Front matter (continued 2)

Laden with valued spoils, we at last reluctantly drew near the village, and would that it had been wrapped in Egyptian darkness! How the aged villagers scowled at us as we passed by! The lame, the halt, the blind, all came hobbling to the front windows of their homes and hurled silent imprecations after us. What a sad ending to our happy day! and why, forsooth? In our innocent zeal, we had disturbed the bones of a few Indian fishermen that for centuries had been resting in perfect peace. We, the irate villagers claimed, being in full possession of good health, could withstand the fury of the outraged spirits of departed red-skins, but not so the afflicted villagers. Every rheumatic crone averred that her pains had grown to agony since we broke the sod. Invisible arrows had whizzed by their ears, and more than one sufferer had been struck, as the red marks upon their persons proved. Vengeance had gone astray and sorely pressed the innocent; while the guilty walked without shame through the long village street. This was indeed adding insult to injury.

Speaking for myself, did I know the meaning of the word “impatience,” I should have been vexed. As it was, the day deserved to be recorded in red letters.

As a lover of quiet country strolls, I had been happy beyond measure, but the way of the archæologist, it would seem, is beset with thorns.

Free for the Day.

Free for the day! I scarce need tell the rest:

An aimless youth again, and Nature’s guest.

If magic lurks in any four words of the queen’s English, it is to be looked for here. Free for the day! Neither in books nor out of them have I met with a phrase more full of meaning, one more comprehensively suggestive. To me, eight weeks in the noisy city had seemed almost a year, and at last came a pause in my occupation and a day to myself. No decision could be reached in a reasonable time by calmly thinking the matter over, so, closing my eyes, I spun myself on one heel, determined to walk a good ten miles in whatever direction I faced when my whirling body came to rest. Fortune favored me, for I found myself looking directly toward the river. This put an end to my walking ten miles in a bee line, for the river was not one mile distant, and, except at a distant point, could not be crossed. With a light heart I made for the river, and, reaching the shore, sat in a cozy nook where driftwood had conveniently lodged. Walking is capital sport at all times, but a comfortable outlook never comes amiss, and resting at the end of one mile is as natural as at the end of a dozen. Thoreau speaks of looking seaward while at Cape Cod and having all America behind him. I took my cue from him, and, looking only down stream and not far beyond, saw only the rippling waters. Every ripple carried its atom of the town dust from my eyes, and in an hour I saw the world again with clear vision. Something of the old self thrilled my veins, but still I was loath to leave so sweet a spot. I had no promise of better things, and, though early February, the wild words of an ancient chronicler came to mind. Wrote a mendacious Englishman in 1648, of this river—the Delaware—that it was “scituate in the best and same temper as Italy,” and goes on to say, it “is freed from the extreme cold and barrennesse of the one [New England] and heat and aguish marshes of the other [Virginia]”; all of which is a (to put it mildly) mistake. And then the romancer adds, the Delaware Valley “is like Lombardy, ... and partaketh of the healthiest aire and most excellent commodities of Europe.” Then follows a bit of nonsense about the wild beasts and agricultural capabilities. Why could not those old travelers be truthful? There is not one but deals in absurdities, and it would appear that they rounded off every paragraph with a flight of the imagination. If his account be true, reindeer and moose, as well as elk and deer, tramped these river shores but three centuries ago, and the buffalo roamed over the Crosswicks meadows. This is extremely improbable. Moose and reindeer bones have been found, it is true, and even traces of the musk-ox, but all goes to show that it was far longer ago than three centuries. That there are traces, too, of man found associated with them goes for nothing. Such association does not bring the now arctic animals down to a recent date in this river valley, but places man in an indefinitely long ago. If there is any one fact well established, it is the antiquity of man in America, and those who, even in scientific journals, say the evidences so far are not trustworthy, and all that, utter greater absurdities than the old chronicler I have quoted.

A word more. If the author quoted had in mind such a winter as this, perhaps he can not be held as intentionally wrong as to the climate; but why need he have exaggerated? As if the round of the seasons in Jersey could be better, when they are as they should be! The truth, two hundred and odd years ago, would not have frightened a would-be settler; but such a winter as this might. The present meteorological “flummux,” which plays the fool with all animate nature, is what the old-time Indians called niskelan—ugly weather; and they gave it the proper name.

But hang the whole crew of historians and scientists! this is my holiday! The water is very blue to-day, very ripply, and flaked here and there with a dainty bit of foam. This is running water at its best. It smells sweetest now. And what an odor that is which rises from a broad river! The essence of the mountains many a mile away, the ooze of the black-soiled meadows over which I have just passed, the dead leaves and brushwood, and, too, the grand old trees that line the river’s shore, all give up some subtle perfume, which, mingling over the river, is wafted to the shore. It intoxicates. Every breath indrawn thrills the nerves and cleanses the city-soiled fibers of our being. But let no more be said. As I stood, straight as a signal-light upon the shore, my eye caught a strange mound of bleached driftwood in the distance, and curiosity at once drew me toward it—a recently drowned cow that dogs had torn. Such possible drawbacks warn one against enthusiasm as to country odors. As for myself, I walked down stream, thinking new thoughts.

Having an odd fish in sight when by the river’s side, I am never lonely. Odd fish are too plentiful in town; never a glut of them—the proper sort—in the water. The average minnow is an endless source of amusement. Its rough and tumble existence is encouraging to striving mortals. The minnow’s ingenuity is hourly taxed to escape danger, yet never have I seen one in despair. To-day was a red-letter one in this respect. Off in a shallow pool, not two yards square, was a huge hump-backed minnow. Its spine was as twisted as a corkscrew, and its locomotion as erratic as lightning. How could such a fish secure its prey? was the question that puzzled me; and, failing to hit upon a solution, I tried to capture the fish for my aquarium. When one has neither net, line, nor other device, fishing is uncertain, except with the professional liars. I tried scooping with my hands, and have only to relate as a result that the hump-backed minnow appeared to make a springboard of its tail and leap over my hands with the grace and ease of a professional acrobat. After several attempts on my part to circumvent the minnow, it suddenly disappeared. I looked in vain for it all through the little pool. It had gone. At last I stepped back to turn to new scenes, when the hump-backed minnow leaped from a pebble on the water’s edge, with about the agility of a frog! Of course, this will go the way of all fish stories; but I do not mind telling it, for all that.

It is the unexpected that happens—a remark, by the way, that dates B. C.—when the rambler has no particular quest in mind. I had almost forgotten that birds were in existence, when a large one ran along the pebbly beach, not more than a rod before me. It was a king-rail. With the thoughtlessness characteristic of a half fool, I hurled a stone after it, with the usual result of frightening it and so losing a golden opportunity to observe a rather rare bird at a most unusual season. Why will people be such ninnies? If a companion had been with me and attempted this, I would have prevented him; yet, nine times in ten, I give way to the unfortunate impulse to capture, if not destroy, the rarer creatures I meet. Had I been born without arms, I would by this time have become a naturalist. This tendency is due, without doubt, to our non-human ancestry, but will we never outgrow it?

The king-rail is a noble bird, and a few haunt the marshes all summer long, nesting where the tall grass is too rank and tangled even to tempt a restless cow. Perhaps they have in mind the danger of meddlesome mankind, and dwell in such spots accordingly. Taking the whole range of bird life into consideration, it certainly would appear that birds give a good deal of attention to such matters. And, before leaving the subject, I will add that, to be intelligible in discussing birds’ ways, one must assume that they have minds akin to ours; and this leads to the suspicion on the part of some, and conviction in my own case, that the birds’ mind and that of man are too closely akin to warrant much distinction.

Birds, then, as usual, trooped to the fore as I rambled down the river. I saw nothing else, yet not a bird was in view. The old histories came to mind, and closed my eyes to other than an inner vision. “Greate stores of swannes, geese, and ducks, and huge cranes, both blue and white.” Is it not exasperating to think of the change wrought in two centuries? A mile-wide river, and banks of old-time wildness still remaining, yet not a feather rests upon the one or shadow of a walking bird falls upon the other. Far and near, up and down, and high overhead I scan the country for a glimpse of some one bird, but in vain. The crows nowadays have the river to themselves, and none of these were about to-day.

The day has been a marked one for its emptiness. Tracing the river’s shore for miles ought to yield rich results, but here, at my journey’s end, I am empty-handed. What little I have seen has but soured my temper. It is most unwise to be ever mourning over the unrecoverable past, but how can one avoid it? Such a walk, productive of nothing worth recording, may not, I hope, be in vain. It at least provokes me to say, Can not wild life, or what little remains of it, be effectually protected? Can not swans, geese, and ducks be induced to return? They can never prove an obstruction to navigation, so why should legislation on this point be, as at present, a mere farce? The day will never come, perhaps, when people who prefer a living to a dead bird will be acknowledged as having a claim to the wild life that would appear to be no man’s peculiar property. By an overwhelming majority, mankind hold, if a creature is good to eat, it must be killed. But the insignificant minority still feel they have a claim. I would walk twenty miles to see a wild swan on the Delaware; my neighbor would walk forty if sure of shooting it.

