Birds and Nature Vol. 9 No. 4 [April 1901]

The ne plus ultra of mollusks to the collector is without doubt the genus Cypraea, comprising the cowry shells. So eagerly have they been sought by wealthy collectors that the price of rarities has gone up to an astonishing degree, some specimens being sold at several hundred dollars each. The shell is highly polished, owing to the fact that two lobes of the voluminous mantle are turned back over the shell and meet in the middle of the back. The foot is very large and spreading, the mantle beset with curious little tentacular-like organs and the eyes are placed on small swellings near the base of the long, cylindrical tentacles. The color-patterns of the shell vary to a wonderful degree. The young shell has a thin epidermis, a sharp lip to the aperture and a more or less prominent spire, the rolled over and toothed lip and polished surface not being acquired until fully adult. No more beautiful sight can be imagined than one of these gorgeous animals, as seen through the clear water, crawling over the sandy bottom or on the branch of some coral.

Several of the cowries have a curious economic value. Thus, Cypraea aurantia, the orange cowry, was used as an insignia of royalty by the chiefs of the Friendly Islands, and for a long time the only specimens obtainable were those which had been bored and used. The money cowry (Cypraea moneta) has been used as money by the natives of Western Africa, and many tons of this small shell were annually imported to England to be used in barter by the African traders. The shell is of a yellowish or whitish color, does not exceed an inch in length, and is very common in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. It is still used as a medium of barter in parts of Africa, although other things have pretty generally taken its place.

Cameos were at one time quite in the fashion, both as ornaments for the person in the way of brooches, and as bric-a-brac about the room. These shell-cameos are made from the genus Cassis, the helmet shells. These are well adapted for this purpose, as the shell is made up of several differently colored layers, making a bas relief figure not only possible but very effective. The black helmet (Cassis madagascariensis) is one of the best for this purpose, the figure being carved from the white, outer layer of shell, which stands out very clearly against the black background of the second layer. When a cameo is desired simply as a brooch or for any other form of personal adornment, a piece of the shell is cut out and shaped into the required form and size – oval, square or other shape – and cemented to a block of wood. The figure is then traced on the shell with a pencil and finally carefully worked out with sharp, pointed steel instruments, of delicate size and form. The same process is resorted to in working out a bas relief on the entire shell, only the latter is placed in a vice or other object to hold it firmly. The home of this industry is Genoa and Rome, Italy, although some are produced in France; these latter, however, are of a poorer quality. Several thousand people are employed in this trade. Many beautiful examples of this work were exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition, in Chicago, in 1893.

The cameo shells are among the largest of sea snails, several of them measuring eight or ten inches in length and weighing several pounds. They are found only in tropical and subtropical seas, living in comparatively shallow waters on a sandy bottom. They are voracious eaters, living principally on bivalve mollusks.

One of the most abundant of mollusks is the violet sea snail (Ianthina communis), which spends its life floating in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The shell is very delicate, resembling in form some of the land snails, and has but two colors, both shades of violet, a deep color on the under side (which, by the way, is always turned upward when the animal is floating in the water), and a lighter shade on the upper side. So fragile is the shell that it seems as if a breath would break it. The most interesting fact in connection with this mollusk is the wonderful float or “raft” which is secreted by the foot, and to the under side of which the eggs are attached. The latter are not all in the same condition. Nearest to the animal they are more or less fresh; those in the middle of the float contain embryos and fully formed young, while those on the outer end are empty, the young having escaped into the water. The genus is gregarious and may be found in almost countless numbers. After a severe storm they are sometimes cast upon the beaches in vast numbers, where they soon die under the fierce rays of the sun.

