discovers a fermenting +apple, it is all up with his steady habits; that when a +nest of them discover a cider mill, all work, even the +care of the young, is neglected. They take to drinking, +and get utterly demoralized. But in the interest +of a new experiment I forgot true kindness, and left +the tumbler where it was.</p> + +<p>The next day, at noon, he was stretched out on the +sill, drunk again. For three days he kept up his +tippling, coming out when the sun shone warmly, and +going straight to the fatal tumbler. On the fourth +day he paid the penalty of his intemperance.</p> + +<p>The morning was very bright, and the janitor had +left the hornet's window slightly open. At noon he +was lying on the window sill, drunk as usual. I was +in a hurry to take a train, and neglected to close the +window. Late at night, when I came back to my +room, he was gone. He was not on the sill, nor on +the floor, nor under the window cushions. His nest +in the casing, where I had so often watched him +asleep, was empty. Taking a candle, I went out to +search under the window. There I found him in the +snow, his legs curled up close to his body, frozen stiff +with the drip of the eaves.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p> + +<p>I carried him in and warmed him at the fire, but +it was too late. He had been drunk once too often. +When I saw that he was dead, I stowed him away in +the nest he had been seeking when he fell out into +the snow. I tried to read; but the book seemed dull. +Every little while I got up to look at him, lying there +with his little pointed face, still dead. At last I +wrapped him up, and pushed him farther in, out of +sight.</p> + +<p>All the while the empty tumbler seemed to look +at me reproachfully from the window sill.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XIII_SNOWY_VISITORS" id="XIII_SNOWY_VISITORS"></a>XIII. SNOWY VISITORS.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap167"><span class="dropcap">O</span></span>ver my table, as I write, is a +big snowy owl whose yellow +eyes seem to be always +watching me, whatever I +do. Perhaps he is still +wondering at the curious +way in which I shot him.</p> + +<p>One stormy afternoon, +a few winters ago, I was +black-duck shooting at +sundown, by a lonely salt +creek that doubled across +the marshes from Maddaket +Harbor. In the shadow of a low ridge I had +built my blind among some bushes, near the freshest +water. In front of me a solitary decoy was splashing +about in joyous freedom after having been confined +all day, quacking loudly at the loneliness of the place +and at being separated from her mate. Beside me, +crouched in the blind, my old dog Don was trying +his best to shiver himself warm without disturbing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +the bushes too much. That would have frightened +the incoming ducks, as Don knew very well.</p> + +<p>It grew dark and bitterly cold. No birds were flying, +and I had stood up a moment to let the blood +down into half-frozen toes, when a shadow seemed to +pass over my head. The next moment there was a +splash, followed by loud quacks of alarm from the +decoy. All I could make out, in the obscurity under +the ridge, was a flutter of wings that rose heavily from +the water, taking my duck with them. Only the +anchor string prevented the marauder from getting +away with his booty. Not wishing to shoot, for +the decoy was a valuable one, I shouted vigorously, +and sent out the dog. The decoy dropped with a +splash, and in the darkness the thief got away—just +vanished, like a shadow, without a sound.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> +<img src="images/image168.jpg" width="456" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>Poor ducky died in my hands a few moments later, +the marks of sharp claws telling me plainly that the +thief was an owl, though I had no suspicion then +that it was the rare winter visitor from the north. I +supposed, of course, that it was only a great-horned-owl, +and so laid plans to get him.</p> + +<p>Next night I was at the same spot with a good +duck call, and some wooden decoys, over which the +skins of wild ducks had been carefully stretched. An +hour after dark he came again, attracted, no doubt, +by the continued quacking. I had another swift<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +glimpse of what seemed only a shadow; saw it poise +and shoot downward before I could find it with my +gun sight, striking the decoys with a great splash and +clatter. Before he discovered his mistake or could get +started again, I had him. The next moment Don +came ashore, proud as a peacock, bringing a great +snowy owl with him—a rare prize, worth ten times +the trouble we had taken to get it.</p> + +<p>Owls are generally very lean and muscular; so +much so, in severe winters, that they are often unable +to fly straight when the wind blows; and a twenty-knot +breeze catches their broad wings and tosses +them about helplessly. This one, however, was fat +as a plover. When I stuffed him, I found that he +had just eaten a big rat and a meadow-lark, hair, +bones, feathers and all. It would be interesting to +know what he intended to do with the duck. Perhaps, +like the crow, he has snug hiding places here +and there, where he keeps things against a time of +need.</p> + +<p>Every severe winter a few of these beautiful owls +find their way to the lonely places of the New England +coast, driven southward, no doubt, by lack of +food in the frozen north. Here in Massachusetts +they seem to prefer the southern shores of Cape Cod, +and especially the island of Nantucket, where besides +the food cast up by the tides, there are larks and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +blackbirds and robins, which linger more or less all +winter. At home in the far north, the owls feed +largely upon hares and grouse; here nothing comes +amiss, from a stray cat, roving too far from the house, +to stray mussels on the beach that have escaped the +sharp eyes of sea-gulls.</p> + +<p>Some of his hunting ways are most curious. One +winter day, in prowling along the beach, I approached +the spot where a day or two before I had been shooting +whistlers (golden-eye ducks) over decoys. The +blind had been made by digging a hole in the +sand. In the bottom was an armful of dry seaweed, +to keep one's toes warm, and just behind the stand +was the stump of a ship's mainmast, the relic of some +old storm and shipwreck, cast up by the tide.</p> + +<p>A commotion of some kind was going on in the +blind as I drew near. Sand and bunches of seaweed +were hurled up at intervals to be swept aside by the +wind. Instantly I dropped out of sight into the dead +beach grass to watch and listen. Soon a white head +and neck bristled up from behind the old mast, every +feather standing straight out ferociously. The head +was perfectly silent a moment, listening; then it +twisted completely round twice so as to look in every +direction. A moment later it had disappeared, and +the seaweed was flying again.