Transcriber’s Note:

The several full-page illustrations have been repositioned slightly to avoid falling in mid-paragraph. The captions appeared on a separate page. These illustrations were not included in the pagination. Multiple unnumbered blank pages associated with them have been removed.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s [note] at the end of this text for details.

Any corrections are indicated using an underline highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the original text in a small popup.

Any corrections are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the note at the end of the text.

BY CHARLES CONRAD ABBOTT

The Freedom of the Fields. With Frontispiece by Alice Barber Stephens, and three photogravures. Buckram, ornamental, $1.50

Travels in a Tree-Top. With Frontispiece by Alice Barber Stephens, and three photogravures. Buckram, ornamental, $1.50

Abbott’s Fireside and Forest Library

The Freedom of the Fields and Travels in a Tree-Top. Two volumes in a box. 12mo. Buckram, ornamental, $3.00

Recent Rambles; Or, In Touch with Nature. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $2.00

The Hermit of Nottingham. A novel. 12mo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.25

When the Century was New. A novel. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00

A Colonial Wooing. A novel. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00

Bird-Land Echoes. Profusely illustrated by William Everett Cram. Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt top, $2.00

The Birds About Us. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $2.00

Abbott’s Bird Library.

The Birds About Us and Bird-Land Echoes. Two volumes in a box. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top, $4.00

TRAVELS IN
A TREE-TOP

An Old-fashioned Garden
By Alice Barber Stephens

TRAVELS IN

⧫ ⧫ A ⧫ ⧫

TREE-TOP BY

CHARLES C. ABBOTT

J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO.

PHILADELPHIA 1898

Copyright, 1894 AND 1897,

BY

J. B. Lippincott Company.

Contents

Illustrations

CHAPTER

FIRST

TRAVELS IN A TREE-TOP

A pearly mist shut out the river, the meadows, and every field for miles. I could not detect the ripple of the outgoing tide, and the heartiest songster sent no cheerful cry above the wide-spreading and low-lying cloud; but above all this silent, desolate, and seemingly deserted outlook there was a wealth of sunshine and a canopy of deep-blue sky. Here and there, as islands in a boundless sea, were the leafy tops of a few tall trees, and these, I fancied, were tempting regions to explore. Travels in a tree-top—surely, here we have a bit of novelty in this worn-out world.

Unless wholly wedded to the town, it is not cheering to think of the surrounding country as worn out. It is but little more than two centuries since the home-seeking folk of other lands came here to trick or trade with the Indians, wild as the untamed world wherein they dwelt; and now we look almost in vain for country as Nature fashioned it. Man may make of a desert a pleasant place, but he also unmakes the forest and bares the wooded hills until as naked and desolate as the fire-swept ruins of his own construction. It is but a matter of a few thousand cart-loads of the hill moved to one side, and the swamp that the farmer dreads because it yields no dollars is obliterated. He has never considered its wealth of suggestiveness. “A fig for the flowers and vermin. I must plant more corn.”

But here and there the tall trees are still standing, and their tops are an untravelled country. I climbed an oak this cool midsummer morning; clambered beyond the mists, which were rolling away as I seated myself far above the ground, safe from intrusion, and resting trustfully on yielding branches that moved so gently in the passing breeze that I scarcely perceived their motion.

How much depends upon our point of view! The woodland path may not be charming if the undergrowth too closely shuts us in. In all we do, we seek a wider vision than our arm’s length. There may be nothing better beyond than at our feet, but we never believe it. It is as natural to ask of the distant as of the future. They are closely akin. Here in the tree-top my wants were supplied. I was only in the least important sense cribbed, cabined, and confined.

Wild life, as we call it, is very discriminating, and that part of it which notices him at all looks upon man as a land animal; one that gropes about the ground, and awkwardly at that, often stumbling and ever making more noise than his progress calls for; but when perched in a tree, as an arboreal creature, he is to be studied anew. So, at least, thought the crows that very soon discovered my lofty quarters. How they chattered and scolded! They dashed near, as if with their ebon wings to cast a spell upon me, and, craning their glossy necks, spoke words of warning. My indifference was exasperating at first, and then, as I did not move, they concluded I was asleep, dead, or a dummy, like those in the corn-fields. The loud expostulations gave place to subdued chatterings, and they were about to leave without further investigation, when, by the pressure of my foot, I snapped a dead twig. I will not attempt description. Perhaps to this day the circumstance is discussed in corvine circles.

It is difficult to realize the freedom of flight. Twisting and turning with perfect ease, adapting their bodies to every change of the fitful wind, these crows did not use their wings with that incessant motion that we need in using our limbs to walk, but floated, rose and fell, as if shadows rather than ponderable bodies. Until we can fly, or, rather, ride in flying-machines, we cannot hope to know much of this flight-life of birds, and it is the better part of their lives. But it was something to-day to be with even these crows in the air. Following their erratic flight from such a point of view, I seemed to be flying. We are given at times to wonder a great deal about birds, and they have equal reason to constantly consider us. Who can say what these crows thought of me? All I can offer to him who would solve the problem is that their curiosity was unbounded, and this is much if their curiosity and ours are akin. Of course they talked. Garner need not have gone to Africa to prove that monkeys talk, and no one can question that crows utter more than mere alarm-cries.

A word more concerning crows. What so absurd, apparently, as this?

“A single crow betokens sorrow,

Two betoken mirth,

Three predict a funeral,

And four a birth.”

Yet it is a very common saying, being repeated whenever a few, or less than five, fly over. It is repeated mechanically, of course, and then forgotten, for no one seems to worry over one or three crows as they do when a looking-glass breaks or the dropped fork sticks up in the floor. Seems to worry, and yet I strongly suspect a trace of superstition lingers in the mind of many a woman. Those who will not sit as one of thirteen at a table are not dead yet. Can it be that all this weakness is only more concealed than formerly, but none the less existent?

I watched the departing crows until they were but mere specks in the sky, and heard, or fancied I heard, their cawing when half a mile away. It is ever a sweet sound to me. It means so much, recalls a long round of jolly years; and what matters the quality of a sound if a merry heart prompts its utterance?

I was not the only occupant of the tree; there were hundreds of other and more active travellers, who often stopped to think or converse with their fellows and then hurried on. I refer to the great, shining, black ants that have such a variety of meaningless nicknames. Its English cousin is asserted to be ill-tempered, if not venomous, and both Chaucer and Shakespeare refer to them as often mad and always treacherous. I saw nothing of this to-day. They were ever on the go and always in a hurry. They seemed not to dissociate me from the tree; perhaps thought me an odd excrescence and of no importance. No one thinks of himself as such, and I forced myself upon the attention of some of the hurrying throng. It was easy to intercept them, and they grew quickly frantic; but their fellows paid no attention to such as I held captive for the moment. I had a small paper box with me, and this I stuck full of pin-holes on every side and then put half a dozen of the ants in it. Holding it in the line of the insects’ march, it immediately became a source of wonderment, and every ant that came by stopped and parleyed with the prisoners. A few returned earthward, and then a number came together, but beyond this I could see nothing in the way of concerted action on the part of the ants at large looking towards succoring their captive fellows. Releasing them, these detained ants at once scattered in all directions, and the incident was quickly forgotten. Where were these ants going, and what was their purpose? I wondered. I was as near the tree’s top as I dared to go, but the ants went on, apparently to the very tips of the tiniest twigs, and not one that I saw came down laden or passed up with any burden. It is not to be supposed they had no purpose in so doing, but what? There is scarcely an hour when we are not called upon to witness just such aimless activity,—that is, aimless so far as we can determine.

Nothing molested these huge black ants, although insect-eating birds came and went continually. One lordly, great-crested fly-catcher eyed them meditatively for some seconds, and then my identity suddenly dawned upon him. His harsh voice, affected by fear, was more out of tune than ever, and, coupled with his precipitant flight, was very amusing. The bird fell off the tree, but quickly caught himself, and then, as usual, curiosity overcame fear. Students of bird-ways should never forget this. The fly-catcher soon took a stand wherefrom to observe me, and, if intently staring at me for thirty seconds was not curiosity, what shall we call it? Is it fair to explain away everything by calling it mere coincidence? It is a common practice, and about as logical as the old cry of “instinct” when I went to school. To have said, when I was a boy, that a bird could think and could communicate ideas to another of its kind, would have brought down ridicule upon my head out of school, and brought down something more weighty if the idea had been expressed in a “composition.” I speak from experience.

To return to the cheerier subject of curiosity in birds: our large hawks have it to a marked degree, and advantage can be taken of this fact if you wish to trap them. I have found this particularly true in winter, when there is a general covering of the ground with snow. Food, of course, is not then quite so plenty, but this does not explain the matter. An empty steel trap on the top of a hay-stack is quite as likely to be tampered with as when baited with a mouse. The hawk will walk all around it, and then put out one foot and touch it here and there. If we can judge from the bird’s actions, the question, What is it, anyway? is running through its mind. I once played a trick upon a splendid black hawk that had been mousing over the fields for half the winter. It often perched upon a stack of straw instead of the lone hickory near by. Early one morning I placed a plump meadow-mouse on the very top of the stack, to which I had attached a dozen long strands of bright-red woollen yarn and a bladder that I had inflated. This was secured to the mouse by a silk cord, and all were so concealed by the snow and straw that the hawk noticed the mouse only. The bird was suspicious at first: it was too unusual for a mouse not to move when a hawk hovered above it. Then the bird alighted on the stack and walked about the mouse, pecking at it once, but not touching it. Then putting out one foot, he seized it with a firm grip, the talons passing through the carcass, and at the same time spread his wings and moved slowly towards the lone hickory that towered near by. I was near enough to see every movement. It was evident that the hawk did not look down at first, and saw nothing of the streaming threads and bobbing bladder; but it did a moment later, and then what a quickening of wings and hasty mounting upward! The hawk was frightened, and gave a violent jerk with one foot, as if to disengage the mouse, but it was ineffectual. The sharp claws had too strong a hold, and the effect was only to more violently bob the bladder. Then the hawk screamed and dashed into the trees near by, and was out of sight.

A curious and disappointing occurrence, while sitting aloft, was the frequent discovery of my presence by birds and their sudden right-about movement and departure. Occasionally I could see them coming as if directly towards me, but their keen eyes noticed the unusual object, and they would dart off with a promptness that showed how completely at home they were while on the wing. Even the bluebirds, usually so tame, had their misgivings, and came to rest in other trees. But if the birds were not always about and above me, there were many below, and the sweet song of the wood-robin from the tangled underbrush seemed clearer and purer than when sifted through a wilderness of leaves.

It was not until noon that the wood and open fields became silent or nearly so, for the red-eye came continually, and, whether insect-hunting in the tree or on the wing, it seemed never to cease its singing, or querulous cry, which more aptly describes its utterance. To hear this sound throughout a long summer day is depressing, particularly if you hear nothing else, for the steady hum of insect-life hardly passes for sound. It was only when I listened for it that I was aware that millions of tiny creatures were filling the air with a humming that varied only as the light breeze carried it away or brought it nearer and clearer than before. There is a vast difference between absolute and comparative or apparent silence. The former is scarcely ever a condition of the open country unless during a still, cold winter night, and never of one of our ordinary woodland tracts. We do find it, however, in the cedar swamps and pine-land, even during summer. I have often stood in “the pines” of Southern New Jersey and tried to detect some sound other than that of my own breathing, but in vain. Not a twig stirred. The dark waters of the pools were motionless; even the scattered clouds above were at rest. It was to be absolutely alone, as if the only living creature upon earth. But ere long a gentle breeze would spring up, there was a light and airy trembling of the pines, and the monotone of a whispered sigh filled the forest. Even this was a relief, and what a joy if some lonely bird passed by and even lisped of its presence! The dee-dee of a titmouse at such a time was sweeter music than the choral service that heralds the coming of a bright June morning.

At noon, the day being torrid, there was comparative silence, and yet as I looked about me I saw ceaseless activity in a small way. The ants were still journeying, and red admiral and yellow swallow-tailed butterflies came near, and the latter even passed high overhead and mingled with the chimney-swifts. Had I been on the ground, walking instead of waiting, I should have sought some sheltered spot and rested, taking a hint from much of the wild life I was watching.

AT NOONTIDE.

Where cluster oaks and runs the rapid brook,

Repose the jutting rocks beneath the ferns;

Here seeks the thrush his hidden leafy nook,

And wandering squirrel to his hole returns.

Afar the steaming river slowly wends

Its tortuous way to mingle with the sea;

No cheerful voice its languid course attends;

The blight of silence rests upon the lea.

