Birds and all Nature Vol VII, No. 3, March 1900

WINGS

Wings that flutter in sunny air;Wings that dive and dip and dare;Wings of the humming-bird flashing by;Wings of the lark in the purple sky;Wings of the eagle aloft, aloof;Wings of the pigeon upon the roof;Wings of the storm-bird, swift and free,With wild winds sweeping across the sea —Often and often a voice in me sings —Oh for the freedom, the freedom of wings!– Mary F. Butts.

I KNOW NOT WHY

I lift mine eyes against the sky,The clouds are weeping – so am I;I lift mine eyes again on high,The sun is smiling – so am I.Why do I smile? Why do I weep?I do not know, it lies so deep.I hear the winds of autumn sigh.They break my heart, they make me cry.I hear the birds of lovely spring,My hopes revive, I help them sing.Why do I sing? Why do I cry?It lies so deep I know not why.– Morris Rosenfeld.

THE BRAVE BOAR

ELLA F. MOSBY"Upstairs, downstairs,And in my lady's chamber,"

THE French chronicles of the reign of Francis I. tell the following wonderful story of a boar hunt: "'Twas in a grand forest that stretched for miles around a castle – an old-fashioned castle of ramparts and towers, of wide halls and winding stairways.

Oliver, the twelve-year old son of the master of the castle, had set his heart on going with his father to hunt the wild boar with the gentlemen of the neighborhood. The forest was the home of a great many wild creatures, great and small. Squirrels and hares lived there; wide-antlered stags and timid does with their young fawns beside them, foxes, boars that feasted on the black acorns and chestnuts that covered the ground, and fierce gray wolves, seen chiefly in winter. The boars were the fiercest of all, even the sows would fight for their young ones, and there was one old boar who was by this time quite famous for his courage, his cunning and his great age. He was called Pique-Mort, which means death-thrust, because he had in his savage onslaughts fatally wounded so many men, horses and dogs.

"Oliver's father had ordered the great hunt against this very old warrior, who, by the way, had grown so shrewd that he could not always be roused from his secret lair even by the beaters and prickers who went ahead of the hunters. But he surely would appear to-day. The forest was ringing with horns and bugles, the neighing of horses, the baying of noble hounds, the hallooing and joyous clamor of the sportsmen.

"Oliver was well prepared for the occasion. Old Bertrand had taught him all the calls and recalls on bugle and horn, had trained him to thrust with the long boar-spear, and to use the short, thick sword kept for the last when the brute was near, and the big boar-hounds Vite-Vite, and the others, turned and obeyed his voice when it rang out in its clear, boyish treble. Most important of all, his mother had consented to his going.

"But alas, and alas! when the morning dawned fair and sweet, poor Oliver was racked with grievous pain and burning with fever! The chase swept away with shout and cry and bugle-blast, and Oliver barely heeded it or turned his head when his father called back: 'We'll bring old Pique-Mort home with us.' However, by the afternoon the fever had slackened, and the pain abated, and Oliver lay white and weak on his couch, and with piteous tears on his cheeks over the mischance that had held him fast at home. He turned his face to the wall in a burst of passionate grief as they heard, at first far off, and then nearer and nearer, the excited yelps of the dogs, then the trampling of horses, the hoarse cries of the men, and oh, the bugle! – note of 'La Mort!' which meant victory over the famous boar!

"'Oliver,' said his mother tenderly, – and then all at once came a sound at which both started, and threw their arms about each other. In the hall below, up the stairs, came a heavy creature, panting, snorting, and the furious Pique-Mort suddenly burst upon their amazed vision! Sinister and savage did he look, the little, round greedy eyes red with rage, the bristles standing up like a cuirass, the sharp and cruel tusks ready for assault, and foam and blood churned at their base into a streaked froth by his heat and anger. He was within the chamber. Oliver's arm dropped nerveless at his side, and his frightened eyes sought vainly for any weapon.

"The mother had a quicker wit, and stooping down, she seized with both arms a large Eastern rug, and threw it over the beast's head, blinding him for the while, as well as blunting the thrust of the terrible tusks. As he struggled desperately in its smothering and heavy folds, the whole following – dogs, men and the master at their head, were up the stairs also, and the death-stroke was quickly given. It was the end of the veteran of so many chases in morass and thicket – Pique-Mort was dead.

