Birds and Nature, Vol. 10 No. 1 [June 1901]

Mr. Frank M. Woodruff relates the following observations, made during a recent trip to California. He says:

“The Brandt’s Cormorant is the common species wintering in Southern California. Like the California brown pelican and the surf ducks, only the juvenile birds are found in the bay close to the city of San Diego. As one rows about the harbor close to the shipping docks and by the old deserted fishermen’s huts along the slips, large numbers of Brandt’s Cormorants and pelicans can be seen perched on and almost covering the sunny sides of the roof tops. They sit in rows like sentinels with the head well down upon the shoulders, undisturbed by the noise of traffic and only by continued rapping on the building with an oar can they be induced to take to flight. They will usually circle for a short time in a lazy manner and then return to their old position. The older birds are rather more wary and usually feed a mile or so from the shore, in flocks of from three to ten. The loose kelp floating in the bay attracts the smaller fish. Such places form their feeding grounds. After they become gorged with fish, they fly to the rocks along the jetties and to the cross bars of the buoys, which mark the deep water channels. The birds are perfect gluttons, and as I lifted it into the boat there dropped from the gular sack of one specimen that I shot, over twenty small fish. The beautiful iridescence of the dark copper-green plumage of the adult Cormorant can only be appreciated when the freshly killed bird is seen.”

Seth Mindwell.

MATE, OR PARAGUAY TEA

It is a trite saying, but a very true one, that one-half the world does not know how the other half lives. This will apply to food and drink, as well as to other things, so widely do customs vary in different regions.

While tea, coffee and chocolate, all products of warm climates, have come into general use as table drinks over the greater portion of the globe, so as to be universally known, there is a beverage of similar use, the favorite of millions, which is practically unknown to the world at large.

Mate (two syllables) is the name of the prepared leaves of a shrub or tree belonging to the Rhamses family, and has the scientific name of Cassine gonhonha, but is more generally known as Ilex paraguayensis, as it was first used by the Indians of Paraguay. It belongs to the natural order of the holly, to which it bears much resemblance. Its leaves are six to eight inches long, short stalked, oblong, wedge-shaped, and finely toothed at the margin. The small white flowers are borne in clusters at the axils of the leaves. It bears a four-seeded berry, but the leaves are used for decoction, except for a very fine quality, which is made from the dried flower buds.

It abounds in the forests of Paraguay and Brazil, where it is a tree of considerable size. It is cultivated to some extent, but in this state remains a shrub, and the quality is finer. It may be gathered at any season of the year, and the leaves must become dry enough to pulverize before they are fit for use.

Where it is cultivated it is dried in metal pans, after the manner of Chinese tea, but far greater quantities are gathered in the forests and dried in the primitive method adopted from the Indians.

A drying floor is prepared by clearing a space of ground and pounding it hard with a mallet. On this a fire is built, and after the ground is well heated, it is swept off clean and branches from the neighboring forests spread upon it. Afterwards they are placed upon a rude arbor made of hurdles and a slow fire beneath completes the drying process.

When quite brittle the leaves are pounded in a mortar and reduced to small particles, but not to a powder. The preparation of it consists in placing a small quantity of it in a vessel, with sugar if desired, and adding a little cold water. After a little while boiling water is poured on and it is then ready for use. As the leaf particles do not settle well, it must be sipped through a tube. The natives for steeping it used a calabash gourd called mate, whence its common name, mate yerba, or calabash plant. These gourds are still often used, and are convenient, as they have a handle. Cocoa-nut shells, with handles of silver or other metal, are also popular. A reed or a metal tube, with a small perforated bowl at the bottom is used to sip it through. This is called a bombilla.

It is customary with the Spaniards and Portuguese to offer mate to visitors.

In the gardens of that sunny region vineclad arbors are furnished with seats, where the family with their visitors will sit in the cool of the evening, each one supplied with a bombilla and a cocoa-nut or calabash bowl of mate. Through a small opening in the top of the vessel the tube is inserted and the grateful infusion is enjoyed while matters of interest are discussed.

Great virtues are ascribed to this drink. Its properties appear to be chiefly due to theine and caffeine.

