Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 4 [April 1902]

Much has been written of the effect of music upon elephants and their tempers. Gentle strains have moved them to caresses, and martial music arouses them to a sort of fury. It has been written that the Arab, than whom there is no truer lover of the animal creation, entertains his camel with music, songs and fairy tales. When the animal lags in its long swinging trot, the Bedouin draws his reed-pipe from the folds of his turban and sharp and shrill its notes are heard far across the dusky sands, and the weary camel, encouraged by its notes, moves on again with enlivened motion.

It has often been noticed how quickly a cow will distinguish a new bell, and how great a disturbance is created in the whole herd, who will often take it upon themselves to chastise the unwary wearer. De Vere is an authority for the fact that the leader of a herd of cows when deprived of her beloved bell will weep bitter tears, and says that there are many instances of cows that have died when deprived of their harmonious ornament.

That mice have a musical ear and taste is a well known fact, but the lowest type of animal that is visibly affected by a strain of music is the turtle. Readers of that sensational tale, “The Household of Bouverie,” will remember the history of the small tortoise “Merodach” whom his master could summon at will by playing a certain air on an old lyre, a tale that was said to be founded on fact.

Alberta A. Field.

DOMESTIC CATTLE

In the beautiful Swiss Alps, in the early springtime, one hears the ringing of a large bell. This is rung in the villages and is the signal for the departure of the herds to the alps above. The cows, lowing and jumping with delight, collect eager for departure. The finest cow of all has the largest bell hung from her neck with a bright ribbon, and between her horns is placed a large nosegay of flowers.

She is the leader and has the place of honor, and to deprive her of this pleasure would be cruelty indeed. The herdsmen begin their songs, the yodling sounds through the valley, the milk stools are set between the horns of the cattle, the cheese kettles and provisions are packed upon the beasts of burden, and the procession gaily wends its way up the mountainside.

Even if poorly protected from storms which may be encountered above, we cannot wonder that the cattle thoroughly enjoy this calm, beautiful life in the alps, and we are told that cows left in the valley below will often escape and follow their companions to the distant mountains.

In the United States there are also cattle that live an outdoor life, which have the freedom of the range, and are shelterless the year around. These are the half-wild herds which roam over Texas, Colorado and other western states. Although the great cattle owners often inclose immense pastures, thousands of acres in extent, so that the herds are in a measure restricted, the smaller owners turn their cattle out and allow them to wander at will.

This occasions the necessity for the yearly “round-up.” At a given time the cattle of each county are driven to a common center, confined within an inclosure or “corral,” and the calves running with the cow mother are branded with the mark of the owners. The “round-up” is the great event of the cowboy’s life, and an interesting occasion it certainly is. The time of the “round-up” may consume a number of days. The cowboys take their places on the outer limit of the tract belonging to their division, and with a skill acquired by long experience they are able to find every cow and calf and slowly to draw the circle smaller and smaller, until all the cattle are congregated in one herd. Then follows a time of work by day and merrymaking by night. The camp is maintained until all the cattle are branded with the brands which are registered with the county clerk, thus making the ownership plain to all. The cowboys, with their broad hats frequently ornamented with the various brands of the cattle owners, with their picturesque attire, mounted on their bronchos, or scraggy, wiry mountain ponies, are interesting individually and collectively. Among them at the time of the “round-up” are often men of education and refinement, as well as others who know no life besides that of the plains and the open. They ride like the wind, and when one rode to his ranch neighbor’s thirteen miles away to execute a little commission before breakfast and returned before the coffee was spoiled, my eastern ideas received a shock which made it necessary for me to readjust my conception of western life and living.

Mr. Brehm tells us that the manner of life of the domestic cattle of various countries is instructive as well as fascinating. He tells us that there are “herds which lead the same manner of existence as did those belonging to the patriarchs. The wandering tribes of Eastern Soudan are herdsmen, who attend to their duties in exactly the same way as their ancestors did thousands of years ago. Herds of cattle constitute their only riches. Their wealth is estimated by the number of their sheep and cattle, as that of the Laplander is estimated by the number of his reindeer.

