Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 1 [January 1902]

At another time a pair of wrens built their nest in the sleeve of an old coat which had been left hanging in a shed and they made what, at least to them, was quite a palatial abode in that which superior man had deemed unfit for use.

Mary McCrae Culter.

THE GREENLAND WHALE

(Balaena mysticetus.)

The whale is by far the largest animal on earth, some species being many times the size of an elephant, and is it not a curious fact that in appearance it so resembles a fish that many suppose it to belong to that class, while truly it is not a fish at all? It is in reality much more like a cow or a horse, although externally it seems very unlike these animals; but appearances are not always to be relied upon.

When we examine the construction of the whale we find that it is warm-blooded, as we are. We find that it has immense lungs which hold a great quantity of air and that it must fill them or die. We find that it has bones similar to those of land animals. It has the seven neck bones found in all mammals, but it is the opposite extreme from the giraffe, as in proportion to its size it has the shortest neck of any mammal, while the giraffe has the longest. It has ribs, also bones for the forearm, and, nearly obliterated, there are found bones representing the hind legs. Instead of being hatched from an egg, as most fishes are, a baby whale comes into the world alive and complete, and for many months it takes its mother’s milk as a calf might do or a young colt. A baby whale is indeed a monstrous infant, being sometimes ten or twelve or even fifteen feet long; but by its mother’s side it does not seem such a monstrosity, for the whale mother may be forty-five or fifty feet in length herself.

These great animals are a most interesting study, for their ancestors undoubtedly once lived on land. We can imagine the land animal, many centuries ago, dwelling on the banks of some large stream, fond of spending much time in the water, until with successive generations the shape of the animal gradually changed and adapted itself to its fluid surroundings. The forearms and hands gradually became covered with continuous skin until the arm and hand became a flipper; the rear limbs grew shorter and snorter as they were used less and less, until finally there was nothing left to indicate their presence except a few small bones. The tail, used as a propeller, grew strong, large and flat, and we can imagine that the animals themselves, as they put out to sea and in time avoided even the rivers, became larger as the centuries passed by.

However this may be, the Greenland Whale has been found sixty feet in length, although some other species are smaller.

I think we can consider the whale an animal of a roving disposition. In early times it roved away from land, and now it belongs to the migratory animals, changing its locality with the seasons. The Greenland Whale is happiest with cold and ice, so when summer comes it travels north in great numbers. These great groups are called schools, and being of a social disposition, it is seldom found alone when traveling. At first thought it would seem strange that a warm-blooded animal with no fur to protect it could so enjoy the cold, but should we examine beneath the soft, velvety skin we would find a great layer of fat, from ten to eighteen inches thick. This protects the animal from cold like a great soft overcoat, and the polar sea has for it no terrors.

Of the peculiar make-up of the Greenland Whale the head is certainly the most peculiar of all the parts.

It is a great, shapeless mass about a third of the length of the entire animal. It seems to be out of all proportion until one realizes that it must provide food for this great creature, which is no small task. Like all of the whalebone whales, the Greenland Whale has no teeth, but in the mouth is found a great number of flexible, bone-like appendages attached to the roof of the mouth and palate at one end and hanging loose at the opposite end. These are known as the baleen plates and form the whalebone of commerce. In the Greenland Whale this whalebone hanging from the center of the jaw is sometimes twelve feet in length, and as there are from two hundred and fifty to four hundred in number, the great value of the baleen is readily seen. When the great animal opens its mouth, a row boat with its oarsmen could easily be taken in, yet the animal eats only small crustaceans, mollusks, worms and minute forms of life.

When the immense mouth opens, it takes in a large amount of water containing its food. The mouth then closes, but the water is permitted to flow out, the baleen acting like a sieve, retaining the food supply within and allowing the water to ooze away. The food is retained on the great tongue and swallowed at leisure.