Water birds are safe on the Back Bay in Boston, and seem to know it. I have watched them with delight, morning after morning, while dressing; but here, miles from town, you may pass a week and see no trace of even a duck. A few come and go, but there are men with guns lying in wait, both day and night. Time was when there were wild fowl and to spare—not so now; and the day is quickly coming when geese even will rank with the great auk and the dodo.

It is probably not difficult to prove that a return ramble is less suggestive, even if more objects cross our path than when we were outward bound. At the close of a long day, we are, without suspecting it, brain-weary, as well as physically tired. What interested us in the morning falls flat in the evening; the mingled voices of many birds roused enthusiasm at sunrise, and proved irritating at sunset. It was so to-day. My one thought was to reach home, but not without lazily thinking, as I retraced my steps. I discussed with myself, as often before, that important question—how to see. Then, again, I have often been asked the same question by various people. On one occasion, I replied, “With your wits as well as your eyes.” But this does not cover the ground. After all, how is a person to recognize a thrush from a sparrow among birds, or a perch from a minnow among fishes? When the question was last put, I found that I had but one course to pursue—to admit that I could not tell. The occurrence was somewhat mortifying, and I have, time and time again since then, endeavored to discuss, upon paper, this very interesting subject.

The result, to date, is flat failure; but a history of nugatory effort may prove of some value. Can it be done? Is there a secret, through knowledge of which a young person or an inexperienced adult can be taught to intelligently observe and correctly interpret the course of nature? Are not those, in truth, who do see to advantage, and quickly comprehend the purport of what they see, born with a faculty that can not be acquired through any course of training? I believe this to be true.

But, on the other hand, there are those who, though less favored, have their interest aroused whenever out of doors; and these are spurred to the acquisition of knowledge, however toilsome, because of the demands of that interest. Such find the pursuit of natural knowledge far from easy, but are compensated by the fact that “the play is worth the candle.” With due modesty, I speak now from experience.

“How am I to know,” asked my friend, “that the bird I see or hear is what it is?” I, for one, can not solve the problem. Certainly, even if our language was adequate to describe the appearance, voice, and habits of a bird, for instance, so accurately that it would instantly be recognized, it is not to be expected that any one, save a professional naturalist, will know our ornithology by heart; and even he falls very short of that. In hopes of simplifying the matter, I have been endeavoring to recall my own experiences; not that I am a trained observer, but because I can not remember when I did not know the more common objects of wild life that I met with. This knowledge—a life-long source of pleasure—was acquired at an early age, probably because I had a naturalist-mother, who correctly explained the little mysteries that perplexed me, and, above all, taught me to be considerate toward and respect the rights of every living creature. So it happened that I came to love even every creeping thing; and with love came knowledge. But the names of things! Until he knew its name, Thoreau looked upon a flower, however beautiful, as a stranger, and held aloof. Certainly one feels a great lift in his pursuit of knowledge as soon as he learns the name of an object; and until then, however interesting that object may be, it baffles him. Let the observer, if an adult, remember, and the child be assured, that every creature has a name, and that it can sooner or later be determined; and now what remains is to so closely examine it that, when opportunity affords to describe it to a specialist, or a description is found in a book, the creature will at once be recognized.

Years before I had access to Audubon’s or Wilson’s American Ornithology, I was delighted, one summer day, with a large bird that played bo-peep with me in the orchard. I watched it carefully, studied to repeat its cries, and then attempted to describe it. The bird was pronounced a creation of my imagination, and my labors rewarded with a lecture on romancing; but long afterward I recognized the bird in a museum, and found that I had seen a rare straggler from the Southern States. But nothing of all this bears much, if any, upon my friend’s question, and no definite conclusion has, perhaps, been reached; so I put myself in my friend’s place, and ask, Will some one give me the information required? The more the question, as originally put, is conned over, the more it is like unto asking, How do we learn to talk? Let there be a desire for knowledge, and the problem will solve itself. And as to natural history, the earnest observer will invent names for objects, which will serve his purpose until he learns those, as in time he will, by which they have been recognized by others and are in common use. He who does this will have taken the first and most important step, and all that follows will be pleasure rather than toil.

Another phase of this subject is that of properly observing. Do we always “see straight”? I prefer this homely phrase in putting the question, because I was so often asked, when reporting the results of youthful rambles, “Did you see straight? Are you sure?” And so the familiar questions come to mind now: Have the summer tourists seen straight? Was everything they saw really as they saw it? “Can I not believe my own eyes?” is the usual reply. It is the commonly accepted opinion that we can, certainly; but may not many an error arise from such testimony? Undoubtedly; but, on the other hand, if the sight-seer is really anxious to learn the exact truth, if he guards himself continuously against false impressions, the danger is comparatively slight, and diminishes to practically nothing by repetition of observation. It must be remembered, too, that an occurrence may be very rare, and, if observed by one not familiar with the ordinary conditions, he may be misled so far as to suppose it not unusual; but it is far from justifiable to assert that he did not “see straight.”

This is particularly true in the study of nature; by which is meant, at this time, the observation of objects, animate and inanimate, as they are and where they belong, not the study of “specimens” taken from their proper places. If a bird is seen out of season, or out of place, or copies the song and manners of a far different species, the observer is not true to himself if he withholds a statement as to the fact, although others may not have been so fortunate as to witness this; and no less imperative is it to express his opinions and give his own interpretations of what he sees. To say that it is indiscreet to set his “unsupported opinion against the facts gathered by a host of observers” is simply absurd. To fail to speak out boldly is miserable cowardice; and he who advises silence because an honest conviction wars with others’ opinions is contemptible. Evidently, having no opinions or knowledge of his own, he champions the cry of the crowd, be it right or wrong. When a friend returns from a distant land, or even from a walk in the country, we do not ask concerning what we have often seen for ourselves, or know from hearsay, is a feature of the land, but of those peculiarities that particularly impress him, and his personal adventures; and, by proper questioning, a dozen ramblers over the same area will tell as many different stories. If every observer or traveler was a mere cataloguing machine what a cool welcome would each receive on his return from an outing.

How are we to know whether or not we “see straight”—whether or not we correctly interpret? Time alone will decide this; adding thereto the experiences of others. From the sum total of many observers will ultimately spring the truth, if happily we shall ever possess it; but no one experience must be suppressed. I saw the Niagara River recently where it is crossed by the suspension bridge, and the water was intensely black save where flecked with snowy foam. I had seen this river at this same spot previously, and had seen it since, and always, except this one instance, the water was deeply blue or brilliantly green. It may never have been black before, and may never be so again, but this has no bearing upon the fact that once, at least, that torrent was as a torrent of ink. And so it certainly is in one’s observations of animal life, if one is a persistent, painstaking observer. His experience will teem with unique occurrences; but they are none the less valuable and worthy of record because of their character.

We hear now and then of misconception of nature—some pretentious critic assuming that another sees what is not to be seen, hears what is not to be heard, and attributes to the lower forms of life faculties beyond their capabilities. By what authority comes this—provided absurdity does not enter into the case? Has the whole region of the United States been so ransacked by a handful of professionals that the habits of every living creature other than man are known even to the minutest details? If so, where is this vast store of learning garnered? It must still be religiously guarded by this same handful. The world at large knows this is nonsense. There have not been enough facts gathered to enable one to more than conclude tentatively. A botanist, not far away, remarked in my hearing that he had tramped over the whole neighborhood in search of sun-dews. He was positive that none grew within miles of his home. Another, with keener vision, tramped the same ground, and found them in abundance. A host of careful, earnest, and devoted observers may be unsuccessful, but that does not prove that some one may not succeed where the others failed; nor can the animadversions of the critical alter the fact that some one has succeeded.

Have any of those who have spent the summer in the country amused themselves by watching some one animal as it was busy with life’s cares? I hope so; and while so doing, was the creature credited with intelligence or blind instinct? I trust with the former. But “Stay!” shouts the critic, “do you realize the danger of loose interpretation?” How are we to decide whether or not an animal thinks as we do? Hereon hinges the whole matter. Obviously, it can never be demonstrated with what may be called mathematical certainty; but the average, unbiased observer will admit that when a creature acts under given circumstances precisely as he would do, that the brain directing those movements is essentially such a brain as his own. To prove that it is something else is left with those who deny the position that I take. Animals think; they are not mere machines; this position is as rational as to claim it of some of the lowest existing races of mankind, for the claim is laid upon the same class of occurrences. To wander abroad, whether in the forest or on the plain, and not to look upon animate creation as endowed with intelligence—of course, of varying degrees—is to go, not as an observer in the true sense, but as one deaf and blind. To ramble with this conviction, one will not misread the book of nature, and so be guilty of a literary crime if he gives his story to the world.

An Open Winter.

I have heard or read that one may experience a sense of weariness when surrounded by the best that Nature has to offer—a cloying with too many sweets, as it were. It seems hard to believe, so rejoiced is the average rambler at the return of spring, but that it is true has recently dawned upon me, here in the wilds of Jersey, after some six weeks of merely nominal winter.