We have thus far been dealing with snails whose shells were formed in a spiral coil. Quite a number of mollusks are not protected by such a shell, its place being taken by a flat, shield-like disk, or several distinct plates placed side by side. The most familiar of the first is the limpet or Patella, which is a depressed, conical, oval disk, looking not unlike a miniature shield. They live on rocks, to which they cling with great tenacity. The animal seems to have a pretty clear idea of local geography, for it invariably returns to the same place after its excursions for food and the rock in some localities has been hollowed out to a considerable depth by the continuous dwelling thereon of the limpet. The large foot is very strong and it is almost impossible to dislodge the shell from the rock when the animal becomes alarmed and is aware that danger is near. While grazing along the sides of a rock covered with fine sea-weed, it will leave a track like a worm and will clean off quite an area in a very short space of time.

Another species is the key-hole limpet (Fissurella), distinguished by having a slit or foramen in the apex of the shell. The shells of Fissurella are generally rougher than those of Patella, and as a rule they live in warmer seas. In the limpet we find a departure from the general form of both animal and shell, both being bilaterally symmetrical, that is, having both sides alike. In the mollusks which have been presented thus far, the body has been twisted in the form of a spiral, making one side different from the other and causing the organs of one side to become atrophied. In the limpets the organs are paired, as they are supposed to have been in the ancestors of the living mollusks.

The most peculiar of all the mollusks, so peculiar, indeed, that they constitute a separate order (Polyplacophora) are the Chitons, or coat-of-mail shells. The shell is made up of eight separate pieces or plates, each locking with the other, the whole supported by and buried in a coriaceous mantle which forms a margin all the way around. This must not be confounded with the true mantle of the animal, for it is only a part of the shell. It is beset with bristles, spines or hairs, which add much to the peculiar appearance of this mollusk.

The Chitons live for the most part on rocks at low water and are said to be nocturnal in habit, feeding only at night. Their movements are slow and they appear to be very sluggish in all their actions. When detached and taken from their rocky homes they have the provoking (to the collector) habit of rolling up and are sometimes very difficult to straighten out again. There are about two hundred and fifty living species, found in all parts of the world.

In the foregoing pages we have called attention to a few types of marine snails, and what has been written has hardly more than touched upon this vast field. There are thousands of different species even more interesting than those which have been mentioned. There are the beautiful ear shells, or Abalones, the little periwinkle, so largely used as an article of food in Europe, besides a host of others too numerous to mention. The brief notes and the figures on the plate will convince the reader, it is hoped, that these inhabitants of the deep are not only beautiful and worthy of our attention and study, but are also of much practical and economical use to man.

Frank Collins Baker.

THE LEMON

In 1636 an English report on the affairs of the navy gravely remarked that “the use of lemon is a precious medicine and well tried. Take two or three spoonfuls each morning and fast after it two hours.” The value of the fruit for certain disorders of the system seems to have received an early recognition. This was especially true with regard to scurvy, which in earlier days caused widespread mortality among seafaring men. Hawkins, in 1593, made the statement that more than ten thousand men had succumbed to the malady within the limits of his naval experience. The Crusaders under Louis IX. were severely attacked by scurvy, owing to their abstinence from fresh meat during Lent, and the history of the disease shows that it is occasioned by a lack of fresh meat and fruits. The efficacy of lemon juice was recognized by Drake, Davy, Cavendish, Dampier and many others years ago, and time has but added to the value of the fruit, while it has made it accessible to everyone. While Pomona is generally credited with having devoted her entire attention to the cultivation of the apple, it is stated on authority of an old Greek myth, that she gave considerable thought to the development of the Lemon and the orange. It appears that Pomona inclined not her ear to the supplications of her many admirers until Vertumnus, discerning her vulnerable point, presented the fair gardener with a grafting, which, under her skillful cultivation, developed into a lemon tree, and, as a reward, the favor of the wood-nymph was bestowed upon the youth.