Where the wide meadow spreads its wealth of weeds,

Where the rank harvest waves above the field,

The testy hornet in his anger speeds,

And stolid beetle bears his brazen shield.

Give them the glowing, fiery world they love,

Give me the cool retreat beside the stream;

While sweeps the sun the noontide sky above,

Here would I linger with the birds and dream.

The Chesapeake Oak

And now what of the tree itself? Here I have been the better part of a long fore-noon, and scarcely given this fine young oak a thought. A young oak, yet a good deal older than its burden; an oak that was an acorn when the century was new, and now a sturdy growth full sixty feet high, straight of stem to its undermost branches and shapely everywhere. Such trees are not remarkable of themselves, though things of beauty, but at times how suggestive! Think of pre-Columbian America; then there were oaks to make men marvel. “There were giants in those days.” Occasionally we meet with them even now. A year ago I camped on the shore of Chesapeake Bay near an oak that measured eighteen feet six inches in circumference four feet from the ground, and in St. Paul’s church-yard, not a great way off, are five big oaks, one of which is twenty feet around shoulder high from the roots. Such trees are very old. The church-yard was enclosed two centuries ago, and these were big trees then, and so older by far than any monument of white men on the continent, except possible traces of the Norsemen. If a tree such as this in which I have been sitting is full to overflowing with suggestiveness, how much more so a noble patriarch like that upon the bay shore! It is usually not easy to realize the dimensions of a huge tree by merely looking at it, but this mammoth impressed one at first sight. The branches were themselves great trees, and together cast a circular patch of shade, at noon, three paces more than one hundred feet across. As a tree in which to ramble none could have been better shaped. The lowest branches were less than twenty feet from the ground, and after reaching horizontally a long way, curved upward and again outward, dividing finally into the leaf-bearing twigs. Course after course continued in this way, the size decreasing gradually, and the whole forming, as seen from a distance, a magnificent dome-shaped mass. Comparisons with the tree’s surroundings were full of suggestiveness. The ground immediately about was densely covered with rank ferns and the acorn sprouts of one or two years’ growth. Yet, where they were, it seemed but a smoothly-shaven lawn, so insignificant were they when seen with the tree; and the sproutland beyond, which would otherwise have been a wood, was absolutely insignificant. Yet, in truth, everything here was on a grand scale. The ferns were tall, and to prove it I sat upon the ground among them and so shut out all view of the great tree and its surroundings. I spent many hours seated upon different branches of this oak, and every one had features all its own. From those nearest the ground I surveyed the bird-life in the thicket beneath, and was entertained by a pair of nesting cardinal red-birds that came and went as freely as if quite alone, and whistled cheerfully morning, noon, and night. I fancied I made friends with these birds, for early one morning the male bird came to camp, as if to inspect my nest, thinking I was not up, and he expressed his favorable opinion in most glowing terms. A pair of doves, too, had a nest in sight, and their melancholy cooing seemed out of tune here, where Nature had done her work so well. Once, at least, while I was there, the bald eagle came for a few moments, and, big bird as he is, was not conspicuous, and had not a flash of sunlight fallen upon his yellow beak and white head, I should not have been aware of his presence, as he certainly was not of mine. What I took to be a duck-hawk, a few days later, interested me much more. He was a splendid bird, and tarried but a short time. The leaves so concealed him that I was not sure, having no field-glass at the time, but do not think I was mistaken. The eagle did not appear to disturb the fish-hawk’s temper in the least, but the great hawk did, and he was much excited until the bird disappeared in the steam and smoke that as a great cloud rested above Baltimore.

The birds of this retired spot may be divided into two classes,—those of the oak and of the sproutland growths about it, and the birds of the air, principally swallows, which hung over the tree as a trembling cloud. Never were swallows more numerous, except when flocked prior to migration. In the tree and bushes were always many birds, yet often they were far from each other. This gave me an excellent idea of what a great oak really is. Birds quite out of sight and hearing of each other were resting on branches from the same trunk. Although the middle of July, there was no lack of song, and second nesting of many familiar birds is, I judge, more common in Maryland than in New Jersey. Of all the birds that came, the little green herons were the most amusing. A pair doubtless had a nest near by, or young that were not yet on the wing. They walked sedately along the level branches, as a man might pace up and down his study, buried in deep thought. I listened carefully for some expression of content, but they made no sound except when they were startled and flew off. I was much surprised to find the beach-birds occasionally darting among the branches, and once a spotted sandpiper rested a moment near me. These birds we associate with water and the open country, although this species is less aquatic than its fellows. They were always in sight from the door of my tent, and always an earlier bird than I. I recall now standing upon the beach long before sunrise, marking the promises of the coming day, as I interpreted them. The fish-hawks were ahead of me; so, too, the little sand-pipers. Their piping at this time was very clear and musical. It was a delightful accompaniment to the rippling water. The dear old song-sparrows were quiet, and I was very glad; but with the first flooding of the sea with sunlight they all sang out, and the Chesapeake was afar off and I in the home meadows on the Delaware. I prefer novelty when away. It is well to utterly forget, at times, that which we most prize. What boots it to stand on the hill-top, if your thoughts are forever in the lowlands? Twice, from the branches of the old oak, I saw a splendid sunset, but nothing equal to the sunrise of to-day. With many a matter of this life the beginning is better than the end. We had a superb sunset last night. The color was gorgeous, but it was plain and commonplace compared to the sunrise of to-day. Perhaps no tint was really brighter in one case than in the other, but my mind was. The sunset was too closely linked with the death of the day; there was the idea of a grand finale before the curtain drops, and this tends to dull enthusiasm. It is not so with sunrise. It is all freshness,—a matter of birth, of beginning, of a new trial of life,—and with so happy an entrance, the exit should be one of gladness only; but there is no trace of pity in Nature. In awful certainty the night cometh.

I was not surprised at every visit to this tree to find some new form of life resting on its branches. A beautiful garter-snake had reached a low branch by climbing to it from a sapling that reached a little above it. There was no break in the highway that led to its very summit. The grass leaned upon ferns, these upon shrubs, these again upon saplings, and so the tree was reached. Any creeping thing could have climbed just eighty feet above the earth with far less danger than men encounter clambering over hills.

And not only a zoological garden was this and is every other old tree, but the oak had its botanic garden as well. When we consider that many of the branches were so wide and level that one could walk upon them, it is not strange that earth, dead leaves, and water should lodge in many places. Indeed, besides the two gardens I have mentioned, the oak had also an aquarium. But I cannot go into particulars. The parasitic plant-life—not truly such, like the mistletoe—was a striking feature. Maple seeds had lodged and sprouted, and in a saucer-shaped depression where dust and water had lodged a starved hawkweed had got so far towards maturity as to be in bud.

It may appear as utter foolishness to others, but I believe that trees might in time become tiresome. Whether in leaf or bare of foliage, there is a fixedness that palls at last. We are given to looking from the tree to the world beyond; to hurrying from beneath their branches to the open country. To live in a dense forest is akin to living in a great city. There is a sense of confinement against which, sooner or later, we are sure to rebel. We long for change. The man who is perfectly satisfied has no knowledge of what satisfaction really is. Logical or not, I turned my attention from the tree at last, and thought, What of the outlook? Directly north, in the shallow basin, hemmed in by low hills, lies the town. A cloud of smoke and steam rests over it, and barely above it reach the church-spires and tall factory chimneys, as if the place was struggling to be free, but only had its finger-tips out of the mire of the town, of which I know but little. My wonder is that so many people stay there, and, stranger still, wild life not only crowds its outskirts, but ventures into its very midst. In one town, not far away, I found the nests of seventeen species of birds, but then there was a large old cemetery and a millpond within its boundaries. Time was when through the town before me there flowed a creek, and a pretty wood flourished along its south bank. The creek is now a sewer, and an open one at that, and yet the musk-rat cannot quite make up his mind to leave it. Stranger than this was seeing recently, in a small creek discolored by a dyeing establishment, a little brown diver. How it could bring itself to swim in such filth must remain a mystery. A queer old character that had lived all his life in the country once said of the nearest town, “It is a good place to dump what we don’t want on the farm.” This old fellow would always drive me out of his orchard when apples were ripe, but I liked him for the sentiment I have quoted.

I am out of town now, and what of the world in another direction? Turning to the east, I have farm after farm before me; all different, yet with a strong family likeness. This region was taken up by English Quakers about 1670 and a little later, and the houses they built were as much alike as are these people in their apparel. The second set of buildings were larger only and no less severely plain; but immediately preceding the Revolution there were some very substantial mansions erected. From my perch in the tree-top I cannot see any of the houses distinctly, but locate them all by the group of Weymouth pines in front and sometimes both before and behind them. The old-time Lombardy poplar was the tree of the door-yards at first, but these, in this neighborhood, have well-nigh all died out, and the pines replace them. One farm-house is vividly pictured before me, although quite out of sight. The owner made it a home for such birds as might choose to come, as well as for himself, and what royal days have been spent there! There was no one feature to attract instant attention as you approached the house. The trees were thrifty, the shrubbery healthy, the roses vigorous, and the flowering plants judiciously selected; but what did strike the visitor was the wealth of bird-life. For once let me catalogue what I have seen in and about one door-yard and what should be about every one in the land. At the end of the house, and very near the corner of the long portico, stood a martin-box, occupied by the birds for which it was intended. In the porch, so that you could reach it with your hand, was a wren’s nest, and what a strange house it had! It was a huge plaster cast of a lion’s head, and between the grim teeth the bird passed and repassed continually. It promenaded at times on the lion’s tongue, and sang triumphantly while perched upon an eyebrow. That wren certainly saw nothing animal-like in the plaster cast as it was, and I have wondered if it would have been equally free with a stuffed head of the animal. My many experiments with animals, as to their recognition of animals as pictured, have demonstrated everything, and so, I am afraid I must admit, nothing. In the woodbine on the portico were two nests,—a robin’s and a chipping-sparrow’s. These were close to each other, and once, when sitting in a rocking-chair, I swayed the woodbine to and fro without disturbing either bird. In the garden were a mocking-bird, cat-bird, thistle-finch, song-sparrow, brown thrush, yellow-breasted chat, and red-eyed vireo. In the trees I saw a great-crested fly-catcher, purple grakle, a redstart, spotted warbler, and another I failed to identify. In the field beyond the garden were red-winged blackbirds and quail, and beyond, crows, fish-hawks, and turkey-buzzards were in the air; and, as the day closed and the pleasant sights were shut out, I heard the clear call of the kill-deer plover as they passed overhead, heard it until it mingled with my dreams. “Providence Farm” is indeed well named, for the birdy blessing of Providence rests upon it; but were men more given to considering the ways and wants of wild life, we might find such pleasant places on every hand. Farms appear to be growing less farm-like. The sweet simplicity of colonial days has been well-nigh obliterated, and nothing really better has replaced it. On the other hand, a modern “country place,” where Nature is pared down until nothing but the foundation-rocks remain, is, to say the least, an eyesore. There is more pleasure and profit in an Indian trail than in an asphaltum driveway.

Westward lie the meadows, and beyond them the river. Seen as a whole, they are beautiful and, like all of Nature’s work, will bear close inspection. The bird’s-eye view to-day was too comprehensive to be altogether enjoyable: it was bewildering. How completely such a tract epitomizes a continent! The little creek is a river; the hillock, a mountain; the brushland, a forest; the plowed tract, a desert. If this fact were not so generally forgotten we would be better content with what is immediately about us. Mere bigness is not everything. So, too, with animal life. We spend time and money to see the creatures caged in a menagerie, and never see the uncaged ones in the thicket behind the house. Every lion must roar, or we have not seen the show; a lion rampant is everything, a lion couchant, nothing. There was no visible violence in the meadows to-day; Nature was couchant, and I was thankful. When the tempest drives over the land I want my snug harbor by the chimney-throat. The sparks can fly upward to join the storm if they will. The storms I enjoy are matters of hearsay.

Take up a ponderous government quarto of the geological survey and glance over the splendid plates of remarkable rocks, cañons, and high hills, and then look out of your window at the fields and meadow. What a contrast! Yes, a decided one, and yet if you take an open-eyed walk you will find a good deal of the same thing, but on a smaller scale. You have not thought of it before; that is all. I put this matter to a practical test not long ago, and was satisfied with the result. The last plate had been looked at and the book was closed with a sigh, and a restless youth, looking over the wide range of fields before him, was thinking of the grand mountains, strange deserts, and deep cañons pictured in the volume on his lap, and comparing such a country with the monotonous surroundings of his home.