Wherever there is a little shelter from the occasional north winds, the immediate outlook is suggestive of early April, but the growing daffodils and blooming hunger-plant, dead-nettle, chickweed, spring beauties, violets, and dandelions, do not give us a springtide landscape, although columbine, giant hyssop, motherwort, self-heal, yellow corydalis, alum root, false mitrewort, and star of Bethlehem, are all green in the sheltered nooks, and the waters of many a spring-basin glow as emeralds with their wealth of aquatic plant life. It avails nothing that these springs and outflowing brooks teem with fish, frogs, salamanders, and spiders; nor does it matter that the sun gives us summer heat and that birds throng the underbrush as in nesting days; still it is winter. This is the crowning fact that colors every thought, and though we can not step but we crush a flower, winter will not be ignored. Nor would I have it so. January has its merits as well as June, and I hail with pleasure that spot where frost has gained a foothold. Here is one such spot; a circle of dead weeds bordering one of moss, and blackberry canes in rank profusion arising as an oval mound within all. It is an odd-looking spot to-day, and sure to attract attention. It is unlike the average clump of briers, and properly should be, as it is the sorry monument to a giant that for century after century dwelt here in glory. It was my good fortune to know him well, but my misfortune to be too young to assume the role of historian. Here stood the Pearson Oak. Perhaps my learned botanical friends may take exceptions, but I hold that this tree was nearly, if not quite, one thousand years old. How the Indian looms up when we think of such a tree! Here was a silent witness to the every-day life of an Indian village that in part rested in the mighty shadows that it cast. And later, from one huge limb dangled the rude pole swing that was the delight of the first of my people born in America. Being the most prominent feature of the neighborhood, this oak was brought within the boundary line of two great plantations, and the half acre beneath its branches was the common playground of two families. Little wonder, then, that in time it was also common courting ground. Indeed, the phrase common in several families now, referring to engaged couples, “under the oak,” has reference to this tree and the engagements that arose from frequently meeting there, during the first half-century after the place was settled.

But what has this to do with winter? Nothing, perhaps, but it seemed fitting that a film of ice should cover the little pool in the circle, as frost had blighted every shrub about, when recalling that long-gone past that seems to us so rosy-hued when comparing it with the present. Ruin is stamped upon every feature of the landscape here, and it is well that the old oak that witnessed more mirth than sadness should have passed away.

To those who can walk eight furlongs and see only a milestone, winter may be a dreary season: but Nature at rest, for those who love her, is a sleeping beauty. Again, if it so happens death is everywhere about you, it should not prove repulsive. Death is the law of life, and not a flower in June can boast greater beauty than the empty seed-pods of many a decaying plant. Shudder, if you will, at the word “skeleton,” but handle that of many a creature or plant, and enthusiastic admiration is sure to follow. In June, we glory in the deadly struggle for existence that everywhere is raging; charmed by the flaunting banners, the music, the “pomp and circumstance of glorious war”; why not then be rational and cull beauty as well as profit from the battle-field when the struggle is over? If a shrub is beautiful clad in motley garb, should not its filmy ghost in silvery gray merit a passing glance?

So ran my thoughts as I crossed my neighbor’s field, seeking new traces of frost’s handiwork, but here I failed. The general aspect was wintry, but definite results of wintry weather could not be found. Even on cold clay soil dandelions bloomed, and tissue-ice in the wagon ruts had no discouragement for the grass that bordered it. To sum up the result, rambling in January during such winter as this is not attractive, unless one is carried away by the novelty of plants blooming out of season, or hearing sounds when he expected silence. And a word here of winter sounds. Except immediately before a snow-storm, the country is never silent. Here and there, the fields may be deserted, but birds are somewhere, and these, of both sexes, can not keep quiet long. Of our winter birds, it can be said that they are essentially noisy, and chirp more, if they sing less, than birds in summer; and in the anomalous condition of the outdoor world, at present it was a relief to reach a hedge with its complement of birds. Their listless chirping now recalled days with the mercury near zero, when, defying the keen wind from the north, they sang a hearty welcome to the season and hailed every snow-squall as a gift from the gods. Nowhere else, however, and I walked several miles, were birds to be found, save here and there a solitary crow, and the conclusion is, that such a season drives off rather than attracts certain species, while others having no incentive to migrate, have not wandered this far south. I do not know what the result of observation in general has been, but certainly over my own rambling ground birds have been noticeably scarce. Flowers out of season are no compensation for the losses that a thoroughly open winter brings upon us; the more so, if an open winter lessens the number of our birds.

As the sun rose to-day, the thought “what splendid weather!” was uppermost, and, impelled by it, I struck across lots for the uncultivated nooks that are so pitifully few near by. The result has been given—not a single satisfactory feature in the whole range of half a dozen miles. A little here and there to wonder over, disappointment at nearly every turn; more, many more somber than merry thoughts; and not one successful effort at thinking any thought to a logical conclusion. To what is this due? Without doubt, to the “open” season. Nor is it strange. In no respect is nature soul-satisfying when unseasonable. A cool June morning is not a contradiction, and is delightful; but sultry January days are an utter abomination. Midwinter kicks over the traces when daffodils sport in January sunshine, as they are doing this morning about the crooked maple wherein I sit and write. The truth is, the present conditions offer no pronounced feature of the open country; nothing hot or cold, but all in that lukewarm condition tending to nausea. Nor is this feeling of dissatisfaction that takes so strong a hold upon mankind confined thereto. It is seen in half the creatures that one meets. A meadow-mouse is no sluggard at other times, and a lazy deer-mouse is a contradiction; but with what measured steps and slow a mouse comes hobbling over the dead leaves about the maple I am perched in! The creature looks at the sky, then at the ground, and finally at a sorry shrub with seedless pods. Not a bit of animation in its motions, but the same dejected feelings I recognize in myself evidently held the mouse in bondage. Then I moved suddenly, but the creature merely looked up, as if surprised at so much energy on my part. This was irritating, so I sprang cat-like to the ground, but only to find the mouse just out of reach and evidently not alarmed. Climbing again into the maple, I awaited further developments, and saw at last a white-footed or deer-mouse that seemed to me to drop from branch to branch, as it descended from its bush nest, a dozen feet from the ground. This was indeed discouraging. Usually there is no more graceful sight in the woods, during autumn or winter, than that of this dainty mammal, picking its way a-down a crooked highway of a tangled brier-patch. It is a sight sure to be recorded in full in my note-books, as every time I witness it some new grace marks the event, so I anticipated the old delight when I caught my first glimpse of the mouse, and such a result!

It is true that if one’s feelings are out of tune, there may be a distorted vision, but not so to-day. The world was askew, and has been since the first frost, for whoever knew the crows to be silent—positively silent, as compared with crows—on a crisp, frosty morning? There were forty, by count, that flew over the maple, and only one gave tongue. Here I may be charged with fancy, but that one crow gave out no ringing caw, that is music to him who loves the country. It was rather a fretful, long-drawn pshaw! and fittingly voiced the surroundings.

A winter in the tropics may be very delightful, but an “open” winter in New Jersey is an utter abomination.

A Foggy Morning.

We know too little of the world except when bathed in sunshine. Not that I recognize any advantage in groping in darkness—this is too like dogmatizing on a theory; but between the obscurity of night and brilliancy of the day there are happy mediums, too commonly neglected. I have lately been wandering through a thick fog. Not a metaphysical, but a material one; nor was it gloomy. The fog was thick, yet through it streamed the level rays of the rising sun, gilding the topmost twigs of the forest trees, roofing with gold a trackless wild beneath. So changed for an hour or more was every long-familiar scene that, as I wandered, I was a stranger in a strange land.

The late John Cassin, the ornithologist, has left on record how a vast multitude of crows tarried for some time in Independence Square, Philadelphia, having, after leaving their roosting grounds, lost their reckoning in a dense fog. He tells us how the masses obeyed a few leaders, and how methodically they all departed, led by their appointed scouts. It was an incident that thrilled him more than all else that he had witnessed; and none knew our birds in their homes better than he.

The bewildered crows this morning recalled this story, for the poor birds were in a hopeless plight. Perhaps their leaders were at loggerheads, or, being none, it was a case of each for himself and ill-luck catch the hindmost. Be this as it may, their party-cries filled the misty air and relieved me of all feeling of loneliness. From the open meadows I ventured into a gloomy wood, leaving the crows to solve their own problems. Here the fog proved an enormous lens, and, at the same time obscuring the tops of even dwarfed undergrowth, made them appear as trees, and the taller grasses that had withstood the winter were as shrubbery. It was this most strange effect that made my old playground as a land unknown. But as the wild cries of the troubled crows grew faint, the sense of loneliness, against which one naturally rebels, assumed mastery, and I longed for at least sunlight, that the familiar trees might be stripped of their masks. One’s own thoughts should be acceptable company at all times, but mine are not in the gray of a winter morning, and fog-wrapped at that. Nevertheless, longing as I did for others’ voices, I protested then and there against my dependence upon bird-life. “Are there no other creatures astir?” I asked, and pushed on yet deeper, where the old oaks were clustered. Into whatever seemed a shelter I peered, and often thrust my arm, in hopes of feeling some furry yet not too responsive mass. Nothing resented my unmannered intrusion. Then into sundry hollow trees I thrust my cane, thinking at least an owl might be roused from his slumbers; but ill-luck attended me.