In Chili and Peru it is in universal use, and is considered more necessary than meat. On the plains of Argentina the gaucho or cowboy washes down his dried beef with copious draughts of mate and is content with his meal. To northerners the taste is not agreeable. It seems weedy and slightly bitter. For shipment the leaves, when dried, are packed in oblong cases or bags made of rawhide carefully sewed. These packages contain 120 pounds each. Since the beginning of the seventeenth century this drink has been used in Paraguay, and its use now extends all over South America. It is estimated that the amount used annually exceeds 60,000,000 pounds.

It is being introduced into other countries and the time may come when the bombilla and the bowl of mate may become a rival of five o’clock tea in English and American parlors.

Anna Rosalie Henderson.Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,Through showers the sunbeams fall;For God, who loveth all his works,Has left his Hope with all!– John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE AMERICAN BUFFALO

(Bison americanus.)

The supremacy of man over the lower forms of animal life has no better illustration than that furnished by the rapid extermination of the American Buffalo (Bison or Bos americanus.)

Much less than a century ago, in immense herds, this animal swarmed over the prairies of the United States, unmolested except by the Indians who sought it for food and for the economic value of its hide. It was free to seek those localities which would furnish it the best and most abundant food supply. Even as late as the sixties of the last century the American Buffalo was represented by thousands upon thousands of individuals, whose numerous paths leading from the feeding grounds to a supply of fresh water were known to the frontiersman as “Buffalo trails.” “In 1889 Mr. William T. Hornaday estimated the number of survivors to be eight hundred and thirty-five, inclusive of the two hundred then living in the Yellowstone Park under the protection of the government.”

The passing from the face of the earth of this, the largest of the native animals of North America, has taken place within the last thirty years and this extermination may be laid at the door of the zealous hunter and trapper who systematically shot and destroyed them in order to obtain the small profit that their skins would bring. It is said that one of the railroads crossing the continent from the Mississippi river to the Pacific coast carried about two hundred thousand skins within a year after it was opened to traffic. One writer records the reception of over forty thousand pelts by a single firm in the year 1875. Many instances of the wanton butchery of this noble and useful animal might be mentioned, but it is much better illustrated by the absence of the Buffalo at the present time, from all localities, except where it is protected by the same hand which has brought about its destruction. In 1858, when a party was traversing the country by wagon train from the state of Missouri to Mexico, they were continually surrounded by large herds of Buffaloes. An eye witness said, “In bands, in masses, in hosts, the shaggy, black creatures thundered along in front of us, sometimes from north to south, sometimes from south to north; for forty consecutive hours we had them in sight, thousands upon thousands, tens of thousands upon tens of thousands, an innumerable mass of untamed animals, the flesh of which, as we believed, was sufficient to provide the wigwams of the Indians unto all eternity.”

The American Buffalo belongs to the ox tribe of the family of horned animals (Bovidæ). Among its immediate relatives are the musk ox of the Arctic regions of America, the yak of the mountainous regions of Tibet, the zebu, an East Indian species, the Cape buffalo, a ferocious animal of the central and southern portions of Africa, the Indian buffalo living in southern Asia and the European bison.

The European bison, like its American relative, has suffered from the hunter and the advance of civilization and is practically exterminated. It now exists only in a few forests on the Caucasus and in the famous forest and game preserve of the Czars of Russia called Lithuania. Here, protected by stringent laws through several centuries, the European bison has been saved from absolute extermination. “In former times this was different, for the bison ranged all over Europe and a large portion of Asia.” In the time of Cæsar, according to his own record, they abounded in Germany and Belgium.

So it is with the American Buffalo. Were it not for government and private preserves this, one of the largest of living quadrupeds, would be unknown to future generations except by museum specimens. Correctly speaking, the American species should be called Bison. So universal, however, is the use of the term Buffalo that the word Bison would puzzle many people. Strictly speaking, the name buffalo should be applied only to designate the Cape and Indian species.