The eye of the whale is very small; the ear is barely perceptible, yet when submerged, the sight is keen and the hearing well developed. The nostrils are placed on the top of the head, so that the whale when rising can readily begin the operation of breathing. With a snorting noise the animal first blows up the water which has entered the imperfectly closed nostrils when submerged. This is done with such force that the water is separated into fine drops and thrown fifteen or eighteen feet into the air. The whale then breathes with a rapid inspiration, making a sort of moaning sound. When the lungs are filled with air, it will plunge beneath the surface of the water and remain for perhaps twenty minutes before appearing again, although when wounded it remains under water a much longer time.

In spite of its great size the whale is so perfectly adapted to its surroundings that it is a highly active animal. It swims without apparent effort and on account of the great strength of the enormous horizontal tail fin, it can jerk itself above the water and take long leaps. The smoothness of the skin facilitates the passage of the immense bulk through the water and the thick layer of fat diminishes the weight so that a whale can move with the rapidity of a steamship.

The Greenland Whale is, on the whole, an amiable animal. It seems to prefer to live at peace with its kind, and although it can make great havoc with its immense tail fin, it seemingly does so by accident rather than from viciousness.

Like all other animals the whale has its enemies, especially when young. The killer-whale and some sharks hunt and attack the young whales, as indeed they do the older ones; but the greatest enemy of all is man. For a thousand years he has systematically pursued and captured many species, until some are nearly exterminated. The Americans became great whale hunters in the nineteenth century, and in the thirty-eight years from 1835 to 1872 nearly 20,000 ships engaged in this industry. These whaling ships were fitted especially for this work. They were built to withstand the perils of the ice-bound northern seas and were arranged for long voyages. It was a sad day in the coast villages when the whalers sailed on these long, perilous and uncertain cruises, for the ships frequently were gone three years and some never came back, though as a whole the actual loss of human life was comparatively small. A number of ships would if possible keep sufficiently near together to render assistance in case of accident.

After reaching the whaling grounds usually two men were kept on the mast as a lookout. When the cry came, “There they spout!” all became excitement. As soon as it was determined that the whales were the species which they were seeking, the boats were lowered, the harpoons, the lances, the gun, the hatchet, the knife, the blubber-spade, and, most important of all, the line, were all placed in the boat together with a keg of fresh water, some ship’s biscuit, the lantern, candles and matches; and in a very short time the men were lustily pulling toward the monster they hoped to capture. They endeavored to approach the whale from the rear and often were not discovered by the animal until the harpoons were buried in its body. The boat was then rowed backward with great speed, as the whale could easily annihilate it with one blow of its great tail. Frequently the whale would dive down perpendicularly to a great depth and if the line was not sufficiently long it would of course pull the boat after it. In time the whale was obliged to rise for air and the struggle was renewed. Other boats approached and threw their harpoons, and the whale either turned upon its tormentors or ran, dragging the boats after it. In time it became exhausted and then it was killed either with the gun, harpoon or a hand lance. It was then towed to the ship’s side, made fast with chains and placed to float head backwards. The blubber was then torn off by means of pulleys and tackle. This process lasted from four to eight hours. The upper jaw of the whalebone whale or the lower jaw of the sperm whale was then cut off and taken on deck. After all the valuable parts were taken the carcass was cast adrift. The blubber was then cut into pieces and tried out, the oil being stowed away in barrels. The value of the whale may be as high as $10,000.

The trying out of the oil is indeed a weird sight. At first, wood is used as a fuel, but afterward the residue of the blubber, called cracklings, is used, as it possesses sufficient heating power to finish the work. “Attired in their worst clothes,” writes Pechuel-Loeschke, “half-naked, dancing and singing, running after one another and brandishing their tools, dripping with oil and sooty like devils, the crew disport themselves about the hearth. An intensely active life prevails on board. The sight of this activity is doubly striking by night when a mass of the cracklings is hoisted up in an iron basket. This strange torch burns merrily, casting a weird light on the scene as the blazing flames throw glaring, fitful rays on the deck and bring out in bold relief the black clouds of smoke and the masts with their sails, the reflection extending far out over the sea. By day huge masses of smoke on the horizon betray the presence of a whaler which ‘tries out’ the blubber, long before one catches sight of the ship itself.”