The greatest of European landowners and cattle breeders, including those of Holland and Switzerland, can hardly realize the vast numbers contained in the herds of those nomads. Near the village of Melbess the plain shows a deep depression, at the bottom of which a number of wells have been dug, one beside the other, for the sole purpose of watering the herds congregating there during the noon hours. Beginning in the afternoon and during the whole night, far on toward noon next day, nearly a hundred people are busy hauling water from the wells and pouring it into pools, to which a little salty earth is added. From all sides innumerable herds of sheep, goats and cattle draw near, first the sheep and goats, then the cows. In a few minutes the valley is filled with them. One sees nothing but an unbroken herd of animals passing back and forth, a dark human form looming up between them at intervals. Thousands of sheep and goats keep arriving, while as many are departing satisfied. I believe it impossible to count the number of cattle, yet I do not exaggerate if I put down the number of the animals daily congregating at the spot as sixty thousand.

In the south of Africa the oxen are of great importance, as without them the extended trip necessary for purposes of trading and hunting through the vast wastes in parts entirely devoid of water and grass would be impossible.

In Southern Russia, Tartary and probably also a great portion of Central Asia considerable herds of cattle are kept.” In fact, at the present time there seems to be no country in the world where domestic cattle are not found. They are common from Norway and Lapland in the north to Southern Africa and South America in the south. Columbus first brought them to the New World, and the Spaniards transported them to South America, where they multiplied with great rapidity.

In a general way domestic cattle may be divided into two classes – the straight backed cattle of Europe and the New World and the humped cattle of India. Humped cattle may also be found in China, Africa and Madagascar. They not only vary from other cattle by having the hump on the withers, but they have a different coloration, voice and habits. They have a convex forehead, long, drooping ears and a dew-lap, which hangs in folds the entire length of the neck. They vary much in size, as the largest “may stand as high as a buffalo, while the smallest may be little larger than a calf a month old.” They are gentle in disposition and the larger ones are used for drawing native carriages. Unlike the European cattle, they seldom seek the shade, and never stand knee-deep in water. These cattle are often called zebus, and in the northern provinces of India, where they are used for riding, they will carry “a man at the rate of six miles an hour for fifteen hours.”

“White bulls are held peculiarly sacred by the Hindus, and when they have been dedicated to Siva by the branding of his image upon them, they are thenceforth relieved from all labor. They go without molestation wherever they choose, and may be seen about eastern bazars helping themselves to whatever dainties they prefer from the stalls of the faithful.”

In Central Africa the humped cattle are represented by the Galla, or Sanga. This is regarded by some as the finest breed of the humped variety. It is large, slender and vigorous, long legged and rather long tailed. The general color is a chestnut-brown. The horns are very strong and are fully forty inches in length.

The straight backed cattle are those of Europe, America, Australia and the smaller islands, and of some parts of Africa. They may be long-horned, short-horned or hornless. Among them are very many breeds, many well known being common almost everywhere.

One is the ox of Freiburg, or the Swiss ox. This variety yields both excellent beef and extremely rich milk.

The Dutch ox is marked by stately proportions, uniform coloring, a long, tapering head and a long and thin neck. The color is pied, a white or grayish ground showing red, brown or black spots of varying size and shape. “It has been bred in Holland for centuries. It is easily fattened and has an abundant yield of milk.”

The Durham or short-horned breed of England is an animal with little symmetry of proportion, with a small head, a straight back and short legs. It is not a good milker, but surpasses all in the production of beef.

The beautiful Jersey cow is a great favorite in America and Great Britain on account of the rich cream and butter obtained from the milk. The Alderneys and Guernseys are classed with the Jerseys and are also of “elegant appearance.” Other breeds are the hornless Galloways, the Devons, the Herefords, the Holsteins and many others.

Like the sheep, the cat and other domestic animals, the origin of domestic cattle seems surrounded with mystery and uncertainty. We know that in earliest times domestic cattle were common, as the earliest writings mention them and the ancient monuments picture them. It is, however, probable that all the straight backed varieties, directly or indirectly, may be traced back to the aurochs, or urus, a most interesting wild ox of Europe. This is extinct now, as well as some other species which may form the connecting link.