"After a moment's half-stupefied stare, the lord of the castle broke forth:

"'Well, my boy, you were at the finish after all.' The dogs could not be held off their old foe, and the brave boar was furious at their baiting, and so broke away. My lady, you have the glory, and Oliver his wish.'

"Old Bertrand stroked his grizzled beard.

"''Twas a gallant brute,' he said. 'Had he been a man they would have styled him hero. He had a high courage and loved freedom well.'"

We have grown since those rough days into more compassion for animals, but even yet we are not altogether just to their side of the question, to the recognition of their right to life and its joys as their merciful Creator has given it to them.

GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE TEACHER

JESSIE P. WHITAKER

IN the summer of 1897, wandering in the woods of Pigeon Cove, on the outer point of Cape Ann, the prolonged call of a bird often came to my ears, which aroused my curiosity. I was not then much acquainted with birds, but was beginning to "take notice" and usually carried my field glass on my walks, and if I saw or heard a bird unfamiliar to me, tried to look him up in my books. I had with me "Our Common Birds and How to Know Them," by John B. Grant; also Florence Merriam's "Birds Through an Opera Glass" – very good books to aid beginners in identifying birds. The call of which I speak was so marked and so often repeated that I eagerly searched for the bird, but could not get a glimpse of him, nor even locate the sound accurately.

I soon perceived, however, that it was a regular chant, increasing in an even crescendo, vibrating through the woods. I remembered reading descriptions of such a call in the books, and soon found my bird to be the oven-bird, golden-crowned thrush, or teacher bird.

But why "teacher" bird?

I was constantly asking this question, for to my ears the sound always came as ti-chee, ti-chee, ti-chee, with accent always on the final syllable. By no exercise of the imagination could I make it sound like "teacher." Never during that summer nor during the two succeeding summers have I heard these birds at Pigeon Cove say "teacher."

The little brown walker kept out of my sight very persistently during that first summer, but in September, walking in the woods near Star Lake in the Adirondacks, I had a good, near view of two little olive-green birds walking on some low branches. Their white speckled breasts proclaimed them thrushes, while the beautiful crown of brownish orange inclosed in lines of black, plainly marked them the "golden-crowned." Often as I have seen the bird since, his golden crown has never appeared as conspicuous as it did on that September day by the mountain lake. But I had to go to Skaneateles Lake in central New York to hear him say "teacher." On a May morning in in 1899, sitting on a mountain side overlooking this beautiful sheet of water, the chant of a bird came vibrating through the woods to my ears, teach-ah, teach-ah, teach-ah, teach-ah, teach-ah very distinctly.

Accent clearly on the first syllable this time.

Ah! Mr. Burroughs, at last I have found your little "teacher."

Will anyone tell me why this bird with olive back and speckled, thrush-like breast, is placed in the family Mniotiltidæ, or wood warblers, instead of with the Turdidæ, or thrushes? And why is the "water thrush" also classed with wood warblers, when his olive back and speckled breast make him seem almost a twin brother to the oven bird, while both are so unlike other members of the warbler family, and so much resemble the true thrushes? It was at Glen Haven, beside a mountain brook tumbling down into Skaneateles Lake that I had my first and only view of a water thrush.

His clear song, repeatedly ringing out above the noisy music of the brook, kept luring me onward and upward over the rough banks, till at length I saw the little walker peering about among the stones for his food. Another bird closely resembling the thrushes and bearing the name, yet placed in another family, is the brown thrasher, or thrush. I look in my book for his classification. Family Troglodytidæ! I can scarcely believe my eyes! Can any one give me any earthly reason why the ornithologists in their wisdom have seen fit to place this bird, with his reddish brown back, speckled breast and beautiful thrush-like song, in the same family with catbirds and wrens? Truly the mysteries of ornithology are past my comprehension.

To return to our "teacher." My acquaintance with him has not yet advanced to the stage of finding him "at home" in his dwelling. As Neltje Blanchan says, "it is only by a happy accident" that one might "discover the little ball of earth raised above the ground, but concealed by leaves and twigs and resembling a Dutch oven, which gives the bird its name of oven-bird." Last summer at Pigeon Cove the warning cries of a mother-bird led me to suspect a nest, but I failed to find it. The brood had evidently left their home, for a sudden loud outcry from the mother-bird startled me as the little thrushes scurried out of the path from almost under my feet, while Madame Thrush fluttered about with a pretense of a broken wing to distract my attention. Her "trailing" was quite effective, for by the time I had turned my attention from her performance to the babies, they were quite out of sight.