Whether or not such was the origin of the Lemon, the fact remains that the fruit is most useful and the tree exceedingly attractive. Originally a native of Asia, it has become widely distributed in Europe, Africa and America, and although far more susceptible to injury from frosts than the orange, the trees are successfully cultivated under many conditions. Doubtless the best results in this country have been obtained in California. Thousands of acres around San Diego are planted with lemon trees while large districts in the Ojai Valley, Ventura, Santa Barbara, Pomona and Los Angeles counties are devoted to its cultivation. The tree is remarkable for beauty, and while it seldom attains large proportions, its pale green leaves, loosely-hanging branches, showy and fragrant flowers, together with the fruit that is found in all stages of development, produce a pleasing and highly ornamental effect. While the best crop of Lemons is generally gathered between December and April, the fruit should be picked every month for ten months of the year, in order to retain the best results. As a rule, the trees yield from one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and forty boxes of the fruit to the acre, about the sixth year, but this number is increased to four hundred boxes when the groves reach an age of ten years.

The varieties of Lemons are distinguished chiefly by their size and form, and may be roughly classified as egg-shaped with blunt nipples and oblong lemons with large nipples. The sweet lemon and thin-rind Poncine and Naples belong to the first class, while the second includes such forms as the imperial, the Gaëta and the wax. The principal varieties grown in California are the Lisbon, Eureka and the Villa-Franca. Of these, the Eureka originated in California, while the Villa-Franca was imported from Europe. Besides the grateful quality of the juice, the expressed oil of the rind is used in the arts and has an intense odor of lemon, and the Pundits of Benares, quote a Sanskrit work, written about 1354, in which the oil is described as a valuable medicine. The acid pulp of the Lemon, after rasping off the rind, is pressed for citric acid, while the ottos of the Lemon, orange and bergamot, the preparation of which forms the chief industry of Sicily, are leading ingredients in the preparation of “Lisbon Water” and “Eau de Portugal.”

– Charles S. Raddin.

TWO WRENS

The house wren is one of Nature’s illuminated successes. It has been said that there is no second spring, yet to-day (July 20th) this bird is in the full glory of spring-time melody. He sings from the top of a telegraph pole, the song caught up and repeated by some country cousin in the grove, a musical argument carried on all day long and left at night in the same unsettled state in which morning found it. Whether they are discussing the relative merit of their respective claims, a town residence or a country seat, I am unable to decide; it is certain, however, that the concessions of neither party infringe upon domestic dignity.

Their speech is a revelation of supreme content, a liquid, flexible measure with ripples and cascades bubbling through and over, a dash of pure color amid July’s neutral tinted emotions.

The day may be dark and threatening, the sun concealed in gloomy banks of cloud, rain falling, or thick mists obscuring the valley; each and all are powerless to dampen his ardor or to effect his extreme optimism. He clings to his creed with persistent closeness, asserting valiantly the ecstasy of finding one’s self alive and emphasizing the statement by a perfect wave of melodious argument.

There are hours when he sings with such force that his whole little body catches the key-note and natural rhythm; the melody becomes compounded of his very substance, body of his body and soul of his soul. It is an inundation of musical notes, cascadic, cataclysmic, the tide of song rising till it drowns his personality; he is no longer a bird but an animated song.

My little neighbor is a pattern of husbandly devotion, a lover-husband over whom coming events are already casting tender shadows before, the special event in this instance being located in a crevice beneath the eaves of the house.

Wren babies had not left the first nest when Jenny Wren’s husband was hard at work upon a second house, which was ready for occupancy before the first family were self-supporting. This was an admirable arrangement in the way of time-saving, as eggs are often laid in the second nest before the first is vacated.

Though the new house lacked the freshness of coloring and the picturesqueness of the swing of a nest in the sunshine, Jenny Wren made no complaint of being cooped up in the darkness, and as to her husband, he was quite as well pleased with the glamor and wonder of its art as if it had been wound with blossoms and sprinkled with star-dust. A bird with different tastes might have urged that it was only a little hole in the house-jet, yet everything in life depends upon the point of view from which you regard it. Judged from the wren standpoint, it was considered admirably adapted to the family needs, nor could the most critical observer fail to see here a literal illustration of that familiar truth: Happiness is from within.