</p> + +<p>There was a prize in the old blind evidently. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +what was he doing there? Till then I had supposed +that the owl always takes his game from the wing. +Farther along the beach was a sand bluff overlooking +the proceedings. I gained it after a careful stalk, +crept to the edge, and looked over. Down in the blind +a big snowy owl was digging away like a Trojan, tearing +out sand and seaweed with his great claws, first +one foot, then the other, like a hungry hen, and sending +it up in showers behind him over the old mast. +Every few moments he would stop suddenly, bristle +up all his feathers till he looked comically big and +fierce, take a look out over the log and along the +beach, then fall to digging again furiously.</p> + +<p>I suppose that the object of this bristling up before +each observation was to strike terror into the heart of +any enemy that might be approaching to surprise him +at his unusual work. It is an owl trick. Wounded +birds always use it when approached.</p> + +<p>And the object of the digging? That was perfectly +evident. A beach rat had jumped down into the blind, +after some fragments of lunch, undoubtedly, and being +unable to climb out, had started to tunnel up to the +surface. The owl heard him at work, and started a +stern chase. He won, too, for right in the midst of a +fury of seaweed he shot up with the rat in his claws—so +suddenly that he almost escaped me. Had it +not been for the storm and his underground digging,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +he surely would have heard me long before I could +get near enough to see what he was doing; for his +eyes and ears are wonderfully keen.</p> + +<p>In his southern visits, or perhaps on the ice fields +of the Arctic ocean, he has discovered a more novel +way of procuring his food than digging for it. He +has turned fisherman and learned to fish. Once only +have I seen him get his dinner in this way. It was +on the north shore of Nantucket, one day in the winter +of 1890-91, when the remarkable flight of white +owls came down from the north. The chord of the +bay was full of floating ice, and swimming about the +shoals were thousands of coots. While watching +the latter through my field-glass, I noticed a snowy +owl standing up still and straight on the edge of a +big ice cake. "Now what is that fellow doing there?" +I thought.—"I know! He is trying to drift down +close to that flock of coots before they see him."</p> + +<p>That was interesting; so I sat down on a rock to +watch. Whenever I took my eyes from him a moment, +it was difficult to find him again, so perfectly did his +plumage blend with the white ice upon which he stood +motionless.</p> + +<p>But he was not after the coots. I saw him lean +forward suddenly and plunge a foot into the water. +Then, when he hopped back from the edge, and +appeared to be eating something, it dawned upon me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +that he was fishing—and fishing like a true sportsman, +out on the ice alone, with only his own skill to +depend upon. In a few minutes he struck again, and +this time rose with a fine fish, which he carried to the +shore to devour at leisure.</p> + +<p>For a long time that fish was to me the most puzzling +thing in the whole incident; for at that season +no fish are to be found, except in deep water off shore. +Some weeks later I learned that, just previous to the +incident, several fishermen's dories, with full fares, had +been upset on the east side of the island when trying +to land through a heavy surf. The dead fish had +been carried around by the tides, and the owl had +been deceived into showing his method of fishing. +Undoubtedly, in his northern home, when the ice +breaks up and the salmon are running, he goes fishing +from an ice cake as a regular occupation.</p> + +<p>The owl lit upon a knoll, not two hundred yards +from where I sat motionless, and gave me a good +opportunity of watching him at his meal. He treated +the fish exactly as he would have treated a rat or duck: +stood on it with one foot, gripped the long claws of +the other through it, and tore it to pieces savagely, as +one would a bit of paper. The beak was not used, +except to receive the pieces, which were conveyed up +to it by his foot, as a parrot eats. He devoured everything—fins, +tail, skin, head, and most of the bones,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +in great hungry mouthfuls. Then he hopped to the +top of the knoll, sat up straight, puffed out his feathers +to look big, and went to sleep. But with the first +slight movement I made to creep nearer, he was wide +awake and flew to a higher point. Such hearing is +simply marvelous.</p> + +<p>The stomach of an owl is peculiar, there being no +intermediate crop, as in other birds. Every part of +his prey small enough (and the mouth and throat of +an owl are large out of all proportion) is greedily swallowed. +Long after the flesh is digested, feathers, fur, +and bones remain in the stomach, softened by acids, +till everything is absorbed that can afford nourishment, +even to the quill shafts, and the ends and marrow +of bones. The dry remains are then rolled into large +pellets by the stomach, and disgorged.</p> + +<p>This, by the way, suggests the best method of finding +an owl's haunts. It is to search, not overhead, +but on the ground under large trees, till a pile of these +little balls, of dry feathers and hair and bones, reveals +the nest or roosting place above.</p> + +<p>It seems rather remarkable that my fisherman-owl +did not make a try at the coots that were so plenty +about him. Rarely, I think, does he attempt to strike +a bird of any kind in the daytime. His long training +at the north, where the days are several months long, +has adapted his eyes to seeing perfectly, both in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>sunshine +and in darkness; and with us he spends the +greater part of each day hunting along the beaches. +The birds at such times are never molested. He +seems to know that he is not good at dodging; that +they are all quicker than he, and are not to be caught +napping. And the birds, even the little birds, have +no fear of him in the sunshine; though they shiver +themselves to sleep when they think of him at night.</p> + +<p>I have seen the snowbirds twittering contentedly +near him. Once I saw him fly out to sea in the midst +of a score of gulls, which paid no attention to him. At +another time I saw him fly over a large flock of wild +ducks that were preening themselves in the grass. +He kept straight on; and the ducks, so far as I could +see, merely stopped their toilet for an instant, and +turned up one eye so as to see him better. Had it +been dusk, the whole flock would have shot up into +the air at the first startled quack—all but one, which +would have stayed with the owl.