A little later, as the sun rose fairly high, the upper fog descended, and so far increased the gloom in the forest; but beyond it, as I looked down a long wood-path, I saw the cold gray light that brightened the outer world. Among the trees there was no dispelling force, and the fog became denser, until, overcome by its own weight, it turned to rain, and such a shower! The mists of the open air had fled, while through the woods the rain-drops, touched with a mellow light, shone as molten metal. Rebounding from the interlacing twigs above and the carpet of matted leaves below, these golden drops rang up, as might a myriad of bells, the laggard life about me. Rang up the timid shrews, and one darted among the dead leaves and moss, as though hotly pursued; aroused the squirrels, and creeping stealthily down an oak’s extended arms, a pair passed by, thinking by their cunning to escape my notice; called forth a white-footed mouse, daintiest of all our mammals, that picked its tortuous way to the meadow from its bush-nest in the briers. What folly to suppose there is no life about you because it eludes your search! The quickening rays of the sun have keener vision than any man, however gifted in woodcraft, and these to-day peered directly into every creature’s lair.

I might have searched in vain for half a day, yet found nothing among the trees. Even the nest of the mouse in the bushes I had mistaken for a cluster of thorn-pierced autumn leaves. It would seem as if every creature anticipated the possible visit of a Paul Pry, and was cunning enough to outwit him. The greater the effort made by the intruder, the less are his chances of seeing much. Let him be patient. Often a moment or two spent leaning against a tree effects more than a mile of noisy plowing through the brittle, crackling leaves. The careless snapping of a twig may not startle you, but it telegraphs your whereabouts to creatures many a rod away. How do I know this? In this way: Not long since I was watching a weasel as it tipped along the rough rails of an old worm fence. It was intently engaged, following the trail of a ground squirrel perhaps. Suddenly, as if shot, it stood in a half-erect posture; turned its head quickly from one side to the other; then rested one ear on or very near the rail, as I thought; then reassumed a semi-erect position, gave a quick, bark-like cry, and disappeared. There was no mistaking the meaning of every movement. The animal had heard a suspicious sound, and recognizing it as fraught with danger, promptly sought safety.

Extremely curious myself to learn what the weasel had heard, for I was sure it was the sound of an approaching object, I sat perfectly still, awaiting coming events. The mystery was quickly solved; a man drew near. In about two minutes I heard footsteps, and in two more saw the man approaching. Calculating the element of time in the succession of events, it appeared that the weasel heard the approaching footsteps first, fully one minute before I did, and about six elapsed before the man reached me from the time of the weasel’s disappearance; in all, some seven minutes. Now, allowing twenty paces to the minute and two and one half feet to the pace, this man was considerably more than one hundred yards distant. Indeed, I think he was walking faster and took longer steps than I have allowed in my calculation, and was really still farther away than 116 yards when the weasel caught the sound of his approach. Is it any wonder, then, that the woods seem silent as we saunter carelessly along?

The question now arises, Can any animal distinguish between the sounds of the footsteps of our many wild and domestic animals? Can any one of them recognize the difference between the steps of a man, fox, cow, or rat? Now, a weasel, for instance, would not fear a cow or a sheep, but would flee ordinarily from a man or a dog, and so such power of discrimination would be very useful to it. I am positive that they can distinguish, in the manner pointed out, between friend and foe, and so are not required to seek safety at every unusual sound. I know that the most dolorous screeching made by branches rubbing together whenever the wind blew had no terror for squirrels or rabbits, yet they must have trembled when they first heard it; I remember very well that I did. That fish can recognize the approach of a man and will hide, and yet pay not the slightest attention to galloping horses or tramping cattle that come near, is well known; and I can see no reason to deny a like discriminating ability to those animals whose very existence depends upon it. The fact that such a power is the mainspring of their safety is of itself a warrant for our belief that they possess it. And from what I have observed of animal life, I am further convinced that the power grows with the animal’s growth; hence the necessity of the young remaining, as they do, with their parents until well matured. The sense of hearing in a weasel, raccoon, or other creature is one that develops, and doubtless varies, in efficiency among individuals. There is no cut-and-dried instinct about it. I have often thought how much there is in the saying common among trappers concerning very cunning animals of any kind, “He is too old to be caught.” As chance has offered, I have experimented upon our wild animals as to this very point, and though the results were largely negative, there was nothing in them that showed my inference, or conviction rather, to be untrue; and, on the other hand, much that pointed unmistakably the other way.

But what of the clearing fog? True enough, I have drifted from it, and it has passed earthward and away. So may it ever be! Let but a bird pass by, singing or silent, it matters not; let but the shadow of a fleeing creature cross my path, and clouds, sunshine, storm, or fairest weather are alike one.

The Old Farm’s Wood-Pile.

“In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire

With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales

Of woful ages long ago.”

This was my wont just forty years ago; but such nights were never tedious; nor were the ages woful of which the old folks chatted. Sitting by the fire to-night, I am led to contemplate, not so much the heaped-up logs and cheerful blaze before me as that other feature of days gone by, the old farm’s wood-pile.

Recalling both what I saw and heard when a lad of a few summers, I am startled to find that, one after the other, the prominent features of my childhood’s days have largely disappeared. Improved farm machinery may delight the economist, but its introduction has added no new charm to country life, and robbed it of more than one. Was there not a subtle something in the swish of the scythe to be preferred to the click of the modern mower? Harvest comes and goes now without a ripple of excitement upon the farm. A hum of the reaper for a few hours, and the work is done. A portable steam-engine puffs in the field for a day, and the threshing is over. But what a long series of delights, at least to the onlooker, when grain was cradled, shocked, and then carted to the barn! And, later, far in the winter, what music was the measured thumping of the flails!

In due course came the present order, the natural outcome of relentless evolution, and it is affectation to decry it. Mankind in the long run has been benefited, and all should be thankful. But with these major changes have come minor ones that I trust can be mourned without risking a charge of silliness. I need not name them. Mention of any one calls up the rest, so closely related were they all. Who can think of the old wood-pile, a maze of gnarly sticks, huge chopping-log, and the rudely hafted axe, without a vision also of the old kitchen with its cavernous fireplace, and, just outside the door, the mossy well with its ungainly sweep! All these were practically out of date in my time, but here and there were retained on more than one old farm I knew, and are still in use within walking distance of my home.

To many, perhaps, a wood-pile is but a pile of wood; but it is something more. Can you not see that the ground is depressed, as though the earth had been beaten down by the continued blows of axe and beetle? Do you not notice that the outlying weeds are different from those that are scattered elsewhere about the dooryard? Here, there is not only a wood-pile now, but there has been one for many a long year, perhaps for more than a century. Turn up the soil and you will find it black; examine it with a lens, and you will find it filled with wood fiber in every stage of decomposition. Dig deeper and you will find many a relic of a by-gone generation. Pewter buttons that once shone like silver, the pride of beaux who, though Quakers, loved a smart-looking coat; buckles worn at the knee and upon the shoes; bits of spectacle rims that once held circular glasses of enormous diameter; a thousand odds and ends, indeed, of metal, glass, and china, discarded, one by one, as they were broken; for the wood-pile was a dust-heap as well, and the last resting-place of every small object that could not be burned.

My own earliest recollection of outdoor sport is of “playing house” about the generous heap of gnarly logs and crooked branches that had been brought from the woods during the winter. At some convenient corner the loose earth would be scooped away, water brought until the hollow was filled, and a long row of mud pies molded in clamshells, the product of a happy morning’s work. It was usually when thus engaged that some curious object would be brought to light and referred for explanation to the wood-chopper, if he were present. I can see two old men now, whose sole occupation in their later years, so far as I can recall, was to split wood. These two men, Uz Gaunt and Miles Overfield, were “master hands with an axe,” as they promptly said of themselves. With one foot resting upon the chopping-block, and leaning upon his axe, Uz or Miles would critically examine whatever I had found; and then, after silently gazing into the distance to recall the past, with what an air of wisdom would the information be forthcoming! Nor would either of these old men ever promptly resume his labor. Such an interruption was sure to call up a flood of memories, and delightful stories of long ago made me quite forget my play. Nothing that my own or another’s brain could suggest ever equaled in interest these old men’s stories. I can not clearly recall a single one of them now, but simply the effect they produced and the sad fact that, in their estimation, the present never favorably compared with the days when they were young. And is it not ever so? If I have learned nothing else since then I have learned this—that the glorious future to which as a child I looked forward has proved everything but what my fancy painted.