The aurochs was an animal of great size, nearly as large as an elephant, but with the form and color of a bull. Skulls and bones, both in England and on the Continent, show their characteristics, and skulls pierced by flint hatchets show that they were hunted by prehistoric hunters. We do not know when they finally disappeared, but in Julius Cæsar’s time they seem to have been common in the Black Forest of Germany. Old chronicles prove that they were found in the middle of the sixth century, and in the ninth century Charlemagne hunted the aurochs in the forests near Aix-la-Chapelle. The Nibelungen-Lied mentions the slaughter of four in the twelfth century. In classic literature there are accounts of contests with gigantic wild oxen, indicating that the animal’s range extended as far south as Greece. Bones have been found in a number of European countries, and it is certain that it roamed over Russia, but how far to the eastward and northward it wandered we cannot tell.

There still exist in England wild cattle known as the “park oxen.” Though much smaller in size, they seem to be more like a direct descendant of the aurochs than any other species, although probably they descended from domesticated early breeds. These herds are confined in private parks, and the best known at the present time is the Chillingham herd. This park was probably inclosed about the thirteenth century. The cattle are small, with moderately rough, curly hair. The insides of the ears and muzzles are red, while the animals are white. They have the characteristics of animals in a wild state. “They hide their young, feed in the night, basking or sleeping during the day. They are fierce when pressed, but generally speaking are very timorous, moving off on the appearance of anyone, even at a great distance.”

John Ainslie.Mightiest of all the beasts of chaseThat roam in woody Caledon,Crashing the forest in his race,The mountain bull comes thundering on.– Sir Walter Scott.

THE ARROW HEAD

(Sagittaria latifolia.)

In all places then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The Arrow Head is one of our most familiar plants, quite as well known because of its beautiful arrow-shaped leaves as for its showy white flowers. It is interesting and conspicuous among the rushes and sedges that abound in the sluggish waters that border lakes and streams. It must have sunshine and well illustrates the words of Thoreau: “Rivers and lakes are the great protectors of plants against the aggressions of the forest, by their annual rise and fall, keeping open a narrow strip where these more delicate plants have light and space in which to grow.”

There are about twenty-five species of the genus Sagittaria, to which the plant of our illustration belongs. These inhabit both temperate and tropical regions. The generic name is from the Latin word sagitta, meaning an arrow, and referring, as does the common name, to the shape of the leaf. When the Arrow Head grows in water leaves are produced under water that do not have the arrow shape. These are not produced on those plants that grow on wet, muddy banks.

Two kinds of flowers are produced by this plant – the male and the female. The male flowers are the large white ones with a golden center formed by the group of yellow stamens. The female flowers are lower on the flower stalk and are dull green and unattractive. This arrangement of the flowers is nature’s provision for preventing self-fertilization. The insects that visit these flowers naturally first alight on the more brilliant staminate flowers, and the pollen, adhering to their bodies, is later transferred to the seed producing flowers when the insects visit them. Though the two flowers are usually upon the same plant, they are sometimes developed on distinct plants. The Arrow Head beautifies the swampy regions of North America from Mexico northward.

THE BLACK COHOSH

(Cimicifuga racemosa.)

The Black Cohosh, or Black Snakeroot, grows in rich woods from Canada nearly to the Gulf of Mexico. It is a conspicuous plant, with its long stem, which sometimes grows to a height of eight feet, and its large compound leaves, as well as with its long raceme of numerous small white flowers. This raceme during the ripening of the fruit often acquires a length of two to three feet.

This plant is sometimes called Bugbane. The name Cimicifuga is from the Latin words cimex, a bug, and fugo, to drive away. Both the technical name and the name Bugbane allude to the offensive odor of the flowers, which was supposed to drive away insects. In fact, the Black Cohosh is held in high repute by some Indians as a cure for the bite of poisonous snakes, as well as a powerful aid in driving away insects. Were it not for the strong, disagreeable odor of the flowers, which are only frequented by those flies which enjoy the odor of carrion, with its “tall white rockets shooting upward from a mass of large, handsome leaves,” it would be a striking ornament for the flower garden.