The original range of the American Buffalo extended from but little west of the Atlantic coast westward to the Rocky Mountains and from Mexico on the south northward to about the sixty-fifth degree of north latitude. By the trappers the Buffaloes were placed in two classes. Those that frequented the mountain ranges were called Bison. They were seldom seen on the plains, the home of the other class. Their limbs were shorter and stouter and better fitted for a rough country. There existed in former ages two other species entirely distinct from the animal with which we are familiar. They were much larger, possibly as large as an elephant, and were probably associates of the mastodon and the mammoth.

A fully adult male Buffalo will measure about nine or ten feet in length from the muzzle to the tail. Its height at the fore quarters is from five to six and one-half feet. The female is much smaller and weighs from seven to eight hundred pounds less than the male, the weight of which averages eighteen hundred pounds.

The Buffalo’s massive head, with its short, curved horns which are set far apart on the broad forehead, is connected with the body by a short deep and narrow neck. From the neck the body rises, forming a large hump on the back over the forelegs, which gives the animal an odd and unwieldy appearance. This hump consists of fat and strong muscles which control the movements of the massive head. From the hump the body tapers downward so that the hind quarters are low and narrow. The anterior portion of the body, the forelegs and the head are covered with long hair. On the forehead and back the hair is curly and matted. In the early spring most of the long hair is shed, resulting in a modification of the color of the Buffalo. The new coat is a uniform grayish brown, deepening into black-brown in the mane, which covers the top part of the head, forehead, neck and under surface of the throat.

Captain Doyle in an article published in the American Naturalist says, “White Buffaloes have frequently been seen and killed. All the Indian tribes regard them as ‘big medicine,’ but they have different superstitions regarding them. For instance Catlin, the painter, while among the Mandans in 1832, saw a white buffalo robe erected on a pole in their village as a sacrifice to the Great Spirit. It had been purchased from the Blackfeet, who killed the Buffalo, for eight horses and a quantity of goods. On the other hand, the Comanches believe it very dangerous to see a white Buffalo. In 1869 I saw a young Comanche, who had seen a white Buffalo, return to his camp almost dead with fear. He was taken into his tent, the medicine man was sent for and they smoked him and kept up incantations over him day and night for a week. When he came out he believed that he had had a very narrow escape from death. In 1859 a white Buffalo was killed by a white man on the north fork of the Red river. He desired to have it dressed to preserve it, but failed to get any Indian to undertake the task for a long time. At last he prevailed on a Comanche chief, named ‘Horseback’ to have the operation performed. ‘Horseback’ selected one of his squaws, had the medicine man of his band go through various ceremonies over her to preserve her life and then placed her in a tepee some distance from his camp, where the hide was taken to her by a soldier and brought away by him when dressed. No other Indian would look at the hide, much less touch it. Her food was left for her at some distance from the tepee and when the robe was dressed, medicine ceremonies were held over her before she was allowed to join the camp.”

These gregarious animals, during the period of their supremacy, rarely remained for any great length of time in any given locality. Frequently, as if moved by a sudden and general impulse, the whole herd, made up of many smaller companies, each with its leader, would start, all the individuals moving in the same direction. No barriers seemed too great to overcome. Moving in a straight line they would swim or ford rivers, find some means of crossing chasms, but still move on as if led by some irresistible impulse.

These migrations, in many instances, may have been due to the necessity of seeking a more plentiful supply of food, especially when the pastures in the more northern regions became covered with snow. This caused them to move southward. The northern tribes of Indians did not believe that the same individuals returned, as the climatic conditions permitted, but that the Buffaloes were produced in immense numbers under ground and that in the spring they came forth from a great mountain far to the south, a herd of new individuals coming north each season. Since the Buffaloes have disappeared from the plains, some Indians claim that the holes in the southern mountains, in which the Buffaloes were formed, have been closed by some evil spirit.

Dr. Brehm tells us that “among the Buffalo’s perceptive senses those of smell and hearing rank first. In its mental qualities it does not differ from its other relatives. It is little gifted, good-natured and timid, incapable of rapid excitement, but when it is irritated it is apt to forget all considerations which generally influence it and it will then oppose an enemy with courage.”