There was a comic side to my interviews with the wood-choppers which I recall even now with grim satisfaction, for I think it was right that I outwitted an unreasonably cross-grained aunt. Often my heart was sorely troubled because, in the midst of a most exciting story, Aunt would call out, “Thee is hindering Miles at his work; he doesn’t like to be bothered;” all of which was in the interest of the work being done, and not Miles’s comfort. Not like to be bothered, indeed! Neither he nor Uz disapproved of loitering, for both were old, and Aunt knew this as well as they. Before summer was over, a stratagem was devised that succeeded admirably. I had merely to take my place on the off side of the wood-pile, where I was quite out of sight, and Miles or Uz would work, oh, so diligently! at the light wood for half a day, which needed next to no exertion, and all the while could talk as freely as when taking his nooning. Perhaps it was not well, but, young as I then was, I learned that in human nature the real and the apparent are too often as widely apart as the poles.

The wild life that forty years ago lurked in the woods and swamps of the old farm was not different from what is still to be found there, but there has been a great decrease in the numbers of many forms. The wild cat and fox, perhaps, may be considered as really extinct, although both are reported at long intervals in the immediate neighborhood. These, it is certain, are stragglers—the former from the mountains to north, the latter from the pine regions toward the sea-coast. But it has not been long since the raccoon was regularly hunted during the moonlit winter nights and the opposum found security in half the hollow trees along the hillside. The dreaded skunk was then abundant. None of these, however, can be said to be of common occurrence now, and their discovery produces a ripple of excitement at present, while in my early days their capture excited scarcely a word of comment. Then the old wood-pile was not infrequently the hiding-place of one or more of these “varmints,” which raided the hen-roost, kept the old dog in a fever of excitement, and baffled the trapping skill of the oldest “hands” upon the farm. Now, at best, when the last sticks are cut and stored in the woodshed, the burrow of a rat is all we find.

With what glee do I still recall an autumn evening, years ago, when the unusually furious barking of the old mastiff brought the whole family to the door! In the dim twilight the dog could be seen dashing at and retreating from the wood-pile, and at once the meaning of the hubbub was apparent. Some creature had taken refuge there. A lantern was brought, and as every man wished to be the hero of the hour, my aunt held the light. The wood-pile was surrounded; every stick was quickly overturned, and finally a skunk was dislodged. Confused or attracted by the light, I do not know which, the “varmint” made straightway for the ample skirts of the old lady, followed by the dog, and, in a second, skunk, dog, lady, and lantern were one indistinguishable mass. My aunt proved the heroine of the evening, nor did the men object. I often pause at the very spot, and fancy that “the scent of the roses” doth “hang round it still.”

A wood-pile, if it be not too near the house, has many attractions for birds of various kinds, and I am at a loss to know why the whip-poor-will should, of recent years, have forsaken it. Formerly, the first of these birds heard in early spring was that which perched upon the topmost stick and whistled his trisyllabic monologue from dark to dawn. Now they frequent only the retired woodland tracts. Various insect-eating birds continually come and go, attracted by the food they find in the decayed wood, but the house-wren remains throughout its summer sojourn here—that is, from April to October; while during the colder months the winter wren takes the other’s place. These little brown birds are exceedingly alike in appearance, in habits, and in size, and I shall never forget my communicating the fact that they were not the same to Miles Overfield. It was almost my last conversation with him.

“Not the same?” he exclaimed. “You might as well tell me that a snow-bird isn’t a chippy in its winter dress!”

“They are not, indeed!” I replied, astonished to hear so remarkable a statement.

“So you set up book-learnin’ against me about such things as that, eh?” Miles remarked, with unlimited scorn in both his voice and manner; and from that time I lost favor in his eyes. Such crude ideas concerning our common birds are still very common, nor is it to be wondered at. Knowledge of local natural history is still at a discount. Is there a country school where even its barest rudiments are taught?

The heaped-up logs that, burning brightly, made cheery my room when I sat down for a quiet evening’s meditation, are now a bed of ashes and lurid coals. They typify the modern wood-piles about our farms—mere heaps of refuse sticks and windfall branches of our dooryard trees. Fit for kindling, perhaps, but never for a generous fire upon an open hearth. As I linger over them, the irrecoverable past, with all its pleasures to the fore, comes back with painful vividness. The fantastic shapes of the ruddy coals, the caverns in the loose ashes, the shadows of the andirons, the filmy thread of smoke, are a landscape to my fancy, upon which my eyes can never dwell again. In the faint moaning of the wind that fills the chimney corner I hear a voice, long stilled, whose music led me dancing through the world. Place and people are alike changed. “All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.”

PART II.

IN SPRING.

The April Moon.

Of the thirteen moons of the year, not one is of such significance to the outdoor naturalist as that of April. I think that there can be no doubt but that a clear sky, rather than temperature, is the important factor in the migratory movement of our birds that come from the South in spring. Certainly the morning of April 14th, of this year, was cool enough to have retarded birds sensitive to cold. Ice formed on shallow ponds and a heavy frost rested upon all the upland fields; yet at sunrise the old beeches were alive with those beautiful birds, the yellow red-polled warblers. Nor were they numb or dumb. There was not an instant that they rested, nor a moment that they did not sing. The April moon, too, has the merit of brightening the marshes, when in fullest force the frog-world comes to the fore, and perhaps never are these slimy batrachians so noisy as when the night is warm, the sky clear, and the moon full in April. Take a midnight ramble then, and see if I am not right. Of course, no one wishes to be confined to the company of croaking frogs, but other creatures will doubtless cross your path, and I assume the reader does not live in an utterly desolate region. My reference to frogs may seem to imply contempt, but it is not deserved. If they are not overwise, neither are they wholly stupid, and it is well for all men to be chary of their judgments. There are times and occasions when a frog may outwit a philosopher. Try to catch one on slippery mud, and see which sprawls the more gracefully.

I recently rambled for half a night over acres of wild marsh, and, while I often wished myself at home or that I could grasp the arm of a friend, yet am heartily glad, now that it is over, that I undertook to trespass upon the haunts of owls, frogs, bitterns, and a host of minor creatures. But let me be more explicit, and a word further concerning frogs. In the tide marshes, where the shallow water has been warmed by the noonday sun, the pretty little hylodes were holding high carnival. I strolled leisurely, at this stage of my ramble, to the water’s edge, but only to find that the creatures could only be heard, not seen; unless, indeed, the trembling specks upon the glimmering pools, which faded out at my approach, were they. The piercing shrillness of their united songs was something wonderful. It was not so much a chorus as the wildest orgies of Lilliputian fifers. At times the song of this same frog is the sharp clicking of a castanet, hence their name in zoölogy, Acris crepitans, but none were crepitating that night. Yesterday I waded into a wet meadow and crouched upon a projecting hassock. Thousands of the fifing frogs were about me, but I could see none. I long sat there, hoping that my patience would be rewarded in time, and so it was. At last one came cautiously from its hiding-place in the submerged grass, thrusting but its head above the water’s surface, and scanned closely its surroundings. It eyed me most suspiciously, and then slowly crawled out upon outreaching grass until quite above the water. It seemed very long before it was suited to its perch but when comfortably fixed, appeared to gulp in a great mouthful of air; in fact, must have done so, for immediately an enormous globular sac formed beneath its lower jaw. The sunlight being favorable, I could see that the sac contained about two drops of water. Then the fifing commenced. The motion of the mouth was too slight to be detected, but the membranous globe decreased or increased with each utterance. At no time did it wholly disappear. Noting so much, I then moved slightly to attract the creature’s attention. Immediately it ceased fifing, but the sac remained slightly diminished in size. As I was again perfectly quiet, its confidence returned, and the shrill monotonous “peep!” was resumed, but pitched in even a higher key, as though to make good the loss of time my slight interference had caused.

When Peter Kalm, the Swedish naturalist, was studying the natural history of New Jersey, he was much struck with the noises made by certain small frogs which he heard, and supposed that he saw; but it would appear, from a recent study of the subject by Prof. Garman, of Cambridge, Mass. that Kalm attributed the voices of one species to a very different and much larger frog. The reasons given for this opinion by Prof. Garman are conclusive; that author remarks; “Apparently the frog Kalm heard was not the one he caught. The cry is that of Hyla Pickeringii; the frog taken was probably ... the leopard, frog.” So far, Garman; but I am convinced my friend is mistaken, and that Kalm heard the shrill peeping of the little Acris crepitans, which is extraordinarily abundant, while, in the locality where Kalm was, Pickering’s hyla is comparatively rare.