Standing upon a ladder I counted eight eggs as my eyes became gradually accustomed to the partial darkness within the nest; the dark, vinaceous spots laid on so thickly as to conceal or obliterate the original color, thus helping to hide them more securely. In the long brooding days, when Jenny’s little answering heart is preoccupied and silent, the hours are sometimes long and lonely to her mate. At these times he has been known to devote his spare moments to building a nest simply for his own pleasure. Many instances of this remarkable habit are recorded of the English wren, the explanation offered being that the odd nests are for the purpose of deceiving the parasitical cuckoo.

There is also a supposition that the bird’s active nature finds relief in work, being urged on by the increasing lonesomeness. This wren-trait reaches a climax in the marsh wrens, with whom the building habit becomes a passion.

Nor is it restricted to the wren family, many instances being recorded where other species have beguiled the waiting days by an imitative housekeeping.

The house phoebe has been known to build a second nest while its mate was brooding. To all appearances this was an instance of over-developed domestic tastes. Nor did the experiment end with the completion of the duplicate nest upon which the male bird sat regularly for several hours daily.

Wrens do not take kindly to double houses, their warlike nature seeming to revolt against living friendly with near neighbors. A pair of wrens that was well established in an unoccupied martin house made it very uncomfortable for the later arrivals. While the martins were abroad after material for the nest the wrens sallied forth in an utterly vindictive spirit and scratched out all their neighbors had constructed. After singing a triumphant song with much parade they wisely retired to their own domicile to be on the defensive.

Wiser wrens, with an instinctive knowledge that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, are known to have the forethought when the box in which they build contains two compartments, to fill up one of them, thus avoiding the risk of troublesome neighbors. Wrens have been known to nest in a human skull. Others with less questionable taste, have gone to housekeeping in an old boot, a watering pot, a coat sleeve; in gourds and baskets, jars and water pipes, while another pair made a nest in the lower part of a stone vase in the garden. There was a hole for drainage in the bottom of the vase, and through this hole they found, beneath some shavings, a circular space just suited for a nest. The vase was not filled with plants until the domestic affairs of the wren family were happily concluded.

The delicate swaying hammock of the oriole is sometimes used for a second nesting.

There was bitter disappointment in wren circles earlier in the season when, with the presumption of inexperience, the pump was filled regularly with coarse twigs, which were promptly dislodged at nightfall. Undiscouraged at this defeat, the morning hours were utilized for rebuilding with a persistency well worthy a more intelligent effort; they worked and sang, sang and worked, until a cigar box was nailed to a tree for their special accommodation. This was nearly full of twigs when they decided that the building-site was ineligible, a decision hastened by the fact that just at this opportune time a glass fruit can was left upon the piazza shelf. No sooner was this glass house seen than its possibilities were realized and plans were quickly made for a kind of crystal palace experiment. Under other circumstances this might have been a dangerous precedent, as certain unneighborly conduct toward their little brothers of the air had at various times fairly invited the throwing of stones. The can was half full of tiny fagots, and Jenny was thinking of settling upon the mattress of wood fibre when the thrifty housewife turned them adrift summarily, well aware that this kind of housekeeping, within easy range of neighboring cats, would not be successful. Before such supreme content, who could have the heart to undeceive them? And yet, the can was turned upside down before they could be made to understand the situation. Like Thoreau, they did not wish to practice self-denial unless it was quite necessary!

After the failure of this crystal scheme, it was a difficult matter for Jenny to make up her mind as to a further preference, but when she really decided it was with such entire good faith as left no doubt in her lover’s mind as to her judgment. This was more flattering as it was his own choice, their last year’s home thoroughly remodeled, to which he had repeatedly called her attention, vainly. So the hole in the house jet at least answered the question, “Where are the birds in last year’s nests?” for the wrens moved in regularly, the tenor having a perch upon a projecting bracket where Jenny joined him, a regular little termagant, scolding with all her might whenever the kittens looked that way.

Marsh wrens, small brown birds, with barred wings and tail, breed in or about the swamps and marshes of Lake Champlain.

