Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 3 [March 1902]

For some reason the Merino sheep has not found favor in the British isles, but we find there many other well known round-tailed varieties.

The Shetland and Orkney breeds have in their fleece soft, fine wool, largely intermixed with hair. They are of small size and horns may be found on both sexes, although they may be lacking in the ewes.

The soft-wooled sheep of Scotland are a breed nearly extinct; they have short horns, lank bodies and short wool.

In Wales we find two races of small size; one lives in the higher mountains, is dark in color, has much hair mixed with soft wool, and horns are found on both sexes. The other race is without horns and is covered with a soft wool. Both varieties are hardy and are noted for their fine flesh.

The Irish Wicklow sheep were originally very similar to the Welsh variety. Among other Irish breeds the Kerry is best known. It is wild in disposition, larger than the Welsh sheep, with the horns frequently absent in the ewes.

The hardiest and boldest of all the British races are the black-faced Heath breed; these have dark colored limbs and faces and coarse and shaggy fleeces.

The Cheviot breed are hornless, with white limbs and faces; they are heavier than the Heath breed, but have less endurance.

The old Norfolk breed of the east of England are strong and active, with horns, which are thick and spiral in the rams; the body and limbs are long, the face and legs black, and the silky wool is of medium length.

The Dartmoor and Exmoor sheep are “the breeds of the older forests, commons and chases.” They are of small size, may or may not have horns, have dark or gray faces and have wool of medium length.

The well known Southdowns have no horns; they have dark brown faces, ears and limbs; the head is always comparatively small, the lower jaws are thin and fine and the space between the ears is well covered with wool.

The Dorset and pink-nosed Somerset breed are in the southwest of England. They are known by their long white limbs and their white faces; the muzzle is sometimes flesh-colored and the wool is of medium length.

Then there are the various long-wooled sheep of which the new Leicester breed is considered first in respect to form and ability to fatten readily. Other long-wooled sheep are the Lincolnshire, the Romney Marsh, the Cotswold, the Devonshire, the Notts and the long-wooled Irish breeds.

There are other breeds less well known and less important, but the breeds of the British isles are by no means confined to that locality. They have been taken to the United States and to other countries. In fact, some variety of domestic sheep can be found in every land, and no animal is more useful to its owner.

In spite of the various breeds, the characteristics of all domestic sheep are similar. They have not the courage and independence of their cousins, the wild sheep of the mountains. These delight to roam to the highest altitudes, some species being found as high as 22,000 feet above the level of the sea. No other animal save the musk ox and the mountain goat can exist at this height. Doubtless the domestic sheep would thrive better if it could escape the low levels and the plains, for, like the wild sheep, it is a mountain-loving creature. It has adapted itself to the lower altitude, but at a great loss of its original characteristics. It has to an extreme extent become a dependent animal, unable to care for itself, totally lacking in courage and resources, very easily frightened and without marked character. An entire flock is easily startled by any unusual noise; thunder and lightning completely unsettles them, and human efforts to quiet them often prove unavailing.

Brehm tells us that “on the steppes of Russia and Asia the shepherds often have the most arduous tasks in preserving their charges. During a snowstorm or thunderstorm the panicstricken flocks disperse in a wild stampede, rushing out into the wastes of the steppe like senseless creatures, and then resignedly suffer themselves to be snowed under or to freeze without making any attempt to shelter themselves from the storm or even to seek for food.” In Russia a goat is generally used as a leader for a flock of sheep, but even a goat is not always able to keep the stupid animals under proper guidance. During a thunderstorm they huddle together and cannot be made to move. “If lightning strikes into the flock,” says Lenz, “many are killed at once; if fire breaks out in the sheepfold the sheep do not run out, but, on the contrary, sometimes rush into the fire.” The best manner of rescuing sheep from a burning fold or structure is to let the sheep dog to which they are accustomed, drive them out.

To a certain degree, however, the sheep exhibits mental capacity. It learns to know its keeper, obeys his call and displays a certain amount of affection and docility towards him. It seems to have a liking for music, or at least it patiently and passively listens to the bagpipe playing of the shepherd, and it has evidently some premonition of impending changes in the weather.