“What a stupid place this part of the world is!” he said at last. “I wish I could go out West.”

“Perhaps it is not so stupid as it looks,” I replied. “Let’s take a walk.”

I knew what the book described at which the lad had been looking, and had guessed his thoughts. We started for a ramble.

“Let us follow this little brook as far as we can,” I suggested, “and see what a stupid country can teach us,” purposely quoting my companion’s words, with a little emphasis.

Not fifty rods from beautiful old trees the collected waters, as a little brook, flowed over an outcropping of stiff clay, and here we voluntarily paused, for what one of us had seen a hundred times before was now invested with new interest. There was here not merely a smooth scooping out of a mass of the clay, to allow the waters to pass swiftly by; the least resisting veins or strata, those containing the largest percentage of sand, had yielded quickly and been deeply gullied, while elsewhere the stiff, black ridges, often almost perpendicular, still withstood the current, and, confining the waters to narrow limits, produced a series of miniature rapids and one whirlpool that recalled the head-waters of many a river.

Near by, where, when swollen by heavy rains, the brook had filled the little valley, temporary rivulets had rushed with fury over the clay, and cut in many places deep and narrow transverse channels. From their steep sides projected many a pebble that gave us “overhanging rocks,” and one small bowlder bridged a crevice in the clay, and was in use at the time as a highway for a colony of ants. Near it stood slender, conical pillars of slightly cemented sand, some six inches in height, and every one capped with a pebble of greater diameter than the apex of the supporting sand. These were indeed beautiful.

“I have never seen them before,” remarked the boy.

“Very likely,” I replied, “but you have crushed them under foot by the dozens.” They were not to be overlooked now, though, and in them he saw perfect reproductions of wonderful “monument rocks” which he had so lately seen pictured in the ponderous government geological report.

Withdrawing to the field beyond, where a bird’s-eye view of the brook’s course could be obtained, we had spread out before us a miniature, in most of its essentials, of a cañon country. The various tints of the clay gave the many-colored rocks; the different densities of the several strata resulted in deep or shallow ravines, fantastic arches, caverns, and beetling precipices. On a ridiculously small scale, you may say. True, but not too small for the eyes of him who is anxious to learn.

A few rods farther down the stream we came to a small sandy island which divided the brook and made a pleasant variety after a monotonous course through nearly level fields. A handful of the sand told the story. Here, meeting with so slight an obstruction as a projecting root, the sandy clays from above had been deposited in part, and year after year, as the island grew, the crowded waters had encroached upon the yielding banks on either side, and made here quite a wide and shallow stream. Small as it was, this little sand-bar had the characteristic features of all islands. The water rippled along its sides and gave it a pretty beach of sloping, snow-white sand, while scarcely more than half a foot inland the seeds of many plants had sprouted, and along the central ridge or backbone the sod was thick set, and several acorns, a year before, had sprouted through it. We found snails, spiders, and insects abundant, and faint footprints showed that it was not overlooked by the pretty teetering sand-piper.

Now came a total change. Abruptly turning from its former straightforward course, the brook entered a low-lying swamp, crowded to the utmost with dense growths of tangled vines and stunted trees. The water was no longer sparkling and colorless, but amber-tinted, and in many a shallow pool looked more like ink. Life here appeared in many forms. Small mud-minnows, turtles, and snakes were found in the gloomy, weed-hidden pools, and numberless insects crowded the rank growths above as well as the waters beneath. The mutual dependence of vegetation and animal life was here very striking. Previously we had found comparatively little either in the brook or about it, but now our eyes were gladdened not only with what I have mentioned, but birds, too, were in abundance.

Bent upon freeing my native county from the charge of stupidity, I led the way through this “dismal swamp.” It was no easy task. Nowhere were we sure of our footing, and it required constant leaping from root to root of the larger trees. There was at times no well-defined channel, and often we could hear the gurgling waters hurrying beneath our feet, yet catch no glimpse of them.

Here, too, other springs welled to the surface, and the augmented volume of waters finally left the swamp a stream of considerable size, which, after a tortuous course through many fields, entered a deep and narrow ravine. After untold centuries the brook has worn away the surface soil over which it originally flowed, then the gravel beneath, and so down to the clay, thirty feet below. Upon this now rest the bowlders and such coarser material as the waters could not transport.

Clinging to the trees growing upon the sides of the ravine, we closely followed the course of the troubled, bubbling, foamy waters, stopping ever and anon to look at the exposed sections of sand and gravel here shown in curious alternate layers. The meaning of the word “deposits,” so frequently met with in descriptive geology, was made plain, and when we noticed of how mixed a character was the coarse gravel, it was easy to comprehend what had been read of that most interesting phase of the world’s past history, the glacial epoch, or great ice age. The gravel was no longer an unsuggestive accumulation of pebbles, but associated rolled and water-worn fragments of a hundred different rocks that by the mighty forces of ice and water had been brought to their present position from regions far away.

The ravine ended at the meadows, through which the waters passed with unobstructed flow “to join the brimming river.” As we stood upon the bank of the mighty stream I remarked, “This is a stupid country, perhaps, but it has some merits.” I think the boy thought so, too.

The meadows are such a comprehensive place that no one knows where to begin, if the attempt is made to enumerate their features. There is such a blending of dry land and wet, open and thicket-grown, hedge and brook and scattered trees, that it is bewildering if you do not choose some one point for close inspection. From the tree-top I overlook it all, and try in vain to determine whether the azure strip of flowering iris or the flaunting crimson of the Turk’s cap lilies is the prettier. Beyond, in damper soil, the glistening yellow of the sunflowers is really too bright to be beautiful; but not so where the water is hidden by the huge circular leaves of the lotus. They are majestic as well as pretty, and the sparse bloom, yellow and rosy pink, is even the more conspicuous by reason of its background. How well the birds know the wild meadow tracts! They have not forsaken my tree and its surroundings, but for one here I see a dozen there. Mere inky specks, as seen from my point of view, but I know them as marsh-wrens and swamp-sparrows, kingbirds and red-wings, that will soon form those enormous flocks that add so marked a feature to the autumn landscape. It needs no field-glass to mark down the passing herons that, coming from the river-shore, take a noontide rest in the overgrown marsh.

I had once, on the very spot at which I was now looking, an unlooked-for adventure. For want of something better to do, I pushed my way into the weedy marsh until I reached a prostrate tree-trunk that during the last freshet had stranded there. It was a wild place. The tall rose-mallow and wavy cat-tail were far above my head, and every trace of civilization was effectually shut out. It was as much a wilderness as any jungle in the tropics. Nor was I alone. Not a minute elapsed before a faint squeak told me that there were meadow-mice in the hollow log on which I sat. Then the rank grass moved and a least bittern came into view and as quickly disappeared. I heard continually the cackle of the king-rail, and the liquid twittering of the marsh-wrens was a delight. The huge globular nests of these birds were everywhere about me; but the birds did not think of me as having any evil designs upon them, so they came and went as freely as if alone. This is bird-viewing that one too seldom enjoys nowadays. Often, and very suddenly, all sound ceased and every bird disappeared. I did not recognize the cause at first, but was enlightened a moment later. A large bird passed over, and its very shadow frightened the little marsh-dwellers. If not, the shadow and fright were a coincidence several times that morning. The day, for me, ended with the unusual chance of a close encounter with a great blue heron. I saw the bird hover for a moment directly overhead, and then, letting its legs drop, it descended with lead-like rapidity. I leaned backward to avoid it, and could have touched the bird when it reached the ground, it was so near. I shall never know which was the more astonished. Certainly, had it chosen, it could have stabbed me through and through.

I was glad to be again on drier land and in open country. There had been adventure enough; and yet, as seen from a distance, this bit of marsh was but weeds and water.

Southward there stands the remnant of a forest: second- and third-growth woodland usually; for trees of really great age are now generally alone. I can see from where I sit three primeval beeches that are known to be over two centuries old, and not far away towered one giant tulip-tree that since the country’s earliest settlement had stood like a faithful sentinel, guarding the south bank of a nameless spring brook. Ever a thing of beauty, it shone with added splendor at night, when the rising full moon rested in its arms, as if weary at the very outset of her journey. My grandfather told me that in his boyhood it was known as the “Indian tree,” because a basket-maker and his squaw had a wigwam there. That was a century ago, and often, of late years, I have hunted on the spot for some trace of these redskins, but found nothing, although all about, in every field, were old Indian relics, even their cherished tobacco-pipes. Small, recent growths of timber, even where they have succeeded an ancient forest, are not, as a rule, attractive. Their newness is too evident, and, except for a few passing birds, they are not apt to harbor much wild life. As I look at the mingled foliage of oaks and elms, beeches, hickories, and wild cherry, I give little heed to that before me and recall forests worthy of the name, doing precisely what I have declared unwise. A naturalist could find more material in these few acres of woodland than he could “work up” in a lifetime. I have underrated them. From the little thicket of blackberry vines I see a rabbit slowly loping, as if in search of food. It is a full-grown fellow, and suggests the round of the traps in late autumn and the woods in winter.

I never knew a boy brought up in the country who was not at one time an enthusiastic trapper. Just as mankind in the infancy of the world were forced to pit their energy and skill against the cunning of the animals needed for food or of such that by reason of their fierceness endangered human life, so the country boy of to-day puts his intelligence to work to circumvent the superiority of such animal life as by fleetness of foot or stroke of wing can avoid the pursuer. It is a question largely of brain against anatomical structure. No Indian, even, ever outran a deer, nor savage anywhere by mere bodily exertion stopped the flight of a bird. Men were all sportsmen, in a sense, when sport, as we call it, was necessary to human existence. As centuries rolled by, such animals and birds as came in daily contact with man necessarily had their sleepy wits aroused, and now it is a case of cunning against cunning. We are all familiar with such phrases as “wild as a hawk” and “shy as a deer.” In the morning of man’s career on earth there were no such words as “shy” and “wild.” They came into use, as words are constantly coming into our language, because circumstances make them a necessity; and as men were trappers before they were traders or tillers of the field, so the words are old, and while animal life lasts they will be retained.

Nowadays we generally outgrow this love of trapping, or it remains in the love of sport with gun or rod. But, old Izaak Walton and Frank Forrester to the contrary notwithstanding, I hold that nothing in fishing or shooting has that freshness, that thrilling excitement, that close touch with nature, that clings to our early days, when, in autumn and winter, we went the round of the traps. How through the long night we had visions of the rabbit cautiously approaching the box-trap on the edge of the swamp! How clearly we saw in the corner of the weedy old worm-fence the stupid opossum bungling along, and awoke with a start as the clumsy creature sprang the trap from the outside! I pity the boy who has not had such a distressing dream.

No boy ever turned out before sunrise with a smiling countenance to milk or help in any way with farm work; but how different when it was a matter of the traps he had set the night before! The anticipation of success is an all-sufficient incentive, and neither bitter cold nor driving storm deters him. Of a winter dawn much might be said. No boy ever was abroad so early that the squirrels were not before him, and in the fading light of the stars he will hear the crows cawing and the blue-jays chattering in the woods. To the naturalist, of course, such time of day is full of suggestiveness; but the general belief that it is a proper time to sleep will never be given up. Indeed, judging others by myself, as the boy gets well on in his teens there is a growing disposition to let the traps go until broad daylight and even until after breakfast. This is unfortunate in two ways: there is a likelihood of seeing animal life in the full flush of activity in the pre-sunlit hours that is unknown as the day advances; the night-prowlers are all gone to their dens, and the birds that roost in colonies have dispersed for the day. One seldom overtakes a raccoon or a weasel at or near noontide, and in the woods where a thousand robins have roosted there may now not be one. Then, again, your visit to the traps may be anticipated if you are too deliberate in starting on your rounds. This is an experience that no boy of spirit can calmly undergo, and no wonder. The rude box-trap was not easy to make, considering the usual condition of tools upon a farm. The hunt for likely places whereat to set it had been real labor. The long tramp in the gloaming when tired out from a day at school; the early tramp, before sunrise perhaps, for he must be on time at school that morning,—all this is to be considered; but if success crowns the effort, all is well. On the other hand, to find that some rascal has been ahead of you and your labor has gone for nothing—— I never knew a boy to be a saint at such a time.

I can recall a well-marked rabbit-path I once found, half a mile from home, and with great secrecy carried one of my traps to the place. It was on the next farm, and so I had to be more than usually careful. Nothing could be done in daylight for fear the boys living on that farm would find me out, and this sort of poaching was not tolerated. At first I was successful, catching two fine rabbits, and then, alas! was so elated that, boylike, I said too much. Some one must have tracked me, for I caught no more, although it was evident that the trap had been disturbed. Straightway I suspected treachery, and prepared for revenge.