THE MUSKRAT

(Fiber Zibethicus.)

THAT part of North America which is included between the thirtieth and sixtieth parallels of north latitude is the home of this species of muskrat, which is the most numerous of the family. It is most plentiful in Alaska and Canada, which are so rich in lakes and rivers. It is described as a large water mole, with a long tail, broad hind paws, a blunt snout, and short, hair-covered ears, which may be closed to exclude water. The fur is close, smooth, soft, and lustrous, the woolly under fur being extremely delicate, fine, and short; the outer coat has a strong luster, and is double the length of the former. Adult males attain a total length of twenty-three inches, the tail occupying about half of this. Grassy banks of large lakes or wide, slowly flowing streams and swamps are its favorite haunts, though it is frequently seen about large ponds, grown with reeds and aquatic plants, where it erects a permanent home and dwells either in small colonies or communities of considerable numbers. The mode of life of a muskrat is in many respects like that of the beaver, for which reason the Indians call the two animals brothers, and affirm that the beaver is the older and more intelligent of the two. The burrows of the muskrat consist of plain underground chambers, with several tunnels, all terminating under water, or of strongholds above ground. These are of a round or dome shape, stand on a heap of mud, and rise above the surface of the water. They are lined with reeds, reed grass, and sedge, cemented with mud; the interior of the "lodge" contains a single chamber from sixteen to twenty-four inches in diameter. A tunnel which opens beneath the water leads to it. In winter it lines its chambers softly with water lilies, leaves, grasses, and reeds, providing for ventilation by loosely covering the center of the dome-shaped roof with plants, which admit a sufficient quantity of fresh air and let the vitiated air out. As long as the pond or swamp does not freeze to the very bottom it is said to lead a highly comfortable existence in its warm habitation, which is often protected by a covering of snow. Some observers say that the food of the muskrat consists almost wholly of aquatic plants, but Audubon saw captive muskrats which were very fond of mussels. They are very lively, playful creatures when in the water. On a calm night many of them may be seen in a mill-pond or some other sequestered pool, "disporting themselves, crossing and recrossing in every direction, leaving long, glittering ripples in their wake as they swim, while others stand for a few moments on little tufts of grass, stones, or logs, from which they can reach their food floating on the water; others sit on the banks of the pond and then plunge one after the other into water like frogs."

From three to six young are born in a burrow. If caught young they are easily tamed, and are of an equable and gentle disposition. Although some people dislike the fur on account of the odor of musk which clings to it for a long time, it is often used for trimming clothing or in the manufacture of collars and cuffs, especially in America and China. The best pelts are deprived of the long outer fur, dyed a dark brown color and used as a trimming which resembles sealskin. The animal is caught in traps baited with apples. The Indians know exactly which "lodges" are inhabited; they only eat the flesh, as the odor does not seem to be disagreeable to them.

"NOT A SPARROW FALLETH."