Sheep thrive best on a diet of various dried plants. The botanist Linnæus states that they “feed on three hundred and twenty-seven of the common Central European plants, avoiding one hundred and forty-one. Ranunculus, cypress spurge, meadow-saffron, shave-grass, wild cabbage or skunk cabbage and rushes are poison to it. It is fond of salt and fresh drinking water is necessary to its well being.”

The mother usually gives birth to but one lamb, although occasionally there are more. The little creature must first have human care, but later they are permitted to follow their mother, which shows great affection for her offspring.

A sheep may live to be fourteen years of age, though at nine or ten years it will lose most of its teeth and cannot maintain itself by grazing.

John Ainslie.

THE BEAUTY OF A STORM

The person standing by the window watching the progress of the storm may see some of its beauty, but he will miss the most vital part – its very spirit.

Perhaps the majority of people looking out of the window this morning exclaimed, “What a disagreeable day!” And so it might seem to those who remained indoors; and, alas! also to many pedestrians who are not attuned to Nature and who have not yet seen the wisdom of providing themselves with suitable attire for stormy weather, instead of foolishly clinging to the old idea that “anything will do to wear on a rainy day.”

These very likely were oblivious to the beauty which surrounded them and failed to be touched by the spirit of the storm.

To many besides myself, however, I hope it was a “beautiful morning.” When I started forth to walk the wind, which was quite strong, was blowing in fitful gusts, while the rain fell heavily, in spite of which state of things the note of a brown creeper smote my ear cheerily, assuring me that one little friend, at least, was sharing my enjoyment.

After about two hours, during which time the rain had not ceased to fall, I set out on my return walk. The first sound to attract attention, on again setting foot out doors, was the crackling of the needles in a tall pine tree, and I was surprised to note that the rain was freezing on the trees. It had not seemed cold enough. Very soon there was sleet mixed with the rain, which changed again presently to snow and sleet. Then the snow and the wind commenced a mad frolic, and Oh! how beautiful they made the world! Who could be deaf to the deep-toned music of the wind roaring through the upper branches of the trees!

The spirit of the storm entered into my veins and a wild delight seized me. I could have shouted aloud with the mere joy of living. The redbird’s call note was as the greeting of a friend, and the hairy woodpecker’s loud “pique” seemed to say “Hi! down there; this is a world worth living in!”

It is in such moments as these that our unity with Nature is most strongly felt and our co-partnership with the elements realized. We are as much a part of the great and wonderful universe as the stars or the clouds, the mountains or the sea.

Thus may the storm spirit embrace our spirit as the wind and rain and snow encircle our bodies. If the invisible and visible parts of our being be both equally prepared to face the elements, we shall return from our encounter with them exalted in mind and refreshed in body; with new life in our veins, and in our hearts new wonder at the beauty of Nature in her wilder moods.

Anne Wakely Jackson.The snow-plumed angel of the northHas dropped his icy spear;Again the mossy earth looks forth,Again the streams gush clear.– John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE VIOLET

With the exception of the rose, no other plant is so widely distributed and at the same time so universally admired as the Violet. Not alone is it esteemed because of its beauty and fragrance, but a wealth of romance, of historical associations and mythical lore have clustered around the purple blossoms, endearing them to the poet and scientist alike.

The Violet was formally baptized with the ancient Latin name Viola in 1737. Since that time, by some strange oversight, botanists have allowed the name to remain unchanged. Two hundred and fifty species of the Violet have been described, although a more careful study of the genus has reduced the number to one hundred or more species. Three-fourths of these forms are found in the temperate Northern Hemisphere and the balance in the Southern. Under these diverse conditions of growth the plants assume many seemingly unnatural characteristics. Thus, in Brazil a species of Violet is eaten like spinach, while others found in Peru are violent purgatives. Among certain Gaelic tribes the plants are highly esteemed as a cosmetic, and the ancients largely used the flowers to flavor wines.