</p> + +<p>His favorite time for hunting is the hour after dusk, +or just before daylight, when the birds are restless on +the roost. No bird is safe from him then. The fierce +eyes search through every tree and bush and bunch +of grass. The keen ears detect every faintest chirp, +or rustle, or scratching of tiny claws on the roost. +Nothing that can be called a sound escapes them. +The broad, soft wings tell no tale of his presence, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +his swoop is swift and sure. He utters no sound. +Like a good Nimrod he hunts silently.</p> + +<p>The flight of an owl, noiseless as the sweep of a +cloud shadow, is the most remarkable thing about +him. The wings are remarkably adapted to the silent +movement that is essential to surprising birds at dusk. +The feathers are long and soft. The laminæ extending +from the wing quills, instead of ending in the +sharp feather edge of other birds, are all drawn out to +fine hair points, through which the air can make no +sound as it rushes in the swift wing-beats. The <i>whish</i> +of a duck's wings can be heard two or three hundred +yards on a still night. The wings of an eagle rustle +like silk in the wind as he mounts upward. A sparrow's +wings flutter or whir as he changes his flight. Every +one knows the startled rush of a quail or grouse. But +no ear ever heard the passing of a great owl, spreading +his five-foot wings in rapid flight.</p> + +<p>He knows well, however, when to vary his program. +Once I saw him hovering at dusk over some wild +land covered with bushes and dead grass, a favorite +winter haunt of meadow-larks. His manner showed +that he knew his game was near. He kept hovering +over a certain spot, swinging off noiselessly to right +or left, only to return again. Suddenly he struck his +wings twice over his head with a loud flap, and +swooped instantly. It was a clever trick. The bird<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +beneath had been waked by the sound, or startled +into turning his head. With the first movement the +owl had him.</p> + +<p>All owls have the habit of sitting still upon some +high point which harmonizes with the general color +of their feathers, and swooping upon any sound or +movement that indicates game. The long-eared, or +eagle-owl invariably selects a dark colored stub, on +top of which he appears as a part of the tree itself, +and is seldom noticed; while the snowy owl, whose +general color is soft gray, will search out a birch or +a lightning-blasted stump, and sitting up still and +straight, so hide himself in plain sight that it takes +a good eye to find him.</p> + +<p>The swooping habit leads them into queer mistakes +sometimes. Two or three times, when sitting or +lying still in the woods watching for birds, my head +has been mistaken for a rat or squirrel, or some +other furry quadruped, by owls, which swooped and +brushed me with their wings, and once left the marks +of their claws, before discovering their mistake.</p> + +<p>Should any boy reader ever have the good fortune +to discover one of these rare birds some winter day +in tramping along the beaches, and wish to secure +him as a specimen, let him not count on the old idea +that an owl cannot see in the daytime. On the contrary, +let him proceed exactly as he would in stalking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +a deer: get out of sight, and to leeward, if possible; +then take every advantage of bush and rock and +beach-grass to creep within range, taking care to +advance only when his eyes are turned away, and +remembering that his ears are keen enough to detect +the passing of a mouse in the grass from an +incredible distance.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the crows find one of these snowy visitors +on the beach, and make a great fuss and racket, +as they always do when an owl is in sight. At such +times he takes his stand under a bank, or in the lee +of a rock, where the crows cannot trouble him from +behind, and sits watching them fiercely. Woe be to +the one that ventures too near. A plunge, a grip of +his claw, a weak <i>caw</i>, and it's all over. That seems +to double the crows' frenzy—and that is the one +moment when you can approach rapidly from behind. +But you must drop flat when the crows perceive you; +for the owl is sure to take a look around for the cause +of their sudden alarm. If he sees nothing suspicious +he will return to his shelter to eat his crow, or just to +rest his sensitive ears after all the pother. A quarter-mile +away the crows sit silent, watching you and him.</p> + +<p>And now a curious thing happens. The crows, +that a moment ago were clamoring angrily about +their enemy, watch with a kind of intense interest as +you creep towards him. Half way to the rock behind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +which he is hiding, they guess your purpose, and a +low rapid chatter begins among them. One would +think that they would exult in seeing him surprised +and killed; but that is not crow nature. They would +gladly worry the owl to death if they could, but they +will not stand by and see him slain by a common +enemy. The chatter ceases suddenly. Two or three +swift fliers leave the flock, circle around you, and +speed over the rock, uttering short notes of alarm. +With the first sharp note, which all birds seem to +understand, the owl springs into the air, turns, sees +you, and is off up the beach. The crows rush after +him with crazy clamor, and speedily drive him to +cover again. But spare yourself more trouble. It +is useless to try stalking any game while the crows +are watching.</p> + +<p>Sometimes you can drive or ride quite near to one +of these birds, the horse apparently removing all his +suspicion. But if you are on foot, take plenty of +time and care and patience, and shoot your prize on +the first stalk if possible. Once alarmed, he will lead +you a long chase, and most likely escape in the end.</p> + +<p>I learned the wisdom of this advice in connection +with the first snowy owl I had ever met outside a +museum. I surprised him early one winter morning +eating a brant, which he had caught asleep on the +shore. He saw me, and kept making short flights<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +from point to point in a great circle—five miles, perhaps, +and always in the open—evidently loath to +abandon his feast to the crows; while I followed with +growing wonder and respect, trying every device of +the still hunter to creep within range. That was the +same owl which I last saw at dusk, flying straight out +to sea among the gulls.