I lingered long by the resounding marsh—so long that the chilly damp provoked an aguish pain, and admonished by it I turned toward the leafless trees upon the bluff, where I hoped to find a drier atmosphere. The moon was well upon her westward course when I reached higher ground, and what a change from the open meadows to gloomy woodland! The dark shadows of noonday are not repeated during a moonlit night. They are not only less distinct, but quivering, as though they, too, shivered as the air grew cold. It is not strange that one peoples the distance then with uncouth shapes, and sees a monster wherever moves a mite. However one may argue to himself that this is the same wood-path down which he daily passes without a thought, and that since sunset no strange creatures can have come upon the scene, he sees a dozen such, it may be, in spite of every effort to laugh them out of existence. Let a spider crawl over your face at noon, and you brush the creature from you almost unconsciously. Let a filmy cobweb rest upon your damp forehead at midnight, and you struggle to be rid of it, as though bound with a rope. The mingled sounds of myriad frogs, the hooting of owls, the rustling leaves beneath the shrew’s light tread, even the chirping of a dreaming bird, can not assure you. Every tree is the ambush of a lurking elf; ghosts and hobgoblins follow in your steps. I have abundant sympathy for those who, walking through moonlit woods, whistle to keep their courage up.

Such, in a measure, were my own feelings until I reached a glade where the light fell softly upon the wind-swept sod. There the immaterial world vanished, and I was no longer the companion of uncanny sprites. Resting from a long journey, yet not disposed to sleep, a pair of woodcocks stalked leisurely across my path without deigning to notice my approach. I drew back a pace or two, and watched them pass by. They did not leave the glade, but seemed to be scanning every foot of it, perhaps discussing its merits as a summer resort. Then first one and then the other took a short upward and circuitous flight, and in a few seconds returned. This was frequently done. Was it to hail passing migrants? I ask this seriously, for I have known several pairs to frequent a cluster of rhododendrons all through the month of March, and yet none nested until late in April: per contra, I have found their eggs in February. The movements of this pair, as I saw them, were mysterious, but I could do nothing in so uncertain a light toward unraveling the mystery, and contented myself with attracting their attention. I whistled shrilly but a single note, and as if shot the birds came to a halt. I whistled again, and they drew nearer to me, as I thought; but if so, I became no mystery to them, and upward and outward over the meadows, with a great whirring of their wings, they vanished.

This was so trivial an incident that, had it no sequel, would not be worthy of record. I have said I whistled shrilly a single note. It roused a sleeping cardinal near by, which straightened its crest, shook out its rumpled down, stared into vacant space, and whistled in return. I quickly replied, and so we had the woods to echo with our calls. “What can the matter be?” asked another and another of these birds, until the whole hillside sounded with their cries. I was lonely no longer. The moon shone with added luster, the grewsome shadows of the dwarfed cedars fled, and, but for the twinkling of a million stars, I might have thought it day. But the pleasing fancy was of short duration. Bird after bird resumed its slumbers. Silence and a deeper gloom reigned in the forest, nor did my heart cease to beat nervously until I reached my home.

Concerning Small Owls.

It may be April according to the almanac, and yet midwinter, judging by the thermometer; and perhaps, as a rule, March winds continue their chilly gustiness until the fourth month is well advanced. I have scoured a weather-wise neighborhood for some “saying” about this feature of our climate, but gathered nothing not absolutely childish; but, if so run the days, the nights of April have a merit peculiarly their own; by the light of the waxing moon, let the temperature be high or low, the north-bound migratory birds begin to come. I saw a few of them during the last week in March; but it was when the April moon was eight days old that field sparrows trooped hitherward by thousands, and how the bare upland fields rang with their glee!

There is another happy feature of spring’s initial days. The winds, be they never so boisterous from dawn to sunset, rest during the night, and nocturnal life rejoices. What a mighty volume of sound arises from the marshes when the wind-tossed waters are at rest! The tiny hylodes, the smallest of our frogs, is fairly ecstatic now, and, were there no other voices to be heard, this creature alone would dispel all feeling of loneliness.

But what of a ramble during an April night? After an almost tempestuous day, there was little promise of anything akin to adventure, judging the landscape from my open door. However confirmed in the strolling habit might be the saunterer, rambling at night, with but frogs for company, is scarcely tempting, even though the moon shines brilliantly. Then, it occurred to me, is it not enough that the wind had ceased, and that out-of-doors it is something more than merely April in name? Therefore, expecting little and hoping less, I ventured abroad, directing my steps, as usual, meadow-ward. And it was not with, as might seem at first, an altogether undesirable and non-receptive frame of mind. One is far more likely to be content with little, and not wholly disappointed if his walk proves without adventure. But the latter is seldom or never the result. It is a strange night that finds the whole world asleep. Certainly I never found it so before, and did not to-night. By the pale light of the cloud-wrapped moon, stately herons wended their way from the river to the meadows, and twice a little owl hooted at me as I passed by the hollow hickory that stands as a lonely sentinel in the midst of a wide reach of pasture. Here was an instance when to be hooted at was a positive pleasure. The little owlet questioned the propriety of my being abroad at night, nor was he at all mealy-mouthed. He did not complain merely, but scolded unmistakably; and hovering above me as well as when flitting from branch to branch, he snapped his little beak most viciously. It was evident that fear of myself did not influence the owl at all, but he was provoked because my presence interfered with his plans. The bird knew well enough that I would keep the mice away by standing in full sight out in the open meadow. I have been puzzled, at times, to interpret the chirps and twitters of excited birds, and this irate little owl cried “Get out!” as plainly as man could speak it, and I got out.

In all works treating of the intelligence of animals there is much said of the mental status of parrots, and little or nothing of the mother-wit of owls. Why this oversight is a mystery, unless it arises from the fact that “from the nocturnal preferences of most owls their habits are very slightly known, and many interesting facts are doubtless to be discovered in this direction. More often heard than seen, even their notes are only imperfectly known as yet.” Notwithstanding this, owls are well known in a general way—better known, indeed, than any other family of birds. Their appearance is striking, their expression intelligent, and that they were selected, in ancient and more poetical times, as the emblem of wisdom, is not to be wondered at. The bird of Minerva does not belie its looks. To speak of an owl’s wisdom in a Pickwickian sense, is to publish one’s own ignorance. I would that I might venture to give in merited detail an account of the wise doings, if not sayings, of little red owls that I have held captives for months. And, better yet, narrate the summer histories of owls at freedom that nested in the old orchard. Or write of the cunning ways of the handsome barn-owls, those beautiful cosmopolite birds, that made their home in a hollow oak upon an upland field.

To do this would be to place our common owls where, in the scale of intelligence, they rightfully belong. Of all our birds, they are the least governed by mere impulse, and pass their days, as it has appeared to me, in a most methodical and reasonable manner. It has been admitted by many a traveler that to shoot a monkey was too like murder; they could not do it. Would that every farmer in the land had the same feeling with reference to the owls; for the same reason holds good, only to a less extent.

It is true that we know very little about the various cries of owls, but every country lad, at least, knows that the bird’s utterances are not merely slight variations of a typical hoot, or the to-whit to-whoo of the poets. Well I remember how, evening after evening, when in camp in southern Ohio, the great horned owls made night melancholy rather than hideous, by their sonorous hoo-hoo-hoo! At first afar off, and then nearer and clearer, sounded their incessant call, as, flitting from one tall sycamore to another, they slowly approached the red glare of the camp-fire. Their hooting varied not a whit, but merely grew more distinct, and for long I thought them capable of no other utterance, but how great an error this was evident, when at last one of these huge birds perched in the oak that sheltered my tent. The melancholy hoo-hoo-hoo! was the same, but with this were a host of minor notes, and these were once followed by a series of explosive, ill-tempered ejaculations when the little red owls that had their home in this same oak scolded without ceasing at the intrusion. I can liken the hubbub to nothing but the subdued clamor of excited geese. In like manner I was scolded by the little owl on the meadow hickory. The moonlit September night on the bluff of Brush Creek was vividly recalled.

Owls need but to be more closely studied, and, if in confinement, to be treated with kindness and attended by one person, to demonstrate that all the wisdom seeming to lurk behind their expressive faces is really there. In matters of animal intelligence I know that I am heterodox, for I give the crow prominence equal to the parrot, and strongly doubt if owls should stand much behind them.

A Hidden Highway.

A wide tract of meadows that skirt the river near my home, and upon which much wealth and labor have been expended in years past, was the abode of desolation in the eyes of the sturdy settlers two hundred years ago, and so treacherous the footing in every direction—so the record runs—that the hunted bears and deer would come to a stand rather than plunge headlong into the trackless waste. With proper caution the tract was finally explored, mapped, and ditched, and now there is small chance of disaster unless the rambler is culpably negligent.

I hold that one should think kindly of a ditch. The commonly imputed repulsiveness of such a waterway is more often wanting than present, and nearly all that I have seen have teemed with interesting life. What are the brooks, indeed, that turn a poet’s head, but Nature’s own ditches? As to those of man’s creation, they need but a little time, and they will assume every function of a natural watercourse.

As I stood recently upon rising ground overlooking a pasture meadow that was brown as a nut with its carpet of dead grass, I noticed a long, straight line of weed-like growths still showing a tinge of green, as if the frost had spared a narrow strip of the exposed tract. Viewing it from other points, it was evident that a ditch had once been dug where these ranker grasses grew, and through long neglect it had finally been choked with weeds and almost obliterated. It was a delightful discovery. Armed with a spade, a hoe, and sundry tools of greater or less efficiency, I set out to explore this one-time watercourse, thinking it child’s play to move tons of matted weeds and mud. How much or how little I accomplished it matters not, but the fierce onslaught of unreasoning enthusiasm broke in the door of a zoölogical El Dorado.