Whatever other attributes a plant may possess, it is predestined in large measure to waste its fragrance on the desert air, unless it catches the fancy of the minstrel or tips the bolts that fly from Cupid’s bow. In fact, the Violets were originally white, until they were accidentally struck by Cupid’s dart, which was hurled at Diana, and since then the petals have been “purple with love’s wounds.” Hence Shakespeare calls the Violet “Cupid’s flower of purple dye.” Another reason for the change from white to purple is found in the jealousy of Venus, who, envious of Cupid’s admiration of the purity of the flowers, changed them all to blue.

The Greek myth, however, would certainly not be content if it could not more fully account for the origin of the Violet, and so it appears from the classic legend that Ianthea, the most beautiful of Diana’s nymphs, while dancing in the woodlands, was pursued by the sun god, and in order to save her favorite the immortal huntress changed her into a Violet. The name Ion was given to the plants by the Greeks after the nymphs of Ionia presented the flowers to Jupiter. The Thunderer evidently saw something more than a mere blossom in the dainty flowers, for it appears that the Violet became a beautiful priestess in Juno’s temple, known as Io. In order to protect her from the jealousy of his consort, Jupiter was forced to change the young goddess into a heifer, and whenever she lowers her head to feed, the white violet springs from her perfumed breath as it comes in contact with the soil.

Among the ancients the Violet was the flower of honor. It was the sacred flower of the Acropolis, and the “Athenian crowned with Violets” was a distinction much sought after. Pindar writes of “Violet-crowned Athens,” and in the “Cyprea” it is said that Violets were among the perfumes employed by Venus to win from Paris the prize of beauty.

No less esteemed were the purple blossoms among the more rugged people of the North, for a Saxon legend tells how Czernebogh, god of the Vandals, lived with his beautiful daughter in a stately castle. When Christianity swept through Saxony, destroying all evidences of the heathen faiths, the god and his castle were turned into rocks, and the lovely daughter became a Violet, nestling among the crags. Whoever is fortunate enough to discover the hidden flower will restore the maiden and the castle to their original form and may claim this Saxon Flora as his bride.

In Norse mythology the Violet is called Tyr’s flower, and this is the first instance in which the modest plant became disassociated from the realm of love and assumed the guise of war. Tyr’s violet mantle, however, in later years, fell upon the great Napoleon, who adopted the flower as his emblem. He was, in fact, called by his followers Pere de la Violette, and upon going into exile Napoleon assured his friends that he would return with the Violets. Hence the flower became the sacred symbol by which his followers recognized each other. When asked, “Do you like the Violet?” if the reply was “Oui” the answerer was not a confederate. If, however, the reply came, “Eh, bien,” they recognized a brother conspirator and completed the sentence, “It will appear again in the spring.”

During the middle ages the Violet became the chosen symbol to the minstrel and troubadour, of loyalty and faithful love. A blue Violet was the first love token passed by Clemence Isaure through a hole in the wall of her convent garden to her noble lover, Count Raymond, of Toulouse, and in its association as a bridal flower Milton used it to carpet Eve’s bower in Paradise.

Charles S. Raddin.

THE ROUND-LOBED LIVERWORT

(Hepatica hepatica.)

All the woodland path is brokenBy warm tints along the way,And the low and sunny slopeIs alive with sudden hope,When there comes the silent tokenOf an April day —Blue hepatica.– Dora Read Goodale.

There are many plants that are closely related to the mythology and folklore of nations. This is even true of many that are native only in our own young country. The Liverwort, or Hepatica, as it is more often called, though it is not entirely free from mythical association among the Indian tribes, does not enter largely into their folklore.

This beautiful plant has, however, been the inspiration of many poets. Helen Chase calls the Hepaticas

“Hooded darlings of the spring,Rarest tints of purple wearing.”

The delicate blue of the flowers is mentioned by William Cullen Bryant:

“The liverleaf put forth her sister bloomsOf faintest blue.”