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span><br /></p> +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image181.png" width="600" height="232" alt="A CHRISTMAS CAROL" title="" /> +</p> + +<h2>XIV.</h2> + + +<p>The Christmas carol, sung by a chorus of fresh +children's voices, is perhaps the most perfect +expression of the spirit of Christmastide. Especially +is this true of the old English and German carols, +which seem to grow only sweeter, more mellow, more +perfectly expressive of the love and good-will that +inspired them, as the years go by. Yet always at +Christmas time there is with me the memory of one +carol sweeter than all, which was sung to me alone +by a little minstrel from the far north, with the wind +in the pines humming a soft accompaniment.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Doubtless many readers have sometimes seen in +winter flocks of stranger birds—fluffy gray visitors, +almost as large as a robin—flying about the lawns +with soft whistling calls, or feeding on the ground, so +tame and fearless that they barely move aside as you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +approach. The beak is short and thick; the back of +the head and a large patch just above the tail are golden +brown; and across the wings are narrow double +bars of white. All the rest is soft gray, dark above and +light beneath. If you watch them on the ground, you +will see that they have a curious way of moving about +like a golden-winged woodpecker in the same position. +Sometimes they put one foot before the other, in +funny little attempt at a dignified walk, like the blackbirds; +again they hop like a robin, but much more +awkwardly, as if they were not accustomed to walking +and did not quite know how to use their feet—which +is quite true.</p> + +<p>The birds are pine-grosbeaks, and are somewhat +irregular winter visitors from the far north. Only +when the cold is most severe, and the snow lies deep +about Hudson Bay, do they leave their nesting places +to spend a few weeks in bleak New England as a winter +resort. Their stay with us is short and uncertain. +Long ere the first bluebird has whistled to us from +the old fence rail that, if we please, spring is coming, +the grosbeaks are whistling of spring, and singing +their love songs in the forests of Labrador.</p> + +<p>A curious thing about the flocks we see in winter +is that they are composed almost entirely of females. +The male bird is very rare with us. You can tell +him instantly by his brighter color and his beautiful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +crimson breast. Sometimes the flocks contain a few +young males, but until the first mating season has +tipped their breast feathers with deep crimson they +are almost indistinguishable from their sober colored +companions.</p> + +<p>This crimson breast shield, by the way, is the family +mark or coat of arms of the grosbeaks, just as the scarlet +crest marks all the woodpeckers. And if you ask a +Micmac, deep in the woods, how the grosbeak got his +shield, he may tell you a story that will interest you +as did the legend of Hiawatha and the woodpecker +in your childhood days.</p> + +<p>If the old male, with his proud crimson, be rare with +us, his beautiful song is still more so. Only in the +deep forests, by the lonely rivers of the far north, where +no human ear ever hears, does he greet the sunrise +from the top of some lofty spruce. There also he pours +into the ears of his sober little gray wife the sweetest +love song of the birds. It is a flood of soft warbling +notes, tinkling like a brook deep under the ice, tumbling +over each other in a quiet ecstasy of harmony; +mellow as the song of the hermit-thrush, but much +softer, as if he feared lest any should hear but her to +whom he sang. Those who know the music of the +rose-breasted grosbeak (not his robin-like song of +spring, but the exquisitely soft warble to his brooding +mate) may multiply its sweetness indefinitely,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +and so form an idea of what the pine-grosbeak's +song is like.</p> + +<p>But sometimes he forgets himself in his winter +visit, and sings as other birds do, just because his +world is bright; and then, once in a lifetime, a New +England bird lover hears him, and remembers; and +regrets for the rest of his life that the grosbeak's +northern country life has made him so shy a visitor.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>One Christmas morning, a few years ago, the new-fallen +snow lay white and pure over all the woods and +fields. It was soft and clinging as it fell on Christmas +eve. Now every old wall and fence was a carved +bench of gleaming white; every post and stub had a +soft white robe and a tall white hat; and every little +bush and thicket was a perfect fairyland of white +arches and glistening columns, and dark grottoes +walled about with delicate frostwork of silver and +jewels. And then the glory, dazzling beyond all words, +when the sun rose and shone upon it!</p> + +<p>Before sunrise I was out. Soon the jumping flight +and cheery good-morning of a downy woodpecker led +me to an old field with scattered evergreen clumps. +There is no better time for a quiet peep at the birds +than the morning after a snow-storm, and no better +place than the evergreens. If you can find them at +all (which is not certain, for they have mysterious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +ways of disappearing before a storm), you will find +them unusually quiet, and willing to bear your scrutiny +indifferently, instead of flying off into deeper coverts.</p> + +<p>I had scarcely crossed the wall when I stopped at +hearing a new bird song, so amazingly sweet that it +could only be a Christmas message, yet so out of +place that the listener stood doubting whether his +ears were playing him false, wondering whether the +music or the landscape would not suddenly vanish as +an unreal thing. The song was continuous—a soft +melodious warble, full of sweetness and suggestion; +but suggestion of June meadows and a summer sunrise, +rather than of snow-packed evergreens and +Christmastide. To add to the unreality, no ear could +tell where the song came from; its own muffled +quality disguised the source perfectly. I searched the +trees in front; there was no bird there. I looked +behind; there was no place for a bird to sing. I +remembered the redstart, how he calls sometimes +from among the rocks, and refuses to show himself, +and runs and hides when you look for him. I +searched the wall; but not a bird track marked the +snow. All the while the wonderful carol went on, +now in the air, now close beside me, growing more +and more bewildering as I listened. It took me a +good half-hour to locate the sound; then I understood.