Jetsam and flotsam from the yearly freshets, showers of wind-tossed autumn leaves, a forest of rank growths that revel in the mud, all had added their quota, unchecked, to the baneful work of damming the little stream, which finally had been shut from view, but, as it proved, not wholly overcome. A narrow, tube-like channel still remained, with the mud below and upon each side almost as yielding as the water itself. Here fish, turtles, and creeping things innumerable not only lived, but wended their darksome way from the open ditch not far off to the basins of the sparkling springs at the hill-foot. I had discovered a hidden highway, a busy thoroughfare that teemed with active life.

Except with those forms of life that by their construction are solely adapted to a subterranean existence, as the earth-worm, or to a fixed one, as the oyster, we commonly associate our familiar forms of wild animals with unlimited freedom of movement, and suppose that they have the wide world before them to wander where they list; and, again, that of creatures as high in the scale as fishes and upward the supposition is that in proportion to their freedom of movement are their chances of escape when pursued. Now these, like many another common impression, are true in a general way, but fairly bristle with exceptions. For instance, there are many extremely sluggish fishes, yet what creatures are more agile and swift than the minnows in our brooks? And there are fishes that can walk on the mud with their bodies entirely out of the water. Dr. Gunther tells us that “the Barramunda is said to be in the habit of going on land, or at least on mud-flats; and this assertion appears to be borne out by the fact that it is provided with a lung.... It is also said to make a grunting noise, which may be heard at night for some distance.”

So far Australia; and now what of New Jersey mud-flats and the fishes that frequent them? As I continued to explore the hidden highway of snakes, turtles, and fishes, I found in almost every spadeful of mud and matted weeds one or more brown-black fishes that were as much at home as ever an earth-worm in the firmer soil. Blunt-headed, cylindrical, thick-set, and strongly finned, these fishes were built to overcome many an obstacle that would prove insuperable to almost any other. How, indeed, they burrowed even in soft mud is not readily explained; that they do advance head-foremost into such a trackless mass is unquestionable.

How long these mud-fish tarry in such spots I can not say, but during the long-dry summer this one-time ditch must be almost as dry as dust, and then probably it is quite forsaken; but their powers of endurance may be underestimated. Of the African “Lepidosiren” Dr. Gunther remarks: “During the dry season specimens living in shallow waters which periodically dry up form a cavity in the mud, the inside of which they line with a protecting capsule of mucus, and from which they emerge again when the rains refill the pools inhabited by them. While they remain in this torpid state of existence the clay balls containing them are frequently dug out, and if the capsules are not broken the fishes imbedded in them can be transported to Europe, and released by being immersed in slightly tepid water.”

The many mud-fishes that I tossed upon the dead grass had clearly no liking for an atmospheric bath, and floundered about in a typical fish-like fashion; but not for long. Finding no open water near, they became quiet at once when by chance they fell into some little cavity of the mud masses from which the water had not drained. All such fortunate fishes seemed quite at ease, and remained motionless where their good luck had brought them; but the moment I attempted to pick them up they twisted like eels upon their muddy beds, and buried themselves head-foremost with a rapidity that was simply marvelous. This perhaps is what the reader would expect, but it struck me as a little strange, because, when I startled others of these fishes as they rested among the weeds or on the sand of the open ditches, they usually gave a twist of the tail that dug a pit in a twinkling, and in this the fishes sank, tail-foremost.

When in the mud these curious minnows can only feel their way, and if they procure any food at all at such a time it can only be such objects as come directly in contact with their mouths. But how different is it when these same fishes are in open water! They are expert fly-catchers then, and capture many an insect that would be lost to a trout or chub. They have not to wait for flies to fall upon the surface, but seize those that happen to alight upon overhanging blades of grass or any projecting twig. The distance that they will leap above the water is remarkable, the spring being preceded by a withdrawal from the object and a slight sigmoid curvature of the body, involving, I suppose, the same principle as that of a short run before jumping. Mud minnows two inches in length, which I kept in an aquarium, were proved capable of leaping above the water a distance equal to twice their length; but others, much larger, could not or would not leap so far. So far as my own observations extend, exhibitions of this leaping from the water to seize insects are not often witnessed, and it was my aquarium studies that led me to watch these fishes closely when in the muddy ponds and ditches. Once, when so engaged, I saw the following: One of these minnows, little more than an inch in length, sighted an insect at the same moment that it was seen by a huge female minnow more than thrice the other’s length. The little fellow had all the advantage, however, as it was much nearer the fly, and at the proper instant away it leaped, caught the insect, and sank back—but not to the water. That hungry ogress was willing to be fed by proxy, as it were, and, permitting the little minnow to swallow the fly, she promptly swallowed both.

Tiring of the fish at last, and having long since wearied of reopening the ditch, I turned my attention to the other creatures that I had unearthed. Among them were four species of turtles, each represented by several individuals. One of these was the Muhlenberg tortoise, the rarest of American chelonians. Probably just here, over a few hundred acres of the Delaware meadows, there are more of them than in the whole world besides. The fact of their great rarity makes them the more interesting to a naturalist; but to-day they proved exceedingly stupid, far more so than the others, which in a mild way resented my interference, and pranced over the dead grass quite energetically, reaching the nearest open ditch in good time, and to my surprise they all seemed governed by a sense of direction. They went but little if any out of their way. Not so with the “Muhlenbergs”; they seemed dazed for a long time, and finally, after much looking about, they started, the four together, in the wrong direction, and would have had a weary journey to reach open water. Again and again I faced them about, but they would not go as I wished. Such obstinate turtles I had never seen before, and I almost felt convinced that they were impelled by some common impression very different from that which actuated the others. As is often the case, I was all at sea in my efforts to interpret their purposes. Letting them alone, they waddled through the grass for a few yards only, when they reached little pools that met all their needs.

About what time the summer birds have arrived, and golden-club blooms in the tide-water creeks, gilding the mud-flats that have so long been bare, the turtles, or three at least of our eight aquatic species, begin “sunning” themselves, as it is usually said, but they continue the practice through rainy and cloudy days. Every projecting stump, stranded fence-rail or bit of lumber capable of bearing any weight is sure to be the resting-place of one, and if there is room, of a dozen turtles. I once counted seventeen on a fence-rail, and thirty-nine on a raft-log that the freshets had stranded on the meadows. Why, at such a time, should these creatures be so timid? They certainly have no enemies about here, and their horny shields would effectually protect them if fishing mammals like the mink and otter should acquire aldermanic tastes; and yet, so far as I can determine by experimentation, there is scarcely an animal more timid than the painted or spotted water-turtle. Fear, with nothing to be afraid of, is a contradiction, and I am led to suggest that the timidity is hereditary. Something over two centuries ago the Delaware Indians hunted and fished these meadows without ceasing; and there can still be gathered the bones of such animals as they ate from the ashes of their camp-fires. Turtle-bones almost equal in number those of our larger fishes. Have we a clew here to the mystery? Do the turtles of to-day inherit a fear of man? This may seem an absurdity, or verging toward it, but it is not. A critic at my elbow—a plague upon their race!—reminds me that I once commented upon the tameness of the turtles at Lake Hopatcong, in northern New Jersey, and adds, aggravatingly, that that region was a favorite resort of the Indians. If this stricture holds, then I can suggest for the Delaware Valley turtles that it is a fear, born with each generation, of the railway cars that hourly rumble over an elastic road-bed, and cause the whole meadows to tremble. Terror may seize the turtles when they feel their world shake beneath them, and this disturbance they may attribute to man’s presence. This is not so rational, and I do know that turtles distinguish between men and domestic animals. They are not afraid of cows; of this I have abundant proof, although I do not accept as true the remark of Miles Overfield: “Afeard o’ cattle? Not much. Why, I’ve seen tortles line a cow’s back, when she stood flank-deep in the water.”

I had noticed that the narrow, tube-like channel of the obliterated ditch grew less defined as I dug in one direction, so I paced off a rod in advance and made a cross-section. Here it could not be traced, but a half-dozen very small openings, circular in outline, could be seen, and through some of these the water slowly trickled. I found a single mole-cricket, and attribute to it and others of its kind these little tunnels. Certainly more persistent burrowers do not exist, and I have known them to cause mischief to a mill-dam which was attributed to musk-rats. “They are,” says Prof. Riley, “the true moles of the insect world, and make tortuous galleries, destroying everything that comes in their way, cutting through roots, and eating the fine underground twigs, as well as the worms and grubs, which they meet with during their burrowings.”

