THE "HERMIT" AND HIS HOUSE.

A Hermit's Wild Friends

or

Eighteen Years in the Woods

By

Mason A. Walton

(The Hermit of Gloucester)

Boston

Dana Estes & Company

Publishers

Copyright, 1903
By Dana Estes & Company
All rights reserved

A HERMIT'S WILD FRIENDS
Published October, 1903

Colonial Press

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.

Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

To the
Lovers of Nature,
everywhere,
this volume is fraternally dedicated.

NOTE

During my eighteen years of hermit life, I claim to have discovered several new features in natural history, namely:

That the cow-bunting watches over its young, assists the foster parents in providing food, and gradually assumes full care of the young bird, and takes it to the pasture to associate with its kind; that the white-footed mouse is dumb, and communicates with its species by drumming with its toes; that the wood-thrush conducts a singing-school for the purpose of teaching its young how to sing; that the chickadee can count; that the shadbush on Cape Ann assumes a dwarf form, and grows in patches like the low-bush blueberry, fruiting when less than a foot in height; that the red squirrel owns a farm or fruit garden, and locates his male children on territory which he preempts for the purpose. I am aware that my claims will be vigorously assailed, but I have verified these discoveries by years of patient observation, and would say to my critics: "You would better investigate carefully before denying the probability of any one of these claims."

Thanks are due the publishers of Forest and Stream and Youth's Companion for permission to republish articles which have appeared in these respective journals.

M. A. WALTON.

Gloucester, April 5, 1903.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A Hermit's Wild Friends

OR

Eighteen Years in the Woods

I.
NATURE versus MEDICINE

Eighteen years ago I was in sore straits. Ill health had reduced my flesh until I resembled the living skeleton of a dime show. I realized that a few months more of city life would take me beyond the living stage, and that the world would have no further use for me except to adorn some scientific laboratory.

A diagnosis of my case would read as follows:

Dyspepsia, aggravated, medicine could give but slight relief. Catarrh, malignant, persistent. A douche was necessary every morning to relieve the severe facial pain. A cough that had worried me by day and by night, and thrived on all kinds of cough medicine. Also, my lungs were sore and the palms of my hands were hot and dry. I thought that I was fading away with consumption, but the doctors said my lungs were sound. I was advised to go into the woods and try life in a pine grove. As there was no money for the doctors in this advice, I looked upon it as kind and disinterested, but my mind ran in another direction.

When I was young and full of notions, the idea entered my head that I should like a change from fresh to salt water. It resulted in a two months' trip on a fishing schooner. During the trip I had been free from seasickness, and had gained flesh rapidly. The memory of that sea voyage haunted me, now that I had become sick and discouraged. It seemed to me that a few weeks on salt water would save my life.

With high hopes, I boarded the little steamer that plied between Boston and Gloucester. I thought it would be an easy matter to secure board on one of the many vessels that made short trips after mackerel. For three days I haunted the wharves in vain. The "skippers," one and all, gave the same reason for refusing my offers. "We are going after fish," said they, "and cannot be bothered with a sick man." At last one "skipper" discouraged me completely. He said to me: "I once took a sick man on board, and because we did not strike fish, the fishermen called the passenger a Jonah, and made his life miserable. Three days after we returned he died, and I swore then that I never would take another sick man to sea." This "skipper's" story, and my fruitless efforts caused me to abandon the salt water cure. I turned now to the hills around Gloucester. In the end I selected Bond's Hill, because it was surrounded by pine groves.

I found the hill covered with blueberry and huckleberry bushes, the latter loaded with fruit. On the brow of the hill the soil had been washed away, leaving great masses of bed rock (granite) towering above the cottages that clung to the base of the cliff. On the extreme brow of the hill I found a spot where the soil had gathered and maintained a grass-plot. Here I pitched my little tent. Here I lived from August to December. I called the spot the Eyrie, because it reminded me of the regions inhabited by eagles. A visit to the spot will disclose the fitness of the name.

On this spot my eighteen years of hermit life begun. At first I made it a practice to go to the city every day for one meal, bringing back food enough to last until another day. I found the huckleberries good wholesome food that did not aggravate my chronic dyspepsia.

Two weeks of outdoor life had brought a little color to my cheeks and had made me feel like a new man. About this time I awoke in the morning to remember that I had not coughed during the night. The cough that had harassed me night and day for two years, left me then and there, never to return.

Nature was performing wonders where medicine had failed.

Before the month of September had ended, my catarrh disappeared, and I no longer had use for the douche. From that time to this, I have been free from catarrh. I do not have even the symptoms, known as hay-fever.

The dull, heavy pain that I had experienced constantly from dyspepsia, gradually sub sided and eventually ceased. Since that time I have been able to eat any kind of food, at any time, day or night, without the depressing pains of indigestion.

During my first experience, climbing Bond's Hill, on my return from the city, had been almost beyond my strength. I had to rest three times before reaching my tent. By the middle of November my strength had returned nearly to the old standard, and I mounted the hill without a thought of weariness.

Standing one day on a massive spur of bed rock, near my tent, my thoughts went back to the statement of the doctors in relation to my lungs. I had just ascended the hill, without a long breath, and a hale, hearty feeling pervaded every fibre of my system. I knew, then, that my lungs were all right, and thanks to Nature, I had recovered my health and stood there comparatively a well man.

While I was yet weak, I passed many hours at the Eyrie, entranced by the magnificent panorama spread before me. I could see the larger part of the city of Gloucester, which extended, in a semicircle, from Riverdale to Eastern Point.

Later in the season I watched the ebb and flow of the tide on the marshes that border Annisquam River.

The Outer Harbor, with Ten Pound Island near the entrance of the Inner Harbor, lay in plain view, and the shifting scenes on its restless waters possessed a fascination which I could seldom resist.

Day after day I watched the vessels of the fishing fleet as they rounded Eastern Point, bound outward or inward. These vessels were models of beauty, and looked as if they were built for racing instead of fishing. I often compared them with the clumsy coasters that rode at anchor in the Outer Harbor.

Now and then a vessel, homeward bound, rounded Eastern Point with her flag half-mast. Mute reminder of the hardships and perils of a fisherman's life.

Every morning soon after it had become light enough to see, several boats could be seen rowing shoreward. Usually there was only one man to a boat. It did not take me long to find out that these lone rowers coming in out of the night were fishermen that pulled their lobster-pots after one o'clock in the morning. I saw another lone fisherman sail out of the harbor every morning when there was wind enough to fill a dory sail. Day after day he sailed or rowed out to sea to fish for shore codfish. He supported a large family from the proceeds of his labor, but the life was lonely and perilous. I watched his return once when the wind was blowing a fierce gale. The little boat would careen until the sail trailed in the water and it seemed to me that she must capsize. At the last moment she would come up into the wind and right. In this slow, dangerous manner she was worked to the mouth of Annisquam River and tied up above the Cut Bridge. The next day I asked the fisherman how he had managed to keep his boat right side up. "Oh, that was easy. When she heeled too much, I shook her up, and kept her from taking in water." "Shook her up," was a new phrase to me.

Below my Eyrie lay the little hamlet called the Cut. Some of its cottages had straggled up to the base of the cliff just below the tent.

I could look down on a long stretch of Western Avenue beginning at the Cut and ending in Ward Five, beyond the Cut Bridge. The latter was a drawbridge, and when open the city of Gloucester was on an island, with the exception of Ward Eight, which lies on the west side of Annisquam River.

I had located in Ward Eight, but at the time did not know anything in relation to its size, as compared with the other wards of the city. A glance at the map in the city directory showed me that Ward Eight was larger in area than all the other wards combined. I also found that it comprised within its limits the Cut, Fresh Water Cove, West Gloucester, and Magnolia. It pleased me much to find that it contained about twelve thousand acres of shrub land and forest.

Two-thirds of the way from the Cut to the drawbridge, Essex Avenue connects with Western Avenue. Essex Avenue crosses the marsh to West Gloucester, and is the highway into the city for Essex and other distant towns. There is a constant stream of travel over this highway, divided among farmers, icemen, and pleasure-seekers. The travel on Western Avenue is now, and was then, made up largely from the summer colonies at Magnolia and Manchester. Showy turnouts passed and repassed, so that I had enough to attract my attention from sunrise to sunset. When facing the harbor, I could turn to the left and look across the marsh to Dogtown Common. I had to look above and beyond a straggling portion of the city. Dogtown Common, in Revolutionary days, contained forty dwellings; now it was houseless. I saw only a boulder-covered region of pasture-land, choked by huckleberry and blueberry bushes, with here and there large tangles of catbrier.

Some of the sunsets seen from the Eyrie were beautiful beyond description. Whenever a massive bank of clouds hung above the western horizon, the setting sun illuminated the city from Riverdale to Eastern Point, and every window in sight glowed like burnished gold.

Until the middle of November the weather continued mild and balmy, with but a few stormy days. I recall, with pleasure and satisfaction, the evenings passed at the Eyrie. Perched on the brow of the cliff, I studied the city by moonlight, lamplight, and gas-light. On dark nights the lights of the city took on the shape of a huge monster, half-coiled, and extended from Riverdale to Eastern Point Light. The latter is a revolving red light, and it gave the semblance of life to the one-eyed monster which constantly blinked its great red eye. It pleased me to call this imaginary monster the sea-serpent. Gloucester owes her growth to the sea, and she might well take on the shape of the sea-serpent.

When the danger-signals were up, the Outer Harbor was crowded with craft of all kinds. At night time the tossing lights on the vessels contrasted strangely with the fixed lights on shore.