It would seem that the Buffalo depends upon the sense of smell rather than that of sight, for when running from danger it holds the muzzle near the ground and rushes with incredible swiftness in the opposite direction. Obstinacy is one of the most marked characteristics of the Buffalo. When once moved to a certain action nothing seemed to sway a herd from its decision. Boats on rivers have been known to stop and wait for the passing of a herd that was swimming across the stream. Railroad trains have also been brought to a standstill by the herds crossing the tracks.

The American Buffalo was in reality an inoffensive beast and its ferocious appearance was due to its great bulk. “They are not intractable to domestication, readily entering into friendly relations with individuals who treat them kindly; at least they learn to recognize their keeper and to love him to a certain degree.”

Years ago the Buffalo was the friend of the American Indian. It furnished him not only with food but its skin served him as a blanket and as a covering for his tepees. Its skin also provided the leather from which he made his clothing and footwear. At this time, as Moellhausen has said, “The Buffalo could, in a certain sense, be considered a domestic animal of the Indians, no diminution of the innumerable herds could be noticed; on the contrary, they throve and multiplied on the rich pastures.” Ever content if all their wants were satisfied, the American Indians killed only those that were required for their present needs. It was not till the white man visited them with his stock of glittering trinkets, so attractive to the red man, that he began to kill indiscriminately. He learned that the white man was pleased with their robes and that the flesh of the Buffalo delighted his taste; that he was willing to trade his trinkets for robes and flesh. It was then that the Indian’s whole demeanor toward the Buffalo changed and he became the weak servant of the trader, bartering the lives of thousands of noble animals for valueless things which pleased his eye or caught his fancy.

The value of the Buffalo to the Indian’s welfare can be shown in no better way than by quoting the words of Captain Butler. “‘What shall we do?’ said a young Sioux warrior to an American officer on the Upper Missouri. ‘What shall we do? The Buffalo is our only friend. When he goes, all is over with the red man. I speak thus to you because, like me, you are a brave.’ It was little wonder that he called the Buffalo his only friend. Its skin gave him a house, its robe a blanket and a bed, its undressed hide a boat, its short, curved horn a powder-flask, its meat his daily food, its sinew a string for his bow, its leather a lariat for his horse, a saddle, bridle, rein and bit. Its tail formed an ornament for his tent, its inner skin a book on which to sketch the brave deeds of his life, the medicine robe of his history. House, boat, food, bed and covering, every want from infancy to age and after life had passed; wrapped in his Buffalo robe the red man waited for the dawn.”

MR. CHAT, THE PUNCHINELLO.

A TRUE STORY

If Mr. Chat were an ordinary performer he would doubtless select a spot in the center of the village square; he would put up his little stage and his drop-curtain and would send small boys all through the village with his flaming posters:

ATTENTION, EVERY ONE!This Afternoon – in the Village SquareAt Two O’clock,Mr. Yellow-Breasted Chat will give one of hisREMARKABLE PERFORMANCES

Mr. Chat is acknowledged by all to be the best imitator, the most gifted singer, the finest elocutionist, the cleverest ventriloquist, the greatest athlete in all bird-dom.

MR. CHATOrator, Singer, Gymnast and Punchinello!Don’t fail to see him!

and by two o’clock the village square would be alive with people, and after the show the dimes would rattle into the hat and no one would go away disappointed, as Mr. Chat’s poster would be nearer the truth than most posters of its kind.

All this if Mr. Chat were an ordinary performer, but he is not. His performance is so far ahead of anything that was ever advertised on a poster, that there are not dimes enough in all the world to buy it. You may set a day for him and invite all your friends, or you may take your friends and go seek him in his own haunts; you may try to coax, hire, threaten; you may do everything in your power; but Mr. Chat is a happy creature of inspiration, and makes dates with nobody.

When he will, he will —You may depend on’t;And when he won’t, he won’t —And there’s an end on’t!