John Ainslie.Through the silent watches of the nightThe snowflakes fast and faster fall;And with swift and magic deftness,Spread a spotless mantle over all.Behold the landscape clothed in white,Decked with crystals’ shining light;See the towering fir trees bending low,With their load of sparkling snow.– Berton Mercer, “Winter.”

THE THISTLE

As plants were among the objects most familiar to primitive man, they naturally came to be considered good or evil, according as their properties were found to be beneficial or injurious. The imaginative and pure reverence, however, which originally linked plant life with the personifications of natural phenomena, soon degenerated into a superstitious worship and became associated with the mummery of various kinds of impostors. The plants, through the manipulations of the quacks and witches, who largely composed the fraternity of the early herbalists, became endowed with powers to kill or heal, to control the weather, to gain or hold friends, and many other associations that have clung to them ever since. The Thistle appears to have been especially favored in this regard. It appears that an eagle had stolen the sacred Soma from the Hindu tree of life. Barely had he departed with the immortalizing draught before he was overtaken by a lightning bolt and stretched lifeless upon the earth. From the eagle’s feathers sprang up the bramble, while the Thistle grew from his claws. About this time Loki, the evil spirit of the Norse Asgard, passed that way, bent upon mischief. The unpleasant qualities of the two plants at once appealed to him. Loki immediately gathered the seed and proceeded to sow them in the fields of his enemies, the result being that all the good seed was killed. This Aryan myth has given rise to the expression, “Sowing wild oats,” and is believed to be the origin of the biblical story of the tares and the wheat, coming into Hebrew literature by means of the Indo-Iranians at the time of the Israelitish exile.

Now, Thor observed what Loki had done; so he hurled his hammer at the brambles and a bolt of lightning at the Thistles. For this reason the thistle blossoms are colored red and the plants became lightning plants. But the end was not yet. The beautiful goddess Freya, seeing the Thistles drooping under the chastisement of the god, took compassion and gave them to drink of the mead from the sacred goat of Valhalla, by virtue of which the plants became invested with immortality. Thus it came to pass that the Thistle has a dual life. It is a lightning plant, in which, in common with similar forms, like the vervain, the hazel, and the ash is never injured by lightning or approached by serpents. On the other hand, it being a protege of Freya, the goddess of Love, it straightway became a powerful love charm, and doubtless has done much execution in Cupid’s lists.

The Thistle group is the most primitive of the Composite family, and it bears evidence of a vast evolutionary history. There are one hundred and seventy-five living species which are distributed over Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America. The plants seem able to adapt themselves to almost any conditions, and their unpleasant spines are found bidding defiance to the reindeer near the Arctic circle, as well as successfully measuring strength with the prickly cactus and acacias of the tropics. On our own prairies only plants thus armed stand much show to survive the herds of cattle that wander over them, and this protection, together with their great productiveness, have rendered Thistles such a nuisance and menace to agricultural interests as to necessitate legislative action looking to their extermination. The Russian and Canada thistles are the worst offenders, and where they once obtain a foothold they, as a rule, remain. The unpleasant qualities of the Thistle, however, served to bring about its adoption as the national emblem of Scotland. The story relates that during the eighth century the invading Danes, while stealing up to the Scotch camp under cover of darkness, passed over a patch of cotton thistle, and the sudden cries of the injured men warned the guards, and thus the army was saved. Achaius, King of Scotland, adopted the plant as his emblem in recognition of this service, but it was not made a part of the national arms until the middle of the fifteenth century.

The origin of the Scottish order of the Thistle, or St. Andrew, is somewhat uncertain. In 1687 it was restored to favor by James II of England and was given much prominence during the reign of Queen Anne. The membership was limited to from twelve to sixteen peers of the realm, the insignia being a golden collar composed of sixteen thistles, from which hung a St. Andrew’s cross.

What is known as the purple star thistle was named for Chiron the Centaur. The great spines on the calyx suggested the military caltrop, an iron star of four points, which was used in battle to annoy horses.