The twin lights on Thatcher's Island could be seen from the Eyrie, and I often wondered if these lights were necessary. To the middle of November I had seen the sea only in comparatively fair weather, when it was on its good behavior. Afterward a storm that wrecked my tent, and brought in its wake huge waves that thundered against the headlands of Cape Ann, caused me to wonder in another direction. It seems incredible, but it is a fact, that I could feel the solid rock tremble beneath my tent from the shock of wave against headland, one fourth of a mile distant.

The storm died out, but it left an impression on my mind that caused me to look for a locality less exposed to the wind. I found an ideal spot on the "Old Salem Road." The spot was surrounded by wooded hills, where a little brook crept out of a swamp and crossed to the south side of the old highway. After crossing the highway, the waters of the brook went tumbling and singing down to another swamp, where they were lost in a tangle of moss, ferns, and marsh-marigolds.

The Old Salem Road had been deserted more than one hundred years, save as a wood road in winter. At one time it was the connecting link between Salem and Gloucester. Seven ruined cellars indicate the spots where dwelling-houses once stood.

I moved my tent from the Eyrie, and put it up within the limits of the old highway, and begun to build a little log cabin in which to spend the winter.

While in the tent I experienced zero weather, and it may be of interest to know how I managed to keep warm. I had picked up two discarded milk-cans, and these I filled with hard wood coals from a fire which I maintained near the tent. By closing the flaps of the tent the heat from the cans would keep up an even temperature through the night. If it happened to get cold toward morning I would burn a newspaper now and then, which would warm the tent until light enough to start an outdoor fire. I baked beans in a hole in the ground, in true Maine camp style. There would be coals enough under the bean-pot, in the morning, to cook coffee, and hot coffee and baked beans seemed to go to the right spot when the thermometer was hanging around zero, and one was living in a cotton tent.

I did my cooking on a bed of red hot coals, thus avoiding smoked food and the loss of coffee-pot handle or spout. Hemlock bark from a dead tree will give the best coals in the shortest time.

By the middle of December I had moved into my log cabin. I put in a second-hand range, which proved to be an excellent baker and warmed the cabin in the coldest weather. The remainder of the winter "I was as snug as a bug in a rug," to use an old familiar adage.

Before the winter months had passed, chickadees, black snow-birds, and tree-sparrows found their way into the cabin dooryard. I fed lard to the chickadees on a chip, and the birds would eat this clear fat, at short intervals, all day, and come around the next morning none the worse for the strange diet. Certainly such food would kill any other bird. The snow-birds and sparrows were fed on different kinds of bird-seed. When I mention sparrows I do not refer to the English sparrow. I am pleased to state that this undesirable alien does not come to my dooryard. The tree-sparrow is a native bird, and here on the Cape, is seen only in winter. It comes to us in October, and leaves by the first of April. The tree-sparrow is an interesting bird to know. It comes to us in the winter when the most of our birds are in the South. It is a handsome bird from a sparrow standpoint.

TREE SPARROW.

The crown is a bright chestnut, and there are chestnut markings on the side of the head and on the bend of the wing. The back is boldly streaked with black, bay, and light gray. There is much white edging to the feathers of the tail and wings in winter. A few of these birds stopped about the cabin all winter; but a flock numbering hundreds wintered on Bond's Hill. On warm days they roamed over the hill, far and near, always flying low and keeping well down in the shrubby growth. But when the weather was cold I would find them in a sheltered spot, where meadowsweet, bayberry, hardhack, blueberry, huckleberry, and sweet-fern shrubs crowded each other until their interwoven branches held a mantle of snow. Beneath this shelter the birds seemed to find food, for they were busy at all hours of the day. I passed many hours watching them while they were thus secluded. Invariably I found them chirping to each other, and by listening closely I could catch snatches of song low and sweet. The last of March their low song could be heard in the shrub-lands. Later, when the song-sparrows and bluebirds swelled the chorus, the tree-sparrows silently disappeared.

FOX SPARROW.

April 3d, in the morning, I found a large flock of fox-sparrows in the dooryard. It is somewhat singular that for three years they appeared on the same day of the month. One year, April 3, 1887, I awoke in the morning to find three feet of snow in the dooryard, and I was obliged to shovel the snow away in order to feed the sparrows on bare ground. The fox-sparrow is two-thirds as large as a robin, and may be classed with the beautiful birds both in form and coloration. The sexes are alike. The color above is a rich rusty red, deepest and brightest on the wings, tail, and rump. The head, neck, and shoulders are a dark ash-color, more or less streaked with rusty red. Below the groundwork is snow-white, also thickly spotted with rust red. It could be called a wood-thrush by a careless observer. These birds are migrants with us, and pass through the State to their breeding-grounds in April, to return in October. It is usually six weeks from the time the first flock appears before the loiterers are all gone. The flock that called on me was a very large one, numbering over one hundred birds. Mornings they made the woods ring with their delightful music.

BAY-WINGED BUNTING.

When the birds returned in April and May, I found that I was a trespasser on the nesting-ground of many a woodland bird. Catbirds, towhee-buntings, robins, thrushes, and numerous warblers nested around my cabin.

By this time I had settled down to hermit-life in earnest. I had tried the experiment of "Nature versus Medicine," and Nature had triumphed. With good health, with strange birds and flowers to study and identify, I was content to spend a portion of my rescued life in Dame Nature's company.

BLACKBIRD.

II.
SATAN THE RACCOON

During the early years of my hermit-life, I had caged many small animals, such as deer-mice, raccoons, woodchucks, chipmunks, flying-squirrels, stoats, mink, and red and gray squirrels.

RACCOON'S HEAD.

My first captive was an artful old coon. I caught him in a small steel trap, the jaws of which had been wound with cloth as a protection to the foot. The den was under a boulder near the cabin. I set the trap at the mouth of the den and covered it with leaves. The next morning the trap, with clog attached, was missing. There was a trail in the dead leaves easily followed. While following the zigzag trail I was in plain sight of the coon, but he remained quiet until he found that he was discovered, then made frantic efforts to escape. The clog had anchored him securely to some witch-hazel shrubs. He was full of fight, and I had to look out for his teeth and claws. I had brought along a stout piece of duck, which I wrapped around the raccoon, trap and all; thus secure from his wicked teeth and claws, I toted him to the cabin.

It took me two hours to put a strap on his neck. The struggle was a desperate one. Without the duck it would have been a victory for the raccoon. When I had the strap securely fastened and a dog-chain attached, I removed the trap from his foot, then staked him out near the cabin. For two weeks he tried night and day to free himself from collar and chain, then suddenly appeared to be contented.

Instinct plays no part in coon lore. A coon can reason as well as the average human being. My captive proved to be as artful and wicked as Beelzebub himself.

Whenever my back was turned he would be up to all sorts of mischief. When caught red-handed he could put on a look of innocence too comical for anything. By the end of the first month he had got all of my ways of life down fine. If I went into the woods with my gun, on my return he would tear around in his cage anxious for the squirrel he had not seen, but was sure to get. When I went away without the gun, he paid no attention on my return. I do not think he was guided by scent, for sometimes the wind would not be right. Without doubt he connected the gun and squirrel in his mind, and perhaps knew more about a gun than I thought.

He did not take kindly to cage-life, although his cage was under a small pine-tree, so when I was about the cabin I chained him to the tree and let him run outside. I put him into the cage every day before going to the city for my mail. He resented this, and would run up the pine-tree when he saw me lock the cabin-door. One day I pulled him down and whipped him while he lay prone on the ground, with his eyes covered. I took away his food and water. He must have been downright hungry before I fed him. He never forgot the lesson. After that, when he saw me lock up he would sneak into his cage, fearful, I suppose, that if found outside he would be whipped and starved. He preferred food in the order herein named: insects, eggs, birds or poultry, frogs, nuts, red squirrel, rabbit, gray squirrel, and fish. This, without doubt, was the bill of fare of his wild state. He would not touch green corn or milk until I had crushed the former into his mouth, and had dipped his nose into the latter. Afterward he would leave everything for milk.

The first rabbit I fed to him was about two-thirds grown. It was one which a mink had chased into my dooryard and killed. It was evident from the first that the coon was no stranger to this kind of food. He opened the rabbit's mouth with his fore paws and ate out the tongue, after which he skinned the head, turning the skin back over the neck. He crushed the bones of the head and lapped out the brains. On the third day he had finished the rabbit, and the skin was turned inside out, even to the ends of the toes. Squirrels were skinned in the same manner.

This coon decided for me a disputed question. I refer to the whimper or cry of the coon. Night after night, in the nutting season, he would call to his comrades, and they would answer from the surrounding woods.

When the sweet acorns were ripe, Satan was unusually active early in the evening. At this early hour the coons were abroad in search for food, and Satan scented them, and did his best to attract their attention. One coon passed near the cabin every night and answered Satan's cries, so I imagined that it was his mate.

Many writers claim that the tremulous cry attributed to the coon is made by the little screech-owl (Scops asio). It is true, doubtless, that people that do not know both cries may make such a mistake.

The little owls appear to resent my intrusion on their vested rights, so from early spring to late fall they haunt my sleeping-quarters, and divide their time between snapping their beaks and uttering their monotonous notes. As I sleep in the open air nine months out of the twelve, I have a good chance to study both cries, and could not mistake one for the other.

The coon is a ventriloquist. His cry seems to come down from the sky. A friend came in from the city one night to hear the coon cry. It was a moonlight night, and the coon was staked out in the dooryard. My friend was not looking when the first cry was uttered, but claimed that the sound came from the trees overhead. Afterward he saw the coon in the act, and could not make a mistake.

When Satan uttered the cry, he was always sitting on his haunches. He would throw his head up until his nose pointed skyward, then blow the sound out between his half-closed lips.