The life of this plant is poetical. During the summer months a luxuriant growth of leaves is produced. As cold weather approaches these lie down upon the ground and are soon covered by the falling leaves, which have been nipped from the trees by bite of the frost king. Soon, too, they are covered with snow. In this warm cradle they sleep through the winter, yet, as it were, with open eyes for the dawn of spring. Had the Hepatica the power of reason we would say that it longed for spring, for after the first few warm days that herald the approach of that season there is activity in every part of the plant. It does not wait to produce new leaves, but in an incredibly short time sends up its flower stalk and spreads its blue, purple or white petals to the warm rays of the sun. The Hepatica is truly a harbinger of spring, and in Eastern North America, from Southern British America to the Gulf of Mexico, its appearance introduces the new season. In the northern portion of its habitat its flowers are among the first to grace the dreary, leafless forests. This Hepatica is also found in Europe and Asia. It is not only a flower of the forests of lower altitudes, but is also found in mountainous regions at an elevation of nearly three thousand feet.

This plant was first described by Linnæus in 1753, who gave it the name Hepatica, as he saw in the shape of the leaf a resemblance to the form of the liver.

Of the four known species of Hepaticas but one other is found in North America. This species has the lobes of the leaves pointed instead of round. In some localities it is quite as common as the plant of our illustration, and by many it is considered merely a variety of that form.

Bishop Coxe has said:

Flowers are wordsWhich even a babe may understand.

The word expressed by the beautiful and hardy Hepatica is confidence.

THE SPRING MIGRATION

I. THE WARBLERS

In two former papers I told you of some of the birds that spend their winters in the Gulf States. It is my purpose in the present article to tell some of the features of the great spring migration as viewed from a Mississippi standpoint; how myriads of the little fellows in yellow, black, white, and olive-green stop in these forests to rest and feed for a day or two, then under the impulse of a little-understood instinct continue their journey to the region of their birth. The migration takes place in successive waves, till the last one breaks upon us and spring is over.

In early March the first wave rolls in upon us; happy little creatures hop about and chatter among the opening buds and feast on the insect life awakened by the returning sun. On successive days or, perhaps, at intervals of a few days other waves roll in from the far lands of the Gulf and the Caribbean Sea, till the final one beats against these hills and we awake about the first of May to realize that summer, fervid, tropical, is here. For the months of March and April all is bustle among the feathered traveling public; after that the summer residents have things all their own way till the fall migration begins.

As the sun draws near the line you notice that up in the tops of the gum trees are little birds about the size of a savanna sparrow, and, viewed hastily, of much the same coloring. You know they are not savannas, because the savanna never frequents such places. Some of them have probably spent their winter in this latitude; but just now by their restless activity they tell us that the sap has begun to stir and that the great migration is about to begin. Closer inspection with a good glass will show four spots or patches of yellow, one on the crown, one under each wing, and another on the rump, hence the bird’s name, the yellow rumped warbler, sometimes known as the myrtle warbler. A month later you will scarcely recognize the males of this species, the dull brown of the winter coat being replaced by the shiny black of his bridegroom’s suit.

When the beech buds swell and the jessamine puts forth its little yellow trumpets to announce that spring has actually come, the first great wave comes flooding into the awakening woods. Here come the first arrivals, both sexes in coats of grayish blue, with shirtwaists of brilliant yellow, the male distinguished by a patch of rufous of an irregular crescent shape across the lower part of the throat and upper part of the breast. On fine sunshiny days the parula warbler, for that is his name, loves the topmost branches of the tallest trees; if the day is gloomy he comes down to the lower branches, affording a better opportunity to study him. His only note at these times is an insect-like buzz much in keeping with his diminutive size.

In the lowlands the Halesia or silver bell is putting out its graceful pendulous racemes of purest white, and it is time to look for the next migrant, the hooded warbler, one of the largest and finest of his race. A V of brilliant yellow coming down to the bill, covering the forehead and running backwards past the eye, bordered by a well defined band of intense black, and a back and tail of green slightly tinted with olive make him a marked bird. Unlike the parula, he cares nothing for treetops or sunshine; a perch on a swinging rattan vine or in a shrub in the dark woods hard by a canebrake is good enough for him.