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p> + +<p>Near me was a solitary fir tree with a bushy top. +The bird, whoever he was, had gone to sleep up there, +close against the trunk, as birds do, for protection. +During the night the soft snow gathered thicker and +thicker upon the flexible branches. Their tips bent +with the weight till they touched the trunk below, +forming a green bower, about which the snow packed +all night long, till it was completely closed in. The +bird was a prisoner inside, and singing as the morning +sun shone in through the walls of his prison-house.</p> + +<p>As I listened, delighted with the carol and the +minstrel's novel situation, a mass of snow, loosened +by the sun, slid from the snow bower, and a pine-grosbeak +appeared in the doorway. A moment he +seemed to look about curiously over the new, white, +beautiful world; then he hopped to the topmost twig +and, turning his crimson breast to the sunrise, poured +out his morning song; no longer muffled, but sweet +and clear as a wood-thrush bell ringing the sunset.</p> + +<p>Once, long afterward, I heard his softer love song, +and found his nest in the heart of a New Brunswick +forest. Till then it was not known that he ever built +south of Labrador. But even that, and the joy of discovery, +lacked the charm of this rare sweet carol, +coming all unsought and unexpected, as good things +do, while our own birds were spending the Christmas +time and singing the sunrise in Florida.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XV_MOOWEEN_THE_BEAR" id="XV_MOOWEEN_THE_BEAR"></a>XV. MOOWEEN THE BEAR.</h2> + + +<p><span class="dropcap187"><span class="dropcap">E</span></span>ver since nursery times +Bruin has been largely +a creature of imagination. +He dwells there +a ferocious beast, +prowling about gloomy +woods, red eyed and dangerous, +ready to rush upon the +unwary traveler and eat him +on the spot.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, indeed, we +have seen him out of imagination. +There he is a poor, +tired, clumsy creature, footsore +and dusty, with a halter +round his neck, and a swarthy +foreigner to make his life +miserable. At the word he +rises to his hind legs, hunches his shoulders, and lunges +awkwardly round in a circle, while the foreigner sings +<i>Horry, horry, dum-dum</i>, and his wife passes the hat.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + +<p>We children pity the bear, as we watch, and forget +the other animal that frightens us when near the +woods at night. But he passes on at last, with a +troop of boys following to the town limits. Next day +Bruin comes back, and lives in imagination as ugly +and frightful as ever.</p> + +<p>But Mooween the Bear, as the northern Indians +call him, the animal that lives up in the woods of +Maine and Canada, is a very different kind of creature. +He is big and glossy black, with long white teeth +and sharp black claws, like the imagination bear. +Unlike him, however, he is shy and wild, and timid as +any rabbit. When you camp in the wilderness at +night, the rabbit will come out of his form in the +ferns to pull at your shoe, or nibble a hole in the salt +bag, while you sleep. He will play twenty pranks +under your very eyes. But if you would see Mooween, +you must camp many summers, and tramp many a +weary mile through the big forests before catching a +glimpse of him, or seeing any trace save the deep +tracks, like a barefoot boy's, left in some soft bit of +earth in his hurried flight.</p> + +<p>Mooween's ears are quick, and his nose very keen. +The slightest warning from either will generally send +him off to the densest cover or the roughest hillside +in the neighborhood. Silently as a black shadow he +glides away, if he has detected your approach from a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +distance. But if surprised and frightened, he dashes +headlong through the brush with crash of branches, +and bump of fallen logs, and volleys of dirt and dead +wood flung out behind him as he digs his toes into +the hillside in his frantic haste to be away.</p> + +<p>In the first startled instant of such an encounter, +one thinks there must be twenty bears scrambling up +the hill. And if you should perchance get a glimpse +of the game, you will be conscious chiefly of a funny +little pair of wrinkled black feet, turned up at you so +rapidly that they actually seem to twinkle through a +cloud of flying loose stuff.</p> + +<p>That was the way in which I first met Mooween. +He was feeding peaceably on blueberries, just stuffing +himself with the ripe fruit that tinged with blue a +burned hillside, when I came round the turn of a deer +path. There he was, the mighty, ferocious beast—and +my only weapon a trout-rod!</p> + +<p>We discovered each other at the same instant. +Words can hardly measure the mutual consternation. +I felt scared; and in a moment it flashed upon me +that he looked so. This last observation was like a +breath of inspiration. It led me to make a demonstration +before he should regain his wits. I jumped +forward with a flourish, and threw my hat at him.—</p> + +<p><i>Boo!</i> said I.</p> + +<p><i>Hoof, woof!</i> said Mooween. And away he went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +up the hill in a desperate scramble, with loose stones +rattling, and the bottoms of his feet showing constantly +through the volley of dirt and chips flung out +behind him.</p> + +<p>That killed the fierce imagination bear of childhood +days deader than any bullet could have done, and +convinced me that Mooween is at heart a timid creature. +Still, this was a young bear, as was also one +other upon whom I tried the same experiment, with +the same result. Had he been older and bigger, it +might have been different. In that case I have found +that a good rule is to go your own way unobtrusively, +leaving Mooween to his devices. All animals, +whether wild or domestic, respect a man who neither +fears nor disturbs them.</p> + +<p>Mooween's eyes are his weak point. They are +close together, and seem to focus on the ground a few +feet in front of his nose. At twenty yards to leeward +he can never tell you from a stump or a caribou, +should you chance to be standing still.</p> + +<p>If fortunate enough to find the ridge where he +sleeps away the long summer days, one is almost sure +to get a glimpse of him by watching on the lake +below. It is necessary only to sit perfectly still in +your canoe among the water-grasses near shore. +When near a lake, a bear will almost invariably come +down about noontime to sniff carefully all about, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +lap the water, and perhaps find a dead fish before +going back for his afternoon sleep.