A volume would not suffice to enumerate the invertebrate or insect-like life that lived in this dark passage-way beneath the sod; nor do we wonder at finding such low forms groping in utter darkness; but why higher animals that are found, and far more frequently, in the open air and sunlit waters should delight to crowd these same gloomy quarters, is a problem not so easily solved. We are left to conjecture, and invariably do so, and are often overwhelmed when an army of objections confront our theories. Notwithstanding this, there is a pleasure in reopening an obliterated ditch, in letting in the light upon a hidden highway, for by so doing we also let in light upon ourselves, seeing with clearer vision the wonderful world about us.

Weathercocks.

During a six-mile drive, recently, I passed by eleven barns, upon nine of which were weathercocks. No two, I am positive, pointed in the same direction, and only one was very near to being right. Such, at least, was the conclusion, testing them by the compass, the movement of the clouds, and the wetted fingers which my companion and myself held up. Alas! I and my friend were at odds so far as the last test was concerned. It is little wonder that weather-prophets are so apt to be at loggerheads, if the direction of the wind admits of discussion. Could the various shapes of these weathercocks have had to do with the matter, assuming that the nine we saw were in working order? If so, what is a reliable pattern? I remember a remarkable wooden Indian with one foot raised as if the fellow was hopping, and with an impossible bow so held as to indicate that an arrow was about to be discharged. This wooden man obediently twirled to and fro in every passing breeze; but you were left in a quandary as to whether the wind’s direction was indicated by the uplifted foot or by the bow and arrow; for they pointed in opposite directions. “That is the merit of the vane,” once said the owner of the barn over which this “shapeless sculpture” towered; “you can use your own judgment.” Of the weathercocks seen on our ride there were one deer, two fishes, three arrows, a wild goose, and two gilded horses at full gallop. Only the wild goose told the truth, or almost told it. Now, as each farmer judges the weather of the day by the direction of the wind, think of bringing the owners of these nine differing weathercocks together! Each puts implicit faith in his own vane, and we all know what subject is first broached when two or twenty men are gathered together. Something like this would be the classification of the unhappy nine: Two positive clear-weather folk, two hopefully ditto, and five that predicted rain before night. Put it in another way: Four men would think, if they did not call, five men fools; and, all being equally obstinate, there would be the same division whatever was discussed. So, at least, the world wags in one section of our country.

There is much more stress laid upon the direction of the wind, in this matter of the weather, than is warranted by the facts. Those deadly statistics, that are gall and wormwood to the weather-wise, prove this. Even a northeast wind may blow for three days without one drop of rain. When this happens, we hear of a “dry storm”—curious name for bright, clear days, perhaps with a cloudless sky, that, by virtue of the cool breeze, from the east, are well-nigh perfect. Or we are told that the moon held back the water and the next storm will be doubly wet. Ay! even that Jupiter or Mars had a finger in the pie and disturbed the proper order of wind and rain. It is painful to think that so many thousands still believe that not only ourselves, but even the poor weather, is under the domination of the moon and stars. How little the planets must have to do, to trouble themselves about our little globe! “I don’t like to see that star so shiny,” a wiseacre recently remarked, pointing to Venus; “it’s a bad sign”; but of what, the simpleton could not or would not tell. And as to comets, or even meteors, if they are more numerous than usual, they make hundreds miserable. The truth is, that the valuable treatises upon weather, the outcome of patient study and scientific method, still go a-begging, while the crudities of weather-cranks find ready credence. And the day is still distant, I believe, when it will be otherwise.

What can not be said of weathercocks as symbols of disappointment? To how many a country-bred boy has fallen the unhappy lot of being storm-bound when a fishing frolic has been planned! My initial grief was that an April day proved stormy that should have been clear as crystal. The time, the tide, the moon, all the essential and unessential requirements of shad-fishing in Crosswicks Creek, were favorable, and to-morrow, Saturday, I was to be one of the party. A mere onlooker, to be sure, but what mattered that? I had heard of shad-fishing all winter long, and now, being seven years old, was allowed to be one of the party. O tedious Friday! Would school never be dismissed? O endless Friday night! Had the sun forgotten to rise? And all Saturday it rained! That horrid wooden Indian, of which we have heard, fairly grinned with fiendish delight as it faced the leaden east and received the driving rain with open arms. It never moved an inch from dawn to sunset. Yes, once it moved. During a lull I slipped out-of-doors, and bribed an older lad to stone the obstinate vane. One sharp pebble mutilated the head-dress and sent the Indian spinning about, regardless of wind or weather; but when at rest again the face was looking eastward. O pestiferous weathercocks that point to the east on Saturday!

Why vanes should have been so generally shaped like a crowing chanticleer as to give rise to the more common name of “weathercocks” is not easily determined. Of a few explanations seen or heard, none had a modicum of common sense. When and where, too, the first vane was set up, whether cock or arrow, is an unsolvable problem. Possibly it is necessary to grope backward into prehistoric times; although Rütimeyer does not give the common fowl as one of the birds found in the débris beneath the ancient lake-dwellings of Switzerland. It may be added, too, that chickens are not weather prophets, as are geese and peacocks; notwithstanding they figure somewhat conspicuously in all animal weather-lore, and have done so since 250 B. C., if not earlier. Aratus, in his Diosemeia, or Prognostics, for instance, claims that a cock, when unusually restless or noisy, foretells a coming storm, and this nonsense is believed to-day by a fair proportion of our rural population. Of course, modifications of this are well-nigh innumerable, and one of them, when a small boy, I found useful. If a cock came to the open kitchen door, company was coming—such was the firm conviction of a trio of aunts who ruled the household. Now, company-coming meant pie or pudding, and to a small boy this means a great deal. Acting upon it, the crowing of a cock was faithfully practiced in the woods, and then, while my brother singled out a rooster and drove it to the door, I crowed lustily from behind the lilac-bushes; and the ruse brought pie and pudding more than once, but not too often to weaken these credulous women’s faith.

I have mentioned a dry storm with the wind due east. There was one such at the close of the first week in April, 1889. The air was exasperatingly chilly. Even the frogs in the marshes were silent, and humanity was ill-natured and despondent. While standing on the lee side of an old oak I chanced upon a glorious weathercock—one that would shame the despairing thoughts of any reasonable man. That prince of winter birds, a crested tit, sat long upon a leafless twig facing the cruel east wind, sat there and sang, clinging, as for dear life, to the swaying branch, T’sweet here! T’sweet here! the burden of its song; the ever-hopeful story of this incomparable bird. What if the east wind did blow? Was there not, here and there, a trembling violet in the woods; a filmy veil of white where the whitlow grasses bloomed; a flashing of the maple’s ruddy fire where the fitful sunshine fell? All these gave promise to the brave-hearted bird, of spring as coming, if not quite here. Let me take the hint. Give me just such a weathercock for each day of the year.

Apple-Blossoms.

During the whole of April, the old apple-trees in the lane are closely watched, and not without a deal of impatience, too. “Will they blossom freely?” is asked almost daily, and what a world of anticipation hinges upon this wondrous wealth of bloom!

To linger in the lane when the old trees are flower-laden; when the air is heavy with a honeyed scent; when the bees’ low hum fills the long, leafy arch, and every summer bird is happiest—this is an experience too valued to be lost; one that sweetens life until spring shall come again.

The trees are old. They have more than rounded a full half-century, and now bend with the weight of many winters. They are ragged rather than rugged; yet, game to the last, are again sturdily upholding to the bright sunshine of merry May mornings a marvelous wealth of bloom.

As seen from the crests of the rolling hills beyond, this double row of trees recalls a huge snow-bank, such as has often filled the lane in winter—recalls such as I have seen at sunrise, when they were tinged with a rosy light. In winter, I have often thought of the blossoming trees in May: now I recall the lifeless beauty of midwinter snows. In winter the beauty of the marble statue held me: now, the joy of a living form.

But apple-blossoms bear well a close inspection. Better than a comprehensive view from the neighboring fields is to draw near, to walk beneath and beside them, to linger in their scented shade. Time after time, until now, a shadow of doubt has crossed our paths, when we gathered early bloom. The wail of winter winds still sounded in every passing breeze, although we plucked violets from the greensward beneath budding trees. Too often, in April, we are over-confident; but there is little danger of disaster now. Apple-blossoms are the first assuring gift of fruitful summer. Grim winter is powerless now, to wound us. Tricksy April can play no heartless pranks.

What summer sound is more suggestive than the hum of bees? Certainly not even the song of the returning birds. As I look among the flower-laden boughs above me, I can see not only the bees from the hive, the true honey-gatherers, but burly humble-bees go whizzing through the rosy labyrinths, or, dipping down to a level with my upturned face, threaten fierce vengeance if I draw too near. Again and again they come, one after another, and each time, I think, a little nearer, yet never, despite their bluster, venturing to sting. To be sure, I make no threats in return, nor run away, and so my bold front may deter them, for they really seem to read our thoughts at times. Not so their cousins, the autumn wasps. They brook nothing. I remember, one October morning, throwing a stone at and bringing down an apple, upon which, as it happened, a wasp was feeding at the time. The ruffled insect came the first to the ground, and not only promptly stung me when I stooped to pick up the apple, but followed me across the lawn, into the house, and darted most viciously at my face, time after time.