As soon as the hooded warbler appears we will see the black and white creeping warbler, the connecting link (so to speak) between the creepers and warblers in both appearance and habits. Like our common brown creeper, he loves the dense woods, but unlike him seems to prefer the tops and higher branches. Alternate patches and streaks of white and black without a suggestion of the yellow or olive green so characteristic of his genus make his identification easy. His note is simple and short; in fact the sounds that he emits in his journeys are scarcely worth being called a song.

The flood tide comes about the first of April and lasts two weeks. Prominent among the multitude of visitors you may see a warbler slightly smaller than the hooded but of the same general coloring, yellow, black and green, only in this bird the black is in three patches, one on the top of the head, the others running from the bill back and down. This is the Kentucky warbler, a lover of the ground and of the low growths. There is another that the hasty observer might mistake for the hooded or the Kentucky, and that is the Maryland yellowthroat. The black on the latter is confined to broad bands of rich velvety black below the eyes; the yellow is more of a sulphur than a chrome shade, and the green is more nearly olive than in the two just mentioned. Many of this species make their summer home in this latitude, making their nests and rearing their broods in the mat of vines and weeds along the fence rows. The usual song is wichety, wichety, wichety, uttered with the cheerful vigor that makes the Carolina wren so attractive. During the months of April and May, 1900, I had frequent opportunities to observe two pairs of yellow throats that had built just inside the fence that parallels the railroad; the males, as they caught sight of me coming down the track, would mount the highest weed within reach and sing with all their might, but as I came opposite their perch would drop suddenly down into the weeds and remain there till I was well past, then resume their perch and song as long as I was in hearing.

Another of this family conspicuous for its brilliant coloring is the prothonotary warbler. Yellow breast, head, neck and shoulders, yellowish olive wings and back and darker olive tail render him conspicuous against any woodland background. If you want to see him during these busy April days we must go where he is, i. e., in the cypress or willow swamps. The dark gray festoons of Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides) and the tender young green of the cypress leaves afford both contrast for his bright colors and provisions for his larder. Some of this species also nest here, choosing for their homes oftentimes the holes made by some of our smaller woodpeckers in dead willow stubs. I remember one morning seeing a cheerful flock of prothonotary and parula warblers and noticing one of the former leave his companions and fly to a clump of willows where another less brilliantly colored, presumably the female, joined him. Together they inspected the willow stubs, running in and out and up and down the trunks, peering into every cavity. Finally they found one that met their requirements, then, after a short but earnest discussion, flew away through the swamp.

Inhabiting the marshes and swamps is the Louisiana water thrush, a slender brown bird shaped much like the brown thrasher, only much smaller, being about six inches in length as compared with the thrasher’s eleven or twelve. A gifted singer, he is very wild and shy, always resenting the intrusion of the lords of creation upon his quiet haunts, flitting quietly on before you in the shadows, evincing his distrust of your motives by an occasional angry “clink.” He well illustrates the principle of compensation: though denied the brilliant yellows and greens of his warbler brethren, he surpasses them all in the quality of his song, as free, as beautiful, as wild as the bird himself. All the individuals of this species that I saw in three years’ observation were either in the water beeches (Carpinus caroliniana) that grew so thickly along the creek or in the sweet gums and cypress along the borders of an immense swamp.

As the Louisiana water thrush is the star soloist of the warbler contingent, so the yellow breasted chat is the clown of our woodland troupe. His coloring is vivid but simple, being green with a wash of olive above, lores black, breast bright chrome yellow, other under parts white or whitish. Under most circumstances this bird is shy and difficult to approach, as I learned by personal experience; but when one of his strange moods comes upon him – perhaps it is the approach of the nuptial season that so affects him – he doffs much of his shyness and becomes a veritable clown, making such a profusion and variety of noises that one would fain believe that there is a whole score of birds in the bush or thicket from which the medley proceeds. He darts out of his retreat and flies away over the shrubbery, twisting and turning his body, raising and dropping his tail as if all his joints were of the ball and socket pattern, making as many ridiculous contortions and as many varieties of squeaks and squalls as an old-time elocutionist.