His only tent is the blue sky; his stage-setting a jungle of trees near a swamp; his stage a thick bough near the top of a tree; his curtain the leaves of a white birch, or willow, or butternut; his orchestra and curtain-raiser the wind, and his audience his wife sitting patiently on the eggs in her nest, and – you, if you belong to Nature’s elect and happen to be near the swamp at that moment and have the kind of eyes that really see and the kind of ears that really hear. Mrs. Chat can command the performance with one little bird sigh. You could not buy it with the wealth of the world. After the entertainment is over, Mr. Chat drives his wife from the nest and takes her place on the eggs while she flies out over the tree-tops for a little outing. Not many bird husbands are so considerate.

Once upon a time (you see the story is just beginning now) I happened to find myself in a pasture; not a tame, every-day, green pasture tacked on one end of a nice smooth farm – not at all! but a pasture on top of a high hill, with beautiful fields stretching out below it, and all pink and white with laurel. The cows, who, they say, do not care either for laurel or scenery, may not have liked this pasture, but I did. So when I had climbed the bars and seated myself on the top one to view the country, I saw at the far edge of the pasture, a jungle of trees, and I liked it still more, and determined to explore it. On the way I flushed a brown thrasher in a laurel bush, and he flew into the jungle. There seemed to be but one bird singing in all the neighborhood, and this song which was a peculiar one, lured me into the thicket. On I went very cautiously till the sound seemed to be directly overhead. I paused and listened and peered into the tree tops.

“Caw-caw!” cried the bird harshly.

“Nothing but an old crow,” said I in disgust.

I started to go, when from the same spot overhead came a loud, clear double note, and again I waited.

“Meow! meow!” remarked my new friend.

“How stupid of me!” said I. “I might have known it was Mr. Catbird.” But immediately there came a glorious trill – first over my head, then almost under my feet, then at my right hand, then at my left; though there was no flutter of wings or other sound in all the jungle. At last the fallen branch upon which I had been sitting gave way and I went into the swamp with a splash of mud. “Look out, look out!” came a sarcastic voice from the tree top.

“It is an escaped Poll-parrot,” said I, to reassure myself, but I took out my handkerchief and mopped my heated brow. The unknown then proceeded to bark like a dog, quack like a duck, and squeal like a pig, with occasionally a measure of song in between. At last in desperation I seized a young sapling near at hand and shook it with all my might, thinking to frighten him into showing himself.

“Haw-haw-haw!” rang out clearly from the top of the very sapling itself.

“That is no bird,” I announced to the swamp; “it is an imp of the forest trying to lure me to destruction in the jungle,” and I turned and fled.

I felt better when I met a cotton-tail rabbit, though he did not stop to be greeted; and still better when I reached the sunlight and the pink and white laurel pasture; and when I neared the bars and saw my horse grazing patiently on the other side, I was quite myself again. On an upright stake at the side of the bars sat a strange, yellowish bird. I did not know him, for I had not so many bird friends then as I have now. Suddenly he rose in the air with a shriek, his legs dangling helplessly. “Is this a magical pasture,” I said to myself, “where birds are shot without the report of a gun?” and then with legs still dangling, he made a beautiful gyration in the air, and calling out: “That’s it – that’s it – tut – tut – tut!” disappeared in the direction of the thicket. This was my first attendance upon one of the remarkable performances of Mr. Yellow-Breasted Chat, and I can without hesitation pronounce it the most wonderful in all bird-dom.

The next day I invited some skeptical friends to prove the truth of my story. So at the same time of day we drove up the long hills till we spied the pink and white of the laurel, and halted at the gray bars. The pasture which had been deserted the day before, was now spotted with cows, the laurel had begun to fade, and though we waited one long, weary hour, not a sight or sound of a bird of any description did we see. The towhee and the shore lark whom I had seen the day before, seemed to have dropped out of existence, and those disagreeable people hinted that even the brown thrasher was a myth. But as I ventured alone into the dark swamp, hoping still to stir up Mr. Chat, I came face to face with the beautiful purple-fringed orchis – the large, early variety – blooming alone in the damp thicket, so straight and stately, and of such a delicate, refined beauty, I fell on my knees beside it, and felt it to be ample compensation for any disappointments. So you see it is true that there is not wealth enough in all the world to force a bird-song at the moment when you want it, but at the same time and in the same swamp the purple orchis may be blooming for you.