GRANVILLE OSBORNE

NO traveler in Palestine, the land of sacred memories, will need an introduction to the sparrows. They are as tame, troublesome, vivacious, and impertinent, as their numerous progeny across the seas. They chirp and twitter, asserting their rights of possession in places where they are not welcome, industriously building their nests in every available nook and corner, and defending them fearlessly against every feathered encroacher. They stop up the stove-pipes and water-gutters with their rubbish, build nests in the windows, and under the eaves of the roofs, and have not the least reverence for any place or thing. You see them perching on the loftiest spires of the Holy City, flitting in and out of minaret and tower, wherever an opening invites them to a place of security and shelter for rearing their young. They nest in great numbers in the bushes on the banks of the River Jordan, and band together in defending their nests against the rooks and crows that infest the cane-brakes north of Lake Hulah. They live on terms of great amity and friendliness with the beautiful "wŭr-war" or bee-eater, which burrows in the soft earth-banks near the out-go of the Jordan, from the Lake of Galilee. The nests of sparrow and "wŭr-war" are so numerous and easy to reach that one might easily gather a peck of their tiny eggs, and unfledged nestlings, with mother-bird and all, could they be of use. But the Mosaic Law has a precept especially intended to protect the "birds of the air." In one portion of the inspired text he writes: "If a bird's nest chances to be before thee in the way, in any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones or eggs, and the dam sitting upon the young, or upon the eggs, thou shalt not molest the dam with the young, that it may be well with thee, and that thou mayest prolong thy days." You will notice how clear is the precept by which we are forbidden to molest these nests. We must not, the biblical law says, and to the obedient is the promised blessing of prosperity and long life, with contrary calamities clearly implied to those who transgress. In its meaning this precept includes all birds, and was intended, like many other prohibitory commands, to cultivate sentiments of humanity and habits of gentleness. And so it is that in Bible lands the sparrow is more numerous, and less liable to destruction, than in our own streets, fields and parks, where every bird of this species is an object of contempt, and often lured to its death, with countless thousands of victims, unsuspecting and easily taken like himself.

They flit over the "field of the Shepherds," and build nests in the "cave of the Nativity." They cover the fields of wild oats by thousands, and chirp and twitter on the hillside where "Ruth went down to glean." A colony will be found in every old tree on the Mount of Olives, and even in the "garden of Gethsemane," they nest in perfect security above the heads of the black-robed attendants, who are on terms of great familiarity with them. The first reference to the sparrow in the Bible is an allusion to this habit of the fearless bird in building its nest in the most sacred places. It recalls the sad and pathetic period in David's life, when he fled from Jerusalem pursued by the army of his son Absalom, "who sought his throne and life." Afar from Jerusalem, and the temple courts, where he led the people in their devotions, his heart longed for the peace and holy calm, to be found only within their sacred enclosures, and he says: "A day in thy courts is better than a thousand." "My soul longeth for thy courts." "The sparrow hath found a nest for herself where she may lay her young, even thine altars." Thus he, the great King David, wished for the rest and peace enjoyed by the humble birds which he had observed so often, ministering to their young about the holy altar itself. Again, when Absalom falls in battle, and word is brought David, in the sadness of his lament, "O, Absalom, my son, my son!" He compares himself to the tiny, despised bird, saying: "I watch and am as a sparrow, alone upon the housetop." He had, no doubt, often seen the sparrow, when one had lost its mate, sitting on the housetop alone, and lamenting hour after hour its sad bereavement. So again the sparrow is honored above its fellows, and its affectionate devotion immortalized. But a "Greater than David," has drawn from this humblest one of the feathered tribe, a lesson of trust which has touched tenderly, in all ages since, the heart of every seeker after truth. "Not a sparrow falleth" is a sentence that comes very close to the human heart. "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Father. Not one of them is forgotten of Him. Fear not, therefore. Ye are of more value than many sparrows."

"Not a sparrow falleth,"How sweet the words and true"Without your Father's notice,"Who careth still for you;O tiny bird, so trustful,Teach me such trust as thine,That so the wondrous lessonI may possess as mine.

THE TREATING OF WHITEY

BERTHA SEAVEY SAUNIER

HIS coat was thin – so thin that his skin showed through in patches. And the skin was thin – so thin that the bones almost pricked through in a mute appeal to the public.

He walked the streets until his four little feet dragged with weariness and he often sat down upon his haunches to rest.

When he stopped people noticed him and many turned as they went past, watching him – he was so pitiable a sight.

"Mangy dog," somebody said, but he was more than that. He was lost and he was starving. He was so needy that he had forsaken his alley haunts and had come up to the boulevards where was greater prosperity, sunshine, cleanliness, and perhaps love toward man and beast.

In his walks he chanced near the lake and paced the viaduct that leads out upon the pier. He even went on the pier and looked down into the dark water as many despairing men and women have looked. It seemed easy to fall in, but he turned back and walked away. He had learned that if he kept moving the police and guards did not poke at him with their clubs.

In crossing Michigan avenue he had to watch his chances, for the rubber tires of the carriages made no warning sound on the asphalt. And then he came to Wabash – the noise of the elevated and surface trains, and of the trucks and drays was so confusing that he had need of more care than ever. At length he reached State street and sat down to rest.