Someone has said that the Black Cohosh “may truly be classed among those objects which, from the standpoint of frail humanity, distance lends enchantment.” Though this be true, may we not say with Wordsworth,

To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

THE VEERIE

Darkness descends in shadowy foldsOver the distant hills; the breezeShivers and stirs in the leafy trees,And a single star beholds.The brook murmurs low in the tangled copse,The jewel-weed stands with its feet in the stream,By my lantern light the dew-drops gleamOn the leaves like diamond drops.And lo! like the shuddering wind-stirred leaves,Like the trembling weed where the waters glide,A voice from the depths where the wood-birds hideIts thrilling melody weaves.What shakes the harp-strings in thy throat?Is it joy or woe? Is it love or fear?The mystery of the woods I hearIn the passion of your note.Do you cry, Woe! Woe! Do you cry, Rejoice!Joy and sorrow no longer twain,Hope and despair in one wild strain,And the night has found a voice.– Isabella T. M. Blake.

THE SPRING MIGRATION

II. IN CENTRAL MISSISSIPPI

In the former article under this title attention was paid to the warblers only. In the present one I will try to give you some idea of the other birds that in spring take part in this general movement northward. A few birds that cannot properly be classed among the winter residents visit us now and then on warm summery days in January and February; they may be called the advance guard of the great army of migration. Conspicuous among these are the bluebird and the hermit thrush, two birds closely related, but very different both in coloring and disposition.

The bluebird is one of the first birds to be learned by the country children; his bright colors, cheerful music and affectionate, trusting disposition make him a general favorite. Right here permit me to digress enough to say that too little encouragement is given the children of our public schools, especially in the country, to learn the names and habits of our common birds. A little time and effort judiciously expended by the teacher in guiding the pupils to an understanding and love of the bird life about them would be an investment paying large dividends in quickened perceptions and increased interest in the too often dull and distasteful round of school work.

The hermit thrush is a lover of the deep, dark shades where he can sit on a twig and watch the stirring life about him without being a part of it – a kind of chimney corner philosopher, if you please. The rufous tail in sharp contrast to the olive brown head and back will tell you his name every time, for he is the only member of the thrush family found in these regions in which the color of the tail differs materially from that of the back. I remember one afternoon in February seeing one in the shade of a thick-topped holly; here he remained quite unconscious while we peered at him through the opera glass, discussed his coloring and consulted the pocket manual to see what Chapman said about him, an occasional jerk of the tail or a slight movement of the head being the only indication of life in the graceful figure before us.

Late in March or early in April come the purple martin, the bank swallow and chimney swift, all cheerful birds whose only apparent aim in life is to sail about through the air in pursuit of gnats and flies. The noisy chatter of the martins as they wheel and turn about near the house is one of the most agreeable sounds in all the gamut of bird voices. They are very numerous in parts of Mississippi, but the only place in the North where I have ever seen them in any considerable numbers is on the Maumee, not far from the little town of Waterville, Ohio. The bank swallow and chimney swift are smaller and less conspicuous than the martin, less noisy but quite as useful.

Soon after the swallows appear the flycatchers, the tyrant wood pewee, phœbe bird, Acadian and great crested. What figure is more familiar on hot summer days than the kingbird or tyrant flycatcher perched on a mullein stalk, now and then darting down from his perch to capture some straying gnat? The Acadian stops for only a very short stay; you will find him in the deepest shades, where the gloom and dampness suit his somber fancy. The wood pewee is also a gloomy soul, possessing no gift of color or song to attract the eye or hold the fancy; his long drawn out monotonous note always reminds me of hot August afternoons when all other bird voices are silent as the grave and summer reigns with undisputed sway. The prince of woodland flycatchers, both from point of coloring and attractive personality, is the great crested; his olive brown back, whitish breast and sulphur-yellow belly give him a more brilliant appearance than the others just mentioned. His character, too, is better, for he is neither as belligerent as the kingbird or as gloomy as the Acadian and wood pewee. His call is not unmelodious, though it would be misleading to call it a song.