Now, auntie had a fur tippet, or “boa,” as she called it, which was just six feet long. The moths one summer had ruined it, and for some time it had been lying around uncared for and a plaything for the younger children. This I appropriated, and fastened to one end of it a rabbit’s head, with the ears wired up and with huge painted marbles bulging from the sockets for eyes. It was a startling if not life-like creature.

Armed with this, I started after dark to the trap, and soon had all in readiness for my victim. I coiled the “boa” into the rear of the box and placed the head near the opening of the trap. The “figure-of-four” triggers were laid outside in such a way as to suggest that the trap had been sprung by an animal. Then I went home.

The next morning I went to school without visiting the spot, fearing I might meet with the supposed offender. All day long I wondered. No boy had any marvellous tale to tell and no one looked at all guilty. There soon came over me a feeling that perhaps I had played a trick upon myself, and by sundown I was rather reluctant to determine if anything had happened; but go I did. The trap had evidently been disturbed. The “boa” with the rabbit’s head was lying at full length outside and the bushes were broken as if a bull had rushed through them. But who or what had been there?

Two days of most distressing doubt passed, and then came Saturday. I was ill at ease and took no pleasure in my holiday; but about noon our neighbor came over, and I heard him tell grandfather how, on Fifth-day, while the family were at breakfast, Bill, the bound boy, came rushing into the room and exclaimed, excitedly, “Something from the menagerie’s broke loose and got in the rabbit-trap!”

I had had my revenge.

A wood, to be at its best, should be located on the shore of a lake or river, or, perhaps better still, a river should run through it. Here are my impressions of such a wood, from my note-book of 1892, under date of May 1:

Nothing could have been more fitting than to take a May-day outing at such a place. The swift current of the Great Egg Harbor River rolled resistlessly along, its waters black as night, save where, over the pebbly shallows, it gleamed like polished amber. The wind that swayed the tall crowns of the towering pines made fitting music, according well with the rippling laugh of the fretted river, while heard above all were the joyous songs of innumerable warblers.

We had placed our boat upon a wagon six miles below our point of departure, and partly realized on our way what this pine region really was. The cedar swamp, the oak openings, the arbutus that gave color to the narrow wagon-track, the absence of man’s interference,—all tended to give us the full significance of that most suggestive word, wilderness. We needed but to catch a glimpse of an Indian to see this part of creation precisely as it was in pre-Columbian days. I sat for some time in the boat before taking up the anchor. This was but the entrance, I was told, to spots more beautiful, but it was hard to believe. Here was a river hidden in a forest, and what more could one wish? The warblers well knew that May-day had come again, and every one of the mighty host greeted the brilliant sunshine. There seemed literally to be hundreds of them. Flashing like gems were redstarts, light as swallows upon the wing. Bright-spotted warblers, and others sombre gray, laughed as they tarried on the trembling twigs; then, mounting into the sunlight, sang loudly as they flew, or darted into gloomy nooks so hidden that not even a sunbeam could follow them.

The river with its attendant birds could not claim all the merit; the land was no less beautiful. The oaks were not yet in leaf, but there was no lack of green. The holly’s foliage was bright as May, the polished leaves of the tea-berry shone as a midsummer growth, the ink-berry had defied the winter’s storms, and the maples glowed as a great ruddy flame. Really distinct as was every object, yet, as a whole, the outlook was dreary, hazy, half obscure, as we looked directly into the wood, where the drooping moss festooned the branches of the smaller oaks.

No voyager ever set forth from so fair a port.

My companion knew the route, and with an oar he took his place astern to guide the boat safely down the swift stream. It was all right as it proved, but at times I forgot that I had come to see the forest. Instead, an element of doubt as to the guide’s ability came painfully to the front. With devilish malignancy, as I thought, trees had prostrated themselves and rested just beneath the water’s surface, or stood up, with outreached arms, as if defying us. How we passed many a crook and turn I cannot now remember. I was too much occupied with desperately clutching at anything within reach to notice the “when” or “how,” but there still remains the delicious sensation of suddenly shooting into smooth water and feeling—brave as a lion.

For several miles on either side of the stream we had a typical mixed forest. The willow-oak predominated at times, and the delicate foliage, so unlike other oaks, was very beautiful. The leaves appeared translucent in the bright sunlight, fairly sparkled, and once made a splendid background to scarlet tanagers that flashed through them. In this long reach of dense woods there were fewer birds than at our starting-point, or perhaps they held back as we passed. But other life was not wanting. From many a projecting stump there slid many a turtle into the dark waters, and a mink or musk-rat crossed our bow. Careful search would no doubt have revealed numerous creatures, for here was a safe retreat for all the fauna of the State. The deer are not yet quite gone, possibly a few bears remain. Certainly the raccoon and otter must be abundant. I was constantly on the lookout for minks, for the river abounds in fish. This animal is sometimes mistaken for a huge snake, as it rises several inches above the water at times, and has then a rather startling appearance. An old fisherman on Chesapeake Bay told me that he had seen a mink with a huge eel in its mouth come to the surface, and then the wriggling fish and long, lithe body of the mink together looked like two serpents fighting. I can readily imagine it. Birches, liquidambars, and pines in clusters would next command attention, and usually there was a dense undergrowth. Holding the boat, at times, we could hear the water rushing through the roots of this tangled mass, and found that what we had supposed was firm land afforded no certain footing, and a bluff of firm earth was very welcome when we thought of landing for a hasty lunch. This firm earth did indeed support us, but in reality it was the most unstable of shifting sands, being held in place by reindeer-moss, partridge-berry, and other pine-barren growths. Nothing was in sight but the scrubby pines, and we had to be very careful that our fire did not get among the “needles” and dash through the woods. I found here absolutely no birds. They seem all to prefer the tracts covered by deciduous trees; but insect-feeders could have flourished here. The steam of our dinner-pot brought more substantial forms than mosquitoes, one house-fly being determined to share my Frankfurter and successfully defying all attempts at capture.

Again afloat, we soon came to the mouth of an inflowing stream called Dead River, said to be very deep. This point was perhaps the wildest of all. The open water here was very wide, and a forest of projecting stumps of various heights showed plainly that we were on the edge of an area of drowned land. In the distance was an unbroken background of pines, which now looked black. At wide intervals could be seen huge pines that had escaped the charcoal-burner or lumberman. The stems and lower branches were, of course, concealed, but in the hazy atmosphere the tops were as floating islands of darkest green, standing boldly out against the pearly sky behind them.

Here, at the mouth of Dead River, we beheld a pretty sight. A wood-duck with her brood rushed over the water in a most lively manner, flecking the black expanse with patches of white foam. Such incidents add much to such a journey. An empty forest is as forbidding as an empty house.

In the coves there were changes from the surrounding scenery that were not to be overlooked. A rank growth of golden-club resting on the dark waters was very striking. The picture was such as we see on a Claude Lorrain glass. Near by fresh sphagnum in a shallow pool was bronze and green: a place for frogs to squat unseen, but I could find none. How often this happens! At the very places where we think animal life will be in abundance we can find no trace of it. Then, looking up, we see but trees. No break in the line that hems us in. Trees old and young, trees living and dead, great and small; nothing but trees.

The wind freshened as the day grew old, and doubly troubled were the waters. There was no rest for them now, even in sheltered nooks, and it was only by sturdy strokes of the oars that we made headway at all. There was no perceptible current to bear us along as before. The waves dashing against the bare trunks of trees long dead and now bent by the wind added much to the wild scene. Novel as it all was, I could not quite enjoy it. It was something to be contemplated from the shore, I thought. I know I was laughed at, but the many “blind” stumps, or those just beneath the surface, of which my companion spoke so unconcernedly came too prominently to mind when I least expected them, and added much significance to the fact that I cannot swim.

As we neared home the scene abruptly changed, and the river was lost in a wide expanse that might be called a lake if the fact was not so evident that it is a mill-pond. This, however, did not detract from the beauty of the surroundings, and before our final landing we drew up to a bold bit of shore and searched, while it was yet day, for pyxie. There was an abundance of blooming andromeda, too, and arbutus, with clubmoss of richest green. I almost placed my hand on a centipede that glowed like an emerald. It was resting on ruddy sphagnum, and made a splendid picture. I could not capture the creature. An attempt to do so on my part was followed by its disappearance with a suddenness that could be likened only to the flashes of light that played upon its back. Here I heard many frogs, but could find none. The rattle and peep were not like the voices of those in the meadows at home, and I wondered about Cope’s new tiger-frog and the little green hyla that is so rare here in Jersey. Possibly I heard them both; probably not.

We returned to prosy life when the boat was lifted over the dam, and the incidents were few and commonplace in the short drift that carried us to an old wharf, a relic of the last century.

What a difference between such a forest and a few hundred oaks and ashes at home! and yet these are far better than treeless fields. It is these few trees that hold many of our migratory birds, and through them, in spring, troop the north-bound warblers. In the gloaming a small tract of woodland widens out, and, seeing no open country beyond, what does it matter, if we walk in a circle, whether it be one acre or one thousand? There is good philosophy in “Small favors thankfully received.” Here in this little wood are beautiful white-footed mice, a shy, nocturnal jerboa, flying-squirrels, and, if I mistake not, a whole family of opossums. Here, until autumn, are wood-robins that never weary us by overmuch singing, and cat-birds, chewinks, and the rose-breasted grosbeak. I do not complain, but as the summer passes I regret that these birds have their appointed time and will soon be gone. Why so soon? I often wonder, for their haunts do not lose their loveliness for weeks after they have disappeared.

No wall of green above, about,

They silently steal away;

With but a carpet of withered leaves,

The minstrel will not stay.

But the spot is no “banquet-hall deserted,” for all that; the departure of the summer birds is but to make way for those who have gladdened Canadian woods for many weeks. The purple finch will soon be here, and tree-sparrows in great companies, and the gentle white-throat; and these, with our stately cardinal for a leader, will hold forth melodiously, though the north winds blow and the angry east wind brings the snow upon its wings.

In the smile of winter sunshine there will be enacted another drama, but now it is comedy rather than tragedy. There are no conflicting interests now, no serious quarrels, no carking cares—the world is really in good humor and our days of early darkness are misunderstood.

Let him who doubts—and there are but few who do not—turn from the worn lines of travel, go well out of the beaten path, and find, in the way-side nooks his neighbors have neglected, most excellent company: birds of brave heart that can sing in the teeth of a storm; and many a creature, wrapped in his furry coat, laughs at the earnest efforts of winter to keep him from his outings.

Did I dare sit in this same oak when the leaves have fallen, I should have strange tales to tell,—tales so strange that the summertide would be commonplace in comparison.

CHAPTER

SECOND

A HUNT FOR THE PYXIE

No storm raged to defeat a long-cherished plan, and we must laugh at threatening clouds or miss many an outing. In dreams the pyxie had been blooming for weeks, and to prove that not all dreams go by contraries, I started on a flower-hunt. This is not always so tame and adventureless a matter as one might think. There are wood-blooms that scorn even a trace of man’s interference, and the pyxie is one of them. Nature alone can provide its wants, and only where Nature holds undisputed sway can it be found. To find this beautiful flower we must plunge into the wilderness.

It was a long tramp, but never wanting a purpose for every step taken. Each turn in the path offered something new, and if ever for a moment a trace of weariness was felt, it was because even to our hungry eyes the wilderness was overfull. Bewildering multitudes are more to be feared than possible dangers. There is no escape from the former. Not a tree or bush, not a bird or blossom, but to-day offered excellent reason why with them we should spend our time; and how often they all spoke at once!

Except the ceaseless rattle of small frogs, there was no sound, for that sad sighing of the tall pines seems but the rhythmic breathing of silence; or, passing from the wet grounds to the higher, drier, and more barren tracts, we heard only the crisp crackling of the reindeer-moss we crushed at every step. Although

“It is the bright day that brings forth the adder,

And that craves wary walking,”

we gave no thought to possible danger,—for rattlesnakes are still to be found. Not even when we stooped to pick the bright berries of winter-green did we think of a coiled serpent buried in dead leaves; and what opportunity for murder the serpent had as we buried our faces in pillows of pink and pearly arbutus!