Among other incidents in which Thistles have been in evidence may be mentioned the confusion into which the army of Charles the Bold was thrown, in 1465, because of the deceptive appearance of the plants. The Burgundians were beseiging Paris, and while the army slept scouts brought word that great numbers of spears were assembled outside the city walls. A panic was narrowly averted, and later it was discovered that the stems and spines of some very tall Thistles had produced the deception. The leaves of the Thistles were commonly employed by the Roman soldiers to shade their helmets, and it is stated that when Hugh Spencer, favorite of Edward II, was hanged, the mob, in derision, placed a crown of thistle spines upon his head.

Thistles seem to have figured in peace as well as war. In England the teasel is indispensable in the cloth mills, in which it is employed to dress the nap of the fabrics, and Virgil tells of the vest of Helen, which was embroidered to represent the plants, while the handles of the Cup of Eurymedon were entwined with them. Probably the crowning glory of the Thistle, if the story be true, lies in its contribution to architecture, in which capacity it deserves no less consideration than the Egyptian lotus. It appears from the narrative that a young girl of Corinth dying, her nurse placed on her grave a basket containing her toys, covering them with a large tile in order to shield the childish treasures from the weather. The basket was set by chance on the root of a Thistle. When the springtime came the plant grew until, meeting the tile, it was forced to turn downwards in graceful folds, which, catching the eye of Callimachus, he conceived the capital of the Corinthian columns.

Charles S. Raddin.The smallest effort is not lost;Each wavelet on the ocean toss’dAids in the ebb-tide of the flow;Each rain drop makes some flow’ret blowEach struggle lessens human woe.– Charles MacKay in the Chicago Record-Herald.

WITH SILVER CHAINS AND GAY ATTIRE

After the cold, repeated rains,The crusted branches rub the panes,And ere the dawn the pelting hailAdds fury to the roaring gale.So wears the night – the morrow’s sunProclaims the winter tempest done.And what a morn! A crystal domeEach rounded hill about our home!More radiant is the sight, I ween,Than e’er before has mortal seen.Betwixt their glassy walls on highThe mountain corridors we spy,And lo! all chandeliered are they,Like costly palace of a day!From limb to limb with whitest wreathsThe trees are festooned. All the heathsWith sun-tipped, icy spikes are bright;And frost-stars glitter in the light.With untold wealth the earth is strewn,Each bush bears jewels, dimmed too soon.Each stalk is cased in crystal mail,Gem rivals gem in every vale;No gaudier crown has sunflower’s head,With dew and fragrance round it shed.Rich vitreous tubes each breeze shakes down,What shafts and columns gird our town!Fretwork and tinsel fairy fair,Wondrous stalactites everywhere.And so the emulation growsTill Sol dissolves the wafted snows.– George Bancroft Griffith.

THE BIRDS IN THEIR WINTER HOME

(In the Woods.)

From the region of the Great Lakes to the Gulf there is no section that contains more to interest the naturalist than the hills and forests of central Mississippi. Here no winter’s rigors chill the blood and drive the forest folk to remote or inaccessible retreats. Into this land of warmth and sunshine, this land of the ’possum, persimmon and the pickaninny, Jack Frost does not come till November is well advanced. Even then he comes only to clear the air, bring down the leaves, and announce the coming of the short, make-believe winter.

Go out doors in December after the leaves have fallen and take note of the varied life in wood, field and brake; think that now in the far away North the wind howls through the leafless trees, finding few creatures hardy enough to resist his blasts save the snowbird and the hare. The blasts of chill November and chillier December have sent myriads of birds down here where food is plenty in savannah, forest and thicket. On the wooded knolls under the beeches and hollies congregate the hungry hordes, feasting on seeds and berries of the rattan, holly and smilax. Flying in and out of the briar-thickets are innumerable white-throated sparrows fleeing from frozen Canada and the lake country. A clear long-drawn whistle strikes the ear. We seek the source. A little brown bird much the size and shape of an English sparrow seated on a shrub projecting from the briars raises his head and whistles a sound as pure and free from flaw as the little spot of white upon his throat. Cheewinks as fussy as old hens toss the dead leaves about; grackles in shining black stalk dignifiedly about; while cardinals in low boughs and underbrush give a touch of vivid color to the scene just as the pink and white dresses of the girls form a pleasing contrast to the somber blacks and grays of the gentlemen’s attire at a Fourth of July celebration.