My friend had brought in a blanket and hammock, and was prepared to spend the night in the open air. He slung his hammock near mine, and we turned in about ten o'clock. He was nervous and restless, and said he could not sleep with the little owls about him. Every fifteen or twenty minutes he would call to me to ask about some noise of the night, common enough, but which appeared strange and startling to him in the strained condition of his nerves. Soon after midnight a small animal, doubtless a stoat looking for an owl supper, dropped on to my friend's blanket. There was a smothered cry, full of fear, and a flying figure that did not stop until my hammock was reached. Nothing that I could say would induce the frightened man to go back to that hammock. He suggested at last that he would sleep in the cabin. I assented, and we soon had a bed arranged in a bunk. The cabin was overrun with white-footed mice, and I looked for more trouble.

"I BEGUN BY TYING ON A NUT."

Twenty minutes later I heard several war-whoops, and I saw my friend tumble out of the cabin into the dooryard. "Are you awake?" cried he. "Certainly," I answered, "you don't think there is any one asleep in this county after the racket you have made, do you?" "Oh, let up with your fooling," said he, "this is a serious thing. I sleep with my mouth open; suppose one of those mice had run down my throat and choked me to death? I am going home." And home he did go. I accompanied him through the woods to Western Avenue, and returned in time to get three hours' sleep. My friend was like hundreds of other nervous people that I had known in a lifetime, who were too sensitive to enjoy a night in the open air. To be in full accord with nature one should get accustomed to the presence of a snake now and then, in the open-air bed.

Satan was an apt scholar. I taught him to pull in his chain, hand over hand, sailor-fashion. The chain was twelve feet in length. I begun by tying on a nut about two feet from the coon. He pulled in the chain with his fore feet, which he used as hands. I would say to him, "Pull in the chain. Pull in the chain," and inside of a week he would obey the order without the use of food. I think he enjoyed the sport.

The boys that visited my cabin thought it great fun to play with Satan. They would pull the chain out and watch the coon pull it in. When Satan got tired he would coil the chain and lay on it, and the play was ended for the time being. After he had rested awhile he would go on with the play. When he was resting, if a boy offered to reach the chain he would lay back his ears, growl, and show his teeth. When he was ready to play he would sit up on his hind feet, prick his ears forward and look clever; then the boys could reach under him and pull out the chain without danger.

One day, while the coon was chained to a stake in the dooryard, he killed a pet bird in a manner so cruel and crafty, that it caused me to name him Satan then and there. I had placed a piece of matting by the stake to which the coon was chained. He understood that the matting was for his use, and he would cry to be fed while chained out. He used the matting as a dining-table and bed combined. The pet bird that was killed was a male catbird. Satan had left a piece of cookie on the matting, and the catbird thought to appropriate it. I was writing, not thirty feet away, and looked up just in time to see the flash of Satan's paw. I shouted, and rushed to the rescue. When I reached the coon the bird had disappeared. Satan looked so innocent and surprised that I was led to believe that the bird had escaped. I returned to my writing, and the coon settled down for a nap. An hour later a visitor from the city called to get the loan of a book on birds. I went to the cabin for the book, and when I returned Satan was patting down the edge of the mat. He saw me, and put on his innocent look. He coiled up as if he were about to try to sleep in a new spot. My suspicion was aroused. I pulled away the coon and under the mat found the dead bird. He had killed the bird and placed it under him so swiftly that I did not detect the trick when I went to the rescue. For a full hour he simulated sleep while he had the dead bird under him all the time. When I went to the cabin he hid the dead body under the mat. I gave him a severe whipping and placed the dead bird on his mat. The next day I buried the body, so Satan did not profit by his crafty deed. He remembered the whipping, and ever after did not molest the birds. I once saw a young towhee-bunting sit on his hind foot and eat from a cookie that the coon had tried to hide. How it would have fared with the bird, if I had been absent, is a question.

I don't think Satan had any respect for the Sabbath, but he knew the day, nevertheless. On week-days, I returned from city about nine o'clock A. M. Soon after, I would stake Satan in the dooryard, and he would seem much pleased with the change. I got up every morning at daybreak. My first duty was to feed the birds and Satan, then get my breakfast. At first I did not let Satan out of his cage on Sundays, on account of the dogs that my visitors brought along. Every Sunday morning I would feed Satan as soon as I was out of my hammock, as I did on week-day mornings, but he would not eat or drink, and constantly tried to open the door of the cage. He certainly knew, thus early in the morning, that it was Sunday, and he would have to remain hived up in his cage all day. It seemed to me, that if Satan was intelligent enough to keep run of the days of the week, he ought to know about the dogs, and was willing to fight them rather than be cooped up all day. I knew all about the fighting ability of the raccoon. It had been my good fortune to observe the evolution of a young coon, from a helpless, sprawling bunch of fat and fur, to an old coon, with a bristling battery of claws and teeth operated by chain-lightning. After due consideration I concluded to let Satan take chances with the dogs. The next Sunday I staked him in the dooryard and awaited developments.

A big Newfoundland dog was the first to appear. The moment he saw the coon he made a fierce rush, but Satan sprang lightly into the air and landed on the dog's back. Swiftly and savagely he delivered two blows on the dog's eyes. The big brute tore himself away from the coon and frantically rubbed his eyes with his fore paws. When he could see a little, he "dusted" for home, a sadder but wiser dog.

The next dog was a small one, and Satan gave him a slap under the ear that landed him outside of the ring, or beyond the length of the coon's chain. This dog did not go home, but went to his master for sympathy. He could not be induced afterward to look at the coon.

Dog number three proved to be a yelping cur. He did not attack the coon, but danced around him, yelping all the time. He distracted the visitors with his incessant yelping. His master could not call him off. Satan set a trap for the cur, and caught him, too. He went to the stake, pulled in the chain, and then pretended to sleep. The dog was deceived, and got bolder and bolder until he was near enough for Satan to reach him. The coon made a swift rush and caught the yelping cur, and handled him so roughly that I was obliged to rescue him. It is needless to say that the cur was cured of yelping.

Satan whipped two other dogs before night, then for several weeks had no trouble worth mentioning. Now and then, through the summer, a strange dog would attack Satan and get whipped.

There is a class of writers that claim that the lower animals cannot reason. That such animals are controlled by instinct. I have ever found the lower animals as intelligent in relation to the needs of their lives as we are to ours. Satan proved to me and to others that he could reason, also that he could take advantage of new circumstances. Visitors often gave Satan a dirty nut, which he would clean by rubbing it between his paws. This trick was played on the coon constantly. Satan invented a new way to clean a nut. He would take it to the mat and roll it under his fore paw. How did he find out that he could clean a nut on the mat? There was no instinct, as I afterward proved. When visitors were feeding nuts to him I dusted his mat with ashes. Satan would take a nut and start for the mat, but his keen sight would detect the ashes, and he would stop, sit up, and clean the nut in the old way.

In November I trapped another coon, a young male. Doubtless he was the son of Satan, for he was from the same den. I knew, too, that he was born after Satan was captured, so they could have no knowledge of each other. I thought I would put the young coon in Satan's cage and see if the old fellow would recognize his own flesh and blood. If he did, I would have to admit that it was a case of instinct. When I put them together a desperate fight took place. The young coon was soon whipped and tried to hide. Satan followed him up, but suddenly began to sniff. He dropped his nose on to the young coon's ears, sniffing all the time. Instantly his savage look changed for one of pleasure. His ears, that just now were flat on his head, pricked up, and the lips, which were drawn back, showing the cruel teeth, fell into place. He put his arms around the young coon's neck and dragged him into the nest. Then he licked his ears and head, purring all the time like a big cat. Satan had recognized his son. I had noticed that the sense employed was of smell, and not of sight. I readily understood the meaning. The young coon carried the scent of his mother, and Satan had recognized it, and with subtle reasoning had concluded that he had found his own offspring. Afterward I trapped five coons. One was an adult. I put the four young coons, one at a time, into Satan's cage. Two of these were from the old den, and Satan recognized them at once after sniffing them. The other two were from a distant den, and as soon as Satan put his nose on their ears he fell to mauling them, and I was obliged to take them out to save their lives.

I could handle Satan whenever or however I pleased, and he would not lose his temper. It would be dangerous for a stranger to put a hand on him. One could almost step on him and he would not take offence, but he drew the line at touch. During the nine months that he was in my possession he attacked but one person. I met the gentleman in question at Barnum's Show, on Stage Fort. After the people had entered the main tent I stopped some time in the animal tent. I noticed a dudish-looking fellow acting in a peculiar manner before a cage containing two lions. I was interested, and strolled over to the cage. The fellow was a dude beyond a doubt. He wore a cowboy hat, a checkered coat, a crimson vest, and lavender colored trousers. He was trying to look the lions out of countenance. The big African lion, the male, seemed to feel uneasy under the fixed gaze of the dude, and at last crowded behind his mate. "See him cower and hide," cried the fellow, addressing me. "The human eye, intelligently used, can subdue the most ferocious brute living. I could enter that cage and handle those lions as I would kittens." I did not dispute his assertion, and he asked if the woods about Gloucester harbored wild animals. I told him about my raccoon. He suggested that it would please him to tame the coon for me, and offered to accompany me home.

"WITH A SAVAGE SNARL HE SPRANG ON TO THE DUDE."

When the show was over I missed the lion-tamer, but the next day he came down the hill to the cabin, resplendent in his checkered coat, crimson vest, and lavender trousers. As soon as he had said good morning he threw off his hat and coat and started the circus. He fixed his gaze on the coon and slowly approached him, stamping his feet while he cried, in a commanding tone, "Down, sir, down, sir!" Satan looked at the dude, then looked toward me. This was something new, and he wanted my opinion. When he found that I remained quiet, he concluded to act for himself. With a savage snarl he sprang on to the dude and fastened his claws in the lavender trousers. The dude, half-frightened to death, jumped backward beyond the length of Satan's chain. Satan held on, and the trousers were stripped from the hips to the knees. Fortunately, the coon's claws did not reach the flesh.