At last we reached South River (in Southern New Jersey), and just here was no place to tarry, unless to court melancholy. It was not required that my companion should enumerate the reasons why the one-time farm along the river-bank had been abandoned. A glance at the surrounding fields told the whole story. There was, indeed, barrenness,—and very different, this, from what obtains in localities near by to which the same term is applied. In the so-called pine barrens there is a luxuriant vegetation; but here about the deserted house and out-building there was nothing but glistening sand, moss, and those pallid grasses that suggest death rather than life, however feeble. And how widely different is it to be surrounded by ruin wrought by man, and to be in a forest where man has never been! Could I not have turned my back upon the scene and looked out only upon the river, the day’s pleasure would have vanished. But we were soon away, and a naturalist’s paradise was spread before us. What constitutes such a place? Not necessarily one where man has never been: it will suffice if Nature has withstood his interference; and this is true of these pine barrens, this weedy wilderness, this silent battle-field where the struggle for existence never ceases, and yet, as we see it, peaceful as the fleecy clouds that fleck an April sky.

Though the wind that swept the wide reach of waters close at hand still smacked of wintry weather, there was a welcome warmth on shore. The oaks even hinted of the coming leaf. Their buds were so far swollen that the sharp outlines of bare twigs against the sky were rounded off. The ruddy stems of the blueberry bushes gave to the river-bank a fire-like glow, and yet more telling was the wealth of bright golden glow where the tall Indian grass waved in all its glory. The repellent desolation of midwinter, so common to our cold-soil upland fields, was wholly wanting here; for, while nothing strongly suggested life as we think of it, even in early spring, yet nothing recalled death, the familiar feature of a midwinter landscape.

The scattered cedars were not gloomy to-day. Their green-black foliage stood out in bold relief, a fitting background to the picture of Spring’s promises. That the sea was not far off is evident, for even here, a dozen miles from the ocean, many of these trees were bent and squatty at the top, as are all those that face the fury of storms along the coast. Every one harbored north-bound migrating birds; restless, warbling kinglets principally. No other tree seemed to attract these pretty birds, many a flock passing by scores of oaks to the next cedar in their line of march. The clustered pines were not similarly favored, not a bird of any kind appearing about them, and life of all kinds was wholly absent in the long aisles between their stately trunks. Our path led us through one great grove where every tree grew straight and tall as a ship’s mast. The light that filled this wood was strangely beautiful. Nothing stood out distinctly. To have passed here in the gloaming would have tried weak nerves. Even in the glare of noonday my imagination was abnormally active, every stunted shrub and prostrate log assuming some startling shape. Think of such a place after sunset! Let an owl whoop in your ears when hedged in by thick-set trees! Philosophize as one will in daylight, it goes for little now, and the days of Indians, cougars, and all ill-natured beasts come trooping back. This distrust of darkness is not mere cowardice, and I would accept no one’s statement that he is wholly free of it. Every sound becomes unduly significant when we are alone in a wilderness; often unpleasantly so, even during the day, and

“in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear!”

Out of the pines and into the oak woods: the change was very abrupt, and as complete as possible. Every feature of the surroundings was bathed in light now, and the emergence from the pine forest’s gloom restored our spirits. We are ever craving variety, and there was positive beauty in every stunted oak’s ugliness, and from them we needed but to turn our heads to see thrifty magnolias near the river-bank. These have no special enemy, now that the beavers are gone, and thrive in the black mud by the water’s edge; better, by far, than the gum-trees near them, for these were heavy laden with pallid mistletoe,—to me a most repugnant growth.

We reached open country at last, and here were birds without number. How quickly all else fades at such a time! The whole valley trembled with the ringing whistle of a thousand red-wings. A few swallows—the first of their kind to return—darted over the wide waters and rested on projecting branches of trees that floods had stranded on the islands. The sprightly kill-deers ran with such dainty steps over the sand that I could not find their footprints. They, too, were pioneer birds, but none the less light-hearted because alone. They sang with all their last year’s earnestness, scattering music among the marshes where frogs were now holding high carnival. They were very tame, at least so far as we were concerned, but a little in doubt as to what a stray hawk might be about. But they left us only to make room for others, and whether we looked riverward or landward mattered not: it was birds, birds, birds! Here a hundred sparrows in an oak, there a troop of snow-birds in the bushes, a whistling titmouse sounding his piercing notes, the plaintive bluebird floating overhead, the laugh of the loon at the bend of the river, and buzzards searching for stranded herring where the seine had been drawn.

A flock of herons, too, passed overhead, and, had they not seen us, might have stopped here on the river-shore. What an addition to a landscape! and yet now so seldom seen. No birds can be more harmless than they, yet not even the hawks are subject to greater persecution. Not long since these birds were abundant, and a “heronry” was one of the “sights” of many a neighborhood; but people now scarcely know what a “heronry” is. The very word suggests how rapidly our large birds are disappearing, and their roosting-places, where hundreds gathered and nested, too, in season, are matters of “ancient history.” In fear and trembling, the herons that linger about our watercourses singly seek secluded trees wherein to rest, and, I fear, even then sleep with one eye open. A fancy, on the part of women, for heron plumes has wrought a deal of mischief.

But where is the pyxie? We knew it must be near at hand, but why make haste to find it? All else was so beautiful here, why not wait even until another day? The river-bank was itself a study. At the top, sand of snowy whiteness; then a ribbon of clay over which water trickled carrying iron in solution, that was slowly cementing a sand stratum beneath, where every degree of density could be found, from solid rock to a paste-like mass that we took pleasure in moulding into fantastic shapes, thereby renewing our dirt-pie days.

A little later in the year, this bluff, now streaked and spotted, will be green with the broad-leaved sundews, curious carnivorous plants that here take the place of grasses. There is a filiform sundew that grows near by, where the ground is high, if not dry; but it, too, waits for warmer days. Not so the pyxie. Almost at first glance, as we left the bluff, we saw it, sparkling white, nestled among the gray mats of reindeer-moss, or fringed by shining winter-green still laden with its crimson fruit.

Here the earth was strangely carpeted. Sphagnum, beautiful by reason of rich color, gray-green moss, and the object of our long tramp,—pyxie. No botany does it justice, passing it by with the mere mention of its barbarous name, Pyxidanthera barbulata. It might be thought the meanest of all weeds, but is, in truth, the chiefest glory of this wonderful region.

Is it strange we regretted that Time would not slacken his pace? I know not where else, in these northern regions, so much is to be seen, and so soon. Spring, elsewhere, is the round year’s strangest child, often too forward, and too often backward; but her accomplishments here and now are beyond criticism. Such perfect work, and yet she is not out of her teens. The day was April 1.

CHAPTER

THIRD

THE COMING OF THE BIRDS

The moon in April is an important factor in the progress of that event—the coming of the birds—which makes every spring memorable. While not disposed to wait upon it too long, still, there is little doubt but that the birds that have been wintering afar south travel very largely by its light, and when it happens that the moon fulls between the middle and the twenty-fifth of the month, the flights of thrushes, orioles, wrens, and other migrants reach us a week earlier than when the nights are dark during the same period. Temperature, storms, and general backwardness of the season do not seem to have a like importance in bird economy.

Of course, by the coming of the birds I do not refer to the pioneers that are in advance of every company. Indeed, I have seldom announced the first of the season, but I have been met by the man who was at least one day ahead of me; so firstlings are not favorites.

There is every year the one memorable morning when we can say, in broad terms, “The birds are here.” When the oriole whistles from the tallest tree in the lawn; when the wren chatters from the portal of his old-time home; when the indigo-finch sings in the weedy pasture; when lisping warblers throng every tree and shrub; while over all, high in air, the twittering swallows dart in ecstasy; and at last, the day-long concert over, whippoorwills in the woods pipe their monotonous refrain. The Indians were right: when there came such days as this, they had no further fear of frost, and we need have but little. Our climate certainly has changed slightly since their time, but we have in such a bird-full day an assurance that the clinging finger-tips of Winter have at last relaxed and his hold upon our fields and forests is lost.

A word again of the advance guard. The brown thrush came on the seventeenth of the month (April, 1892), when there were no leafy thickets and the maples only were in bloom. What a glorious herald he proved! and so he always proves. Before the sun was up I heard him in my dreams, and later the fancy proved a fact. Perched at the very top of an old walnut-tree, where the wintry world was spread before him, he sang that song peculiarly his own.

No hint of blushing roses on the hill,

The buds are sleeping yet upon the plain,

The blight of dreary winter clingeth still,

The forest weeps where falls the chilly rain.

Scarce hopeful leaf-buds shrink—death’s solemn hush

Rests on the field, the meadow brook along,

Till breaks the day, O happy day! the thrush

Foretells the coming summer in a song.

Two days later it was almost summer, and tripping along the river’s pebbly beach were spotted sand-pipers. They were ahead of time this year, I thought, but none the less happy because the trees were bare and the water cold; but, stranger still, in the sheltered coves of the mill-pond, that now reflected the gold of the spice-wood and the crimson of the overhanging maples, there were warblers, merry as in midsummer, and a pair, at least, of small thrushes. A bittern, too, stood in the weedy marsh. There they had gathered on that sunny, summery day, as if warm weather was an established fact; but how different the next morning, when a cold north-east storm prevailed! How well it showed that one such sunny day does not make a season! How clearly it proved that birds have no prophetic insight! They were caught and suffered and disappeared. Did they fly above the clouds and go to some distant point, free of chilling rain, or did they hide in the cedar swamps? This problem I did not essay to solve. In the few cedars along the river-shore I found nothing but winter residents, but I made no careful search. A few days later and spring-like conditions again prevailed and every day some new bird was seen, but not until May 1 could we say, “The birds have come.”

These uncertain April days are not disappointing. We are not warranted in expecting much of them, and whatsoever we do meet with is just so much more than we had reason to look for,—an added bit of good luck that increases our love for the year’s fourth month; but if no migrant came, there is little likelihood that the pastures and rivershore would be silent. There never was an April that had not its full complement of robins and blithe meadow-larks, of glorious crested tits and gay cardinals, of restless red-wings and stately grakles, and these are quite equal to driving dull care away, and keeping it away, if the migrants did not come at all. Even in March, and early in the month, we often have a foretaste of abundant bird-life; an intimation of what a few weeks will bring us. A bright March morning in 1893 was an instance of this. I walked for miles along the river-bank with a learned German who was enthusiastic about everything but what interested me. This may not seem to be a promising outlook, but we undertook to convert each other. I was to give up my frivolity, he determined. My effort was to get his dry-as-dust whimsies out of him. The great ice-gorge of the past winter was now a torrent of muddy waters and huge cakes of crystal that rushed and roared not only through the river’s channel, but over half the meadow-land that bordered it. It was, I admit, an excellent opportunity to study the effects of such occurrences, for to them is due the shaping of the valley, and gravel transportation, and all that; but then there was the effect of light and shade upon the wonderful scene, and beauty like this crowded out my taste for geology. The sky was darkly blue, flecked with great masses of snow white-cloud that drifted between the sun and earth, casting shadows that blackened the ice and brought winter back again; but a moment later a flood of sunshine as promptly changed all, and the bluebirds hinted of spring. Then, too, the gulls and crows screamed above the roar and crunching of the ice as it struck the scattered trees, while in every sheltered nook was a full complement of song-sparrows. Why any one should bother about geology at such a time I could not see; but my companion was intent upon problems of the ice age, and continually remarked, “Now, if” or “Don’t you see?” but I always cut him short with “See that crow?” or “Hear that sparrow?” No, he had not seen or heard the birds, and neither had I his particular impressions. At last the sunshine broke upon him, and he laughed aloud when he saw the crows trying to steal a ride on ice-rafts that continually upset. I was hopeful now, and he soon heard the birds that sang, and whistled after a long line of kill-deer plover that hurried by, every one calling to his fellows. It was something to know that the coming of the birds can rouse a German out of his everlasting problems. He had more to say of the springtide so near at hand than had I, and, nosing over the ground, found nine vigorous plants in active growth, and spoke so learnedly of Cyperus, Galium, Allium, and Saponaria that I as glibly thought, in jealous mood, “Confound him!” for now he was taking possession of my province and showing me my littleness; but then I had dragged him out of his problems.

The truth is, I was in something like despair when we started out, for I feared a lecture on physical geography, and, indeed, did not quite escape; but the bitter was well mixed with the sweet, and he in time listened with all my ardor to the birds that braved the boisterous wind and were not afraid of a river wilder than they had ever seen before. The day proved to be of more significance than as regards mere glacial geology. It was a foretaste of what was coming in April. I drew a glowing picture of what our April meant, and pictured a peaceful river and violets and meadow blossoms as bright as they were fragrant. My learned friend smiled, then grew enthusiastic; must come again to see the birds as they arrived, and—must I say it?—spoke of beer. Alas! it was Sunday.