</p> + +<p>Four or five times I have sat thus in my canoe +while Mooween passed close by, and never suspected +my presence till a chirp drew his attention. It is +curious at such times, when there is no wind to bring +the scent to his keen nose, to see him turn his head to +one side, and wrinkle his forehead in the vain endeavor +to make out the curious object there in the grass. At +last he rises on his hind legs, and stares long and +intently. It seems as if he must recognize you, with +his nose pointing straight at you, his eyes looking +straight into yours. But he drops on all fours again, +and glides silently into the thick bushes that fringe +the shore.</p> + +<p>Don't stir now, nor make the least sound. He +is in there, just out of sight, sitting on his haunches, +using nose and ears to catch your slightest message.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes pass by in intense silence. Down on +the shore, fifty yards below, a slight swaying of the +bilberry bushes catches your eye. That surely is not +the bear! There has not been a sound since he disappeared. +A squirrel could hardly creep through that +underbrush without noise enough to tell where he +was. But the bushes sway again, and Mooween reappears +suddenly for another long look at the suspicious +object. Then he turns and plods his way along<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +shore, rolling his head from side to side as if completely +mystified.</p> + +<p>Now swing your canoe well out into the lake, and +head him off on the point, a quarter of a mile below. +Hold the canoe quiet just outside the lily pads by +grasping a few tough stems, and sit low. This time +the big object catches Mooween's eye as he rounds +the point; and you have only to sit still to see him +go through the same maneuvers with greater mystification +than before.</p> + +<p>Once, however, he varied his program, and gave +me a terrible start, letting me know for a moment +just how it feels to be hunted, at the same time +showing with what marvelous stillness he can glide +through the thickest cover when he chooses.</p> + +<p>It was early evening on a forest lake. The water +lay like a great mirror, with the sunset splendor still +upon it. The hush of twilight was over the wilderness. +Only the hermit-thrushes sang wild and sweet +from a hundred dead spruce tops.</p> + +<p>I was drifting about, partly in the hope to meet +Mooween, whose tracks were very numerous at the +lower end of the lake, when I heard him walking in +the shallow water. Through the glass I made him +out against the shore, as he plodded along in my +direction.</p> + +<p>I had long been curious to know how near a bear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> +would come to a man without discovering him. Here +was an opportunity. The wind at sunset had been +in my favor; now there was not the faintest breath +stirring.</p> + +<p>Hiding the canoe, I sat down in the sand on a +little point, where dense bushes grew down to within +a few feet of the water's edge. Head and shoulders +were in plain sight above the water-grass. My intentions +were wholly peaceable, notwithstanding the rifle +that lay across my knees. It was near the mating +season, when Mooween's temper is often dangerous; +and one felt much more comfortable with the chill of +the cold iron in his hands.</p> + +<p>Mooween came rapidly along the shore meanwhile, +evidently anxious to reach the other end of the lake. +In the mating season bears use the margins of lakes +and streams as natural highways. As he drew nearer +and nearer I gazed with a kind of fascination at the +big unconscious brute. He carried his head low, and +dropped his feet with a heavy splash into the shallow +water.</p> + +<p>At twenty yards he stopped as if struck, with head +up and one paw lifted, sniffing suspiciously. Even +then he did not see me, though only the open shore +lay between us. He did not use his eyes at all, but +laid his great head back on his shoulders and sniffed +in every direction, rocking his brown muzzle up and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +down the while, so as to take in every atom from +the tainted air.</p> + +<p>A few slow careful steps forward, and he stopped +again, looked straight into my eyes, then beyond me +towards the lake, all the while sniffing. I was still +only part of the shore. Yet he was so near that I +caught the gleam of his eyes, and saw the nostrils +swell and the muzzle twitch nervously.</p> + +<p>Another step or two, and he planted his fore feet +firmly. The long hairs began to rise along his spine, +and under his wrinkled chops was a flash of white +teeth. Still he had no suspicion of the motionless +object there in the grass. He looked rather out on +the lake. Then he glided into the brush and was +lost to sight and hearing.</p> + +<p>He was so close that I scarcely dared breathe as I +waited, expecting him to come out farther down the +shore. Five minutes passed without the slightest +sound to indicate his whereabouts, though I was +listening intently in the dead hush that was on the +lake. All the while I smelled him strongly. One +can smell a bear almost as far as he can a deer, though +the scent does not cling so long to the underbrush.</p> + +<p>A bush swayed slightly below where he had disappeared. +I was watching it closely when some +sudden warning—I know not what, for I did not +hear but only felt it—made me turn my head quickly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +There, not six feet away, a huge head and shoulders +were thrust out of the bushes on the bank, and a pair +of gleaming eyes were peering intently down upon +me in the grass. He had been watching me at arm's +length probably two or three minutes. Had a muscle +moved in all that time, I have no doubt that he would +have sprung upon me. As it was, who can say what +was passing behind that curious, half-puzzled, half-savage +gleam in his eyes?</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 399px;"> +<img src="images/image195.jpg" width="399" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</p> + +<p>He drew quickly back as a sudden movement on +my part threw the rifle into position. A few minutes +later I heard the snap of a rotten twig some distance +away. Not another sound told of his presence till he +broke out onto the shore, fifty yards above, and went +steadily on his way up the lake.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Mooween is something of a humorist in his own +way. When not hungry he will go out of his way to +frighten a bullfrog away from his sun-bath on the +shore, for no other purpose, evidently, than just to see +him jump. Watching him thus amusing himself one +afternoon, I was immensely entertained by seeing him +turn his head to one side, and wrinkle his eyebrows, +as each successive frog said <i>ke'dunk</i>, and went splashing +away over the lily pads.