The dude put on a pair of my trousers, and with needle and silk I essayed to mend the lavender wreck. My work was rather clumsy. I should starve to death if I depended on the needle. I toiled and wrestled for two hours with that piece of work. It was a warm day, and I was nearly drowned in my own perspiration.

The dude put on the mended trousers and left me without saying so much as "thank you." Thus was Hood's "Song of the Shirt" verified.

On the approach of cold weather I made arrangements to winter Satan in the cabin. I placed a box inside, and the cage outside, and connected the two by a passage made of boards. The passage was eight inches square, and near the end that entered the cage I had hung a swinging door to keep the cold air from the nest inside. I expected Satan would have to be taught the use of the swinging door. After everything was arranged I put Satan into the cage, and at once he saw the change that had been made. He investigated the passage with his handy paws, and when he found he could move the swinging door he passed through into the box inside. After he had satisfied himself that the nest was all right, he came out.

To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised by the ingenuity displayed. Satan's comprehension was equal to that of a human being. I removed the chain and collar, and the coon and I settled down for the winter. I had arranged a cover to Satan's nest-box, and evenings I would give him the freedom of the cabin. Inside of a week he knew the contents of the cabin better than I did. The light puzzled him. Once, and once only, he touched the lamp-chimney. He would look on gravely while I would blow out the lamp and relight it again.

One night I forgot to fasten the cover in his nest-box. That night something touched me on the face and awoke me. I remained quiet, and soon I felt a cold, soft touch on my cheek. A swift clutch and I had Satan by one paw. I held him until I had lighted the lamp. He looked innocent and grieved, and tried to show me that he did not mean any wrong. He wanted to know if I were asleep or dead. When I released him he went to his box and raised the cover so quickly and neatly that it seemed a slight-of-hand performance.

One morning I neglected to secure the door to Satan's cage. When I returned that night the door was open and the coon was missing. The next day I took some food to the den under the boulder, but Satan did not care for food. He was fat enough to go into hibernation, and had probably entered upon the sleep that would last till spring. The next spring Satan would come to the mouth of the den and take food from my hand, but he was so crafty that I could not get hold of his neck. I thought to arrange a box-trap in which to catch him, when I could get time. One day I missed him, and when I heard that a farmer had caught a coon in his poultry-house, and had killed him, I knew that Satan had sacrificed his life to his appetite for poultry. The reckless act did not indicate a lack of reason.

Human beings sacrifice their lives to appetite, so which of us will throw the first stone at Satan?

III.
WABBLES

Wabbles is the name of a wild bird. Not a book name, for the bird is known to naturalists as the song-sparrow (Melospiza fasciata).

SONG-SPARROW.

I made Wabbles's acquaintance some years ago. On returning to my log cabin one afternoon, I had found him in the dooryard, wounded, bleeding, and exhausted. An examination disclosed a number four shot bedded in the muscle of the wing-joint. While I was removing the lead Wabbles struggled violently, and when released, hopped into the bushes and hid himself. I think he held a poor opinion of my surgical skill. The next day he was about the dooryard with other sparrows, but for many days his flight was a peculiar wabble, hence his name.

Wabbles was left behind when, on the approach of cold weather, the song-sparrows migrated southward. He seemed contented, and I thought he would stop with me through the winter, but one cold day he was missing.

Early in the following March, I looked out upon the snow-banks one blustering morning, and saw Wabbles in the dooryard. He had returned in the night, two weeks ahead of his mates. I do not know how far south he had wintered, but doubtless he had remembered the little log cabin in the woods, and all the time had understood that food and a welcome awaited his return.

That spring the sparrows lingered about my dooryard three weeks or more, and then dispersed to the neighboring fields and pastures, for the song-sparrow does not nest in the woods. Wabbles did not leave with the rest, and when spring merged into summer and he yet remained, I understood the reason. The male song-sparrow is obliged to do battle for the possession of a mate, and Wabbles, with his tender wing, wisely forbore to enter the lists. He preferred the cool woods and free food to the sun-scorched fields and a mate-less life.

Wabbles and I became fast friends. He was constantly hopping about the dooryard, and was always on hand to greet me whenever I returned from town.

"WABBLES MADE IT HIS BUSINESS TO AWAKE ME AT DAYLIGHT."

I slept in the open air in a hammock, with only a canvas roof to keep off the rain, and Wabbles made it his business to awake me at daylight. The little rogue pursued the same method each morning. He would hop about in the bushes near the hammock, and chirp to me in the loud, sharp call-note peculiar to the sparrow family. If I remained quiet he would break into song. He confined his singing usually to the morning and evening hours. But on my return after a long absence, he would sing for a short time, regardless of the time of day. It was a bird's method of expressing joy. I thought that he prized my companionship and disliked to be left alone.

That fall Wabbles migrated with his mates, but the next spring he returned as before, two weeks ahead of the main flock. He lingered about the cabin until the mating season approached, when he disappeared for five days. On his return he brought with him a mate—a shy, demure little wife.

Wabbles wanted to set up housekeeping in the woods, so he showed Mrs. Wabbles all the nooks, sly corners, and sheltered spots, but it was useless; she positively refused to build a nest beneath the trees. She flew away to the fields, and Wabbles followed her.

Three weeks later, when returning from town, I heard his familiar call by the roadside. He came hurriedly through the bushes and fluttered to my feet. He appeared overjoyed to see me, and greedily ate the cracker-crumbs I gave him. When he flew away, I followed him. He led me a long distance to a field, where I found Mrs. Wabbles sitting on four dainty, speckled eggs. The nest was in the open field, beneath a tuft of grass.

Three baby sparrows were reared from this nest. When they were big enough to fly, I expected that Wabbles would move his whole family to the woods, provided Mrs. Wabbles would consent, which I much doubted. Sure enough, early in autumn Wabbles returned, but he was alone. I fancied that he had deserted his family for my companionship and a life in the woods. But not so. His visit was a matter of business. He wanted to know how the supplies of food held out. After he had satisfied himself he flew away, but the next day returned with one of the baby birds. Wabbles fussed over this bird all day long. He called the little one into the dooryard and stuffed it with crumbs, then into the garden and stuffed it with insects. He kept up a constant chirping meanwhile, and I thought he made much of the fuss and bustle to keep the baby from being homesick. That night he flew away with his charge, and the next day did not appear. Undoubtedly Mrs. Wabbles had given him a piece of her mind for taking her baby to the woods.

Three days later, however, Wabbles returned, and brought with him two of the babies. This day, for fuss and bustle, was like the first, but that night, instead of taking the birds out to the fields, he put them to bed in a hemlock-tree near my hammock, after which he flew away. The next day he brought in the other baby, leaving Mrs. Wabbles childless and alone. That night Wabbles put the three little ones to bed in the same hemlock-tree, and then flew back to his deserted mate.

Before dark I looked for the young birds, and found them on a twig about a man's height from the ground, sitting side by side and cunningly concealed by hemlock spray. When I approached, three little heads turned and six bright eyes looked on me, but not with fear. I suppose Wabbles had told them all about the hermit, and they knew I would not harm them.

The next morning Wabbles returned, and Mrs. Wabbles was with him. She at once took charge of her babies, and tried to entice them away. But Wabbles, the sly rogue, hopped into the dooryard, and I heard him calling, "Tsp, tsp," and the little fellows heard him, too, and, remembering the food, flew to him. Mrs. Wabbles was obliged to give in.

Wabbles is not wholly unknown to notoriety. Many of the summer residents that visited my cabin had made his acquaintance, and the story of the little bird that would desert the fields for a hermit-life in the woods has doubtless often been told in many a distant home.

Before the birds had departed in migration, Wabbles's little wife had become contented and happy in the cabin dooryard. She was of a confiding nature, and in a remarkably short time would take food from my hand. Wabbles and his family lingered about the cabin until the thermometer registered ten above. The fifteenth of March Wabbles returned to my dooryard. His wife and family appeared a week later.

For some reason, known only to bird-life, the male birds of most species return from the south about a week before the females and young birds.

When the nesting-season approached Wabbles and his wife located their family in a less wooded growth, on the road to the city. The old birds returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Wabbles made a nest where a little patch of grass had sprung up between the ledges.

Wabbles and I, during the summer, renewed the friendly relations that had existed when he led the life of a bachelor. He would come to me for food at all hours of the day. When I gave him his favorite food, cookie, he would reward me with a song. He would fly to a limb about four feet above my head and sing one song, and then fly away to his mate. Sometimes I could coax him to repeat the song by talking to him earnestly and rapidly. My visitors thought that the song was strange, and often it was suggested that it was on account of the nearness of the singer. But the song was not the one with which they were familiar. It was a new song, low, sweet, and tender, with nothing in it to remind one of the loud, joyous carol heard in the springtime.

Wabbles called me at daybreak every morning. He was jealous of the other birds, and drove them away, when he thought they were too friendly with me. A catbird and a veery hopped about my hammock mornings, and Wabbles attacked them so furiously that it made me wonder why they did not keep away for good. Wabbles did not allow other birds to eat in the dooryard until he had satisfied his appetite. Visitors asserted that he was a tyrant, but I did not look at his warlike actions in that light. He thought that he owned the dooryard, and other birds were trespassers.

Near my cabin there is a notice posted forbidding trespass, and it alludes sarcastically to "wood-cutting thieves." This sign was put up because sometimes dead, worthless wood was carried away from the lot. Wabbles is willing that the birds may enjoy the things in the dooryard after he is satisfied, but the human fellow preferred to let the wood rot on the ground.