There are two reasons why April birds are particularly attractive. One is, there are fewer of them, and again, there is practically no foliage to conceal them. Better one bird in full view than a dozen half hidden. Their songs, too, have a flavor of novelty, and ring so assuringly through the leafless woods. The ear forever bends graciously to promises, even though we know they will be broken; but birds, unlike men, are not given to lying. When they promise May flowers and green leaves they mean it, and, so far as history records, there has never been a May without them, not even the cold May of 1816, when there was ice and snow. But aside from their singing, April birds offer the opportunity of studying their manners, which is better to know than the number of their tail-feathers or the color of their eggs. The brown thrush that sings so glibly from the bare branch of a lonely tree shows now, by his way of holding himself and pointing his tail, that he is closely akin to the little wrens and their big cousin, the Carolina mocker, so called, which does not mock at all. Of all our April birds, I believe I love best the chewink, or swamp-robin. To be sure, he is no more a feature of April than of June, and many are here all winter; but when he scatters the dead leaves and whistles his bi-syllabic refrain with a vim that rouses an echo, or mounts a bush and sings his few notes of real music, we forget that summer is only on the way, but not yet here. Of all our birds, I always fancied this one was most set in his singing, as he surely is in his ways; but Cheney tells us that "this bird, like many others, can extemporize finely when the spirit moves him. For several successive days one season a chewink gave me very interesting exhibitions of the kind. He fairly revelled in the new song, repeating it times without number. Whether he stole it from the first strain of ‘Rock of Ages’ or it was stolen from him or some of his family, is a question yet to be decided." Now, the chewink is a bird of character, and, above all things, dislikes interference, and he sings “for his own pleasure, for he frequently lets himself out lustily when he knows he is all alone,” as Dr. Placzeck has said of birds in general. I shall never forget a little incident I once witnessed, in which a chewink and a cardinal grosbeak figured. They reached the same bush at the same moment, and both started their songs. The loud whistle of the red-bird quite smothered the notes of the chewink, which stopped suddenly before it was through and, with a squeak of impatience, made a dash at the intruder and nearly knocked him off his perch. Such haps and mishaps as these—and they are continually occurring—can only be seen in April or earlier, when we can see through the woods, and not merely the outer branches of the trees when in leaf. In April we can detect, too, the earliest flowers, and they fit well with the songs of the forerunning birds. There is more, I think, for all of us in an April violet than in a June rose; in a sheltered bit of turf with sprouting grass than in the wide pastures a month later. We do not hurry in-doors at the sudden coming of an April shower. The rain-drops that cling to the opening leaf-buds are too near real gems not to be fancied a veritable gift to us, and we toy with the baubles for the brief moment that they are ours. The sunshine that follows such a shower has greater magic in its touch than it possesses later in the year; the buds of the morning now are blossoms in the afternoon, so quickening is the warmth of the first few days of spring. The stain of winter is washed away by an April shower, and the freshest green of the pasture is ever that which is newest. There is at times a subtle element in the atmosphere that the chemist calls “ozone,” but a better name is “snap.” It dwells in April sunshine and is the inveterate foe of inertia. It moves us, whether we will or not, and we are now in a hurry even when there is no need of haste. The “spring fever” that we hear of as a malady in town never counts as its victim the lover of an April outing. The beauty of novelty is greater than the beauty of abundance. Our recollection of a whole summer is but dim at best, but who forgets the beginnings thereof? We passed by unheeding many a sweet song before the season was over, but can recall, I venture to say, our first glimpse of the returning spring. Though the sky may be gray, the earth brown, and the wind out of the north, let a thrush sing, a kinglet lisp, a crested tit whistle, and a tree-sparrow chirp among the swelling leaf-buds, and you have seen and heard that which is not only a delight in itself, but the more pleasing that it is the prelude announcing the general coming of the birds.

CHAPTER

FOURTH

THE BUILDING OF THE
NEST

There are probably very few children who are not more or less familiar with birds’ nests, for they are not by any means confined to the country, but are to be found in the shade trees of every village street, to say nothing of the old-time lilac hedges, gooseberry bushes, and homely shrubbery of fifty years ago. Even in our large cities there are some few birds brave enough to make their homes in or very near the busiest thoroughfares. As an instance, it was not so long ago that a yellow-breasted chat—a shy bird—nested in the yard of the Pennsylvania Hospital, at the corner of Eighth and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia, and soon learned to mimic many a familiar street sound. Such instances as these were more common before the unfortunate blunder of introducing the English sparrow. But it is in the country only that we find boys really posted in the matter of nests, and I wish I could add that they always adopt the rules of “hands off” when these nests come under their notice. It means far more mischief than most people think to disturb a nest, and so let every boy decide that he will not be guilty of such wanton cruelty. This, however, does not shut off every boy and girl in the land from studying these nests, and a more delightful subject can never come under youthful investigation.

What is a bird’s nest? Every one knows, after a fashion, and yet few have ever considered how much that bunch of twigs, hollow in a tree, or hole in the ground really means. Like so much that is familiar, we glance at it in a careless way and never stop to consider its full significance. Except in a very few instances, a bird’s nest is never the result of a single individual’s labor. Even if but one bird does all the work, there has previously been a decision reached by two birds as to where the nest shall be placed, and how much this means! At once we are brought to consider that an interchange of thought has taken place. The pair have discussed, literally, the merits and drawbacks of the situation, and have had in mind not only their own safety, but that of their offspring. The fact that they make mistakes at times proves this. Were this not the case, or if nests were placed hap-hazard in any tree or bush or anywhere on the ground, bird enemies would have a happy time for a short season, and then birds, like many of the world’s huge beasts, would become extinct. On the contrary, birds have long since learned to be very careful, and their ingenuity in this apparently simple matter of choosing a nest site is really astonishing. This, too, has resulted in quickening their wits in all directions, and the bird that is really a booby is scarcely to be found.

Birds suffer at times from their misjudgment or over-confidence, and this, it must be added, reflects upon us. The instances are numberless where birds have quickly learned that certain people love them, and they lose all fear. Again, naturally very timid birds soon learn when they are free from persecution. The writer frequently passes in the cars by a zoological garden on the bank of a river, and has been impressed with the abundant illustration of birds’ intelligence to be noticed there. The crows have learned that fire-arms are not allowed to be used anywhere near, and so they fearlessly hop about not only the enclosure of the garden, but the many tracks of the railroad just outside, showing no timidity even when the locomotives rush by. Stranger still, wild ducks gather in the river almost directly under the railroad bridge, and do not always dive out of sight as the trains pass by, and I have never seen them take wing, even when the whistle blew the quick, short, penetrating danger signal.

To come back to their nests: birds have other enemies than man to guard against, and so are never in a hurry in the matter of determining where to build. Time and again a location has been discovered to be unsuitable after a nest has been commenced, and the structure abandoned. I have observed this many times. Indeed, my own curiosity has led the birds to move, they not quite approving my constant watching of what was going on. I well remember seating myself once in a shady nook to eat my lunch, and being almost attacked by a pair of black-and-white tree-creeping warblers. Their actions were plainly a protest against my staying where I was, and on looking about, I found that I had almost sat upon their nest, which was then just completed, but contained no eggs. I visited the spot the next day and found a single egg; but my coming was a mistake, for the birds now believed I had sinister designs, and abandoned their new-made home.

The method of building, of course, varies as much as the patterns of nests. Even when the same materials are used, they are differently treated, and a nest of sticks only may in one case be merely thrown together, as it were, while in another they are so carefully interlaced that the structure is a basket, and holds together if held by the rim only. Another, the same in general appearance, would immediately fall to pieces if similarly treated. A reason for this is discoverable in some cases, but not in all. If we examine a great many nests, the rule will hold good, I think, that where they are very loosely put together, the locality is such that no natural disturbing causes, as high winds, are likely to bring disaster. Until I studied this point the occurrence of exceedingly frail nests was ever a matter of surprise, for it is to be remembered that the same species, as a cat-bird or cardinal red-bird, does not build after a uniform fashion, but adapts its work to the spot chosen for the nest. It would be very hazardous to say that a nest was built by this or that bird, unless the builder was seen in possession.

So difficult is it to watch a pair of birds while building, that the method of their working is largely to be guessed at from the work itself, but by means of a field-glass a good deal can be learned. It would appear as if a great many twigs were brought for the foundation of a nest, such as a cat-bird’s or song-sparrow’s, that were unsuitable. I have occasionally seen a twig tossed aside with a flirt of the head very suggestive of disappointment. The builders do not always carry with them a distinct idea of what they want when hunting for material, and so labor more than would be necessary if a little wiser. Very funny disputes, too, often arise, and these are most frequent when wrens are finishing their huge structures in a box or some corner of an out-building. A feather, or a bit of thread, or a small rag will be carried in by one bird and tossed out by the other with a deal of scolding and “loud words” that is positively startling. But when the framework of any ordinary open or cup-shaped nest is finally completed, the lining is not so difficult a matter. Soft or yielding materials are used that to a greater or less extent have a “felting property,” and by the bird’s weight alone assume the shape desired. This is facilitated by the bird in two ways: the builder sits down, as if the eggs were already laid, and with its beak pushes the loose material between it and the framework, and tucks odd bits into any too open crevices. While doing this, it slowly moves around until it has described a complete circle. This brings to light any defects in the outer structure, and the bird can often be seen tugging away at some projecting end, or its mate, outside of the nest, rearranging a twig here and there, while the other bird—shall I say?—is giving directions.

Surprise has often been expressed that the common chipping sparrow can so neatly curl a long horse-hair into the lining of its little nest. It cannot be explained, perhaps, but we have at least a clue to it. One end of the hair is snugly tucked in among stouter materials, and then,—I ask the question only,—as the bird coils it about the sides of the nest with its beak, does it break or dent it, or is there some chemical effect produced by the bird’s saliva? The hairs do not appear to be merely dry-curled, for in that case they would unroll when taken from the nest, and such as I have tried, when just placed in position, retained the coiled condition when removed. But old hair, curled by long exposure to the air and moisture, is often used, and this is far more tractable. When we come to examine woven nests, such as the Baltimore oriole and the red-eyed vireo, as well as some other small birds, build, there is offered a great deal more to study, for how they accomplish what they do, with their only tools their feet and beak, is not wholly known. That the tropical tailor-bird should run a thread through a leaf and so bring the edges together and make a conical-shaped bag, is not so very strange. It is little more than the piercing of the leaf and then putting the thread through the hole. This is ingenious but not wonderful, because not difficult; but let us consider a Baltimore oriole and his nest. The latter is often suspended from a very slender elm or willow twig, and the bird has a hard time to hold on while at work. One experienced old oriole has for years built in the elm near my door, and occasionally I have caught a glimpse of him. I will not be positive, but believe that his first move is to find a good stout string, and this he ties to the twig. I use the word “tie” because I have found in many cases a capitally-tied knot, but how the bird, or birds, could accomplish this I cannot imagine. Both feet and beak, I suppose, are brought into play, but how? To get some insight into the matter, I once tied a very long string to the end of a thread that the oriole had secured at one end and left dangling. This interference caused some commotion, but the bird was not outwitted. It caught the long string by its loose end and wrapped it over and over various twigs, and soon had a curious open-work bag that served its purpose admirably. The lining of soft, fluffy stuff’s was soon added. This brought up the question as to whether the bird ever ties short pieces together and so makes a more secure cable that gives strength to the finished nest. In examining nests, I have seen such knots as might have been tied by the birds, but there was no way to prove it. That they do wrap a string several times about a twig and then tie it, just as a boy ties his fishing-line to a pole, is certain. With my field-glass I have followed the bird far enough to be sure of this. When at work, the bird, from necessity, is in a reversed position,—that is, tail up and head down. This has an obvious advantage, in that the builder can see what is going on beneath him, and shows, too, how near the ground the nest will come when finished; but it sometimes happens that he gets so absorbed in his work that a person can approach quite near, but I never knew him to become entangled in the loose ends that hang about him.

The oriole at times offers us a wonderful example of ingenuity. It occasionally happens that too slight a twig is selected, and when the nest is finished, or, later, when the young are nearly grown, the structure hangs down too low for safety or sways too violently when the parent birds alight on it. This is a difficulty the bird has to contend with, and he has been known to remedy it by attaching a cord to the sustaining twigs and tying them to a higher limb of the tree, thus securing the necessary stability.