April brings the orioles to play their not insignificant part in the great color scheme of Nature at this resurrection season. I always associate the coming of the orchard oriole with the opening of the Chickasaw roses, and the arrival of the Baltimore with the blooming of the yellow poplar (Liriodendron tulipifera). For several seasons I caught my first glimpse of the Baltimore’s flame and black in the top of a tall poplar, and heard his cheery whistle as he dodged in and out among the great cups, making a breakfast on the insects whose hum made the whole woods drowsy. A few brief days of rest and pleasure in this land of flowers and the orioles are gone, except a few pairs that stay to rear their families in these solitudes.

A long, slim, brown body, a stealthy way of sliding in and out among the vines and limbs, and a shy, suspicious air mark the black billed cuckoo or raincrow. He, too, stays but a few days. When you see the raincrow it is time to look for the Wilson’s thrush; but it was never my privilege to hear him sing in these forests. Perhaps he is tired out with the long journey from the land of eternal summer and wishes to be seen, not heard. Writers tell us that this thrush is very plentiful in certain localities, but in this section of the South I saw only two specimens in four years.

The musician of the thrush family, of the whole woods for that matter, in some points a successful rival of the mocking bird, is the wood thrush. Dark cinnamon brown, of quite a uniform tint above and white breast spotted with round, black, or dark brown enable one to pick him out easily from the rest of the thrush family. I remember hearing one sing at a negro “baptizing” just at sunset of an April day. After the immersion had taken place, as the officiating “elder” led the candidate to the bank of the pond, clear negro voices raised one of the good old hymns. As the words of the last verse died away on the evening air and the elder raised his hand to pronounce the benediction, a wood thrush in the nearby forest began his vespers. Sweet, clear as a silver bell, the notes arose, tinkling, reverberating, tender but dignified, voicing in a half-unconscious way the solemn emotions of the hour. What is there in the singing of even the best of trained choirs to compare with this simple voice of Nature, without affectation or conceit, arousing the feelings and appealing to the noblest instincts of our common nature.

Birds crowd in upon us, bull bat, chuck-wills-widow, turtle dove, gray-cheeked thrush and titlark come to see us, some to stop and add their own individual element to the local coloring, others after a few hours of rest to continue their way northward. Multitudes of sparrows, jays, thrashers, nuthatches, titmice, woodpeckers, etc., that have enjoyed our hospitality during the winter and part of the spring pack up their effects and leave, for summer is almost here.

The bird that to my mind is distinctly the advance agent of summer has well been called the summer tanager. He delays his coming until straw hats and linen suits appear; then what a dash of warm color he brings. Seated on the topmost bough of a tall oak, where the sun’s rays fall full upon him, he gives such intense, palpitating color that one’s eyes are almost blinded looking at him. Rich as is the red of the cardinal it appears soiled and tarnished beside the summer tanager.

With a sigh we realize that the spring migration is over for this year; but there is one consolation, only a part of its music is hushed – the soul of Southern bird life, the mocking bird, is left. Inconspicuous by reason of his Quaker-gray suit, he makes up in attractive manners and variety of musical gifts what he lacks in other respects. It is quite impossible to do justice to this bird either in describing his bubbling, effervescent life during the nesting season or in giving an adequate idea of the effect produced upon the senses by his exquisitely beautiful nocturnes. One March night some noise just outside my window awakened me. I arose and raising the window listened. The full moon, almost in the zenith, was flooding the landscape with a weird, soft light; the shadows of the cedar hedge a few yards away lay black as ink; the very air was heavy with the perfume of the jessamine abloom in a neighboring forest. In the cedars a mocking bird sang to himself a sweet, dreamy song, giving more complete expression to the mystery, the romance, the passion, the rapturous content of a Southern moonlit night than any poem that poet’s hand has ever written.