The feathered biped's humanity contrasts sharply with the human biped's brutality.

Mrs. Wabbles soon had four little mouths to feed, and she worked early and late. The heat was so intense that every little while she would seek the shade, and rest with her wings drooping and her bill open. Notwithstanding the strain on her limited strength, she never showed impatience, but was always the same confiding little bird.

The Wabbles family enjoyed life in the woods. Through the summer and fall months, Wabbles set up a singing-school and trained his boys to sing the mating-song of his species.

Late in the fall death entered the family circle. A boy from the city mistook poor Mrs. Wabbles for an English sparrow and shot her to death. Wabbles mourned for his little wife, and he was not the only mourner. I had become attached to the gentle bird, and I was grievously pained by her tragic death.

Wabbles lost his joyous manner. He watched over his motherless babies with gentle care, but not a song did I hear after the tragedy. Later, he conducted the young birds to a warmer climate, and was lost to me until the next March.

When Wabbles returned in the spring he was alone, and his children did not appear later. I suppose some motherly bird had adopted the bereaved family, to take them into the fields or pastures.

In April, Wabbles deserted me for three days, then returned with another wife. This was an old bird, probably a widow. It was evident from the first that she thought Wabbles's first wife had spoiled him. She bossed him around in grand style. I tried to get acquainted with her, but, with a lordly air, she gave me to understand that she did not associate with hermits. After two days she ordered Wabbles out to the fields, and I did not see him again till October. He came in twice before migration. That was all. Wabbles, the warrior, was henpecked.

The next spring Wabbles returned from the South early in March. I think he was glad to escape from his wife, but three weeks later she swooped down on him, and packed him off to the pastures.

For eleven years Wabbles has lived with his second wife. Every spring he comes to the cabin for a long visit, but I seldom see much of him in the fall. Once I did not see him at all, and reported that probably he was dead, but the next spring he turned up as usual.

It is now fourteen years since I removed the shot from Wabbles's wing. He does not grow old in looks and is yet good for many years, if his wife does not worry him to death.

Dear old Wabbles. He has blessed me with a friendship as sincere and lasting as any that can spring from the human heart. As the years go by, I am more and more impressed with the little bird's individuality. Long ago he proved to me that he possessed a moral sense.

When Wabbles finds birds in the dooryard he threatens them for a short time, then darts at the nearest, and the feathers fly. After he has satisfied his appetite he will let the other birds return to glean the dooryard. He does not want to deprive them of food, but insists that they shall await his pleasure. Sometimes he will sing while the birds are eating. He firmly believes that he holds a mortgage on the dooryard, or, perhaps, that he is a joint owner with me; but he insists that his property rights must be respected.

WABBLES.

One afternoon I found a wounded chickadee in the dooryard. Some wretch had shot away one leg and had injured a wing besides. I thought Wabbles would make short work of the helpless bird, but instead he hopped around him and talked to him in a low tone. There was no threat in his notes such as he uttered when angry. Up to the time that Wabbles left in migration the chickadee was allowed the freedom of the cabin dooryard.

When Wabbles's first wife was alive, he returned one spring the tenth day of March, and brought with him a male linnet. I was surprised, for it was peculiar that a linnet should return in migration three weeks before the usual time. A week later Mrs. Wabbles returned, and with her was the mate to the linnet. This incident opened up a wide field for reflection. It proved that two species of the bird family could communicate ideas to each other.

These birds must have met in the South. In the course of bird gossip either the linnets or sparrows had announced that the summer home was on Cape Ann. "That is where we live," is the glad reply, so the birds, having come from the same locality, associate together. Wabbles tells them about the hermit and the dooryard crowded with food. In some way he induced the male linnet to accompany him, three weeks out of season, with the understanding that Mrs. Wabbles, a week later, would pilot the female linnet to her husband. It must be remembered that linnets do not inhabit the woods. Wabbles gave the freedom of the dooryard to the linnets. They were invited guests, and were treated as such. It all goes to show that Wabbles knows what belongs to good breeding and possesses a moral sense.

IV.
BISMARCK, THE RED SQUIRREL

The red squirrel, or chickaree, leads all the wild things in the woodlands of Cape Ann for intelligence and the ability to maintain an existence under adverse circumstances.

His life during the spring and summer months is a grand hurrah, but in the fall he sobers down and plods and toils in his harvest-fields like a thrifty farmer.

Right or wrong, it is a fact that the red squirrel bears a disreputable character. He is called a thief because he takes the farmers' corn, and a bloodthirsty wretch for robbing birds' nests. From my experience with the chickaree I am led to believe that he is not so black as painted. I used to think that he spared neither eggs nor young, but savagely robbed every bird's nest which he chanced to find. I certainly got this idea from books, for I cannot recall an instance where a bird's nest was robbed by a red squirrel.

For years I thought a squirrel was seeking food when he chased the birds in my dooryard. Now my eyes are open, and I am heartily ashamed of myself. I awoke from my trance to find that the red squirrel was simply chasing the birds out of the dooryard and away from the food, which he claimed as his own.

Twice last summer I saw a red squirrel pounce on a young towhee-bunting, but both times he let the bird go without the loss of a feather. It was evident that he did not intend to injure the bird, but merely desired to frighten it away. The intention was so evident that I could not ignore it, and it led me to do a lot of thinking.

PIGEON HAWK.

I carefully examined my notes for proof of the squirrel's guilt, and found no record against him. The guilty ones were the hawk, the owl, the snake, the stoat, the crow, the cat, the irrepressible boy, and the white-footed mouse. For fifteen years birds have nested around my cabin unmolested by the red squirrel.

It was always a mystery to me why the birds were not afraid of the red squirrel. Let a hawk, an owl, a weasel, a cat, a snake, or any of the animals known to prey on birds, enter my dooryard while birds were rearing their young, and the wildest alarm would prevail so long as the intruder was in sight. The red squirrel can come and go without a protest, which proves that the birds do not regard him as an enemy.

Whenever I have detected a squirrel investigating a bird's nest it has turned out that curiosity was the motive.

A pair of chickadees nested in a box that I had placed in an oak-tree, and a squirrel that spent the most of his time in the dooryard made it a duty to investigate the nest several times a day. He did not harm the young birds, and the old birds did not fear him.

While I was watching a red-eyed vireo's nest last season, I saw a red squirrel run out to the nest, stretch his full length on the limb (it was a very warm day), and look down on to the young birds that were squirming about in their confined quarters. I counted ninety-six before he left, and I did not begin at first. I think he was on the limb fully two minutes. These young vireos were not molested, for I saw them leave the nest when full fledged.

I have a record of an oven-bird that nested at the foot of a pine-tree which contained a red squirrel's nest. Four young squirrels were reared in a leafy nest in the top of the pine, and three young oven-birds in a domed nest on the ground.

My experience with the red squirrel has caused me to change my mind, and hereafter I shall hold him innocent until he is proved guilty.

The red squirrel in this locality is about seven and a half inches in length, measuring from the nose to the base of the tail. The tail is about six and a half inches in length, and is carried in a number of ways to suit the convenience of its owner. As to color, it seems as if there are two species, but it is only the difference between the young and the very old. Young squirrels are bright red on the back and sides, with the under parts usually a pure white. Old squirrels are red along the back bone, gray on the sides, and a dirty white below. Some specimens are shot that are nearly all gray. Gunners claim that such squirrels are a cross between the red and the gray, but they are simply old red squirrels.

Dame Nature has been unusually kind to the red squirrel. She has provided him with powerful weapons of offence and defence. She has set in his muscular jaws long, cruel teeth, which are whet to a keen edge on the hard-shelled nuts. She has conferred upon him claws sharp as needles, and a muscular system which seemingly is controlled by an electric current. There is a wicked wild fire in his bright eye that stamps him the bravest wild thing of the forest. He will fight to the death. He whips his great cousin, the gray squirrel, without effort, and is a match for the large stoat.

When pursued by a dog he makes a dash for the nearest tree, which he mounts, calling out "chickaree" as soon as he is out of danger. He does not, like the gray squirrel, seek a hiding-place in the top of the tree. No, he is far too bold to hide from a dog. He stops on a low limb, just out of reach, and fairly boils over with rage and fury. He barks, spits, and sputters; he makes furious rushes, as if he intended to come right down the tree, and "whip that dog." He violently jerks his tail, and pounds the limb with his hind feet, a picture of impudent, fiery energy.

Every movement of this little squirrel is accomplished without apparent muscular energy. He seems to float up a tree. If you are near enough you may hear the pricking of his claws on the bark, but you cannot detect a muscular effort. He flashes along the limbs in some mysterious way, never stopping, like the gray squirrel, to measure distances before a leap. If he misses and falls, he usually catches by a claw to some twig, thus saving himself. If he falls to the ground, it does not harm or disconcert him. He is up the tree in a jiffy, spitefully saying things that sound to the listener very much like swearing.

From the middle of April to the first of September the male squirrel leads a jolly, rollicking life. He is as restless and noisy as a schoolboy, and as full of fun. He will hang head down, holding on by his hind claws, just for the fun of the thing. In the tree-tops he is king. He rules the blue jays and crows, and races them out of the pine-trees whenever he feels disposed. He hazes the gray squirrel, but does not unsex him as alleged. This silly tale is on a par with snakes' stingers and hoop snakes. Any one that has had the opportunity to observe squirrels the year round, knows that chipmunks, red squirrels, and gray squirrels show the same appearance of being unsexed, except in the mating season.