A more familiar evidence of the intelligence of birds is when the vireos are disturbed by the presence of a cow-bird’s egg in their nest. To get rid of it, they often build a new floor to the nest, and so leave the offending egg to spoil. But there is displayed here an error of judgment that I am surprised to find. The birds that take this trouble certainly could throw the egg out, and, I should think, preserve their own eggs, which invariably are left to decay when a new structure is reared above the old. I believe even three-storied vireos’ nests have been found.

There is one common swallow that is found well-nigh everywhere, which burrows into the sand; and when we think of it, it seems strange that so aerial a bird should build so gloomy an abode for the nesting season. This bank swallow, as it is called, selects a suitable bluff, facing water, and, with closed beak, turns round and round with its head to the ground, thus boring a hole big enough to crawl into. It turns into a gimlet for the time, and uses its beak as the point of the tool. This is odd work for a bird that almost lives in the air; and then think, too, of sitting in a dark cave, sometimes six feet long, until the eggs are hatched. On the other hand, the barn swallow makes a nest where there is plenty of light and air, and is a mason rather than a carpenter or miner. The mud he uses is not mere earth and water, but is made more adherent by a trace of secretion from the bird’s mouth; at least, my experiments lead me to think so. To build such a nest would be slow work did not the two birds work together and carry their little loads of mortar with great rapidity. They waste no time, and use only good materials, for I have noticed them, when building, go to a quite distant spot for the mud when a pool was directly outside of the barn in which they were building. To all appearance the nest is of sun-dried mud, but the material has certainly undergone a kind of puddling first that makes it more adherent, bit to bit, and the whole to the rafter or side of the building. Again, these swallows have the knack of carrying a little water on the feathers of their breasts, I think, and give the structure a shower-like wetting from time to time. At last the structure “sets” and is practically permanent.

There are birds that build no nests, like the kill-deer plover and the woodcock, and yet they exercise a faculty of equal value intellectually; for to be able to locate a spot that will be in the least degree exposed to danger is a power of no mean grade. The kill-deer will place its eggs on sloping ground, but somehow the heaviest dashes of rain do not wash out that particular spot. There are sand-pipers that lay their eggs on a bit of dead grass, just out of reach of the highest tides. As we look at such nests, we conclude that the birds trust a great deal to good luck; but, as a matter of fact, the destruction of eggs when in no nests, or next to none, is very small. Why, on the other hand, woodpeckers[woodpeckers] should go to such an infinity of trouble to whittle a nest in the firm tissue of a living tree, when a natural hollow would serve as well, is a problem past finding out. I have even seen a woodpecker make a new nest in a tree which already contained one in every respect as good.

Going back to the fields and thickets, it will be seen that birds, as a rule, desire that their nests should be inconspicuous, and their efforts are always largely in this direction in the construction. The foliage of the tree or bush is considered, and when not directly concealed by this, the nest is made to look marvellously like a natural production of the vegetable world, as the beautiful nest of our wood pee-wee or the humming-bird shows. These nests are then not merely the homes of young birds, but are places of defence against a host of enemies. The parent birds have no simple task set before them that can be gone through with mechanically year after year. Every season new problems arise, if their favorite haunts suffer change, and every year the birds prove equal to their solution.

CHAPTER

FIFTH

CORN-STALK FIDDLES

It is a merit of our climate that at no time of the year are we, as children, shut out from healthy out-door pleasure. There are shady nooks along our creeks and rivers and delightful old mill-ponds wherein we may bathe in midsummer, and there are acres of glassy ice over which to skate in midwinter. Spring and autumn are too full of fun to particularize, the average day being available for scores of methods whereby to make life a treasure beyond compare, spending it, to the mind of a boy, in that most rational way, having sport. I do not know why we always played marbles at one time of the year and flew our kites at another: this is for the folk-lore clubs to fathom. Suffice it, that there has been for centuries a time for every out-door amusement as fixed as the phases of the moon. So much for the sport common to all boys. And now a word concerning an old-time musical instrument that may be now quite out of date,—the corn-stalk fiddle.

This very primitive musical instrument is associated with the dreamy Indian-summer days of late November. Then it discoursed delicious music, but at other times it would have been “out of tune and harsh.” Did the Indians give the secret to the children of our colonial forefathers? It would be a pleasing thought whenever the toy comes to mind, as the mere suggestion is a pleasant fancy.

The husking over, the corn-stalks carted and stored in a huge rick by the barn-yard, the apples gathered, the winter wood cut, and then the long quiet, with almost nothing to do. Such was the routine when I was a boy, and if the uncertain, dreamy days would only come, there was sure to be a short round of pleasure wherein the fiddle figured more prominently than all else.

It was no small part of the fun to see Billy make a fiddle; it was such a curious combination of mummery and skill. Having whetted his keen, old-fashioned Barlow knife on the toe of his boot, he would flourish it above his head with a whoop as though he was looking for an enemy instead of a corn-stalk. Finding one that was glossy and long enough between the joints, he would press it gently between his lips, trying the several sections, and then selecting the longest and most glossy one. So much of the proceeding was for our benefit, as the cunning old fellow well knew that it added to his importance in our eyes.

What followed was skill. Having cut off the stalk above and below the ring-like joints, he had now a convenient piece about eight or ten inches in length. This he warmed by rubbing it violently with the palm of his hand, and then placing the point of the knife as near the joint as practicable, he drew it quickly down to the next joint or lower end. It must be a straight incision, and Billy seldom failed to make it so. A parallel one was then made, not more than one-sixteenth of an inch distant. A space of twice this width was left, and two or three more strings were made in the same manner. These were freed of the pith adhering to their under sides, and held up by little wooden “bridges,” one at each end. The bow was similarly fashioned, but was made of a more slender section of corn-stalk and had but two strings.

It was indeed surprising how available this crude production proved as a musical instrument. Youth and the environment counted for a great deal, of course, and my Quaker surroundings forbidding music, it was a sweeter joy because a stolen one.

I can picture days of forty years ago as distinctly as though a matter of the present. My cousin and myself, with Black Billy, would often steal away and carry with us one of the smaller barn doors. This we would place in a sunny nook on the south side of the stalk-rick, and while the fiddle was being made, would part with our jackets that we might dance the better. Billy was soon ready, and with what a joyful grin, rolling of his huge black eyes, and vigorous contortion of the whole body would our faithful friend draw from the corn-stalk every note of many a quaint old tune! And how we danced! For many a year after the old door showed the nail-marks of our heavily-heeled shoes where we had brought them down with a vigor that often roused the energy of old Billy, until he, too, would stand up and execute a marvellous pas seul. Then, tired out, we would rest in niches in the stalk-rick, and Billy would play such familiar airs as had penetrated even into the quiet of Quakerdom. It was no mere imitation of the music, but the thing itself; and it would be an hour or more before the fiddle’s strings had lost their tension, the silicious covering had worn away, and the sweet sounds ceased.

Almost the last of my November afternoons passed in this way had a somewhat dramatic ending. The fiddle was one of more than ordinary excellence. In the height of our fun I spied the brim of my grandfather’s hat extending an inch or two around the corner. I gave no sign, but danced more vigorously than ever, and as the music and dancing became more fast and furious the crown of his stiff hat appeared, and then my grandfather’s face. His countenance was a study. Whether to give the alarm and run or to remain was the decision of an instant. I gave no sign, but kept one eye on him. “Faster!” I cried to Billy, and, to my complete astonishment, the hat moved rapidly up and down. Grandfather was keeping time! “Faster!” I cried again, and the music was now a shrieking medley, and the broad-brimmed hat vibrated wonderfully fast. It was too much. I gave a wild yell and darted off. Circling the barn and stalk-rick, I entered the front yard with a flushed but innocent face, and met grandpa. He, too, had an innocent, far-away look, but his hat was resting on the back of his head and his checks were streaming with perspiration, and, best of all, he did not seem to know it.

“Grandpa,” I asked at the supper-table that evening, “does thee know why it is that savage races are so given to dancing?”

"Charles," he replied, gravely, and nothing more was said.

CHAPTER

SIXTH

THE OLD KITCHEN DOOR

The white porch, with its high roof and two severely plain pillars to support it; the heavy door, with its ponderous knocker; the straggling sweetbrier at one side; the forlorn yellow rose between the parlor windows; the grass that was too cold to welcome a dandelion; the low box hedge, and one huge box bush that never sheltered a bird’s nest; all these were in front to solemnly greet that terror of my early days,—company.

To me these front-door features all meant, and still mean, restraint; but how different the world that lingered about the old farm-house kitchen door! There was no cold formality there, but freedom,—the healthy freedom of old clothes, an old hat; ay, even the luxury of an open-throated shirt was allowed.

After a tramp over the meadows, after a day’s fishing, after the round of the rabbit-traps in winter, what joy to enter the kitchen door and breathe in the delectable odor of hot gingerbread! There were appetites in those days.

I do not understand the mechanism of a modern kitchen: it looks to me like a small machine-shop; but the old farm kitchen was a simple affair, and the intricacies and mystery lay wholly in the dishes evolved. It is said of my grandmother that a whiff of her sponge-cake brought the humming-birds about. I do know there was a crackly crust upon it which it is useless now to try to imitate.

But the door itself—we have none such now. It was a double door in two ways. It was made of narrow strips of oak, oblique on one side and straight on the other, and so studded with nails that the whole affair was almost half metal. It was cut in two, having an upper and a lower section. The huge wooden latch was hard and smooth as ivory. At night the door was fastened by a hickory bar, which, when I grew strong enough to lift it, was my favorite hobby-horse.

The heavy oak sill was worn in the middle until its upper surface was beautifully curved, and to keep the rain out, when the wind was south, a canvas sand-bag was rolled against it. A stormy-day amusement was to pull this away on the sly, and sail tiny paper boats in the puddle that soon formed on the kitchen floor. There was mischief in those days.

Kitchens and food are of course inseparably connected, and what hunting-ground for boys equal to the closets where the cakes were kept? I do not know that the matter was ever openly discussed, but as I look back it seems as if it was an understood thing that, when our cunning succeeded in outwitting auntie, we could help ourselves to jumbles. Once I became a hero in this line of discovery, and we had a picnic behind the lilacs; but, alas! only too soon we were pleading for essence of peppermint. Over-eating is possible, even in our teens.

Recent raids in modern kitchen precincts are never successful. Of late I always put my hand in the wrong crock, and find pickles where I sought preserves. I never fail, now, to take a slice of a reserved cake, or to quarter the pie intended for the next meal. Age brings no experience in such matters. It is a case where we advance backward.

Of the almost endless phases of life centring about the kitchen door there is one which stands out so prominently that it is hard to realize the older actor is now dead and that of the young on-lookers few are left. Soon after the dinner-horn was sounded the farm hands gathered at the pump, which stood just outside the door, and then in solemn procession filed into the kitchen for the noonday meal. All this was prosy enough, but the hour’s nooning after it,—then there was fun indeed.

Scipio—“Zip,” for short—was not ill-natured, but then who loves too much teasing? An old chestnut burr in the grass where he was apt to lie had made him suspicious of me, and I had to be extra cautious. Once I nearly overstepped the mark. Zip had his own place for a quiet nap, and, when stretched upon the grass under the big linden, preferred not to be disturbed. Now it occurred to me to be very funny. I whittled a cork to the shape of a spider, added monstrous legs, and with glue fastened a dense coating of chicken-down over all.

It was a fearful spider.

I suspended the sham insect from a limb of the tree so that it would hang directly over Zip’s face as he lay on the ground, and by a black thread that could not be seen I could draw it up or let it down at pleasure. It was well out of sight when Zip fell asleep, and then I slowly lowered the monster until it tickled his nose. It was promptly brushed aside. This was repeated several times, and then the old man awoke. The huge spider was just touching his nose, and one glance was enough. With a bound and a yell he was up and off, in his headlong flight overturning the thoughtless cause of his terror. I was the more injured of the two, but never dared in after-years to ask Zip if he was afraid of spiders.

And all these years the front door never changed. It may have been opened daily for aught I know, but I can remember nothing of its history.

Stay! As befitting such an occurrence, it was open once, as I remember, when there was a wedding at the house; but of that wedding I recall only the preparations in the kitchen for the feast that followed; and, alas! it has been opened again and again for funerals.

Why, indeed, should the front door be remembered? It added no sunshine to the child’s short summer; but around the corner, whether dreary winter’s storm or the fiercest heat of August fell upon it, the kitchen door was the entrance to a veritable elysium.