Second to none in delicate beauty of coloring, king of his tribe, is the fox-sparrow. Russet and rufous on the back, beneath the white marked with brilliant stripings of the same color as the back, on the feathers of his head and upper neck a clear pearly luster which is iridescent in the sunshine but invisible in the shadow, he is a marked bird, the peer of any in the woods. Happy the bird-lover who has the opportunity to study this magnificent bird in his winter home; one so favored can well afford a feeling of pity for the less fortunate dwellers in the central states who seldom make his acquaintance except through the medium of the museum or the manual.

Florida blue jays in black, white and blue hop about among the rustling leaves or seated on a limb, hammer away at an acorn. Possessing a more extensive vocabulary than our familiar Northern jays, more loquacious, more sociable, they are certainly the artists of the tribe. No one who has ever heard their clear musical notes as they play in the tree-tops or hop about on the lawns as friendly and cheerful as robins, can ever entertain quite such a low opinion of their musical ability as he did before. Resonant, ringing tinkling, this call is the forest chime that summons the little children of the wood to vespers, heard at evening with white throats calling to one another from brush-heaps and briar thicket, it is the expression of this strong pure life away from the haunts of men. Under such surroundings it is easy to forget the cruelty practiced by our gifted blue-coat when spring has filled these woods and fields with nests and nestlings.

But here comes one for whom no cloak of charity is needed, the musician pre-eminent among all this gifted throng, the Carolina wren. A slender curved beak, a trim bunch of cinnamon-brown feathers barred with darker brown on wings and tail, a buff breast, a little throat pulsating with vigorous buoyant life are the most conspicuous characteristics of this chorister of winter woods. He has been called the mocking wren. Let no one be deluded by such a term into the belief that he has no individuality, for, although his song has in it the whistle of the cardinal, the dignified song of the brown thrasher and the effervescence of the mockingbird, through it all there runs a peculiar quality all his own. Swinging on a rattan vine, singing with all the abandon of a bright May morning he seems the most vigorous exponent of “the strenuous life” in this land where languorous breezes blow soft and warm, bringing with them a suggestion of the sun-kissed waters of the Gulf and odors of resin and turpentine from the interminable forests that intervene between us and the coast.

Down by the branches on cold frosty mornings you will find a little brown ball of a bird, that with tail tilted up over his back dives under every bridge, slides into every brush-heap, or hides tantalizingly behind every log that comes in his path. Not shy, yet not bold, he disappears from view at the most exasperating moments. Coming with the frosts, going away when they cease, he certainly deserves the name of winter wren. Shorter than the Carolina, darker on the back and tail, his nervous, fidgety manner makes it an easy matter to distinguish him from his more talented cousin. In these winter woods he never sings. Beyond an occasional metallic “chip” now and then I have never heard him give utterance to the emotions that fill his plump little breast. He is the silent observer of the busy life about him, a sitter in his own chimney corner, where he smokes his pipe and studies life subjectively, a modest little philosopher in cinnamon brown and black.

Darting in and out among the lower branches of a giant beech, now flitting to a new position with movements as sudden and unexpected as those of a hummingbird, now running along a limb like the brown creeper, comes another tiny friend the ruby crowned kinglet. A plain little Quaker he seems in his suit of olive green without a patch of yellow or black to relieve the severe simplicity of his garb. Even the tufts of brilliant red feathers on his head is concealed from vulgar gaze. If you have sharp eyes and a moderate degree of patience your efforts to get a glimpse of the red tuft will by and by be crowned with success, but don’t be disappointed if you don’t see the ruby the first time you see the bird. I had observed the cheerful little chap time after time in my morning rambles in the woods, and had come to know every twist and motion of the tiny body before I caught a glimpse of the longed-for tuft. Finally one morning as he bent his head to pick up some sweet tid-bit the olive-green feathers parted and I saw his tiny crown. A modest genial little anarchist he is, never parading his opinions before an admiring public, but suddenly springing down in front of us on some low bush he flaunts his red flag and is gone before we realize it. Having once learned how and when to look for his crown it is an easy matter to find it again whenever his little majesty feels inclined to give you the opportunity.