The gray is no match for the red in a tree-top in a trial of speed. He usually keeps to the ground, where his long leaps give him the advantage over his fiery little foe. Many a sprinting match of this kind takes place in my dooryard. If a red surprises a gray squirrel stealing food, he sounds his war-cry, and in a mad rush is on to the gray before he can make off with the bit of food which he has appropriated. The gray, finding that he is hard pressed, runs around the cabin with the red hot at his heels. Round and round they go, the gray silent, the red yelling like a little demon. When the gray has had several narrow escapes, he drops the food and retreats unmolested. The red picks up the food and takes it to a favorite limb, where he devours it, talking to himself, meanwhile, about "that gray thief."

"MANY A SPRINTING MATCH OF THIS KIND TAKES PLACE IN MY DOORYARD."

In all my years of observation, once only have I known a gray squirrel to fight a red. I think it was hunger and desperation that induced the gray to fight. The gray was an old male, certainly three times as large as the red. The latter was an old male, and had held the dooryard for several years against all comers. He was a sagacious, grizzled old warrior, and I named him Bismarck. The fight took place in my dooryard. It was a bloody battle for bread on a cold, drizzly day in midwinter. The gray was whipped inside of three minutes. The snow was crimsoned with his blood, and when he fled he left a bloody trail behind. At no time was there a ghost of a chance for him to win. The muscular energy of the red was astounding. His movements were too quick for the eye. While the fight lasted, all I could see was a bounding mass of red and gray. The red squirrel did not appear to be severely wounded, anyway he remained out in the cold and rain to lick his wounds. Perhaps it was squirrel surgery to prefer the cold to a warm nest.

From my observations I find that the reds seldom chase the grays, unless the latter enter territory which the reds claim the right to hold and protect.

Four-footed wild animals, with a few exceptions, own farms, gardens, or house-lots. That is, they hold exclusive control over a limited area around their nesting sites. You seldom see two woodchuck holes near each other, or two rabbit burrows. The red squirrel runs a fruit farm. He owns and controls trees that bear nuts or cones, and other reds respect his rights, and do not invade his territory unless there is a famine. A red squirrel will fight savagely for his home and property, and usually drives all intruders from his domain.

Young squirrels remain with their parents through the first winter, but in April the female turns the family over to the male, and makes another nest of moss, leaves, and dry grass in the top of a tall pine or hemlock-tree. While she is engaged by new duties, the male looks after the young squirrels that are now full grown. He finishes their education, and locates the young males on territory which they ever after hold. The young females, later on, are mated, and remove to the locality inhabited by their mates. Whether the parents have anything to do in selecting sons-in-law is beyond my knowledge. I have known an old male to fly into a passion when a smart young red tried to flirt with his daughter. The flirtation was cut short by the angry father, who run the young dandy off his territory. Kicked him out-of-doors, so to speak. Another young red that courted the daughter was tolerated, if not welcomed, by the father. He was the choice of the old fellow beyond doubt, but I do not know how the young lady decided the matter. Perhaps she eloped with the smart young red.

Bismarck, the grizzled old warrior, held my dooryard for several years. One winter, when there was a famine in the land because the nut crop had failed, a muscular young red thought he could drive Bismarck away. A fierce battle was the consequence, and Bismarck killed his antagonist, but was disfigured for life by the loss of the end of his tail.

While Bismarck reigned, the only squirrel that gained a foothold in the dooryard without his consent was his wife. He chased her away time after time, but like some human wives, she persisted, and won the day. Bismarck gave in when, instead of running away, his wife adopted the plan of running spirally up and down the tree-trunks. Mrs. Bismarck's favorite tree was a large hemlock, which was about eighteen inches in diameter. The trunk of the tree was very short, not over eight feet in length from the ground to the lower limbs. The squirrels made two turns in either going up or down the tree, and their speed was too swift for the human eye. A brown band seemed for a moment wound about the tree, shifting as the squirrels ascended or descended. It was two weeks before Bismarck would allow his mate to remain in the dooryard. When peace was declared the two would eat side by side, but with Bismarck always scolding and growling, while his wife discreetly remained silent.

Bismarck was my schoolmaster. He taught me that squirrels think, plan, and reason just as human beings do. Every time I threw to him a nut or bit of bread, I would see him do the thinking act. He would take the food to a boulder, where he would stop, hold up one foot ready to start again, and think out a good hiding-place. When he had thought out a spot, he would run directly to it and conceal the food under leaves or pine-needles, and return to the dooryard for more. No two nuts or bits of bread were concealed in the same place. Several times I experimented to find out how many trips Bismarck would make. The greatest number was fifty-one. While the experiment was going on, I noted each hiding-place, as well as I could, and afterward saw the squirrel go to many. He certainly remembered each spot, and his keen scent did the rest.

Bismarck was a thrifty squirrel. He did not disturb his hidden store while the food held out in the dooryard. He would call around early in the morning, and if he found me eating breakfast under the trees, he would run to a limb just over my head and look down in a cute way that meant "breakfast for two." If I did not respond he would probably say to himself, "The hermit don't mean to feed me to-day. I must fall back on the food that I hid away yesterday. Let me see, that first nut is under the edge of a boulder just back of the cabin." Off he goes straight to the spot. He noses out the nut, which he eats on the limb over my head, scattering the bits of shell on to the breakfast-table. He is very sociable while eating, for he stops now and then to say something to me. I do not understand his exact language, but I know by the tone that he means to be friendly.

Bismarck did not always hide bread beneath pine-needles or leaves. At a certain season of the year the trees about my cabin were made into storehouses. This season was governed by the blue jays. When they were nesting they did not come to the cabin and Bismarck could store food in the trees without fear of being robbed.

My attention was called early to the fact that a gale of wind did not dislodge the pieces of bread which the squirrel had stored on the limbs of a hemlock-tree. I found that each piece was held in place by a small twig. Scores of times afterward I saw Bismarck lift up a twig with his hands and then push the piece of bread with his nose to the junction of twig and limb. Of course the natural spring of the twig held the bread in place.

Bismarck always stored mushrooms in the trees, for he knew that the blue jays did not eat such food. He would drop the stem of the mushroom between the prongs of a forked limb, if there was cap enough left to hold the same in place, otherwise he treated it just as he would a piece of bread.

How Bismarck acquired a knowledge of the edible mushrooms is a mystery beyond my powers. Doubtless, when he attended the Chickaree College, he studied natural history instead of the dead languages. He knew how to harvest mushrooms. He gathered them soon after they appeared above the ground. Gathered thus, they would keep several days, while a few hours' growth would spoil them if left in the ground.

Bismarck knew how to eat mushrooms. He did not begin on the freshly gathered ones; he knew they would keep, and he selected those that would decay shortly. Human beings eat the specked apples from motives of economy, and the same impulse controls the squirrel.

In the woods about my cabin grow many varieties of the poisonous mushrooms. One deadly variety—the "Destroying Angel"—possesses a form most pleasing to the eye. Its symmetrical shape and pearly white color give it a look of innocence that has lured many a human being to an early grave. I have never seen a tooth-mark by a squirrel, mouse, or mole in one of these deadly mushrooms, which goes to prove that the wild things know more than some human beings.

A few years ago, while out on a walk with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I told a professor, who was an expert on mushrooms, that I used the mushrooms which were approved by the squirrels, and no others. He said that I was risking my life, for he claimed that squirrels could eat poisonous varieties that might kill human beings. I thought that the professor knew more about mushrooms than he did about squirrels, so his warning was wasted on me. Up to date I have found the squirrels all right, and I feel no fear when eating what they eat.

For years I attended a squirrels' school, and Bismarck was the schoolmaster. He taught me many things relating to squirrel life. Much of the knowledge acquired was wholly unknown to me before.

When Bismarck first introduced himself to me I think he was an old bachelor or a widower. Three years later he excavated a storehouse in a bank, beneath a boulder, and made a sleeping-nest in a pine-tree, both in the dooryard. The storehouse was used but little after the first winter. The next spring he took to himself a mate, but did not introduce her to the dooryard. Some distance from the cabin, in a swamp, Bismarck's mate made a neat little nest in a hemlock-tree. Here she reared two baby squirrels. Bismarck did not take much interest in his family through the summer. He spent most of the time in the dooryard, sleeping in his own nest by night. By day his time was occupied in fighting the crows, and in driving squirrels and birds from the dooryard.

There was always a good lot of food for Bismarck to choose from, and I thought he would give up hard work and lead a life of ease. But I did not know the thrifty ways of the red squirrel. When the harvest season for hazelnuts drew near, Bismarck buckled down to hard work. He began his new life by calling often on his family in the hemlock-tree. One day I found Bismarck and his wife digging beneath a pine-tree that grew on the high land just out of the swamp. They brought out a great quantity of pine rootlets during the next two days. There was not much soil, which indicated that the squirrels had discovered a natural cavity, partly filled with pine rootlets. The third day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the work stopped.

"THE WINTER STOREHOUSE WAS COMPLETED."

Mrs. Bismarck ran to a pine-root, sat up straight, folded her hands, and said something. Mr. Bismarck ran to her side, folded his hands, and made a reply. Both squirrels looked toward the hole beneath the tree by turning half-way round. Then they looked at each other, and Mrs. Bismarck ran into the hole, and immediately appeared and said something that sounded very much like "It is well." Then both squirrels scampered away. The winter storehouse was completed.

When the hazelnuts were ripe Bismarck and his mate began to fill the storehouse. Bismarck gathered the hazelnuts about the cabin, while his mate gathered those around the home nest. Bismarck did a lot of running, for he carried but one nut at a time. He always worked under high pressure, running to and fro at the top of his speed.

I noticed that he left many nuts on the bushes, but when I investigated I found a worm in each nut—a good reason for rejecting them; but as the husks seemed perfect, how did Bismarck know the worms were there? I think his keen scent was the secret. By the sense of smell he could tell a wormy from a sound nut. So could I after the nut was smashed, but not before.