</p> + +<p>A pair of cubs are playful as young foxes, while +their extreme awkwardness makes them a dozen times<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +more comical. Simmo, my Indian guide, tells me that +the cubs will sometimes run away and hide when +they hear the mother bear returning. No amount of +coaxing or of anxious fear on her part will bring them +back, till she searches diligently to find them.</p> + +<p>Once only have I had opportunity to see the young +at play. There were two of them, nearly full-grown, +with the mother. The most curious thing was to see +them stand up on their hind legs and cuff each other +soundly, striking and warding like trained boxers. +Then they would lock arms and wrestle desperately +till one was thrown, when the other promptly seized +him by throat or paw, and pretended to growl frightfully.</p> + +<p>They were well fed, evidently, and full of good +spirits as two boys. But the mother was cross and +out of sorts. She kept moving about uneasily, as if +the rough play irritated her nerves. Occasionally, as +she sat for a moment with hind legs stretched out +flat and fore paws planted between them, one of the +cubs would approach and attempt some monkey play. +A sound cuff on the ear invariably sent him whimpering +back to his companion, who looked droll enough +the while, sitting with his tongue out and his head +wagging humorously as he watched the experiment. +It was getting toward the time of year when she +would mate again, and send them off into the world<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +to shift for themselves. And this was perhaps their +first hard discipline.</p> + +<p>Once also I caught an old bear enjoying himself +in a curious way. It was one intensely hot day, in +the heart of a New Brunswick wilderness. Mooween +came out onto the lake shore and lumbered along, +twisting uneasily and rolling his head as if very much +distressed by the heat. I followed silently close behind +in my canoe.</p> + +<p>Soon he came to a cool spot under the alders, +which was probably what he was looking for. A +small brook made an eddy there, and a lot of driftweed +had collected over a bed of soft black mud. +The stump of a huge cedar leaned out over it, some +four or five feet above the water.</p> + +<p>First he waded in to try the temperature. Then +he came out and climbed the cedar stump, where he +sniffed in every direction, as is his wont before lying +down. Satisfied at last, he balanced himself carefully +and gave a big jump—Oh, so awkwardly!—with legs +out flat, and paws up, and mouth open as if he were +laughing at himself. Down he came, <i>souse</i>, with a +tremendous splash that sent mud and water flying in +every direction. And with a deep <i>uff-guff</i> of pure +delight, he settled himself in his cool bed for a comfortable +nap.</p> + +<p>In his fondness for fish, Mooween has discovered an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +interesting way of catching them. In June and July +immense numbers of trout and salmon run up the +wilderness rivers on their way to the spawning +grounds. Here and there, on small streams, are +shallow riffles, where large fish are often half out of +water as they struggle up. On one of these riffles +Mooween stations himself during the first bright +moonlight nights of June, when the run of fish is +largest on account of the higher tides at the river +mouth. And Mooween knows, as well as any other +fisherman, the kind of night on which to go fishing. +He knows also the virtue of keeping still. As a big +salmon struggles by, Mooween slips a paw under him, +tosses him to the shore by a dexterous flip, and springs +after him before he can flounder back.</p> + +<p>When hungry, Mooween has as many devices as a +fox for getting a meal. He tries flipping frogs from +among the lily pads in the same way that he catches +salmon. That failing, he takes to creeping through +the water-grass, like a mink, and striking his game +dead with a blow of his paw.</p> + +<p>Or he finds a porcupine loafing through the woods, +and follows him about to throw dirt and stones at +him, carefully refraining from touching him the while, +till the porcupine rolls himself into a ball of bristling +quills,—his usual method of defense. Mooween +slips a paw under him, flips him against a tree to stun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +him, and bites him in the belly, where there are no +quills. If he spies the porcupine in a tree, he will +climb up, if he is a young bear, and try to shake him +off. But he soon learns better, and saves his strength +for more fruitful exertions.</p> + +<p>Mooween goes to the lumber camps regularly after +his winter sleep and, breaking in through door or +roof, helps himself to what he finds. If there happens +to be a barrel of pork there, he will roll it into the +open air, if the door is wide enough, before breaking +in the head with a blow of his paw.</p> + +<p>Should he find a barrel of molasses among the +stores, his joy is unbounded. The head is broken in +on the instant and Mooween eats till he is surfeited. +Then he lies down and rolls in the sticky sweet, to +prolong the pleasure; and stays in the neighborhood +till every drop has been lapped up.</p> + +<p>Lumbermen have long since learned of his strength +and cunning in breaking into their strong camps. +When valuable stores are left in the woods, they are +put into special camps, called bear camps, where doors +and roofs are fastened with chains and ingenious log +locks to keep Mooween out.</p> + +<p>Near the settlements Mooween speedily locates the +sweet apple trees among the orchards. These he +climbs by night, and shakes off enough apples to last +him for several visits. Every kind of domestic animal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +is game for him. He will lie at the edge of a clearing +for hours, with the patience of a cat, waiting for turkey +or sheep or pig to come within range of his swift rush.</p> + +<p>His fondness for honey is well known. When he +has discovered a rotten tree in which wild bees have +hidden their store, he will claw at the bottom till it +falls. Curling one paw under the log he sinks the +claws deep into the wood. The other paw grips the +log opposite the first, and a single wrench lays it open. +The clouds of angry insects about his head meanwhile +are as little regarded as so many flies. He knows the +thickness of his skin, and they know it. When the +honey is at last exposed, and begins to disappear in +great hungry mouthfuls, the bees also fall upon it, to +gorge themselves with the fruit of their hard labor +before Mooween shall have eaten it all.