CHAPTER

SEVENTH

UP THE CREEK

There is greater merit in the little word “up” than in “down.” If, when in a place new to me, I am asked to go “up the creek,” my heart leaps, but there is less enthusiasm when it is suggested to go down the stream. One seems to mean going into the country, the other into the town. All this is illogical, of course, but what of that? The facts of a case like this have not the value of my idle fancies. After all, there is a peculiar merit in going up-stream. It is something to be going deeper and deeper into the heart of the country. It is akin to getting at the foundations of things.

In the case of small inland streams, generally, the mouth is a commonplace affair. The features that charm shrink from the fateful spot, and we are put in a condition of anticipation at the start which, happily, proves one of abundant realization at the finish.

A certain midsummer Saturday was not an ideal one for an outing, but with most excellent company I ventured up the creek. It was my friend’s suggestion, so I was free from responsibility. Having promised nothing, I could in no wise be justly held accountable. Vain thought! Directly I suffered in their estimation because, at mere beck and nod, polliwogs were not forthcoming and fishes refused to swim into my hand. What strange things we fancy of our neighbors! Because I love the wild life about me, one young friend thought me a magician who could command the whole creek’s fauna by mere word of mouth. It proved an empty day in one respect, animal life scarcely showing itself. To offer explanations was of no avail, and one of the little company recast her opinions. Perhaps she even entertains some doubt as to my having ever seen a bird or fish or the coveted polliwog.

It is one thing to be able to give the name and touch upon the habits of some captured creature, and quite another to command its immediate presence when we enter its haunts. This always should, and probably never will, be remembered.

But what of the creek, the one-time Big-Bird Creek of the Delaware Indians? With ill-timed strokes we pulled our languid oars, and passed many a tree, jutting meadow, or abandoned wharf worthy of more than a moment’s contemplation. But, lured by the treasure still beyond our reach, we went on and on, until the trickling waters of a hillside spring proved too much for us, and, turning our prow landward, we stopped to rest.

Among old trees that afforded grateful shade, a spring that bubbled from an aged chestnut’s wrinkled roots, a bit of babbling brook that too soon reached the creek and was lost, and, beyond all, wide-spreading meadows, boundless from our point of view—what more need one ask? To our credit, be it said, we were satisfied, except, perhaps, that here, as all along our course, polliwogs were perverse. Birds, however, considerately came and went, and even the shy cuckoo deigned to reply when we imitated his dolorous clucking. A cardinal grosbeak, too, drew near and whistled a welcome, and once eyed us with much interest as we sat lunching on the grass. What did he think of us? Eating, with him, is so different a matter, and perhaps he could give us a few useful hints. The trite remark, “Fingers came before forks,” has a significance in the woods, if not in the town. While eating we listened, and I heard the voices of nine different birds. Some merely chirped in passing, it is true, but the marsh-wrens in the cat-tail thicket just across the creek were not silent for a moment. Here in the valley of the Delaware, as I recently found them on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, the wrens are quite nocturnal, and I would have been glad to have heard them sing in the moonlight again; for our enthusiasm would have been strengthened by a few such glimpses of the night side of Nature.

No bird is so welcome to a mid-day camp as the white-eyed vireo, and we were fortunate in having one with us while we tarried at the spring. Not even ninety degrees in the shade has any effect upon him, and this unflagging energy reacts upon the listener. We could at least be so far alive as to give him our attention. Mid-day heat, however, does affect many a song-bird, and now that nesting is well-nigh over, the open woods are deserted for hidden cool retreats, where the songster takes its ease, as we, far from town, are taking ours. There is much in common between birds and men.

How, as we lingered over our glasses, counting the lemon-seeds embedded in sugar, we would have enjoyed a wood-thrush’s splendid song or a rose-breasted grosbeak’s matchless melody! but the to-whee of the pipilo scratching among dead leaves, the plaint of an inquisitive cat-bird threading the briers, the whir of a humming-bird vainly seeking flowers,—these did not pass for nothing; and yet there was comparative silence that suggested a sleeping rather than a wakeful, active world.

Here let me give him who loves an outing a useful hint: be not so anxious for what may be that you overlook that which is spread before you. More than once to-day our discussion of the “silence” of a midsummer noontide drowned the voices of singing-birds near by.

How often it has been intimated to us that "two’s company and three’s a crowd"! but to really see and hear what transpires in the haunts of wild life, one is company and two’s a crowd. We cannot heed Nature and fellow-man at the same moment; and as to the comparative value of their communications, each must judge for himself.

Certainly the human voice is a sound which animals are slow to appreciate. How often have I stood in silence before birds and small animals and they have shown no fear! A movement of my arms would put them on guard, perhaps; but a word spoken, and away they sped. Not a bird, I have noticed, is startled by the bellow of a bull or the neigh of a horse, and yet my own voice filled them with fear. Even snakes that knew me well and paid no attention to my movements were startled at words loudly spoken. It is a bit humiliating to think that in the estimation of many a wild animal our bark is worse than our bite.

A midsummer noontide has surely some merit, and when I failed to find fish, frog, or salamander for my young friend, it became necessary to point to some feature of the spot that made it worth a visit. To my discomfiture, I could find nothing. Trees have been talked of overmuch, and there were no wild flowers. The August bloom gave, as yet, only a hint of what was coming. I had hit upon a most unlucky interim during which no man should go upon a picnic. In despair and empty-handed, we took to our boat and started up the creek. It was a fortunate move, for straightway the waters offered that which I had vainly sought for on shore. Here were flowers in abundance. The pickerel-weed was in bloom, the dull-yellow blossoms of the spatterdock dotted the muddy shores, bind-weed here and there offered a single flower as we passed by, and never was golden-dodder more luxuriant. Still, it is always a little disappointing when Flora has the world to herself, and while we were afloat it was left to a few crows and a single heron to prove that she had not quite undisputed sway.

Up the creek with many a turn and twist, and now on a grassy knoll we land again, where a wonderful spring pours a great volume of sparkling water into the creek. Here at last we have an object lesson that should bear fruit when we recall the day. Not a cupful of this clear cold water could we catch but contained a few grains of sand, and for so many centuries has this carrying of sand grains been in progress that now a great ridge has choked the channel where once rode ships at anchor. An obscure back-country creek now, but less than two centuries ago the scene of busy industry. Perhaps no one is now living who saw the last sail that whitened the landscape. Pages of old ledgers, a bit of diary, and old deeds tell us something of the place; but the grassy knoll itself gives no hint of the fact that upon it once stood a warehouse. Yet a busy place it was in early colonial times, and now utterly neglected.

It is difficult to realize how very unsubstantial is much of man’s work. As we sat upon the grassy slope, watching the outgoing tide as it rippled and broke in a long line of sparkling bubbles, I rebuilt, for the moment, the projecting wharf, of which but a single log remains, and had the quaint shallops of pre-Revolutionary time riding at anchor. There were heard, in fact, the cry of a heron and the wild scream of a hawk; but these, in fancy, were the hum of human voices and the tramp of busy feet.

The Old Drawbridge, Crosswick’s Creek

The scattered stones that just peeped above the grass were not chance bowlders rolled from the hill near by, but the door-step and foundation of the one-time warehouse. The days of buying, selling, and getting gain came back, in fancy, and I was more the sturdy colonist than the effeminate descendant. But has the present no merit? We had the summer breeze that came freighted with the odors gathered from the forest and the stream, and there were thrushes rejoicing in our hearing that the hill-sides were again as Nature made them. It meant much to us to tarry in the shade of venerable trees spared by the merchants that once collected here, whose names are now utterly forgotten. Stay! there are two reminders of ancient glory. A beech that overhangs the brook has its bark well scarred, and, now beyond decipherment, there are initials of many prominent naturalists of Philadelphia. A few rods up-stream is another beech that has remained unchanged. On it can be seen the initials T. A. C., 1819; those of the celebrated paleontologist, Conrad, born near here in 1803.

The shadows lengthen; the cooler hours of eventide draw on; the languid thrushes are again abroad; music fills the air. We are homeward bound and hurrying down-stream. Our minds are not so receptive as when we started. How shrunken to a few rods is every mile! Trees, flowers, and birds are scarcely heeded; but the good gathered as we went up the creek we bring away, and, once again in the dusty village street, we realize that we have but to turn our back upon the town to find the world a picture.

CHAPTER

EIGHTH

A WINTER-NIGHT’S
OUTING

Not long since I was asked—and not for the first time—if I could date the beginning of my taste for natural history pursuits or give any incident that appeared to mark a turning-point in my career.

It did not seem possible to do this, on first consideration; but a recent living over of days gone by recalled an incident which happened before I was eleven years old, and, as it was almost my first regular outing that smacked of adventure, it is probable that it impressed me more forcibly than any earlier or, indeed, later events.

Heavy and long-continued rains had resulted in a freshet, and then three bitter cold days had converted a wide reach of meadows into a frozen lake. Happier conditions could not have occurred in the small boy’s estimation, and, with boundless anticipation, we went skating.

After smooth ice, the foremost requirement is abundant room, and this we had. There was more than a square mile for each of us. The day had been perfect and the approaching night was such as Lowell so aptly describes, “all silence and all glisten.”

As the sun was setting we started a roaring fire in a sheltered nook, and securely fastening our skates without getting at all chilled, started off. Then the fun commenced. We often wandered more than a mile away, and it was not until the fire was reduced to a bed of glowing coals that we returned to our starting-point.

Here a great surprise awaited us. The heat had drawn from the wooded hill-side near by many a meadow-mouse that, moved by the warmth or by curiosity, ventured as near as it dared. These mice were equally surprised at seeing us, and scampered off, but, it seemed to me, with some show of reluctance, as if a chance to warm themselves so thoroughly should not be missed.

We freshened the fire a little and fell back a few paces, but stood near enough to see if the mice would return. This they did in a few minutes, and, to our unbounded surprise and amusement, more than one sat up on its haunches like a squirrel. They seemed to be so many diminutive human beings about a camp-fire.

It was a sight to give rise to a pretty fairy tale, and possibly our Indians built up theirs on just such incidents. These mice were, to all appearances, there to enjoy the warmth. There was little running to and fro, no squeaking, not a trace of unusual excitement, and, although it was so cold, we agreed to wait as long as the mice saw fit to stay.

This resolution, however, could not hold. We were getting chilled, and so had to draw near. As we did this, there was a faint squeaking which all noticed, and we concluded that sentinels had been placed to warn the congregated mice of our approach.

The spirit of adventure was now upon us, and our skates were but the means to other ends than mere sport. What, we thought, of the gloomy nooks and corners where thickets stood well above the ice? We had shunned these heretofore, but without open admission that we had any fear concerning them. Then, too, the gloomy gullies in the hill-side came to mind. Should we skate into such darkness and startle the wild life there?

The suggestion was made, and not one dared say he was afraid.

We thought of the fun in chasing a coon or skunk over the ice, and bravely we ventured, feeling our way where we knew the ice was thin and rough.

At a bend in the little brook, where a large cedar made the spot more dark and forbidding, we paused a moment, not knowing just how to proceed.

The next minute we had no time for thought. A loud scream held us almost spellbound, and then, with one dash, we sought the open meadows.

Once there, we breathed a little freer. We could see the fast-fading light of the fire, and at last could flee in a known direction if pursued. Should we hurry home? We debated this for some time, but were more fearful of being laughed at than of facing any real danger, and therefore concluded, with proper caution, to return.

Keeping close together, we entered the ravine again, stopped near the entrance and kindled a fire, and then, by its light, proceeded farther. It was a familiar spot, but not without strange features as we now saw it.

Again we were startled by the same wild cry, but for a moment only. A barn owl, I think it was, sailed by, glaring at us, as we imagined, and sought the open meadows.

We turned and followed, though why, it would be hard to say. The owl flew slowly and we skated furiously, trying to keep it directly overhead. Now we were brave even to foolhardiness, and sped away over the ice, indifferent to the direction taken. To this day I have credited that owl with a keen sense of humor.

On we went, over the meadows to where the swift but shallow creek flowed by, and then, when too late, we knew where we were. The ice bent beneath us, then cracked, and in an instant we were through it, our feet well in the mud and the water about our necks. Just how we got out I never knew, but we did, and the one dry match among us was a veritable treasure. It did not go out at the critical moment, but started ablaze the few twigs we hastily gathered, and so saved us from freezing. As we dried our clothes and warmed our benumbed bodies, I, for one, vowed never again to chase an owl on skates, but to go at it more soberly. From that eventful night the country has been attractive by reason of its wild life. It was there I became—if indeed I ever have become—a naturalist.

CHAPTER

NINTH

WILD LIFE IN WATER