After the hazelnuts, beechnuts were gathered. But right here competition was too great for the squirrels. The blue jays haunted the beech groves, and could load up with from twelve to eighteen nuts, then could use their wings against the squirrels' legs, so the latter were usually short on beechnuts.

The acorn followed the beechnut crop, and as the woods of Cape Ann are made up mostly of oak-trees, there were usually nuts enough for Bismarck's family and to spare.

Besides being a hard worker, Bismarck proved to me, in many ways, that he was quick-witted and resourceful. A sweet acorn-tree near my cabin was loaded with nuts. Beneath the limbs on the south side was a carpet of pine-needles, while under the limbs on the north side grew a dense mass of brambles and catbriers. Bismarck did not drop a nut into the mass of briers, but carried each nut—one at a time—to the clear side before dropping it. Could human intelligence do more?

When Bismarck and his mate had stowed away food enough for winter, they made a winter nest in the pine-tree that grew above the storehouse. In the new nest the whole family passed the winter after the manner of red squirrels.

The two baby squirrels for the most of the harvest-time remained in the nest or on the hemlock-tree in which the nest was located. Now and then they followed the mother to a nut-tree, but were so noisy that I imagine the fear of enemies caused the discreet mother to drive them home.

When the family storehouse was well filled, Bismarck stored a few nuts in the hole at the cabin. I think he would have stored more if it had not been for the alert wood-mice. He hid a great many nuts around boulders and trees. These nuts were used in the winter, and often lasted until late in the spring. In the spring, when the nuts started to grow, Bismarck dug them up, bit off the sprouts, and buried them again.

When the nut crop is a failure, the squirrels are face to face with a famine. Long before the nut season approaches the squirrels know that they must depend on other food for the winter's supply. During one year of failure I carefully noted how Bismarck conducted himself, knowing that he would teach me how the red squirrel provides food when his main supply is cut off. When September warned the squirrels that the season for providing food for winter was on, Bismarck turned his attention to the corn in the dooryard. Years before he had stored corn, when he was obliged to compete with the blue jays and chipmunks. The latter could carry away from fourteen to nineteen grains, while Bismarck's load was but two grains. He soon evened things up by hiding corn in the dooryard, or near it. When the supply was exhausted, and the blue jays and chipmunks had disappeared, Bismarck would dig up his corn and carry it home. It was sharp practice, but the squirrel was justified, when we consider the circumstances. For several years prior to the famine, Bismarck had dropped the habit of storing corn, and only gnawed out the germ, leaving the mutilated grain for the blue jays and chipmunks. Now Bismarck undertook to store corn, hiding it as of old, but I vetoed the act, by withholding the corn. The squirrel then turned his attention to a black cherry-tree, and with the aid of a chipmunk, soon stripped it of fruit. I think the chipmunk gathered the fruit for the stone. He gathered an enormous quantity, and surely could not make use of the soft part. The red squirrel may have gathered for immediate use and also for a winter supply.

Bismarck's next move was a great surprise. I caught him carrying bones to his storehouse.

One summer I saw Bismarck sitting on a stone wall, apparently eating a bone. After he got through he hid the bone in the wall. I found that the bone was old and partly decayed. I smashed up similar bones, and Bismarck seemed to relish a meal three or four times a week, but I never knew him to store bones for winter use before. His next move was to attack the pine-cones. These were gathered while quite green. They were left on the ground three or four days and then carried, whole, to the family storehouse—a great quantity was stored under stumps, trees, and boulders. The hemlock-cones were gathered later, but were husked at the foot of the tree on which they grew.

During the following winter Bismarck looked to me for food. A loaf of bread was wired to a post near the cabin door, from which he could eat, while he could not carry it away. One cold, rainy day, he sat by the bread without eating, and whimpered like a little child. He was telling me in squirrel language that it was cold, rainy, and almost night, and that I ought to give him some bread to take home to his family. I understood his appeal, and passed him a biscuit. He scampered away chuckling over his good luck. After that, fair or foul, all through the winter days, he would beg for bread to take home, and always chuckled when he got it. Perhaps he was laughing at me for being an easy mark, or it may have been squirrel for "I thank you a thousand times." However that may be, he was welcome, for I thought of the baby squirrels starving along on a cone-seed diet.

Bismarck would eat all kinds of meat—even fat pork—but he preferred cooked meat to raw. While the famine was on he turned his attention to many kinds of food found in the woods. I made a record of each variety, and religiously tasted of everything he used. Frozen barberries and chokeberries were preferred to all others. I found the barberries had lost much of their usual sourness; the chokeberries were sweet and palatable. While the former remained on the bushes through the winter, the latter were soon exhausted, for they were food for quail, grouse, blue jays, and mice. The berries of the greenbrier, staghorn sumach, and rosehips were used sparingly. The greenbrier berries had a sweetish taste; the staghorn sumachs were sour and puckery, while the rosehips had a pleasant flavor at first, ending in a most disagreeable bitter. Many mushrooms were caught by an early frost, and remained frozen through the winter. These were food for Bismarck. He would gnaw out the under part, or gills, rejecting the rest. I tasted the food, but cannot say that I care for frozen mushroom.

In the spring pussy-willow buds formed a part of Bismarck's food. I found the buds nearly tasteless, but they crunched between the teeth like a crisp cucumber. As spring advanced, creeping wintergreen and partridge-berries appeared here and there where the sun had melted the snow, and Bismarck greedily devoured the bright red berries. Later berries formed the greater part of his food until the hazelnuts were ripe. Wild apple-trees abound on Cape Ann, and Bismarck attacked the fruit early in the fall. He destroyed great quantities for the seed, which was the only part stored for winter use. However, he seemed to relish an apple, if it was not too sour, and all through the winter he would eat a Baldwin apple, even to the seeds, at one sitting.

The history of Bismarck through a year of famine is the history of other red squirrels on Cape Ann. It is evident that the red squirrel is famine proof. If the nut crop is a failure, chickaree turns his attention to other food sources, and by perseverance and hard work is able to keep the wolf from the door.

For years Bismarck and the blue jays have matched wits. After nesting, the blue jays would flock to the cabin and impudently appropriate all the food found in the trees. Bismarck seemed to know that it was useless to store food longer in this way, so he would bury it beneath the pine-needles. The jays were soon on to this trick. When I threw a piece of bread to the squirrel he would start at once to hide it, while the jays would follow him, keeping in the trees, just out of reach. The moment he left, the jays would fly down, dig out the bread and carry it away. It often happened that Bismarck would fool the robbers by pretending to bury the bread. He would dig a hole, cover it over, pat down the pine-needles, but would run away with the bread in his mouth. While the jays were scratching the pine-needles right and left, in a useless search, Bismarck would hide the bit of bread, and return to the dooryard for more. He was not so particular if the food was wheat bread, but if it was his favorite food—doughnut—the jays were fooled every time.

Every spring Bismarck taps the trees around the cabin. He begins on the maples and ends later on the birches. If the tree is small, he taps the trunk; if large, he works on the limbs. He gnaws through the bark and into the wood, then clings to the limb or trunk, below the wound, while he laps the sweet sap. If there is a hollow in the bark into which the sap flows, Bismarck is sure to find it.

Did the red squirrel learn how to tap trees from the American Indian, or did the Indian learn from the squirrel?

The habits of the red squirrel are rapidly changing in this locality on account of a foolish State law. The story is quickly told. Ward 8 (city of Gloucester), where my cabin is located, contains over eleven thousand square acres. Its area is greater than that of the other seven wards combined. The bulk of the territory of Ward 8 is made up of woodland and shrubland, the city proper being in the other seven wards. Ward 8 contains the delightful summer resort known as Magnolia. This resort derives its name from Magnolia Swamp, the only spot in New England where magnolia glauca is found in a wild state. The famous Coffin's Beach is also in this ward.

The General Court four years ago placed a close time of five years on small game in the territory east of Ward 8. This protects the seven wards of the city and the town of Rockport. Two years ago the town of Essex, which joins Ward 8 on the west, was protected, so that the gunners from a population of about forty thousand are turned loose in Ward 8. The extermination of nearly all the game, and of great numbers of song-birds, has been the result of this peculiar legislation.

INDIGO-BIRD.

All the wild things are desperately wild. The red squirrel if he hears the report of a gun instantly rushes to a hiding-place. Well he knows the deadly meaning of the report. He has turned day into night, and now harvests his nut crop in the night-time. I sleep in the open air, and during the harvest season I listen for hours to the sound of dropping nuts which the industrious but wary squirrels are cutting from the oak-trees around my cabin.

Bismarck is still in the land of the living, although ten years have passed since he first introduced himself, and requested me to book him for table board. He has cost me many dollars, while he has not paid a cent in the coin of the realm. However, I owe him for teaching and am ready to balance the books and exchange receipts.

OVEN-BIRD.

I know that my position in relation to the red squirrel's destruction of song-birds will be sharply criticized by those who believe in the squirrel's total depravity. But the truth is that I describe wild life just as I find it, not as some books say I ought to find it. If the red squirrel was as destructive as reported, there would not be a young bird reared around my cabin. My notes show that last year the following named birds nested near my cabin, and probably every nest was known and visited by the red squirrel:

A ruffed grouse nest was looted by the crows when it contained but four eggs, after which the bird resorted to a swamp, and reared a brood.

Several of the nests named were destroyed, but none by the squirrel. In the light of my observations I cannot consistently denounce the red squirrel.

BLACK-THROATED GREEN WARBLER.