They are intensely interesting from their habit of constructing several nests but one of which is utilized for housekeeping. After the real nest is made and the first egg laid, the male stays closely at home busying itself with building several nests, which are to all appearances entirely superfluous. In locating these he does not go beyond the immediate neighborhood of the true nest.

Some have thought that these sham nests are used as hiding places for the male, a Lilliputian watch tower or guard house, from which close watch is kept over the home property. Whether Mrs. Marsh Wren really needs such close watching, being more inclined to flirt than the ordinary feathered spouse, or because she is a better wife, so infinitely precious that she must be guarded from every side, is, as yet, an unsolved question. “Love holds the key to all unknown,” and though there is little to admire in a deportment made fine by compulsory measures, no doubt both parties understand the situation, which is quite enough for practical purposes. These nests, conspicuous from their size and exposed position, are securely attached to the upright swaying reeds, some of which penetrate their substance. They are lined with soft grasses and have an entrance at one side, often nearer the bottom than the top. Mr. Burroughs, who has found the marsh wren’s nest surrounded by half a dozen make-believes, says the gushing, ecstatic nature of the bird expresses itself in this way. It is simply so full of life and joy and of parental instinct that it gives vent to itself in constructing sham nests; the generous-hearted creature being willing to build and support more homes than can be furnished or utilized.

Entering the Lake Shore drive at St. Albans Bay, where dense tangles border the swamp beyond, you are sure to hear a song that is unmistakably wrennish. You have glimpses also of a small brown bird bubbling over with a nervous energy that betrays itself in every note he utters. Wait quietly and he approaches, but go one step in his direction and he recedes to the swamp where human foot may not follow.

Push your boat up the creek, the only avenue leading to his abode, that tantalizing song leading on meanwhile like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, though unlike the latter there is no disillusioning at the end. Red-winged blackbirds take wing as you enter the twilight of soft green and amber shade and the far-off music of their jangle-bells becomes less musical, the males striving “to recommend themselves by music, like some awkward youth who serenades his mistress with a jewsharp,” and using the air or the alder tops as a parade ground upon which to exhibit their musical evolutions. And yet you are witness to many a voluntary bit of sentiment that will increase your interest in this scarlet epauletted regiment, descendants of the dusky tribe that anchored long ago in this peaceful haven, going out and coming in with the tide until the legend of their coming is as vague and shadowy and misty as that of the golden-fleece voyageurs – the Argonauts. They ebbed and flowed with the stream; came at the proper time and season without knowing why; anchored and launched their ebony ships when it was time for sailing.

Here and there along this waterway the branches clasp hands above the creek, forming an arch of green within which vines sufficiently elegant to warrant exclusiveness cling in unaffected grace to the alders, without inquiring or caring as to the pedigree of their support. It is sufficient for them that the support is there.

A whole half mile along the stream and trees and bushes disappear, leaving a dense mass of reeds, the marsh wren’s “ain countrie,” out of which he is never at his best and to which he gives you no welcome.

Birds, like persons, have wonderful powers of concentration upon one topic, woe be to you if that topic happens to be yourself!

Every denizen of the swamp regards you with suspicion, watching each movement as closely as if you were a dangerous character traveling under an alias, and could not be trusted to sail upon this ruddy ocean in which their lordships have anchored their private yachts. Push your boat far in among the reeds and cat-tails, into the sea of shadows over which no sluggish current sends a ripple, and certain globular nests in the tangled reeds reward your search. Push your fingers within these nests and in one only, here and there, will you find from five to ten dark eggs, a rich reward for all your trouble.

Meanwhile the “neighbors,” and the marsh wren generally has numbers of them, have doubtless been charming you with their bubbling, gurgling song, always half the colony singing at once, or, one bird rising above the reeds gives the order, as it were, and the whole colony joins in the chorus. The song is quite beyond their control; they seem filled to overflowing with an inexhaustible supply of music, which trickles down the reeds, like gathered-up drops of water charged with music.