Lizzie and Mattie were there before him. They, too, were acquainted with alley ways, though they were not personally acquainted with Whitey. Evidently they had found nourishment there that Whitey had missed, for Lizzie was decidedly fat and Mattie was fairly presentable.

Lizzie wore a faded worsted skirt poorly joined to a cotton shirt-waist with a green silk belt. Her short, fair hair was curled and tied with a green ribbon and her airy straw hat was bright with flowers. Other little girls of better fortunes had worn the things and had extracted their freshness and much of their beauty. But Lizzie felt quite dressed up beside her friend who wore only a simple calico gown and plain straw hat. She led Mattie from window to window, pointing out precious articles and rare jewels, quite as if she had purse connections with them.

The girls glanced at Whitey as he passed.

"Poor little dog!" Mattie said.

"Yes," returned Lizzie, "I should think the policeman would shoot him."

"Why?" queried Mattie in surprise.

"Oh, he's so bad off."

Whitey was moving slowly. He was rested and he thought to go on.

Somebody in a confectionery store noticed the girls.

"Mamma, I do believe that's my old belt that I threw in the rags one day, for there's the cross I made on it at school with ink."

"Nonsense," said the lady.

"And, oh, mamma, look at the poor dog!"

Of all the people who were passing four at least were interested in Whitey. Alley and avenue – but the alley folks first forgot him. They went back to their diamonds.

Whitey's troubles had made him meek and humble. He did not at this time expect anything and he was out of hopes and plans. He did not observe any whisperings at the portals of the big store nor see the wonder on the face of the porter. What he did see presently was a round pasteboard box that the porter set down under his very nose. It was torn a little at one side and what was in the box began to melt and run down to the pavement.

Whitey moved his ears a little at the sight. It actually looked eatable. He doubted if it was, but he put out his tongue and touched it.

When Lizzie and Mattie turned again they stood amazed. People were looking amused as they passed and many a heart was made glad and light. One could read it in their faces. An unusual kindness is a love-flash that makes life sweeter to all who get it in their eyes.

"I'll bet there's a quart there," said Mattie.

"No, there ain't nuther. I guess a sick dog couldn't eat a hull quart of ice cream – it's jest a pint."

"Look how he licks it up. My! I'll bet it's good!"

"He's a gulpin' to beat the band," returned Lizzie.

"He never hed it before, I'll bet."

"Or you nuther, Mattie Black."

"You can't talk much," answered Mattie.

By this time Whitey had cleared up his spread pretty thoroughly. Not a drop lingered in the circle at the bottom of the box and the pavement was dry.

Whitey walked over to the side of the building and lay down in the sun. He put his nose between his paws. His body was as thin and forlorn as ever, but away at the tip of his pink, shabby tail was a little, short-lived wag. It was the language of gratitude and hope. It had been absent for days – ever since he was lost. The little girl who had caused it was riding home in her carriage, but the alley folks took note of it and they were appeased. They no longer envied the dog.

As for Whitey, the rich cream worked its work. As he lay in the sun he felt new hopes and plans revive. Of a sudden he remembered a bakery where he had chanced to get some plate scrapings. He would go again. And go he did. His body and his hopes were alike nourished with his recent treat. Whitey actually walked over to the bakery alley with a decided and prolonged wag to his tail. The ice cream had placed it there. It really made the turning point for better times for Whitey.

THE POPPY

(Papaver somniferum L.)DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER,Northwestern University School of PharmacySleep hath forsook and given me o'erTo death's benumbing opium as my only cure.– Milton, S. A. l. 630.

THE opium-yielding plant or poppy is an herb about three feet in height; stem of a pale green color covered with a bloom. Branches are spreading, with large, simple, lobed or incised leaves. The flowers are solitary, few in number, quite large and showy. The four large petals are white or a pale pink color in the wild-growing plants. The fruit is a large capsule, one to three inches in diameter, of a depressed globular form. The seeds are small and very numerous, filling the compartments of the capsule. In spite of the general attractiveness of the plant, the size of the flowers and the delicate coloring of its petals, it is not a favorite at close range because of a heavy, nauseating odor which emanates from all parts of the plant, the flowers in particular. The petals furthermore have only a very temporary existence, dropping off at the slightest touch.