V.
CHANGES IN HERMIT-LIFE

For several years I had slept in a hammock without a roof to keep off the night air. I had found this method inconvenient on account of stormy nights, when I was obliged to seek the shelter of the cabin. I overcame the difficulty by putting a tent roof over my hammock. The sides and ends were open so that I was practically exposed to the night air. The tent roof protected me on stormy nights, and with this slight shelter I slept out-doors from April 1st until Christmas, unless there was a heavy, fall of snow, meantime.

I found it inconvenient to cook my breakfast, and then, after eating it, go to the city. Why I did so was on account of my coffee habit. I had tried to find a good cup of coffee in the city and had failed, so had depended on my own brewing.

One morning I dropped into the little store at the head of Pavilion Beach, and the proprietor asked me to have a cup of coffee. He piloted me into a back shop, where he told me that he served a light lunch with coffee, to the farmers. The coffee was just to my taste, and for twelve years I patronized the coffee trade in that little back shop. My note-book shows that during the twelve years I had missed only eighty mornings. I had paid six hundred and forty-five dollars, during that time, for my lunch and coffee, and had walked, on account of my breakfast, seventeen thousand two hundred miles. Whew! It makes me feel poor and tired to recall it. I do not remember that I remained at home to breakfast on account of a storm. The eighty mornings which I missed in the twelve years were accounted for by absence from the city.

I would leave my cabin, summer or winter, at half-past five o'clock, so I could sit down to breakfast in the back shop about six.

In the winter months it was dark at half-past five in the morning, but that did not disturb me. I did not use a lantern because I would not be bothered with it, and for another reason. It made one a bright and shining object for early ghouls or tramps.

For some years past I have discontinued my early morning tramps, but I love to recall the persistence with which I clung to habit. Those early walks afforded me much pleasure and some hardships. During the spring months the frogs and birds enlivened my morning walk with music. The bird-music along the route to the city was divided according to locality. Before leaving the cabin, from early daylight, there would be a variety of bird-songs. In numbers the veery led all the rest. Then followed the red-eyed vireo. After these, I could hear only one song each of the following species:

Catbird, towhee-bunting, chestnut-sided warbler, robin, black-throated green warbler, oven-bird, wood-thrush, and warbling-vireo. Indigo-birds and cedar-birds some years could be added to the list, but they are erratic birds, and cannot be depended upon.

CEDAR-BIRD.

THE NEW CABIN.

My route to the city was along the deserted old highway. When I had climbed the first hill (where my new cabin now stands), I could overlook a rugged territory where the fire and axe had exterminated the large trees, leaving a low, shrubby growth, just suited to the needs of the birds. The songs of the catbird, towhee-bunting, and robin were heard here, and, strange to tell, in a distant corner of the territory, could be heard the loud carol of the song-sparrow. A few pairs of these birds had changed their nesting site from pasture to shrub-land. I knew that these sparrows were descendants of my pet birds, Wabbles and his first wife. They were born in the woods, and so reared their children in the same surroundings.

The frog-pond was just beyond the hill, and when the toads and frogs did not drown their music, birds could be heard singing from morning till night during the nesting season.

There was a colony of Maryland yellowthroats near this spot, and the sprightly song could be heard from May 1st to the middle of July. I have heard the song in September.

MARYLAND YELLOWTHROAT.

A short distance from the frog-pond, on the left, there is another pond, or shoal bog, where frogs and red-winged blackbirds appear to own the earth or water. Still farther along the old highway, on the right, there is a walled-in territory, called the "Sheep Pasture." I think I could carry the grass in this so-called pasture in my hands. A mass of boulders and bed-rock, set off by barberry-bushes, comprises the view, but this rugged pasture (?) is the home of the field-sparrow (Spizella agrestis). This sparrow is not so common as the song-sparrow and bay-winged bunting.

RED-WINGED BLACKBIRDS.

I consider it a rare treat to listen to this sweet singer. I made it a practice, during the season of song, to stop by this old pasture, not only to hear the sparrow, but a brown thrush as well. The thrush occupied the other side of the old highway, and when he saw me coming, he would mount to the top of a small tree and sing so long as I remained to listen.

Farther along on the old road, a pair of redstarts could be found every spring. The male did his singing in a wild apple-tree. From this spot, down "Slaughter-house Hill," to Western Avenue, I found song-sparrows to be the prevailing bird. There were a few chestnut-sided warblers, robins, and catbirds.

The birds I have mentioned, that nest along the old road, look upon me with friendly eyes as I pass. When they return in the spring, they give a greeting which I understand, because the notes are in a higher key, and are never repeated through the summer. While passing daily over the road I have made it a practice to talk to the birds, so many of them, not all, greet me as before mentioned.

SWAMP SONG-SPARROW.

BROWN THRUSH

The brown thrush is usually more demonstrative than other birds. His greeting is almost like the shrill cry of a small boy. Two years ago, when rounding a turn in the old road, I saw four thrushes before me. I stopped to observe them, when I heard behind me the laugh of a boy. I glanced back, but saw no one. Again I heard the laugh, and this time I located the sound over the wall, and started to call, when a male thrush flew to the top of a small cherry-tree, and, after laughing as before, gave me a song. This thrush was my old friend just returned from the South, and when he saw me looking at his mates, he called out to let me know where to find him.

BALTIMORE ORIOLE.

Along Western Avenue the tall elms harbored many singers. The Baltimore orioles' loud notes could be heard above other bird-songs. Linnets, chipping-sparrows, bluebirds, and bay-winged-buntings were scattered along the route to the city. When I had reached the sea-wall, the gulls were the birds to attract my attention. Some were seen skimming the surface of the water, while others were anchored in large rafts. The gulls appeared to be fearless, and swung to and fro near the beach, but, just the same, the crafty birds did not approach near enough for a shot. They knew how far the modern gun could shoot, and gauged their flight accordingly. Whenever one desired to cross the highway to the marshes beyond, it would rise above gunshot before making the attempt. Besides the keen sense which the gulls possess, they carry themselves with true dignity.

From the first of April to the middle of November I looked every morning for my "lone fisherman." There was a stake near the drawbridge which a belted kingfisher had preempted. For six years this feathered fisherman held that stake, while he had to face almost all the travel in and out of the city. The nest was in a clay-bank that overhung the beach near Stage Fort.

It is needless for me to tell that I derived great pleasure from my daily association with the birds that nested along my route to the city.

BELTED KINGFISHER, WATCHING.

KINGFISHER, STRIKING.

The hardships which I have mentioned were encountered in the winter months, when storms prevailed. Cold starlight mornings were my delight. If there was snow on the ground it added a new pleasure. I always enjoyed the keen, cutting air. Sometimes there were storms in the morning with rain or snow. At times, the wind would blow such a furious gale on the Cut, that it would make it nearly impossible to reach my haven. When safely housed at last, I always felt satisfied with myself, because of my victory over the elements. One storm forced me to remain in the city overnight. The storm had died out, but had created a sea such as is seldom seen even on the Cape. I went over to Bass Rocks, to see the waves break, and did not get back to Western Avenue until near night. I found the street full of snow and sea-water. I waded nearly to the drawbridge and then mounted the sea-wall. I soon found that the large waves broke over the wall, and with force enough to wash me overboard, so I turned back. The street was closed to travel afterward, by the city officials.

KINGFISHER LIFTING HIS CATCH.

During the summer weather I saw many strange sights when taking my morning walk. One morning, a pasture-rabbit tore along the old road as if he were racing for life. He passed me without turning his head, and was out of sight around a turn in the path before I had recovered from my surprise. While I was looking, he came back, jumping high and long; after he had got by the turn, and nearly to my feet, he gave a great jump sideways, and landed in a clump of weeds. Just then a stoat came in sight on the rabbit's trail. His leaps were not expended in the air, but were swift, long, and near the ground. It was evident that the poor rabbit had no chance to escape from such a supple, bloodthirsty foe without help. When the stoat was out of sight, the rabbit again took to the road. He passed me, then turned into the woods. Whether he knew it or not, it was the best thing to do. It left the hermit to face his relentless foe. Perhaps the birds had told the rabbit that the hermit was a friend. The stoat came back, hunting both sides of the road. He understood just how he had been tricked. When he found the trail in the weeds, he circled around until satisfied that the rabbit had returned to the road. When we met, he seemed surprised, but he tried to pass, spitting spitefully to frighten me. I drove him back, and managed to keep him from the rabbit's trail until it was too cold to follow.

I expect that this rescue established my reputation with the rabbits, for from time to time they came into my dooryard when chased by a mink or stoat. Whenever it occurs on Sunday there are visitors present, who are invariably excited for the welfare of the rabbit.

The stoat is the large weasel. It turns white in the winter, and is then the ermine.

Of all the incidents that happened during my morning walks, there is one that I cannot explain without resorting to a belief in hypnotism. I was on the way to the city when a turn in the path brought into sight a large mink, apparently coal-black. His peculiar actions caught my attention first, but soon I saw a ruffed grouse about twelve feet beyond the mink. Every feather on the grouse stood up, causing the bird to look as large as a small turkey. The mink was making figure eights, moving from side to side of the grassy path, which was over five feet in width. His movements were so rapid the eye could see only a black streak. While I could not see the mink move toward the grouse, I saw that the distance between them grew less quite rapidly. Feeling sure that the grouse was doomed, for it seemed unable to do anything but follow the rapid motion of the mink, I stepped forward and gave a shout. The grouse flew away, and the mink turned on me and let out a yell that was fierce and loud enough for a tiger. He acted as if he meant to attack me, but thought better of it, and ran into a stone wall. From this safe retreat he yelled while I was in sight. This case puzzled me. It appeared almost impossible that such a wary, muscular bird as the grouse could be hypnotized. The mink was surely but slowly nearing the grouse when I interfered. I am sorry I did not remain quiet, and so find out if the grouse was able to fly away before the danger-point was reached. As it is, I remain in doubt.