</p> + +<p>Everything eatable in the woods ministers at times +to Mooween's need. Nuts and berries are favorite +dishes in their season. When these and other delicacies +fail, he knows where to dig for edible roots. A +big caribou, wandering near his hiding place, is pulled +down and stunned by a blow on the head. Then, +when the meat has lost its freshness, he will hunt for +an hour after a wood-mouse he has seen run under a +stone, or pull a rotten log to pieces for the ants and +larvæ concealed within.</p> + +<p>These last are favorite dishes with him. In a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +burned district, where ants and berries abound, one is +continually finding charred logs, in which the ants +nest by thousands, split open from end to end. A +few strong claw marks, and the lick of a moist tongue +here and there, explain the matter. It shows the +extremes of Mooween's taste. Next to honey he +prefers red ants, which are sour as pickles.</p> + +<p>Mooween is even more expert as a boxer than as a +fisherman. When the skin is stripped from his fore +arms, they are seen to be of great size, with muscles +as firm to the touch as so much rubber. Long practice +has made him immensely strong, and quick as a +flash to ward and strike. Woe be to the luckless dog, +however large, that ventures in the excitement of the +hunt within reach of his paw. A single swift stroke +will generally put the poor brute out of the hunt +forever.</p> + +<p>Once Simmo caught a bear by the hind leg in a +steel trap. It was a young bear, a two-year-old; and +Simmo thought to save his precious powder by killing +it with a club. He cut a heavy maple stick and, +swinging it high above his head, advanced to the trap. +Mooween rose to his hind legs, and looked him steadily +in the eye, like the trained boxer that he is. Down +came the club with a sweep to have felled an ox. +There was a flash from Mooween's paw; the club +spun away into the woods; and Simmo just escaped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +a fearful return blow by dropping to the ground and +rolling out of reach, leaving his cap in Mooween's +claws. A wink later, and his scalp would have hung +there instead.</p> + +<p>In the mating season, when three or four bears +often roam the woods together in fighting humor, +Mooween uses a curious kind of challenge. Rising +on his hind legs against a big fir or spruce, he tears +the bark with his claws as high as he can reach on +either side. Then placing his back against the trunk, +he turns his head and bites into the tree with his long +canine teeth, tearing out a mouthful of the wood. That +is to let all rivals know just how big a bear he is.</p> + +<p>The next bear that comes along, seeking perhaps +to win the mate of his rival and following her trail, +sees the challenge and measures his height and reach +in the same way, against the same tree. If he can +bite as high, or higher, he keeps on, and a terrible +fight is sure to follow. But if, with his best endeavors, +his marks fall short of the deep scars above, he prudently +withdraws, and leaves it to a bigger bear to +risk an encounter.</p> + +<p>In the wilderness one occasionally finds a tree on +which three or four bears have thus left their challenge. +Sometimes all the bears in a neighborhood +seem to have left their records in the same place. I +remember well one such tree, a big fir, by a lonely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +little beaver pond, where the separate challenges had +become indistinguishable on the torn bark. The +freshest marks here were those of a long-limbed old +ranger—a monster he must have been—with a clear +reach of a foot above his nearest rival. Evidently no +other bear had cared to try after such a record.</p> + +<p>Once, in the mating season, I discovered quite by +accident that Mooween can be called, like a hawk or +a moose, or indeed any other wild creature, if one +but knows how. It was in New Brunswick, where I +was camped on a wild forest river. At midnight I was +back at a little opening in the woods, watching some +hares at play in the bright moonlight. When they +had run away, I called a wood-mouse out from his den +under a stump; and then a big brown owl from across +the river—which almost scared the life out of my poor +little wood-mouse. Suddenly a strange cry sounded +far back on the mountain. I listened curiously, then +imitated the cry, in the hope of hearing it again and +of remembering it; for I had never before heard anything +like the sound, and had no idea what creature +produced it. There was no response, however, and I +speedily grew interested in the owls; for by this time +two or three more were hooting about me, all called +in by the first comer. When they had gone I tried +the strange call again. Instantly it was answered +close at hand. The creature was coming.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> + +<p>I stole out into the middle of the opening, and sat +very still on a fallen log. Ten minutes passed in +intense silence. Then a twig snapped behind me. +I turned—and there was Mooween, just coming into +the opening. I shall not soon forget how he looked, +standing there big and black in the moonlight; nor +the growl deep down in his throat, that grew deeper +as he watched me. We looked straight into each +other's eyes a brief, uncertain moment. Then he +drew back silently into the dense shadow.</p> + +<p>There is another side to Mooween's character, +fortunately a rare one, which is sometimes evident +in the mating season, when his temper leads him to +attack instead of running away, as usual; or when +wounded, or cornered, or roused to frenzy in defense +of the young. Mooween is then a beast to be dreaded, +a great savage brute, possessed of enormous strength +and of a fiend's cunning. I have followed him wounded +through the wilderness, when his every resting place +was scarred with deep gashes, and where broken saplings +testified mutely to the force of his blow. Yet +even here his natural timidity lies close to the surface, +and his ferocity has been greatly exaggerated by +hunters.</p> + +<p>Altogether, Mooween the Bear is a peaceable fellow, +and an interesting one, well worth studying. His +extreme wariness, however, enables him generally to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +escape observation; and there are undoubtedly many +queer ways of his yet to be discovered by some one +who, instead of trying to scare the life out of him by +a shout or a rifle-shot in the rare moments when he +shows himself, will have the patience to creep near, +and find out just what he is doing. Only in the +deepest wilderness is he natural and unconscious. +There he roams about, entirely alone for the most +part, supplying his numerous wants, and performing +droll capers with all the gravity of an owl, when he +thinks that not even Tookhees, the wood-mouse, is +looking.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ways of Wood Folk, by William J. 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